This is one of my favorite Mama stories. This week I give her the reins and away we go...
The First Thanksgiving
By
Victoria Ayala Pantoja
My first attempt at a traditional Thanksgiving dinner was during World War II. This was a time when my Mexican-American brothers and sisters and other male relatives, and friends, were slowly awakening to the realization that enjoying the privileges of a bountiful American brought with it responsibilities, as well as certain changes in attitude. Several Mexican-American families, who had received “Greetings from the President of the United States,” had already sent their sons off to war. As for myself, having been raised in a strict Mexican tradition, I felt it was also time to experience something of the American tradition. And what better time to start than on Thanksgiving Day?
Or so I thought.
Not many of the Mexican families that I knew celebrated Thanksgiving. I had learned about roast turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy – and the Pilgrim Fathers – in the history books at my school in Costa Mesa, California. I told my parents about Thanksgiving Day (my parents knew nothing of U. S. history, expect that California was once part of Mexico). I told them about the Pilgrims, and about the Indians, and how they had all sat down at the same table to eat roast turkey, in 1621, at a place called Plymouth Rock. With the all-knowing wisdom of the typical Mexican head-of-the-family, my father replied, “Our family had nothing to do with this Plymouth Rock, or Thanksgiving, or Pilgrims. Our heritage is Cinco do Mayo and the 16th of September.”
That’s how it was that all through my childhood. I listened to the American kids talk about their turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, and I vowed that when I grew up, I would have a turkey feast on Thanksgiving Day.
Finally, the day arrived. I was a young lady now, married and on my own; it was time, I thought, to begin the American tradition. By this time, all of my brothers and sisters had large families. I made arrangements with our mama to invite all the family. I would bring the dinner – our first Thanksgiving family dinner.
How excited I was in those last few days before Thanksgiving! I bought the biggest turkey in the store, along with all the ingredients to make the traditional American dinner. I read American recipes until I was tired of reading. This feast was to be just as it had been for the Pilgrims and Indians.
At last, Thanksgiving Day arrived. After much planning and labor, the dinner was prepared. My husband and I transported the huge dinner to the home of my parents, where all my sisters and brothers and their families had already gathered. Since I told them that it would be a traditional American dinner, excitement and anticipation ran high.
When Mama and I sat the beautifully browned turkey on the table, I’m sure the “ahs’ and “ohs” must have been heard all over Costa Mesa. There was sage dressing, mashed potatoes and giblet gravy, cranberry sauce, green peas and fruit salad. On Mama’s cabinet, sitting in a row, were five golden brown, tantalizingly plump pumpkin pies.
The children were beyond themselves with excitement. They had never seen, much less tasted, such attractive food. Oh yes, they had eaten turkey before, but it had been just small pieces, smothered in mole sauce. But here, in the center of their grandparents’ table, was the festive bird in its entirety – just waiting for a drumstick to be carved. The children devoured the food with their large dark eyes.
My husband undertook the job of carving and serving the turkey – no small job, considering the number of hungry children, and their impatience to be served.
By
Victoria Ayala Pantoja
My first attempt at a traditional Thanksgiving dinner was during World War II. This was a time when my Mexican-American brothers and sisters and other male relatives, and friends, were slowly awakening to the realization that enjoying the privileges of a bountiful American brought with it responsibilities, as well as certain changes in attitude. Several Mexican-American families, who had received “Greetings from the President of the United States,” had already sent their sons off to war. As for myself, having been raised in a strict Mexican tradition, I felt it was also time to experience something of the American tradition. And what better time to start than on Thanksgiving Day?
Or so I thought.
Not many of the Mexican families that I knew celebrated Thanksgiving. I had learned about roast turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy – and the Pilgrim Fathers – in the history books at my school in Costa Mesa, California. I told my parents about Thanksgiving Day (my parents knew nothing of U. S. history, expect that California was once part of Mexico). I told them about the Pilgrims, and about the Indians, and how they had all sat down at the same table to eat roast turkey, in 1621, at a place called Plymouth Rock. With the all-knowing wisdom of the typical Mexican head-of-the-family, my father replied, “Our family had nothing to do with this Plymouth Rock, or Thanksgiving, or Pilgrims. Our heritage is Cinco do Mayo and the 16th of September.”
That’s how it was that all through my childhood. I listened to the American kids talk about their turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, and I vowed that when I grew up, I would have a turkey feast on Thanksgiving Day.
Finally, the day arrived. I was a young lady now, married and on my own; it was time, I thought, to begin the American tradition. By this time, all of my brothers and sisters had large families. I made arrangements with our mama to invite all the family. I would bring the dinner – our first Thanksgiving family dinner.
How excited I was in those last few days before Thanksgiving! I bought the biggest turkey in the store, along with all the ingredients to make the traditional American dinner. I read American recipes until I was tired of reading. This feast was to be just as it had been for the Pilgrims and Indians.
At last, Thanksgiving Day arrived. After much planning and labor, the dinner was prepared. My husband and I transported the huge dinner to the home of my parents, where all my sisters and brothers and their families had already gathered. Since I told them that it would be a traditional American dinner, excitement and anticipation ran high.
