A Holiday Recipe for Making Memories

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Life is composed of accidental moments. They are glimpses of who we are and where we live.

I guess this story has to start with the fact that I am married into a very beautiful and loving Vietnamese family. Most of our lives are blissfully happy, but the cultural differences between us do sometimes make for awkward moments and strange situations.

Thanksgiving is a very special American holiday, but you have to remember that it is a distinctly American holiday. It is practically a holiday without reason to others. Jesus Christ (can we still mention Him in the newspaper?) didn't cause this holiday. In fact, if I remember correctly, Abraham Lincoln caused Thanksgiving. So just explaining Thanksgiving to my Vietnamese family takes a long time and too many words.

My sister-in-law once said: "And you eat a bird on this holiday? A big bird nobody wants? Why?"

Don't even try to explain cranberry sauce. "If it is so good, where is it the other 364 days?" I have no clue.

And also from my in-laws last year: "What the heck are yams, and what do you do with them?"

I, of course, knew the answer: "They grow underground, and you can make pie from them!"

The response: "Not in this house."

American culture makes sense to us, but to others it is sometimes mysterious.

So, last year, I volunteered to prepare the entire Thanksgiving dinner. I had my bird, my stuffing and all the trimmings. And I attempted pumpkin pie.

There is no way I am about to make a pumpkin pie from scratch. So I recalled how my mom did it when she was running out of time. Canned pumpkin, pre-made crust and, voilà! Pie! Hot from the oven.

Except that there are two types of canned pumpkin: concentrate (which needs to be thinned with milk) and "ready to go" (which is, as it says, ready to go.)

I did not know this.

I bought the "ready-to-go" kind, but I thought it was concentrate. I thinned it with milk.

My pies were runny.

Not just runny.

My pies were lakes of pumpkin soup.

My nephew "ate" his piece of pie by vacuuming it off his plate with a straw.

The Vietnamese are very respectful, and nobody laughed. But there was too much conversation in Vietnamese at pie time, so I knew I was in trouble.

But good news. One of the lasting traditions of Vietnamese life is this: On holidays, everyone takes food to their neighbors. So I suggested to my wife that we take a pie across the street and palm it off on the neighbors. I could see in my wife's face that she didn't want to go on this dingbat mission to give a lame pie to trusting neighbors, but she is Vietnamese. Vietnamese women will support their men. So, pie in hand and smiling all the way, we started across the street. I rang the doorbell and explained that the pie was somewhat runny, so I had frozen it, and I thought his kids would appreciate a little Thanksgiving pumpkin pie from his Vietnamese American neighbors.

Our neighbor accepted the pie graciously, and I was delighted.

Then he ruined my day.

Before he closed the door, he said: "I am especially happy, because I am the pastry chef at the White House, and I never get to taste other people's pie!"

Three hundred million Americans, and when I try to rid the household of a questionable pie, the recipient turns out to be the pastry chef at the White House.

As we headed home, my wife said all she needed to say. Two words: "Proud now?"

-- John E. Carey, Falls Church