For me there’s nothing that spells fall quite like the blanket of emerald green, and gold that color the countryside in dappled light. This morning as I looked out at the autumn landscape, I reflected back on my first Thanksgiving in France many years ago.
With his wild, white hair suitably uncombed, Jean-Luc, an artist whose first show was with Picasso in Paris, and his wife, Rhodia, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Simone Signoret, arrived at Lulu’s house in the late afternoon with a flourish. Jean-Luc opened his arms wide at the sight of me exclaiming, “Quelle surprise!” Rhodia took my face in her hands kissing me twice on each cheek. Etienne, a mutual friend, commonly known as the Gers gigolo, arrived on Rhodia’s heels with 2 bottles of wine. As though she’d forgotten something of great importance, Rhodia flung her burlap sack off her shoulder and pulled out a bottle of Scotch from a decorative box, “A pree-zent for you, Lulu!” The bottle in the box, given to Lulu upside down, gave in to gravity, popped its lid and flew across the kitchen floor, but not before striking Rhodia on her shin producing a spout of blood. Jean-Luc chased the rolling bottle, excitedly muttering, “Rhodia, Rhodia, how could you be so careless?!. Etienne raised Rhodia’s leg onto a kitchen chair and Lulu grabbed a dirty tea towel to stem the flow of blood. I ran into the bathroom and pulled off a wad of clean toilet paper, running it quickly under the kitchen faucet to clean the wound. Flush with embarrassment, Rhodia, accompanied by Etienne and holding the wet toilet paper to her shin, hobbled to a chair in Lulu’s’s lounge and sat down. Lulu ran upstairs and brought back a handkerchief and tape, creating a bandage. I went back into the kitchen to dispose of the bloody compress.
Jean-Luc was filling a glass with ice cubes. “She’s going to be alright, of course, she is…”, Jean-Luc muttered to himself. “Really I was only worried about the bottle of Scotch…I am happy the bottle was not broken. That would have been a ca-tas-tro-phe!….You know, I’ve been looking at this very small painting Lulu has leaning against the wall of pears and apples…a very primitive painting…I would have made the curves of the fruit better and maybe used a palette knife, but it doesn’t really matter, it’s Lulu’s painting.” “I heard you, Jean-Luc…”, Lulu said loudly from the lounge. “It’s my painting. A dear friend gave it to me and I love it!” “Okay, well, you see, it doesn’t really matter.”, he said, poured some Scotch into his glass and turned the painting upside down. “It looks better this way…”
Lulu, an American woman I’d heard about and was introduced to by Etienne, also moved from Seattle to the Gers at the same time I did. We discovered we lived 15 minutes away from each other in Seattle, had mutual friends, but never met each other until we both moved to France. Tall and thin as a poplar with very short, bleached-blonde hair and dramatic flourishes, men were attracted to her like ants to honey.
George and Opal, a sweet British couple whom you might have traded your parents for if you had an unhappy childhood, arrived next. George carried a bottle of red wine, and Pearl carried a dessert hidden under aluminum foil. Once everyone was settled in either chairs or the small rattan couch in the lounge, Lulu poured a tall glass of Pousse Rapier, a delicious orange-flavored aperitif, for all. Lulu brought out two bowls of olives and passed them to everyone, but me, then disappeared upstairs. Noticing this, Jean-Luc leaned over to me and whispered, “Lulu is so rude. She didn’t offer you a drink or olives. I would never do that. She has to learn to be a better hostess. I will show her.” He went into the kitchen, poured me a glass of Perrier, and brought it back with a small dish of olives. “Here you are my dear…Lulu?….Lulu?”, he called. “Yes, dahling”, she replied while coming back down the stairs, turning up the stereo and dancing her way into the kitchen. “Such an amazing character she is, so beautiful, so dramatic and free…hmmm…I forgot what I was going to tell her…”. Lulu continued dancing while putting the final touches on the meal for about half an hour. Everyone else chatted in the lounge as best they could in English, French or a combination of both.
“À la table!”, she announced. We collectively rose and were given our places. Lulu sat at the head of the table, Jean-Luc next to her, then Rhodia, George, Opal, Etienne, and lastly me, closing the gap. Laid out in the center of the table was a casserole dish of sweet potatoes covered with burnt marshmallows, another of roasted Brussel sprouts and shallots, and a large, oval platter with 2 enormous roasted chickens. Rhodia exclaimed, “Chickeens, Lulu?… even I know in America they celebrate Thanks-geev-eeng with tur-keeys!” Jean-Luc shook his head slowly, “Rhodia, Rhodia, how can you be so disrespectful to our hostess?” “Rhodia, Rhodia”, she aped back…”I was just asking a seemple question!” Lulu interrupted, “That’s a perfectly appropriate question, Jean-Luc. Finding a turkey in duck country is a strategic mission! I couldn’t find any turkey for under a hundred euros, so I bought 2 of the largest chickens iI could find instead…you know I do everything in excess!”
