Yankee Etiquette and a Latin Thanksgiving

I knew from the get-go, marrying into a Latino family was going to be fascinating.  And frightening.  And funny.  And frustrating.   And 3+ years have only served to confirm my suspicions.  If any of you have seen the movie Spanglish, then you understand Jim-dear's up-bringing.  Not in the only-child/single-mother sense, but in the child-communicating-for-the-parent/constant culture-barrier sense.  Jim-dear is the 4th of 5 children born to Mr. and Mrs. Dear, and the youngest of the four boys.  He grew up with both his parents working long hard hours to provide for him and his siblings in this new country they moved to and he and I are incredibly grateful to them.  Yet, despite their having been in this country for 35 years now, and all the children raised here, there are some things that just aren't the same. So, when I offered to host Thanksgiving and spend it with his family for the first time last year, I knew I was probably in for…something.

Now, to give you a quick back-ground for me: My family hails from New England.
For those of you Non-Yankees, I am first and foremost sorry that you don't have the blessing and privilege to be from New England.  I have been to the south, I have been to the west, I have been to the southwest and the northwest, I have lived in the Mid-Atlantic States and I have lived in Europe...and I love New England best.  The ocean, the mountains, the forests, the wicked awesome lobsta and Bean town are some of the most beautiful and unique parts of this epic world God created.  Unfortunately, New England is just too dang cold Nov-April, so while I love visiting and playing in the snow while I'm there...I doubt I will ever move home again. 

Another thing I love about my home is the way you can count on people.  I know, I know, everyone says "New Englanders are cold."  Well, yes and no.  We don't love strangers, and we don't consider "friendliness" to be synonymous with "polite."  We don’t bend, break or change.  However, we always call and make a plan before we come over to visit.  We ask what we can bring before we come, we show up on time and we leave early if we think that would make you more comfortable.  We help a stranger when asked, would do absolutely anything for friends or family, and do our darnedest not to be an inconvenience whenever possible.  We worry about offending and while we speak with a thick accent on occasion, social etiquette is not lost upon us.  And though little if anything can make us change, you can absolutely count on that.

Now, back to last Thanksgiving - having received my mother-in-law’s blessing, I gleefully proceeded to plan the menu: sweet potato crust-less pie, broccoli-cheddar-mushroom crumble, cranberry-grand-marnier relish, sausage stuffing, creamy mashed potatoes, sweet maple squash and balsamic-vidalia onion gravy were a few of the sides and of course turkey, brined and then basted in an herb-butter blend and slow roasted for hours was my center piece.  Apple pie, pumpkin pie and pecan pie with ice cream and coffee were my natural dessert choices, and with that decided I sent out an email to all of Jim-dear’s siblings, parents and cousins in the area, giving them the start time and general plan for the day, and asking for RSVPs.  And then, I waited.  And, might I add, I waited patiently. Quite patiently.  For quite some time.  And, received nothing.  No offers to help cook, or questions on what to bring, let alone confirmations of attendance!  But, fearing this might happen, I had planned on cooking it all, and asked Jim-dear to text everyone and at least force a yea or nay out of them.  This produce at least minimal results (I should add that all of Jim-dear’s brothers were bachelors at the time), and I went forward with my plans as though all would come.

The week arrived and I contentedly and slavish cleaned and baked Mon-Wed.  The day arrived and I woke far before the dawn even considered cracking and continued to cook and bake and decorate.  And at 1:50pm, ten whole minutes before our dinner was to begin, I was actually ready.  And I was grateful no one had arrived early.  But then, 30 minutes went by and gratitude changed to confusion.  I went back and checked the email…it still read 2pm like I thought.  I returned items to their various sauce pans and pots and put them back on the stove and stayed calm.  20 more minutes went by; I checked my hair about 17 times and began to have mild panic-attacks about my turkey getting cold.  30 more minutes went by, and I bit back tears as I went to ask Jim-dear, “If his family had always secretly hated me, why didn’t they just tell me instead of standing me up after all my hard work and preparation?”

And then the door bell rang.  And over the next hour, family poured in.  And family members I didn’t know we had. And friends of the family I didn’t know and hadn’t invited but someone else in the family had.  And with the family, came dish after dish of absolutely beautiful food I had neither asked for, nor expected.  Rice and beans, flan con queso, conquito, an entire roasted shoulder of pork and accompanying gravy, cheese cakes and salads and beef and lentil soup and more rice with different kinds of beans began flooding my neatly prepared table with their riot of colors and scents.  Home-made sangrias, and breads and candies and fried plantains filled my counter-tops, and suddenly loud Spanish dance music flooded my home.  And my dinner for 18 turned into a feast that could have fed 40 but was actually for 25.  And I was so over-whelmed, I debated crying.  And then, Jim-dear came up behind me and said, “It’s perfect. How did you do it?”


I wanted to shout at him, but instead, I closed my eyes for a moment.  When I opened them again, I didn't stop seeing all of the changes and interruptions and unexpected differences that were spoiling my “perfect day,” but I also suddenly noticed that absolutely everyone was smiling, and relaxing and laughing.  I saw that the feast truly was so much better with the myriad of additions, that the music was leading to dancing (and I love dancing) and that the people I hadn’t invited were thrilled to be there, and adding to laughter and enjoyment of all.  I looked up at Jim-dear and he must have seen the remains of the “deer-in-the-head-lights” look in my eyes because he said, “Don’t worry.  You did great.  They only act like this when it’s just family.”  And I while a part of me still desperately wanted things to go my way, the rest of me won out and I just felt incredibly loved instead.  This late, loud, lavish group of people had welcomed me as family, and I decided to just be thankful for the compliment.

It was literally the most delicious and fun Thanksgiving of my life. J