‘Thanksgiving’ spent across the pond

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As we all know, Thanksgiving is a very American holiday. And Canadian. And Liberian. And Dutch. And actually quite a few more countries. My point being, it is not celebrated in England.

Although, according to the Telegraph, the Brits are starting to celebrate American Thanksgiving more and more.

That being said, they don’t really celebrate Thanksgiving. Not in the “get a week off school and spend most of your time on the couch eating and answering the same four questions from relatives” way:

“Well, I think I want to go into publishing when I graduate. Yes, I do realize that I will probably need to go to grad school. Sure, history isn’t as practical as a business degree, but I really like it. No, I don’t know what I’m doing this summer for work.”

One thing that the Brits do, and do very well I might add, is celebrate Christmas. And by Christmas, I mean in-your-face Christmas music playing since the second the clock struck midnight Nov. 1, decorations, carol singers and shopping galore.

The British especially like Christmas markets. For anyone who is not familiar with these, Christmas markets are a German tradition that the British have adopted. They set up giant markets that sell traditional German food and beer and have vendors who sell handmade crafts and presents.

It’s perfect for finding fairly cheap but cute and unique Christmas presents for all the people that you promised gifts from England to. Also there’s beer and sausages, which is an even better reason for going to one.

And it’s not like I’m completely devoid of the Thanksgiving experience.

For reasons that are beyond me, I volunteered to cook a full Thanksgiving meal for my flatmates. I’m surprised I didn’t burn down my lovely little flat. Preparing the meal actually went surprisingly well.

And other than burning the edges of the marshmallows on the sweet potato and apple casserole and slightly undercooking the carrots, everything came out beautifully.

That is until I went to put my pear and almond galette in the oven.

Not even halfway through the cooking time, the smell of burning puff pastry floated from the oven and I pulled out a blackened dessert.

We managed to salvage it by cutting off the burned bits, but it was a real blow to my cooking prowess. Oh well, can’t win them all.