Rupert’s Thanksgiving Survival Guide
My loves, I have always believed that travel is a moral test. It reveals who you are when faced with the unknown. For example, what do you do when someone places before you a bowl of something called “ambrosia salad” which looks like the aftermath of a primary school fight? You smile. You nod. You pretend your red coat is suddenly fascinating and hope it masks the terror in your eyes.
This year, I bravely journeyed to Connecticut to spend Thanksgiving with my American relatives. Rich, yes. Tasteful? Not a word I would use. They live in a house so large it requires its own microclimate. I arrived wearing my favourite scarlet cashmere coat which they all assumed meant I was a theatre director or a revolutionary. In truth I simply refuse to dress like a librarian when entering a hostile culinary environment.
Thanksgiving, as it turns out, is a festival dedicated to serving dishes made entirely from things found in tins. Oyster salad. Green bean casserole topped with what they insist are onions but appear to be the remains of a garden trimmer. Ambrosia salad which resembles wet polystyrene. Canned soup baked into something that looks like punishment. I am a flexible man but not flexible enough to eat anything that quivers of its own accord.
So instead of participating, I did what any sensible Brit abroad would do. I conducted a swift reconnaissance of the drinks cabinet and liberated a bottle of Château Pétrus. Naturally I could not parade around waving it like a flag so I poured it into an empty can of Budweiser. No one questioned it. They assumed I had discovered “craft beer”.
Lunch drifted on for hours. The Americans ate everything with alarming enthusiasm while I sat serenely, sipping Pétrus from my camouflaged vessel and complaining internally about the lack of decent napkins. Conversation eventually dissolved into a heated family argument about football, which I later discovered refers not to sport but to slow-moving men in shoulder pads falling on each other.
By late afternoon the house was silent. Every single person had fallen asleep while pretending to watch the NFL. I took this as my cue to perform a public service. I stood before the turkey and gave a small lecture on the art of stuffing a bird. It is a delicate ritual that requires confidence, dexterity and a profound respect for poultry. When done correctly it is practically sensual. When performed badly it ruins a family’s sense of self.
I do not know at which point my relatives awoke from their food-induced comas but I do know several of them stared at me as if I were demonstrating something indecent. Which, depending on the viewing angle, perhaps I was.
In summary, my loves, Thanksgiving is a charming holiday filled with affection, football, and foods that should be placed directly into the bin. If you must attend one, remember this simple rule. Eat nothing. Drink well. Wear red. And never, under any circumstances, allow an American to explain cranberry sauce.
Happy Thanksgiving from your devoted Rupert.
