Thanksgiving may be the single day every year when Americans act most like the French. We focus on family, spend much of the day preparing a grand meal, and sit around the table deep in discussion.

For American expatriates in Paris, however, it’s a challenge to celebrate the day. When I lived there, even if you could find a whole turkey, you couldn’t find an oven large enough to accommodate it. Yams were plentiful but cranberries— forget it.

Now there’s a grocery store and Cajun restaurant on the rue St. Paul called “Thanksgiving” where you can order the traditional meal in situ, buy take out, or pick up the requisite ingredients.

Of course celebrating a holiday out of context, when everyone around you is oblivious to your national day of thanks, or “merci donnez” as Art Buchwald famously referred to it, is difficult at best.  I’m quite certain they ignore vendredi noir, too.

A close American friend who grew up in Paris tells of the time his father forgot about Thanksgiving and returned from the office at 10 p.m., long after his mom had prepared the feast.  As a family, they never celebrated the day again.

So while I heartily give thanks for all the days this year that I spent in France, I’m very grateful to be home with my family.  I still intend to keep the French connection alive though.  I’m hoping to roast a small bird on the cocorico.

Happy Thanksgiving tout le monde.

After reading Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, I feel even more certain that the French have it right. Pollan’s book is an elegant work that reminds us to take pleasure in what we eat. Before we can do that, however, we need to make smart choices when we shop and that is often a matter of quality.

Pollan notes that the French spend 50 percent more on their food than Americans do. We also spend less than 30 minutes a day preparing that food and just over an hour consuming it. I’ve had some Sunday meals in France that rival our weekly allowance.

The year I lived in Paris, I planned my week around market days. The green grocer insisted on knowing how I was going to prepare his produce; the fruit vendor carefully made her selections based on when I planned to bite into the chosen fruit; le fromager deliberated over the wine I would serve with his cheese; and the butcher advised me with great gravitas on cooking techniques for various cuts and roasts. When I would return the following Wednesday or Saturday, they all followed up to make sure I was satisfied. It wasn’t Gallic pride; it was “normal!”

In France the pleasures of the table are myriad and ritual. They emanate not just from the eating, but the knowledge gained, the care in preparation, the satisfaction of making something delicious, and the time to savor it.  Is it any wonder good conversation flows from such effort?

I hope a few of my recent imports for the French Kitchen will inspire you to make a couscous or daube de boeuf. They’re beautifully crafted pieces that reflect time and patience. You might want to cover the table with some exceptional linens, too.

It’s not the same as strolling on a market street in Paris, but you’re welcome to participate in our little forum below to ask for a recipe or to offer one of your own.

A votre service,