Not so long ago, in a futile attempt to foster the Special Relationship, I once offered to cook a Thanksgiving Dinner for my then girlfriend’s family in Los Angeles.
The Americans tend not to eat turkey on Christmas Day itself, as they’ve already had the whole shooting match at Thanksgiving. As well as roasted turkey, the dinner can include cranberry sauce, candied yams, corn-on-the cob, peas, carrots, and pumpkin pie.
It didn’t go as planned: jetlagged (my luggage whisked away by Security at Ontario airport), suffering from the delayed shock of a car crash on the San Diego Freeway (some sort of a moustachioed creature in black leathers and wrap around sun glasses) had rammed my SUV as I attempted to swerve into a Drive-In McDonald’s; the whole operation degenerated into a farce. My girlfriend, fresh from her latest lipo-sculpture ordeal, wasn’t much help either, apart from prodding me awake at four o’clock in the morning to ask me why I hadn’t yet shoved the turkey into the oven.
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