It’s hard growing up as a second-generation immigrant in America; everyone chooses: more-Indian and less-American or less-Indian and more-American. So while some days are more dal chawal, others are mostly burgers and fries. And while I am happy to eat Hyderabadi biryani 364 days of the year, I, like many of my fellow Americans, must have turkey on Thanksgiving. So every fourth Thursday in November, my ritual has been the same. Comb the newspaper for good Black Friday deals, feign interest in football, and then count the minutes until I can gorge myself on a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

By a stroke of fate (good airfare deal), I found myself in Hyderabad around Thanksgiving last year, and I was determined to recreate the tradition, sans American football, for my extended family. My idea of cooking an American Thanksgiving meal was received with wide eyes and light laughter. My great-aunt proclaimed that American food was too bland for Indians, “spices make you strong”, and, initially, my cousins were sceptical but supportive. Turkey is not a common meat in India, and the idea of spending several thousand rupees on a bird that was, as my great-aunt re-emphasised, “guaranteed to taste bland” was not particularly attractive. After promising some Indian spices on the turkey (which I am proud to say I “forgot”), I had to convince my family that my British cousin and I were capable of cooking an entire American meal in India by ourselves; the main concern was ruining the expensive bird.

Soon, however, my undying optimism won, and my cousin and I found ourselves shortlisting items that were to be served at dinner, with the rest of my family chiming in with the occasional suggestion or question. “Maybe we’ll find a turkey at Reliance” (we didn’t), “What is stuffing?” (food to stuff inside the bird). After an entire morning of vetting items for the menu, looking up recipes, and narrowing down a list of NRI-geared grocery stores, we were finally ready: turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, cornbread, sweet potato pie, beans, and mashed potatoes would be made.

Then began the true test of my commitment to this dinner: grocery shopping. I went from store to store seeking crucial ingredients whilst desperately showing the store clerks images of the items I wanted, many times to no avail. The turkey was easily located, but quite small in comparison to its American counterpart; the stuffing, corn (for cornbread), beans, and potatoes (to be mashed) were easily found, but the cranberry sauce and sweet potato pie proved impossible to find.

I arrived home exhausted and more than a bit frustrated but ready to cook without further obstacles. As I began to lay out the ingredients and double-check the recipe, my uncle’s cook appeared and asked what had to be done. I then remembered cooking in America is different from ‘cooking’ for many people in India. Back home most families did everything from scratch. Here, many have the luxury of being able to delegate the grunt work of cooking and simply supervise. After spending what was the cook’s monthly salary on just the turkey, I was hesitant to have her explore her turkey cooking abilities when we had no back-up bird. I gave her the day off, and instead of going home early, she stayed to watch and laugh at my amateurish cooking skills.

After hours of cleaning and chopping vegetables, I was finally able to direct my attention to the turkey. By the time I was ready to marinate and cook it, I realised my uncle didn’t have a built-in oven like the one back home. I started to panic, but my cousin appeared with a portable oven that barely fit the bird; the poor thing’s wing propped the door ajar. Things were cooking, but it did not look like an episode of Masterchef… or even Masterchef Junior. I decided we had come too far to abandon the meal; especially since I had given the cook the day off and there was no back-up meal or fund to pay for takeout. I told myself that as long as everything was cooked, it would be fine; they didn’t have high expectations for the meal anyway, right?

My fears were unfounded. The turkey was cooked to perfection; the stuffing was heavenly; the vegetables were as good as vegetables can be, and I was incredibly proud of myself. My grandmother even made one of her famous apple pies, so while I was initially sad about not having sweet potato pie, it was not missed. Later that evening when my entire family of 20-plus aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents surrounded the dinner table, I felt a deep sense of happiness and pride in not only my work but also my family’s willingness to support (and eat) my dining project.

Of all the American holidays my parents could have picked to celebrate, I strongly believe we choose Thanksgiving year after year as it is the most in line with Indian culture: you gather your immediate and extended family, cook a heavy (read unhealthy) meal, and spend an evening together filled with old stories and laughter. And even though I celebrated Thanksgiving in India, it didn’t feel too different. I was surrounded by people I loved, there was a turkey on the table and, for the first time, there were some kebabs and white rice positioned inconspicuously in the corner for any of my family who had had their fill of Thanksgiving foods.

Abid Haque is a Washington-based writer

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