“Why is it so big?” my mother demanded to know while poking a defrosted turkey in a way that must have surely constituted fowl fat-shaming.
“Remember I told you they make everything bigger in America?” my father reminded her.
“Like that Oldsmobile?” groaned my mother, pointing toward the garage behind our two-bedroom apartment. Maman had an aversion to our brown Oldsmobile, primarily because the first and last time she attempted to sit behind its wheel and back the car out of that tight garage, she dented nearly every neighbor’s car and almost mowed down a poinsettia shrub that was home to a family of tired opossums. The look on those opossums’ faces when my five-foot mother nearly ran them over in that giant Oldsmobile is something I will never forget. For some reason, they packed up their bags and their tails and never came back to the outdoor garage of that apartment complex on Gale Drive.
It was Thanksgiving 1992 and after having arrived in this country three years prior, our family finally wanted to pay homage to American traditions. Perhaps we had seen one too many ads for stuffing on TV, but Thanksgiving looked glorious, and we wanted in.
“It looks pretty empty in there,” observed my father as he peered into the open cavity of the turkey. And then, half- jokingly, Baba wondered, “Can you put something inside so it doesn’t look so immodest?”
“In there?” asked Maman. “Maybe I can push some too-deh-lee [Persian rice stuffing] inside. But why is this turkey so big?!”
My mother rubbed the skin of that turkey with so much saffron and turmeric that it looked downright radioactive. In the end, the turkey was placed on the table with a full view of the stuffing inside: ground Persian kabob mixed with onions and more turmeric. I’ll always remember that first Thanksgiving, when we remembered our love for this country as we sat with my cousins on our faux Persian rug, stuffed our faces, and watched “The Simpsons,” back when it still aired on Thursday nights.
Instead of candied yams, we had Persian rice. Instead of green bean casserole, we had more Persian rice. We weren’t averse to traditional Thanksgiving staples; we simply didn’t know how to make them, and this was the pre-internet age. We managed to buy a frozen pumpkin pie, but no one thought to defrost it hours in advance. By the time everyone asked about dessert, my father gave my mother that frozen hunk of pie to place behind her aching back as she sat down and wondered why she had spent seven hours cooking for a Thursday meal, when she would need to spend another seven hours preparing for Shabbat the following day.
Growing up, I always wondered whether Americans only reserved one day to be thankful for this amazing country. As protected refugees, every day felt like Thanksgiving for me and my family.
Growing up, I always wondered whether Americans only reserved one day to be thankful for this amazing country. As protected refugees, every day felt like Thanksgiving for me and my family.
And it’s also important to note that as Jews, every week (Shabbat) felt like a Thanksgiving convention of family, food that brought one joy, and a certain sense of wonder that was rooted in our utter gratitude to have escaped from post-revolutionary Iran. As it turns out, when preparing a Thanksgiving meal, gratitude is the best seasoning of all.
Tannaz Sassooni is a Los Angeles-based food writer who focuses on Iranian Jewish cuisine. Like me, she was born in Tehran and had similar early Thanksgiving experiences. “In our early years in the United States, my mom and my aunts did make turkey for Thanksgiving, but it came in the form of a big pot of haleem, a breakfast porridge with shredded turkey and wheat,” she told me. “We had no context for the holiday, but as new immigrants in an unfamiliar country, opportunities to gather with family were our respite, and the grownups tried their best to create some normalcy.”
That’s it. Some normalcy. As Iranian refugees and immigrants, we knew we looked different than most Americans, ate different foods and had wildly different customs. But one night of the year (perhaps two, if you count the Fourth of July), we had access to that “Americana” aspect of life here that helped us feel like normal Americans.
“Over time,” Sassooni continued, “our Thanksgivings evolved: a neighbor introduced us to candied yams with marshmallows, which we still don’t really understand. Cousins married Americans, who brought with them their grandma’s apple pie, or ‘exotic American’ dishes like stuffing and cranberry sauce. These days, we get creative: Our turkey is finally whole, but it’s fragrant with saffron and strewn with quince and dried fruit. And yes, there’s stuffing, but there’s also tahchin, topped not with barberries, but cranberries. A true American Thanksgiving.”
When I asked Journal editor David Suissa and Rabbi Daniel Bouskila, Director of the Sephardic Educational Center, about their Thanksgivings, I expected memories that were similar to mine and Sassooni’s. Suissa and Bouskila are two of the proudest Sephardic Moroccan-Americans I know. But their responses surprised me in the best way possible: “We actually went out of our way to add nothing of our own,” said Suissa. “We wanted the authentic American experience — turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, the works — even watching football. It’s America’s day. Doing it the American way was our way of saying thank you to this great country.”
Bouskila recalled, “I am a first generation American who grew up in a French-speaking Sephardic home. To borrow from the Passover Haggadah – Why was Thanksgiving different from all other holiday nights in our home? Because on all other nights – particularly Shabbat and Jewish holidays – our tables were Moroccan-Algerian culinary feasts, but on Thanksgiving night, our table was adorned with classic American Thanksgiving foods. Couscous and matbucha stepped aside for stuffing and sweet potatoes. On that night, our menu was proudly American, and eating the traditional Thanksgiving foods reflected our deep gratitude and love for America.”
I love that.
Over the years, my family has convened around many Thanksgiving tables. The most difficult Thanksgiving I recall occurred in 2008, amid news of the widespread Mumbai attacks that also killed Chabad Rabbi Gavriel Holtzberg, his pregnant wife, Rivka, and six others. It was hard to chit-chat or even swallow our food that night amid news of four days of carnage in India.
Last Thanksgiving, we were in a state of post-Oct. 7 shock and sorrow. I know this Thanksgiving will also be less sweet, as rockets continue to rain down on Israel, a five-front war continues, and we remember Chabad Rabbi Zvi Kogan, age 28, who was kidnapped last Thursday by terrorists in the United Arab Emirates and murdered. I believe all Jewish families should partake in a moment of silence before their lovely meals begin this Thanksgiving.
However you celebrate this special day, the meaning remains the same: Amid the pain and confusion of reality, gratitude always leaves us feeling happier, healthier and more open-eyed to the wonder in our lives. And in case we coast through Thanksgiving mindlessly, Shabbat is always just one day away.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker and weekly columnist for The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles. Follow her on X and Instagram @TabbyRefael.
