I was born in late November in the late 1960s in England. It is, in many ways, a wonderful place (thank you for Great British Bake Off, Stephen Fry, and The Smiths). But it is a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.
So, when I met an American woman in an Irish bar in 1994, I didn’t know anything about the holiday. (I did learn, however, that the difference between Green Salad and Mixed Salad — according to the waitress who took our order — was that Mixed Salad “had some red in it.”)
I didn’t know that, four months later, when I arrived in New York, my birthday would no longer be my birthday, falling as it does on Thanksgiving Week. (I didn’t know that if I were to order a sandwich in a deli, it would come so over-laden with meats and cheeses that it could feed a family of four for at least a fortnight, not that “fortnight” was a word anyone used.)
I didn’t know that Thanksgiving would become my very favorite holiday, even now.
Here is what I am thankful for.
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