The descendant of German-Jewish parents and Eastern European grandparents, I'm still a bit hazy on a few parts of the Thanksgiving narrative. I can't really tell the difference between a Puritan and a Pilgrim, and I'm not sure when Native Americans and Pilgrims went from hating each other to spending the holidays together.
Still, there are certain important things that even a first-generation American knows about Thanksgiving: the cornucopia, the Mayflower, Squanto saving our butts, marshmallow-covered sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, spending time with family and, of course, turkey.
It's the inclusion of all of these things into one ridiculously early, decadent, coma-inducing meal that embodies the American spirit: the one day when nationalism is all the rage, when anyone in the world — regardless of religion, race, gender or nationality — can be a part of the great melting pot that is our sovereign nation, so long as they eat a feast with their families and call it Thanksgiving. Hell, even Canada has one.
Naturally, when nay-sayers try and debunk the traditional holiday story, claiming sweet potatoes weren't available at the first Thanksgiving or that the original Thanksgiving took place in El Paso, I say I've had enough. I say don't listen to those un-American quacks! Don with me your Cosby sweaters and rejoice in the festival of thanks!
That said, I do concede that there are a few fishy things going on with the words we use as the third Thursday in November rolls around — for one, the main course's quite literally un-American name.
For a bird that originates in the New World, Turkey seems like a pretty lousy namesake, but the country is in fact the sponsor of its name — only accidentally though. The name "turkey" was first applied to the guinea fowl, imported through Turkey from Madagascar. But when European settlers began arriving in the Americas, they mistook the American bird for a species of their familiar guinea fowl and lumped them together under the title "turkey."
Funnily enough, while Americans mistook their own bird for one of Turkish descent, the Turks named the same bird after its New World origin, of which they were aware the whole time. Only a bit confused themselves, they dubbed the bird "hindi," meaning Indian, unsure about exactly what stretch of land the New World encompassed. (Fail.)
Once "turkey" became the accepted English title for the animal, it began popping up in slang terms everywhere. "Cold turkey," meaning suddenly or without effort, takes its name from the speed and ease with which the dish is prepared. Another, the mid-1500s British showbiz term "turkey," meaning a failed show, most likely comes from the turkey's reputation as a stupid animal.
Given our long history of turkey confusion mentioned above, though, I'm not sure we should be the species doing the name-calling.
But let's not dwell on the turkey. (There will be time enough for that during the weeks following the holiday when Carmichael gets nostalgic.) There's still stuffing and string beans and gravy and all of the other delicious plates that make up dinner. And then there's the moment we're not exactly waiting for — as we stuff our faces hedonistically throughout the meal — but one we certainly appreciate … dessert.
The word "dessert," unlike "turkey," implies one thing and one thing only. From the French "desservir," to un-serve dessert might sound related to the irritating task of dishwashing. But "dessert" focuses solely on the action in the dining room: that time after supper's dirty dishes have been removed, when a wonderful batch of Thanksgiving pies — pumpkin, apple, cherry cobbler — is laid on the table in their place, waiting for us to gobble them up and then go for seconds.
God, I love America.
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Romy Oltuski is a junior majoring in English. She can be reached at Romy.Oltuski@tufts.edu.