When Mama and I sat the beautifully browned turkey on the table, I’m sure the “ahs’ and “ohs” must have been heard all over Costa Mesa. There was sage dressing, mashed potatoes and giblet gravy, cranberry sauce, green peas and fruit salad. On Mama’s cabinet, sitting in a row, were five golden brown, tantalizingly plump pumpkin pies.
The children were beyond themselves with excitement. They had never seen, much less tasted, such attractive food. Oh yes, they had eaten turkey before, but it had been just small pieces, smothered in mole sauce. But here, in the center of their grandparents’ table, was the festive bird in its entirety – just waiting for a drumstick to be carved. The children devoured the food with their large dark eyes.
My husband undertook the job of carving and serving the turkey – no small job, considering the number of hungry children, and their impatience to be served.
Turkey in mole
At last, everyone was served, but something wasn’t quite right. Looking around, I saw a disappointed look on everyone’s face. It was such delicious food – what had gone wrong? But no one spoke. Was all the planning and all the work – to say nothing of my dreams of a traditional dinner – to end in disappointment? It appeared so, because it was obvious that no one liked it.
We nibbled at the food for a few minutes. From the corner of my eye, I could see the children looking to their mothers for help, and the mothers threatening the children with stern looks. It was a tense time and it seemed that an explosion would burst at any moment.
Finally, it happened. Little Angelina couldn’t stand it any longer. Looking pathetically up to Grandma, she said in her most pleading voice, “Aubelita! No tortillas? No frijoles?”
Then Juanita, to her mother, “Mama! No tortillas? No Frijoles?”
Now it was Virginia’s turn, “Mama! No tortillas” No frijoles?”
Then baby Margarita, whose vocabulary was limited to three words, “Mama, tillas? . . . joles?”
I looked around the table. Everyone’s eyes were on Mama. She looked at me, and our eyes met, and we both knew and understood. As always, Mama was the salvation. Rising from her chair, she went to the cupboard, where, miraculously, there was a pot of warm beans and a large basket of fresh tortillas. She set them on the table next to the turkey, along with a molcajete of chile verde. One by one, smiles lighted the troubled faces of the children, as the frijoles and tortillas were passed around to take their places beside the American Thanksgiving food on their plates.
That long-ago Thanksgiving, during World War II, was the first time I ever saw a roast turkey smothered with chile verde. Mama praised it, and Papa grudgingly admitted that “mole Americano” (American gravy) was pretty good. The children, who liked Grandma’s tortillas and frijoles the best of all, wrapped their turkey and frijoles inside the tortillas.
After dinner we talked abut the first Thanksgiving dinner in Plymouth in 1621. We all agreed it was an interesting story, but not nearly so exciting as the stories told by my father about the Aztecs and the Spaniards – of whom he was a descendant – and about his childhood in Mexico.
That Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey smothered in chile verde and wrapped in tortillas, was the very first that my entire family enjoyed together. Since then there have been many more traditional Thanksgiving dinners for my brothers and sisters and their children and grandchildren – but, for me, none so memorable as the one when I first realized that my family was a people in transition between two heritages.
We nibbled at the food for a few minutes. From the corner of my eye, I could see the children looking to their mothers for help, and the mothers threatening the children with stern looks. It was a tense time and it seemed that an explosion would burst at any moment.
Finally, it happened. Little Angelina couldn’t stand it any longer. Looking pathetically up to Grandma, she said in her most pleading voice, “Aubelita! No tortillas? No frijoles?”
Then Juanita, to her mother, “Mama! No tortillas? No Frijoles?”
Now it was Virginia’s turn, “Mama! No tortillas” No frijoles?”
Then baby Margarita, whose vocabulary was limited to three words, “Mama, tillas? . . . joles?”
I looked around the table. Everyone’s eyes were on Mama. She looked at me, and our eyes met, and we both knew and understood. As always, Mama was the salvation. Rising from her chair, she went to the cupboard, where, miraculously, there was a pot of warm beans and a large basket of fresh tortillas. She set them on the table next to the turkey, along with a molcajete of chile verde. One by one, smiles lighted the troubled faces of the children, as the frijoles and tortillas were passed around to take their places beside the American Thanksgiving food on their plates.
That long-ago Thanksgiving, during World War II, was the first time I ever saw a roast turkey smothered with chile verde. Mama praised it, and Papa grudgingly admitted that “mole Americano” (American gravy) was pretty good. The children, who liked Grandma’s tortillas and frijoles the best of all, wrapped their turkey and frijoles inside the tortillas.
After dinner we talked abut the first Thanksgiving dinner in Plymouth in 1621. We all agreed it was an interesting story, but not nearly so exciting as the stories told by my father about the Aztecs and the Spaniards – of whom he was a descendant – and about his childhood in Mexico.
That Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey smothered in chile verde and wrapped in tortillas, was the very first that my entire family enjoyed together. Since then there have been many more traditional Thanksgiving dinners for my brothers and sisters and their children and grandchildren – but, for me, none so memorable as the one when I first realized that my family was a people in transition between two heritages.
The Wallace family on Olivera Street, LA. Circa 1059
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