I’m interrupting my last post about my Digital Camino experience to repost this Thanksgiving reflection from a few years back. I think we could all use a good laugh this year, and a chance to remember that a perfect Thanksgiving can be seen in many different ways. I’m praying for us all to find deep thankfulness this Thanksgiving for the fact that we are alive and beloved by our God and so many family and friends, no matter how far apart we are. Without further ado: The Turkey Trot!

It’s that time of year again, and it’s not what you think. Yes, the turkey trot centers around Thanksgiving, but the ‘trotter’ is me, and I’m usually trotting from France.

For the past thirty years, I’ve lived in France and for most of those thirty years, my Thanksgiving holiday has been spent there-in France where they do not celebrate Thanksgiving and where they do not fatten up turkeys until December.

Hence the turkey trot where I am literally trotting all over town trying to find a turkey for the annual Thanksgiving meal we celebrate on whatever Saturday or Sunday falls nearest to Thanksgiving.

My first turkey trot occurred in 1983. I had been living in a dried-up mining town for about six months working in a tiny Protestant evangelical church of twenty members, (on a good Sunday). I was twenty-three and was just barely beginning to learn to cook. In France. A great place to learn, mind you. Except when it involves turkeys at Thanksgiving.

My roommate and I ordered a turkey from the local butcher. He dutifully handed it over to us on Thanksgiving Day (which is not a holiday in France, hence his store was open). Take note, the turkey was wrapped up, and we took him in good faith that what we were receiving was indeed a turkey.

Back home in our tiny kitchen with the gas stove which we had finally learned how to light without singeing our eyelashes, we opened our packaged-turkey.

And I screamed.

It was a turkey, all right. Complete with its head, claws and everything else. A skinny un-headless turkey!

Fortunately, my dear roommate had been raised on a farm and decapitated the poor thing without much ado. But we were both amateur cooks and burned the poor famished thing to a crisp.

Fast forward through about thirty years of other turkey stories. I’d learned to order the bird way in advance and then call ahead of time to make sure that my butcher had indeed found a fattened (headless) turkey for my Thanksgiving feast.

Even with these precautions, we often found ourselves, me and my fellow turkey-loving ex-pats, in the midst of a fiasco. The butcher forgot. Forgot??? The turkey was tiny. The order got mixed up and at the last minute, instead of buying a turkey for the equivalent of forty dollars, we had to get one from a faraway farm. The turkey was fattened and delicious. And cost a mere one hundred dollars.

Once, anticipating a large crowd, I ordered an eight-kilo turkey (about twenty pounds). The butcher gave me a startled look, leaned towards me with dancing eyes and pronounced, “Madame, c’est une dinde! Ce n’est pas une vache!” “Dear Madame, this is a turkey you want, not a cow!”

Sigh. I got two three-kilo turkeys that year.

But one year, I decided to host only a few very close French friends, with no lingering ex-pats, to enjoy the turkey feast. My friends were honored and delighted. I was thrilled with this opportunity and put in my order a month ahead of time. Then two weeks before the pick-up date, the butcher called to assure me all was set.

‘Oui, Madame!’

I would have my five-kilo turkey.

On a bright Saturday morn in November, I headed to the butcher’s to pick it up. The Thanksgiving celebration was to be on Sunday (since, as you recall, there is no Thanksgiving holiday in France.) I got to the counter, spoke to the butcher, and he nodded, all smiles. He remembered me (my lovely Southern accent serves for something!) Off he trotted to find my turkey.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

He returned, looking quite confused. He consulted in whispers with his colleague. At last, with an expression of extreme desolation on his face, he explained, “I am so sorry, tres desolé, madame, but it seems that we have sold your turkey to someone else just this morning!”

A mix-up. Simply nothing to be done. And there were no other fattened whole turkeys to be had.

I couldn’t believe it.  And yet I could.  As we have seen, France and turkeys for Thanksgiving are always a bit tricky.

I stood there with my mouth agape, and was about to pronounce a few choice French words when a friend tapped me on the shoulder, surprising me. Shoot! I would need to control myself in front of her.

The butcher ended up giving me this ‘wonderful deal’ on two huge turkey thighs and a big turkey breast. He even bound them together, as if this was going to simulate a real turkey that I could actually stuff.

I could only shake my head and laugh. Here I had envisioned myself presenting my French friends with a gorgeous stuffed turkey, surrounded by plump purple grapes, the perfect blend of America and France. (Photo below from a previous Thanksgiving).

But I refused to let this dampen my joy at having my friends, and so I moved into what the French call ‘System D’—it’s short for se debrouiller and basically means, just figure it out.

And I did.

And we celebrated. And it was just perfect.

This year, I’m in America for Thanksgiving, and I am heading to the butcher’s to pick up my—um—’cow’.