American

This is from 2014—but it still holds up. Happy 4th!
Carry on,
xox

Dear America,

Home of these United States.

Happy Birthday, Girl.

I am eternally grateful, even after traveling the world, make that especially after traveling the world, to have won the cosmic lottery by having had the good fortune to be born in your golden state.

I have traveled this country, sea to shining sea, mostly on the back of a motorcycle, and I’m here to testify that it really does have purple mountain’s majesty and amber waves of grain.

It is gorgeous.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the trash, graffiti, and poverty through these rose-colored glasses of mine, but by and large, this country is a heart-swelling source of pride for me.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

That last pursuit, the pursuit of happiness?

We are unbelievably blessed that Thomas Jefferson had the wisdom and foresight to write that into The Declaration of Independence.

No other country in the world gives its citizens the RIGHT to happiness.

Who knows what that even means, what happiness even looks like?

To them, it meant emancipation from British Rule.

Happiness means something different to everyone, but we, WE are entitled to it thanks to that sacred declaration—and by God—we go for it.

The American people I’ve met all want the same things from life: Love and a good cup of coffee.

Americans are hard workers. Some of the hardest in the world – don’t argue, check the stats.

We love our pets
Damn, we love our kids.
We are an irrepressible bunch. We are gregarious, outgoing and LOUD.

We are innovative, curious, quick minded and clever.
And we don’t take NO for an answer. (Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs, my nephew).

We are MacGyvers. Most of us are industrious enough to fix pretty much anything with gum, a paper clip, and dental floss. It’s in the water.

We willingly give directions to people who look lost.

The Americans I’ve met, will help a stranger in a heartbeat. They are generous and kind.

The United States is only as great as the sum of its parts; in reality, it is only a landmass with man-made borders.

It is the people who make it great and make me grateful to have been born here. 

Don’t agree? Travel outside the states and you’ll share my appreciation for :

Clean water
Indoor plumbing
Hot running water,
A toilet with Real toilet paper
Things that work as expected
Ice cubes. Cold anything really
Decent French fries
King size beds (not two twin beds pushed together)
Street signs that actually give you correct information.

7 eleven (the ability to buy tampons or Motrin or band aids at 2AM)

Personal space (other countries don’t have the same personal boundaries we do.)
Story: We were standing in some line in Europe, (where they are big on lining up for things to which Americans would say “No fucking way”), when my husband looked over at me with the saddest mix of incredulity and humiliation. The old man behind him was standing so close that if he even so much as puckered his lips, he would have kissed the back of my husband’s neck.

It freaked him out and he’s French…. So, personal boundaries.

A relatively dependable police force and fire department.
A somewhat workable bureaucracy. (Just try to get your VAT tax back)
Real cabs that don’t have hoodlums for drivers
Soap
Pillows that are thicker than 1 inch.

CUSTOMER SERVICE. DEAR GOD, CUSTOMER SERVICE!

I’m serious, these are things we take for granted that some other countries just haven’t figured out yet.

Happy Birthday, America. I do love you. You don’t look a day over two hundred.

My birthday wish for you on this momentous day is a big fat cake with tons of candles, heaps of vanilla ice cream, and the most badass fireworks display ever, complete with marching bands and a flyover by the Blue Angels.

Too much? Nah, we’re Americans.

*Addendum: there are some things that other countries do that kick our ass.
My husband was riding in the middle of the Namibian desert last year and he had cell phone service – like four bars – four bars is unheard of in LA.
The electricity was dicey, but he was able to FaceTime me every night.
So, yeah, they’re killing it with cell phone service.

Want to wish her a Happy Birthday? Put it in comments below and I’ll forward them to her.

Much love,
Xox

It happened over several years, with the subtle finesse we’ve come to expect from the French.

He entered our family just under fifteen years ago.
He is a foodie extraordinaire and an accomplished cook in his own right, but he ingratiated himself in the beginning, acting as the sous chef for my mother who is the culinary queen of our family—then slowly, skillfully, and sneakily—He hijacked Thanksgiving.

The only demand he acquiesces to is that it must be an ORGANIC turkey.
“No antibiotics, no hormones…no taste” he sing-songs sarcastically under his breath as he places the order every year.

I suppose we should be grateful that he hasn’t decided to switch fowl on us yet. Next year it could be pheasant or duck in the center of the table.

See, that’s the thing, we, my siblings and I, we LOVE and crave all year ‘round, my mom’s traditional Thanksgiving feast.

The one we ate as kids. The meal whose perfection is so sublime it should never be messed with. EVER.

Yet…the now reigning chef in our holiday kitchen—the one with the red passport—HE  little by little, year after year has modified each dish so completely that it bears little if any, resemblance to the original.

And my mom doesn’t give a hoot!
She’s just so thrilled that someone has taken over the culinary heavy lifting; along with the fact that I finally found a husband—and he’s French—that she sits back and happily eats what she is served; doling out the compliments like Tic-Tacs at a cigar shop.

Benedict Arnold.

This European guy feels no sense of urgency—he doesn’t start the turkey until late morning.

I remember waking up as a child, the house already heavy with the aroma of a turkey that had been in the oven for hours. Now I sit and watch the Thanksgiving parade, eyeing him suspiciously as he lingers over his coffee and sudoku.

You can’t rush the French—about anything, most especially cooking—it shows disrespect and they just won’t stand for it.

Yet…he shows the old hen no respect. He’s rude to her, slathering her with butter and olive oil and then flinging her, breast down, legs in the air (the turkey, not my mother) into a 500-degree oven for the first twenty minutes.

His mashed potatoes are loaded with creme Fraiche, truffle salt, and a pound of butter…yet oddly enough—not a single calorie. Oh, the French.

His vegetable of choice is the brussel sprout. The recipe is so elaborate,  with shredded bacon and gruyere in a balsamic reduction; that he’s only allowed to make them every other year.

That allows us to have the green beans in mushroom soup with the dried onion rings on top for the alternating years. He would never deign to eat that slop. We, on the other hand, squeal with delight in gleeful anticipation of this mushy mess of soupy goodness while his face assumes that pinched look of French disapproval.

Maybe the worst atrocity against the holiday is the stuffing; or lack thereof. He was raised in France. They don’t know from stuffing. They have bread pudding.

This year he is repeating the mushroom and leek bread pudding that he served last Thanksgiving. It really is delicious, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not my mom’s stuffing and it doesn’t go well with gravy – if you can imagine that.

As long as we’re talking gravy. His gravy is ridiculously smooth and savory, I’ll hand him that.

No one can figure out how he does it and I still haven’t caught him in the act of making it. I’m convinced it is delivered by Trappist monks to the back door just before we sit down.

Yams and sweet potatoes are not his things either so he’s given us the okay to make my mom’s killer Sweet Potato Casserole. It is heart-stoppingly delicious. La petite mort— it is THAT good.

It’s been ten years, and I’m just getting over it.

Nope, no Norman Rockwell moment at our house.

Instead, with knives so sharp they can slice a tomato, he carves the turkey up in the kitchen like a skilled butcher, arraigning it artistically by sections on a white platter; placing the drumsticks on the sides like exclamation points. I’ve actually come to appreciate the expediency of serving the bird this way.
White meat on the left, dark meat on the right.
Voila!

But this is a day about giving thanks and although He has hijacked this most American of meals, I must admit that we are lucky and ever so grateful to have this Frenchman in our family.

Every. Single. Year. He takes us on another culinary adventure, expanding our palates by spending weeks shopping, hours chopping and delivering to our family such a carefully thought out and meticulously prepared and delicious feast.

We love you!

Now let’s eat!

Happy Thanksgiving!