Yesterday we began the search for turkey parts and red berries. Of course France does not celebrate Thanksgiving. The grocery store took down the one orange end cap, their small attempt at Halloween, and jumped straight into Christmas.  There are no napkins of thanks (not even a merci). No aisles of stuffing and cranberries. Not even a turkey leg in the freezer section. It is still a day that I try to piece together a semblance of an old tradition while creating a new one with my French family. Because it matters, this giving thanks. I suppose that’s what my mother taught me, not to have Thanksgiving, but to be thankful. 

My mom called me to announce her big decision to make a turkey. This was worthy of an announcement indeed, after spending years together eating bagels, Chinese food, or something from the coffee shop — the only stores open on pre-Black Friday.  I was definitely surprised, but perfectly willing to join in the celebration. She said she took the heavy, big brown sack out the freezer and it was defrosting on the cupboard. A few hours later she called with an update. “There won’t be a turkey dinner,” she said. “Isn’t it already defrosting?” I asked. “It turned out to be just a big bag of ice,” she said. We both laughed. “Do you remember buying a turkey?” I asked. “I don’t remember buying the bag of ice…” she said. We laughed about it for years. Mostly over coffee on the Thursday before the biggest shopping day of the year. I will be ever grateful for the endless laughter we shared. It is my favorite Thanksgiving memory. 

So we will push my empty cart through the grocery store in the south of France and keep searching — but not for gratitude — this I already have. Then and now. Always.