La Meva Primera Thanksgiving

“Oh, no, the gravy is lumpy!” I groaned from the kitchen. “¿Gravy? ¿Qué es gravy?” asked one of my guests. “Hmm ... I guess the closest translation would be ‘fat sauce,’” I answered. “I promise it tastes good!”

My friend wasn’t convinced by the thick, grayish liquid that was bubbling up in ominous lumps nor by my enticing description. But she rolled up her sleeves to help anyway and before long (and after a phone call to my mom in California for emergency assistance), we had it all sorted. What had seemed totally inedible just ten minutes earlier was somehow gently forming into a glossy, rich-smelling sauce.

The experience of executing that recipe was pretty much how that first Thanksgiving hosted abroad went last year: initial panic, linguistically awkward explanations of all things America and the rest was gravy.

But let’s start from the beginning. Earlier in August, after a few glasses of wine at a friend’s tapas night, I enthusiastically announced I would cook Thanksgiving dinner for everyone. As the expression goes, “borne aloft on the wings” of the cheapest Penedès tinto, I’d temporarily forgotten that I don’t really cook. Not for special occasions, rarely for boyfriends (and only then for the long-term ones) and definitely never for groups.

Of course, I couldn’t find a good quarter of the ingredients, starting with the turkey. I started giving many, many thanks that none of my guests were American because in the end, we’d be having roast chicken instead of turkey and skipping the cranberry sauce altogether. At least it was a start.

In the late afternoon, a couple of friends curious about American cuisine had come over to help with the cooking and see what the Thanksgiving meal was all about. “You guys use lots of butter, no?” “What is that exactly?” “My grandma in Andalusia cooks something similar, you know ‘migas’?”

Bit by bit, my guests started trickling in with appetizers and drinks to share. My tiny living room started filling up with people, laughter and that warm, homey feeling that infuses a house after a day spent cooking. Soon, we were triumphantly opening the oven to pull out a pair of perfectly golden roast chickens.

There was just one challenge left. “So, why exactly do you guys celebrate Thanksgiving?” asked a Barcelona born-and-bred local. With some hesitation, I decided to give it my best shot.

“OK, so completely ignoring the fact that Christopher Columbus was geographically confused and that today we all know he was like, an imperialist (expletive) who is super problematic ... So, the version of the story they tell us at school goes ...”

I trailed off on that note for a bit and then also explained why my family likes Thanksgiving: My parents aren’t American and during their first year in the U.S., they were invited to a Thanksgiving dinner for people who couldn’t celebrate the holiday with their family. My mom recalls how lovely it was, that gesture of being invited into someone’s home to share in their traditions when you’re foreign and your family is far away.

Back in my own group, we then went round the table in true Thanksgiving fashion and one by one the guests shared one thing they were thankful for. They came from Catalunya, Andalusia, Galicia, Mexico, Chile and the United States, but most importantly, they came from the small pseudo-family of friends that I’ve been lucky enough to make here in Barcelona. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t any turkey or cranberry sauce. I was simply and unbelievably thankful for finding such a fantastic group of loved ones to sit down with over a wonderful homemade meal.

This year, we’ll all be celebrating Thanksgiving together again. But, I won’t be worrying about lumpy gravy because I’ve already got the most important ingredients: love and friendship. Together, they make anything taste good.

Jessica can be found on Instagram at @barcelonablonde