My Italo Turkey Day. A Reprise

A hybrid celebration reflecting heritage and an American journey.

My father said, "They don't have turkey in Italy." I wasn't sure what he meant then, but  I realize now that he was speaking about The Holiday celebration.

It was Thanksgiving, I was on school vacation, a high-school football game earlier that day, a chill in the air, and our family was about to feast. The only differences between this day and the usual Sunday dinner were that we ate turkey rather than chicken; there was cranberry sauce; and the day was Thursday. I was wrong. The differences were much greater.

My grandparents knew nothing of Thanksgiving when they arrived in America. "But they found a way," my aunt said. She wistfully glanced toward the kitchen and continued, "My mother was progressive. She learned how to stuff a turkey and taught everybody else. She learned about yams and cranberries. She made us speak to her in English. She wanted to learn everything she could about her new home."

Grandmother had never seen a turkey before arriving here from a small town in southern Italy. She knew nothing of Pilgrims and how they celebrated their good fortunes in America. She was comforted when she learned that she shared something with those early settlers: immigrants all, they had arrived with fear, ignorance, expectation, and hope. Because she felt this bond, she became more involved, more American. Thus she learned how to cook a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

Italian culture places a strong emphasis on family gatherings and shared meals. With a focus on gratitude, the day resonated. For those who left behind hardship, the holiday was a time to reflect on their resilience and the progress they made in their new country.

I returned from the football game to the wonderful aromas floating up the rear staircase of our Providence home and permeating all its floors. I opened my grandparents' door to a captivating glow. I’m not sure what glowed. I guess that it was me.

Our families sat around a huge table. The warm light streaming through the dining-room windows brought something -- magic perhaps -- that made every Sunday and every holiday dinner beautiful. The children had their table, just as splendid as the adults' in the adjoining parlor.

The feast began after a thankful prayer. Antipasto first, followed by requisite lasagna, then hot dumpling soup. A lull, then the stuffed turkey was presented as king, symbolically carried by grandfather followed by my proud grandmother with her tiny hands clasped over her little apron.

Mashed potatoes, turnips, sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce accompanied the turkey. Grandfather scooped out the stuffing (hmmm . . . a little sausage in it?), carved and served. We ladled out brown, not red, gravy. They were celebrating their prosperity in a new, welcoming land.

When finished, we thought that we neither could nor would, eat another thing, certainly not the desserts.

But, oh those desserts! In addition to traditional pumpkin, apple, and custard pies, we had torrone, spumoni, confetti (candy almonds), biscotti, noce (nuts), mandorle (almonds), nocciole (hazelnuts) and gelato. Stovetop-roasted chestnuts followed. Coke and Nehi sodas, Grandfather's homemade wine, and espresso washed everything down.

Late in the day more family arrived, uncles carrying guitars and mandolins, pouring music that extended the day's festivities.

My grandparents, though immigrants, did what people in America have always done for Thanksgiving. They appreciated and embraced it, added their culture, and then taught it to us.

They celebrated the American tradition and created a richer, more diverse tapestry of the holiday by adding their culture. They taught us that it was our holiday, our American holiday, new and now familiar. It may have been “Italianized," but it was now clearly American.