Once again Art Buchwald's favorite turkey.
One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donmant.
Le Jour de Merci Donmant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pelerins) who fled from L'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde), where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their heart's content.
They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Americaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Maryflower or Fleur de Mai in 1620. But while the Pelerins were killing the Dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pelerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pelerins.
In 1623, after another harshu year, the Pelerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pelerins than Pelerins were killed by Peaux-Rogues.
Every year on le Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.
It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilometres Debomtish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with the Flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the Jeune lieutenant:
"Go to the damsel Priscilla (allertres vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain a man not of words but of action (um vieux Famfan la Tulipe), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.
"I am a maker of war (ie suis um fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of phrases. You bred as a scholar (voms, qui etes pain comme um etudiant), can say it in an elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden."
Although Jean was fit to be tied (conveniable a etre emballe) friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow (remdue [WORD ILLEGIBLE] par Fetonnement et la tristesse).
At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the troube to woo me?" (Ou estil, le vieux Kilometres? Pour-quoi ne vient-il pas aupres de mois pour tenter sa chance?)
Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling her what a wonderful husband Kilometres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice: "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" (Chacun a son gout.)
And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes, and for the only time during the year eat better than the French do.
No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grand fete and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilometres Debouish, who made this great day possible.