Thanksgiving in Canada

The phone rang at 8:42 AM.  ”This is Jerry from Grocery Gateway.  I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Grocery Gateway is Toronto’s version of Fresh Direct.  I had placed an order the day before that was scheduled to show up between 7:30 and 9.  I dashed out of bed, turned on the coffee pot, and several minutes later heard a knock on my door.  It was Jerry, who is quite possibly the loudest person in Canada.

“Your first time ordering with us?” he blared.  I winced, knowing my roommate was still asleep.

“Yep.”

“You really went all out.”

“What do you mean?”

I peered into the box Jerry held in his arms.  It contained orange juice, turkey bacon, and a can of soup.

“Where’s the turkey?”  I cried.

“Oh…”  Jerry checked the receipt.  ”It says here ‘frozen butterball turkey, quantity: zero.’  They must not have had it.  They didn’t charge you, ma’am.”

“Why?  Why didn’t they have it?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.  I’m just the delivery person.”

Great.  Effing wonderful.  My family was set to arrive in two days and the only place that sold turkey in seemingly all of Ontario had dropped the ball.

“I guess that was the whole reason for your order, huh?”  Jerry said, more a statement of fact than of sympathy.

It wasn’t my idea to have Thanksgiving in Toronto.  In fact, I thought it was a horrible idea.  When my mother suggested the family come see the show in Toronto over Thanksgiving weekend, I told her not to.  ”Come see it in Chicago.”

“But I want everybody to be together over Thanksgiving.”

“Mom, they won’t even be celebrating Thanksgiving in Canada.  Not on that day, anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she told me.  ”I’m sure that over the holiday weekend, lots of Americans will be visiting Canada.  And I’m sure they [the Canadians] know that and we’ll be able to find a Thanksgiving dinner somewhere.”

I can’t even write here that her logic eluded me because she wasn’t using any logic.  She was using wishful thinking.

“Mom, no we won’t!  IF you can find a restaurant serving Thanksgiving dinner– and that’s big if– it’s certain to be expensive! ”  I cried.  ”And I’ll be in a hotel room somewhere.  We won’t be able to cook a turkey.”

But I got an apartment, and Mom got her way.  Before I knew it, my mother, three sisters, one niece, one nephew, one brother in law, one future brother in law and one spouse had purchased tickets and passports and were headed north.  They then proceeded to do all in their power to drive me crazy in a way that only family can.

Since the beginning of November, I have received a total of not ten, not 20, but 66 emails asking questions ranging from “Which hotel have you booked us at?” to “What size tablecloth do we bring?” to “Do you have an electric mixer?” to “Do you need fresh cranberries or can we eat the glop in a can?” to “Who’s bringing the wine?” to “Do I need to bring plastic cups?” to “Are you SURE the hotel is $65?” to “Where can we park?” to “Can I bring crushed red pepper on a plane?” and so forth.

The turkey, or lack thereof, was just the icing on the cake.  The cast Thanksgiving–the calm, sensible meal that would have been planned for me had my family not been coming– would not feature turkey this year either.  Apparently no one in Canada could provide turkey for a cast and crew of 40.  Apparently Canada couldn’t even cough up a goddamn frozen Butterball for eight.  My husband didn’t understand why I didn’t call up Grocery Gateway and scream.  I didn’t know how to explain that Canada is a place of contradictions: a place where the trains come every two minutes, but they still use antiquated tokens.   A place where one smells pot everywhere, but can’t find a decent bottle of Bordeaux.  A place where it makes sense that one would be sold a turkey that is not actually in stock.

Plus I didn’t have the strength or the sanity left to make the call.  I had gone insane that Sunday afternoon precisely at 1:40 when my mother tried to call me during a matinee at the rate of $.20/minute.  I then got an email entitled “Why Won’t You Call” that begged an answer to the perilously important question of “Where will we make tetrazini on Friday night” and “Will the boys [husbands] be babysitting the kids at the hotel on Thursday night or at your apartment?”   Definitely worth the $40 it would have come to if I’d been able to pick up the phone.

So when Jerry’s loud ass showed up sans turkey, I did what I had to do to stay sane.  I ushered him out as quickly as possible, then went across the street and bought two frozen Butterball turkey breasts.  As I plopped them into my cart, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, “But I always have a drumstick…”  So I swung over to the meat aisle, which, while devoid of whole turkeys, did in fact have turkey in chunks.  I picked up wings, thighs and drumsticks and prayed it would be enough.

When you have Thanksgiving in a new place, you have to let go of some traditions.  You have to improvise.  We may ending up eating off plates in our laps, making my mother’s concern over what size tablecloth to bring entirely irrelevant.  There will most likely not be a centerpiece.  And I for one won’t be able to drink any wine (although I sense I will desperately need it) because I have a show that night.

But my mother is right about one thing:  we will all be together.  And 30 years from now, when I’m wreaking similar havoc on my own children, maybe we’ll all be able to look back on this and laugh.