I love tradition in many ways. I wear a lace veil in church, regardless of what language it's in. I eat lamb at Easter in some form. Every zombie walk should end by dancing "Thiller." But the Thanksgiving turkey & trimmings never made the cut. Last year we had no company, but a ravenous nursing baby, and I had an Angus steak with french fries.
Baking turkeys and pies every day for a catering company the first year of my marriage didn't help. The last thing I wanted to see when I came home from work on my first Thanksgiving as a married woman was another damn turkey, so we had lasagna instead. The cheese was bright green with organic basil from our tiny community garden plot, saved in ice cubes.
We decided that first Thanksgiving together that the best way we could keep the holiday was to cook and eat food that really inspired gratitude in us. We had lasagna a few times, eventually becoming the full Italian soup-to-espresso. We've made Armenian game hens with apricot rice, Lebanese food, tamales, cumin-glazed chicken with chipotle-peach salsa, lamb and shiitake ravioli.
My son asked why we didn't have turkey, when that's what he's learned about at school. This is what I told him:
Thanksgiving is a celebration of gratitude and immigrants. The Pilgrims were merely the first immigrants. They were neither braver nor harder working than those who followed them, and the food that came with subsequent immigrants is fabulous. Immigrant food for Thanksgiving is our tradition. Tradition should always point to truth. We thank God for all our blessings and all the people who've come to this country.
Son: That makes sense, Mom. Can I have Vietnamese food this year?
Me: Yes, dear. That's what we got the ducks for.
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