I hope you enjoy this special Thanksgiving Eve edition of The Spaghetti Diaries.
I’m not usually a midnight snacker or a late-night writer, but tonight is an exception. It’s 2:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving in America. I’m having a cup of green tea and trying to hide the remains of a box of frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts that I just annihilated.
I’m dealing with my fourth occurrence of COVID this week. The Pop-Tarts are a well-earned treat to soothe the COVID sleeplessness and mental horseplay that’s happening in my head. Happy Thanksgiving everyone with a COVID twist.
After almost three years of COVID, it still has the ability to bring us to our lowest common denominator. It’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. My needs are simple: food, water, shelter, bathroom, Pop-Tarts, and of course my dog, Sofia.
Most Europeans (except the French, surprisingly) are unfamiliar with Pop-Tarts. They are the penultimate in American cibo spazzatura, or as the Italians call junk food. They are decorated with beautiful colors that may have been banned in Europe. There is a fruity filling of high-fructose corn syrup (also limited in Europe). And finally, that artificial fruit flavoring (yup, probably banned in Europe) that takes me right back to my childhood in the 70s.
Pop-Tarts were never a permanent fixture in our house. However, sometimes my mother would splurge and buy a box to share among the three of us. Back then, there were three individually wrapped packages of two tarts. I realized that now each box has four wrapped packages. Although, these tarts were noticeably smaller. So much for inflationary pressure.
Pop-Tarts are exactly what I need tonight to cure the pre-Thanksgiving COVID blues. I’m thankful that my friends, Karen and Dan, included them in a care package several months ago. I’m not sure they realized how important they would be tonight. They connect me to something comfortable and soothing.
Sleepless and nostalgic
It seems strange to say this, but this little midnight buffet makes me nostalgic for all those Thanksgivings that have passed before me. I’m thinking of Thanksgiving Eves when the house smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and something usually burning in the oven. Why isn’t there Burnt Pumpkin Spice latte at Starbucks? Did anyone have that kind of Thanksgiving aroma?
I can’t count how many people have asked me, “How do the Italians celebrate Thanksgiving?” The answer is simple. They don’t. It’s not an event here.
Of course, there are transplants from America desperately trying to get their hands on a turkey, sweet potatoes, and cranberries (tacchino, patate dolce/patate americane, and mirtilli rossi) this week, but they are not a common food in Italy. One has to endure quite a shopping adventure if they wish to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving meal for their Italian friends in Italy.
In Italy, there is no day to recognize Pilgrims, Plymouth Rock, Wampanoag Indians, or the Mayflower. You have to look back much further than 1620 to get to the events that would trigger a similar event for the Italians. In fact, it was 2300 years before the Mayflower landed when Rome was founded by Romulus and Remus, around 700 BC.
What would the Italians think of that food?
In my sleepy but nostalgic state tonight, I chuckle at the thought of what Italians would think of sitting down to a Thanksgiving meal in America. I think it would surprise them at the sheer amount of planning and effort that goes into such an occasion, culminating in a feast that would likely put any Italian into a food coma. Yes, the Italians like to eat, but there are no comparisons to a Thanksgiving in America.
I also thing the crazy combination of flavors would be too much for most Italians. Remember, most Italians choose not to mix onions and garlic for fear of competing flavors. Imagine the impact of a green-bean casserole on their taste buds.
A friend of mine from South Africa moved to Texas a few years ago for work. After his first Thanksgiving in America, he wrote to tell me how astounded he was by the sheer magnitude of the meal. He had no idea of what was in store for him at a Texas-sized Thanksgiving. Needless to say, he appreciated every morsel.
Thankful for all the perspective
It’s late. I’ll keep this simple, before COVID knocks me back to bed.
It took me a long time to realize that I am grateful for my entire life experience. I can’t piecemeal gratitude. It all matters.
I’m thankful for today, yesterday, and what is yet to come.
I am thankful for my childhood, no matter how tortured it was, with the occasional Pop-Tarts and the smell of something burning in the oven on Thanksgiving Eve.
I am thankful for all of my years in California where we hosted countless Thanksgiving dinners at our home for friends and family.
I am thankful for my life in Italy, and my never-ending resilience to live life with a very big question mark about what will happen next.
I am thankful for the moments of splendor and the moments of pain that made me appreciate all that is.
I am thankful for my little space in the world that in this moment is safe and secure from all the tragedy that is happening to so many people across the world.
But most of all, I am thankful for my family, friends, and readers who continue to correspond with me to maintain a connection between our lives and what matters most.
Wherever the world may find you, I hope you find gratefulness.
Thanks for following along, and I hope you enjoyed my midnight musings on the eve of Thanksgiving in America. If you missed my last blog, it’s here. It’s a beautiful tribute to a couple in North Carolina who, uncannily, have a blueberry farm. If you wish to follow along, please subscribe below with your email.