Growing up in New Zealand, the closest I got to Thanksgiving was watching it in movies and television shows. We have plenty of sheep Down Under, but few turkeys.
In November, while the Northern Hemisphere prepares for winter, Kiwis are getting their beach bodies ready by ditching comfort food and shedding clothes.
While traveling throughout the United States in 2016, I met an Atlanta local and we hit it off. The following year, we got married. And in early 2019, I received my Green Card and moved permanently to the ATL.
Since then, I’ve come to know the joy of Thanksgiving, one mouthful of butter-enriched bird at a time.
Credit: Rosie Manins
Credit: Rosie Manins
I remember my first American turkey. It was a revelation.
My previous encounters with the popular poultry had left me wondering what the fuss was about. Dry. Bland. Nothing on roast chicken.
Enter my sister-in-law.
At first, I was afraid. I had never seen a turkey fryer. “My God!” I thought. “There’s enough peanut oil here to power a small village.”
Then I spotted the giant syringes filled with butter. Was she serious?
An hour or two later, my horror and skepticism melted away with the first bite of juicy tenderness. If I were to die from a fat-induced heart attack, so be it.
I was introduced to other dishes that day, such as collard greens. And my sister-in-law’s mac and cheese is always superb, though I am fond of the version I grew up with that contains bacon and is topped with sliced tomato and breadcrumbs. However, nothing was more memorable than that butter-filled, deep-fried turkey.
Living in Atlanta, I miss a lot about New Zealand. The mountains. The beaches. The food of my childhood. And of course, my family and friends.
But each year on Thanksgiving, while my Southern Hemisphere loved ones work through another typical Thursday, I get to savor a plate heaped with happiness. And for that I am thankful.
