It's hard being a transplant

I forgot Canada Day this year. I also forgot May 24 and sometimes I forget the "u" in Labour Day. It's just tough to remember to celebrate something that no one else around me knows about. Heck, I even forgot Ralph's birthday this year, although I can't really blame that on the Americans. I do blame his obesity on them though. I haven't completely worked out the fine details of the argument, but I'm sure they're behind it.

So it's Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, and no one here gives a hoot. If it wasn't for Facebook, I probably wouldn't have had any advance warning myself. I have to do something. It's one of my favoUrite holdiays. Being centered around food and all. Ok, sure, it has other more significant meaning...well, does it really? To Canadians? I'm pretty sure to us it's about harvests and gathering and such. The Americans (there they go again) like to talk about Pilgrims and Indians and some kind of peace-making dealie-oh...but didn't they just end up sitting at a big table eating corn and pheasants? That's what I thought.

It always happens like this. There's a holiday of some kind coming up and I feel an acute urgency to cook an obscene amount of food for every person I feel kindly towards. And then I realize that I live in a shoebox with a small child who turns into a ticking time bomb after 7:30pm, no family within spitting distance and friends who have lives as complicated and difficult to schedule as ours. Not to mention a husband who looks on these compulsions of mine as rather silly and fairly inconvenient whims, possibly akin to what used to be diagnosed as "female hysteria". Doctors. They love their labels.

I'm going to celebrate this Thanksgiving. I'm doing it for me and I'm doing it for my girl. I'm going to make some kind of turkey product with homemade cranberry sauce. I'm going to make Paula Deen's famous green bean casserole as an homage to these Americans I've settled in with and mashed potatoes for my husband who will think it's more trouble than it's worth but who will no doubt make appreciative yummy noises as the garlic and butter soaked spuds hit the back of his throat.

It might be stressful, it might be a flop. It might result in tearful tirades, angry rants and maybe even stitches. But isn't that what the holidays are all about?