Lulu asked Etienne to carve the chickens. He had already imbibed 2 glasses of Pousse Rapier and a glass of Scotch when he grabbed the large fork and knife on the platter and stuck them into the first chicken. He discovered the carving utensils weren’t sharp as the chicken flew off the platter and landed on his plate sending a spray of pan drippings onto all of our faces and clothes. He turned bright red and couldn’t stop laughing while we tried to clean ourselves off. He left the drippings on his face and clothes. I was not completely surprised that a small piece of rosemary stuck to his right cheek all evening and he didn’t seem to care. George, who had been very quiet and observant so far, brandished a very sharp Opinel pocket knife and began to carve the second chicken while Etienne struggled with the one on his plate, finally giving in and pulling off its legs and wings by hand.
Once the carving was finished Etienne lifted the carcass with both hands and pumped out the wild rice stuffing while George ladled his out with a spoon. Plates were passed and a hushed silence filled the room. Lulu’s cats, Nola, Rio and Venice stalked the table from the sideboard, occasionally leaping onto the back of someone’s chair only to be roughly pushed off. Bones were sucked dry, second helpings were taken and glasses refilled. As a vegetarian, I was mesmerized by the feeding frenzy.
Once appetites were sated, conversation slowly returned. Jean-Luc talked about being married to Rhodia for fifty years, how he manages and why. They argued back and forth about her never learning how to drive. Having had enough, she gathered up her burlap sack, took out her faded cloth wallet filled with cigarette tobacco and papers, put on her shawl and went outside for a smoke. When she came back in she filled an empty plate with bones, a well picked chicken carcass and uneaten skin. She took it back outside for the cats who snapped through the cat door in a blur of motion the instant they heard the plate clatter on the concrete slab patio outside.
The table was cleared and three desserts were carried out. Lulu made a pumpkin pie. I made a cranberry crumble and Opal unveiled a sugar-free, creme fraiche cheesecake topped with malted milk balls. Everyone ooh-ed and ah-ed. Lulu cut generous servings for everyone, except Rhodia, who said she didn’t eat schew-gar. Etienne scooped out ice cream. The room became quiet again. Rhodia began to cough, a raspy smoker’s cough. Jean-Luc became annoyed. “Rhodia, Rhodia, I quit smoking years ago, over 40 years ago, it was so simple. I wish you would stop,” Rhodia mocked, “Rhodia this, Rhodia that…you are so clev-ver, Jean-Luc.” She rolled her eyes, took a spoon and scooped off some cheesecake from his dessert plate. “I can’t believe you’re eating dessert!”, Etienne, said. “You never eat dessert.” Opal chimed in French “Il n’y a pas de sucre.” “Incredible!”, said Etienne, “You can speak French!” And Rhodia replied, “And I can speak English, there is no schew-gar!” Rhodia stuck her tongue out at Etienne. Jean-Luc put his hands together in prayer.
“Sue, I was wondering if you could tell me the meaning of Thanksgiving…” Before I could answer, Lulu did, telling Jean-Luc how thankful she was to have all of her friends seated around the table. Jean-Luc, George and Etienne raised a glass to her. Opal and Rhodia raised their eyebrows. “Actually….”, I said, …”The mother of Thanksgiving is considered to be Sara Josepha Hale, but originally, Thanksgiving was a harvest celebration of the feast the Pilgrims had in 1621 with the Wampanoag Indian people.” Jean-Luc smiled, “Ah, good, that’s what I really wanted to know. Such a nice holiday.” George said, “Don’t you call them Native Americans now?” Lulu was quick with a response. “Yes, we do. How politically incorrect of you, Sue.” I said, “Well, in the context of the time they were called Indians.” Opal said, “That’s right, just like cowboys and Indians.” With childlike animation Jean-Luc squealed, “Oh, I loved cowboys and Indians when I was a little boy!.
“Okay, anyone for seconds?!”, Lulu cried. Etienne didn’t hesitate, “Bien sur!” and heaped his plate with more crumble and cheesecake. No coffee or tea was offered. There was no red wine left so Lulu opened a bottle of white. I was feeling full just watching them. After nearly 4 hours at the table I was ready to leave, so I excused myself. I asked Lulu if I could wash the crumble pan before I left because I saw Etienne licking the baking dish. Lulu said, “No because my dahling Etienne isn’t finished yet.” He said he would bring the dish to me, but he didn’t have a working kitchen, and I never saw the dish again.
I said my au revoirs and got into my car. The night had become damp and foggy while we were inside the house. As I slowly pulled out of the driveway and looked left, I could barely make out the neighbors dog through the water droplets on the window as he slouched down the road with the cat’s chicken carcass clenched firmly between his jaws. Then, turning right, I drove into the mist towards home.
To the French, most Thanksgiving food isn’t anything worth being thankful for. Cranberry sauce out of can isn’t the same as homemade confiture. Oven-made croissants from Pillsbury don’t compare to buttery croissants from the boulangerie or a fresh baguette. And why would you ruin good sweet potatoes with a load of brown sugar and marshmallows? Neither sweet potatoes nor white potatoes were available to the colonists in 1621, so the Pilgrims definitely didn’t feast on them, and they certainly weren’t putting marshmallows on them. Here’s a link to what the first Thanksgiving menu might have looked like.
I know it’s a bit early for a Thanksgiving post, but since I won’t be writing another blog until next year, I wish you a very happy Thanksgiving, however you choose to celebrate, filled with good food, good company, good humor, and plenty of gratitude.
*First published on Nov. 11, 2025 in Slow Travel Tours