Bittar is an artist, educator, writer and California organizer for the American Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee. She lives in North Park.
When my family immigrated to the United States, we wondered why anyone would want to eat turkey, and ignored Thanksgiving. After we moved to the countryside in New Jersey and had two cars in the driveway, my father declared it time to take this American holiday seriously. He looked iringly at the Thanksgiving painting by Norman Rockwell.
The painting became my parents’ diagram. My mother, an exceptional cook, teamed with my father. Previously, they made sweet pastries and meat pies — kibbi — together. The Norman Rockwell picture in hand, they bought a Butterball turkey, canned potatoes and cranberry sauce. No stuffing because there was no stuffing in the picture. My mother knew how to make gravy béchamel-style from her finishing school days in Lebanon.
They cooked the turkey sans stuffing, placing it out of the oven on a large oval ceramic platter. The browned potatoes were arranged around the turkey. The green beans became a salad dressed with olive oil and lemon the way Arabs like it. The cranberry sauce, still with some ridges from the can on it, puzzled us, though it was a beautiful color. The mushroom gravy was immediately consumed.
No one asked for seconds. It was not possible to follow the sacred rule of cleaning our plates with Arabic bread. “Pappi, please do not make us eat everything on our plates today.” He was adamant that plates should be cleaned with bread, but he let it go.
My parents stared at the Rockwell photo and wondered what went wrong.
Ten years ed. In 1979, we were living in the suburbs of New York City, and I had a Jewish boyfriend, Jim, soon to become my husband. Jim’s family invited us for Thanksgiving. It was the first time our families were together, and it was a momentous occasion.
My father could play the piano by ear. As soon as we walked into my future mother-in-law’s home, he went to the piano and played the theme from “The Godfather” and some Sinatra. Jim and I were a bit embarrassed.
We had a succulent turkey dinner with stuffing. Helen, my mother-in-law to be, modeled her feast after Jackie Kennedy’s White House Thanksgiving in 1961. Everything was homemade and tasty with sweet spices. My parents relaxed and relished the strange food for the first time as citizens of this country. Before the coffee and dessert were ready, my father played “Hava Nagila,” the celebratory Jewish song, on the piano. Everyone smiled as he did a great job of capturing the music. Jim and I were still embarrassed.
My Thanksgiving meals are modeled after Helen’s dishes: sweet potato casserole, pumpkin chiffon pie with whipped cream, chestnut stuffing. The cranberry sauce has been improved with the addition of Arabic mazaher-orange blossom water, diced orange slices and zest, sprinkled with pomegranates. It is our Arab-Jewish Thanksgiving feast now and celebrated also as a time to reflect on Indigenous peoples’ sacrifice and how to humanely share our earth’s bounty.
