It should have been some kind of big deal or scandal that I hadn’t celebrated Thanksgiving with my family, in America, since 1997. Back then we were discussing this movie “Titanic” which was going to come out and obviously make no money and become a legendary bomb. Shortly thereafter we relocated to a suburb of London, and our first English Thanksgiving was marked by my mother forgetting to make stuffing, which was my favorite part of the goddamn holiday. We had one more Thanksgiving in Blighty, then I shipped off for college, where I spent holidays with family friends to save the trouble of flying back to the east coast. No family has ever adapted more swiftly to my habit of reading books at the table when I get bored. Bless ’em.

Actually, it was the smoothness of these alternative Thanksgivings that made this real one seem so mellow. For the first time ever I had to navigate T-Day traffic – and it sucked! When I got home, the kitchen being used to prepare the meal was in familiar shape – mom stuck behind the sink, dad or brother getting occasionally in the way – so there wasn’t anything especially celebratory. Plus, after a few minutes we started eating in front of the TV. How unmagical can you frigging get?

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