Cross-cultural – Page 10 – Goldfish Odyssey

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE. Even though my family is far away, I seldom spend the holidays alone. Most years, I will have a few friends over. Occasionally, I celebrate with friends and their families. This year, I will share it with some neighbors and their friends.

I knew about this American holiday and some of its traditions before coming here. Eating turkey also wasn’t a totally strange experience for me. Often, mom would ask our relatives in the country to bring a free-range turkey up for Chinese New Year. Not that mom had any special liking to the birds. Nor did she have any special recipes for them. For her, it was simply a practical matter: In those days, the market would close for almost two weeks for New Year. So, having a large bird would guarantee that we wouldn’t be short of supplies. Taiwanese turkeys weren’t as huge as their American counterparts. Mom would roast them as if they were oversized chickens. I was quite indifferent to eating them.

I spent my first Thanksgiving in Cleveland with my roommate at her aunt’s house. Their families have immigrated to Ohio some years back and established roots. Her aunt prepared a feast. Yet, instead of a turkey, there was a duck—a common practice in many Chinese American families.

Back then, all stores were closed on Thanksgiving. Even McDonald’s were not open. So, international students often planned a big get-together on Thanksgiving Day. Sometimes, there might be a turkey. But no one really knew what to do with it. Some years my American friends would invite me to their house. There, I learned the history of the holiday and the traditional dishes.

After returning from Italy, I moved to Champaign-Urbana to work on my dissertation and to study with John Wustman. Although I met many new friends, I really didn’t belong to any group. I wasn’t bound to any fixed schedule and didn’t have to worry about final projects or exams. For the first time I considered making my own Thanksgiving meal.

What would a geek who lived in the library and tied to the computer screens do about preparing her first turkey? SEARCH THE LIBRARY CATALOGUE, of course. It was the pre-Google Era. Illinois was all about farming. My search resulted in a few government documents—Agricultural Department/USDA type. With my bookstack privilege, I went deeply into the jungle of books and documents, coming out with a booklet in hand.

It started with “How to Buy Your Bird: And What to Look for On the Label”—Fresh or Frozen? . . .Buying the Right Size Turkey. It taught me how to thaw a frozen turkey (thawing time by the weight). The instructions (and warnings) on stuffing a turkey followed. Ready to cook the bird now? The booklet had a timetable for roasting fresh or fully thawed turkey, and another one for roasting an unstuffed frozen bird. Additional cooking methods included: using oven bags, MICROWAVE cooking, barbecue and using a rotisserie. (It said NOTHING about deep-frying the bird.) “How to Carve a Turkey” section came with step by step illustrations. Leftovers? Just read ahead. You would know when to take the items off the table and into the refrigerator. You would know why you should divide large quantities into smaller portions. You would know whether to keep the items in the refrigerator or the freezer. . ..

Knowing that a bird alone would not a good Thanksgiving dinner make, I went to the “periodical” section, flipping through the Thanksgiving issues of Bon Appètit and Gourmet in previous years. I chose recipes for cornbread, stuffing and cranberry. The menu for my first Thanksgiving meal was set.

I must have followed the instructions word for word, because no one got sick and nothing was burnt. I don’t have any recollections of how anything tasted. Nor do I remember who joined me at the table: With the limited capacity of my refrigerator, I must have had guests. What I still have are photocopies of the pamphlet and the recipes.

Gradually, I became quite comfortable preparing a Thanksgiving feast. After trying many types of marinades, rubs, and brine, I realized the freshness of the herbs and spices was the key to good flavors. My best turkey was a 32-pounder. Busy schedule forced me to run to the store at the very last minute. By that time, all the smaller turkeys were gone. With no time for thawing, my only choice was a fresh organic bird. Chopped fresh herbs, Dijon mustard, honey and citrus juice and melted butter made perfect marinade. It came out of the oven much earlier than I expected and right at the moment when my guests arrived. I haven’t had the same luck since then.

While rotating various side dishes, I make the same cranberry preserves every year. I prefer biscuits to breads. I have a favorite apple-cranberry pie recipe. Some friends know what to expect at my Thanksgiving table.

I count my blessing on this special day and every day. I am thankful to the people that taught me everything about Thanksgiving. I give thanks to the people that make my daily life possible: subway conductors, bus drivers, mailmen, delivery guys and sanitation workers. I give thanks to my friends who stand by me: They listen to me; they appreciate my thoughts; they help me getting through dark times; they push me forward. I give thanks to my family and relatives who allow me the opportunity to live a creative life.

Here are my favorite recipes:
Cheddar Cheese Biscuits
Cranberry Orange Preserves
Colonial Times Apple-Cranberry Pie with Cornmeal Crust

A Nor’easter swept through the region on Thursday. The forecast gave the impression that it would be like the first snow in most years, coming down lightly and quickly melting away. Defiantly, six inches of wet snow dropped down within hours, holding commuters hostage. Leaves that were hanging on to the last days of autumn, weighted by snow and ice forcing the branches to bow to the ground. Although I had finished winter preparations in the garden, there was no telling of any possible damages.

Stepping out of my building in the morning, the sun was out with its sarcastic smile. The temperature was high enough that most of the icy accumulation had dissipated. Looking up to the flowerbeds on the terrace, pompon mums already stuck their heads out trying to reclaim their territory.

A few years ago, the nice lady at the garden center suggested for me to plant the mums directly on the ground so they would come back every year. I did so gladly. And the plants responded in kind. In late autumn when most plants go dormant, these sturdy little darlings continue to show off their vibrant colors enthusiastically. People walking by often stop to admire and smile at them.

Chrysanthemums with large flowers and long stems are more popular in Asia. Their elegance and their cold-resistant nature brought them praises from writers and artists. They are one of the “four gentlemen” in Chinese paintings. The others are orchid, bamboo, and plum blossom. Orchids represent the spring season; bamboos, summer; chrysanthemums, autumn and plum blossoms, winter.

I first planted chrysanthemums in high school: “Professional training” classes were part of the government mandated curriculum. Agriculture practice was one of the options offered at my school. Since we all planned to attend college after graduation, no heavy farming equipment was introduced in class. Instead, we learned to plant vegetables and flowers.

Our garden was near the dormitory. Technically it’s at the edge of the school property but it was OUTSIDE of the fences that separated the campus and the outside world. It faced the grand palace of the National Museum. There was a traditional farmhouse on one side, probably belonging to the farmers that tended the rice paddies on the bottom of the hills.

After harvesting green beans and daikon radishes that we planted earlier in the semester, we were given shoots of chrysanthemums to replenish the ground. The earthy scent of the young plants blended perfectly with the smell of the freshly turned soil.

Every day the garden gate would be unlocked after the last class period until dinner time, so we could care for the flowers. The cool evening breeze always had a calming effect on me. I would pick up a bucket, walking over to the babbling brook, our irrigation source. Before filling up the bucket, I loved to pause for a moment, just to listen to the sounds of water trickling downstream and watch the evening clouds.

My flowers were purple, not at all my favorite color. Yet, I was content watching them growing from little knots on the top of the stems to blooms the size of a soup mug. When I brought the cut flowers home, their scent followed me onto the bus and through the streets.

Pompons in my garden don’t seem to have very strong scents. They also lack the stately manner. Yet, they are just as resilient as the larger varieties. I wish, for them, a late arrival of winter coldness.