"I could use one of those," I said.
My native land today celebrates Thanksgiving. And for seven straight years in New Zealand, so have I. Yes, turkey costs about six times as much as what I'd pay in the States, and I order tinned pumpkin from an Auckland specialty store to make my favourite pies. I cling to this tradition with fork in one hand and bottle of whipping cream in the other because I can't help myself.
I keep thinking one day I'll give up this "old country" custom. A friend who saw me buying turkey breasts this week at Pak'nSave quipped, "We don't do Thanksgiving here."
I've done the holiday around the world. Like many migrants, I keep traditions I like and chuck ones I don't. I've cooked turkey dinners as an exchange student in Luxembourg and as a traveller to South Africa, when the outside temperature was 30C; procuring a bird entailed trips to three supermarkets, and cooking required extra prep: an hour-long kitchen scour because my hosts were waiting on their char (maid) to wash dishes and sweep ProNutro (cereal) sawdust from the floor.
Yesterday, back in Papamoa, the bloke behind me in the store queue told me his partner was American. He wished me Happy Thanksgiving as I left. It made me smile.
There's much to be thankful for this year, despite the rollercoaster of mirth and melancholy the past year has delivered.
I've yet to break anything while running – in itself, a miracle. The fact I've completed two half-marathons and a 10k just this month is testament to soundness of body and possible feebleness of mind (though I have many friends far nuttier than me). My gut check question when I feel low is, "Are the kids okay?" Yes, they are.
The children are my only blood relatives on this island. But gathered around the table and spilling into the courtyard of my home tonight will be some of the friends who anchor us to this rock. One couple provided my family a week's shelter when we were booted from our rental bach during summer holidays five years ago; others have taken my children for overnights when I've travelled; neighbours have provided tools, expertise and cold drinks. For so many of us, especially for migrants, friends are family we choose.
I'm thankful to live in a place of beauty, where the sight of Mauao means I'm home.
So does the sight of Ally dog, with her fluffy, wagging white tail.
The cool thing about celebrating a non-holiday in your adopted home is free range to improvise. Potato salad instead of mashed? Have at it. Forget the cranberries? No one cares. Equally impressive is when guests make and bring your favourite holiday foods. A Bulgarian friend is using her mum's pumpkin pie recipe. A Kiwi friend says she's making green bean casserole – a dish I haven't had in years.
After the imaginary ball game and minor injury, I drive my dusty self home, hobble to the kitchen, and put on my best big-lipped pout to show Miss 13 I'm hurting, bleeding and needing attention. "Oh, my poor little Mommy," she says. "Let me kiss you and make it better." She cups my face between her slender fingers and plants a peck on each cheek. She kisses my gravel-bitten palms. I am, indeed, better. Grateful for the ministrations of my teenager.
I've washed and bandaged my wound. I'm ready to bake. Happy Thanksgiving to any. To all. To none.
Thankfully, I can wing it here in the Bay.
What are you thankful for?
