A few falls ago I wrestled an English born and raised turkey into a English oven for an American Thanksgiving.

My sister-in-law, Tiffany and I, even if it killed us, were going to create an American Thanksgiving for our families the first November that they lived near Cambridge, England.

We had packed cans of cranberry sauce and pureed pumpkin into carry-on bags, packed our kids into an overnight plane and trekked the Atlantic headed for Heathrow in mid-November. It was their first real holiday away from the States and we were going to be there with them.

This was before they’d discovered the convenience of the American grocery store at the US military base several miles away. Smooth peanut butter and pumpkin would have been easier found there, but cans that I’d personally carried across the ocean somehow seemed more hard earned.

My luggage held recipes for stuffing and green-bean casserole, and large poultry roasting bags too.  We took far too long pushing a trolley through the Tesco the night before Thanksgiving because we were drunk on the day’s busyness: sightseeing and wrangling 3 kids, 1 toddler and an infant between us.

We piled in canned green beans, fried onions {I could not BELIEVE they carried those} and of course, a turkey. Here’s for hope we can try to reproduce Thanksgiving the way we remember it here in another place.

The next morning we wiped off kitchen counters, emptied a dishwasher and put the husbands in charge of all the kids while we attempted cooking a complete meal in a kitchen with unfamiliar temperatures on the oven and unfamiliar measurements on the measuring cups.

“Let’s just do it,” I told Tiffany.

She laughed as we guessed on pretty much everything. While the rest of England worked a full work day, we enjoyed a holiday meal and thanked God for stuffing and turkey and pie that tasted a shade off of customary, but good even so.

Let’s do it, we thought as the four of us fought commuters on the train the following day into and back from London.

Let’s do it, we said as we drove into Cambridge in the freezing sleet and tried to watch the Christmas parade.

Let’s do it, we told the kids, as we shot off late Guy Fawkes Day fireworks in the park near the house. High and bright in the darkness, the flares shone as we shivered with sparklers in our hands, a frozen “Fourth of July” in late autumn.

Let’s do it.

Let’s not let fear or inability to see the end of it stop our wonder at adventure. Let’s never let adult-sensibilities stop us from venturing into the unknown or the scary because we’re “just too grown up” for that.  Let’s fail at a recipe, jump into the cold ocean, get our toes dirty in the mud because we’ve ran outside without shoes. Let’s take the commuter train to London.

Let’s jump in the leaves, throw snowballs, and spend an afternoon on the floor doing nothing but playing horses with our four-year-olds.

Let’s not allow fear or inconvenience to stop us.

What are you going to do today that fear or inconvenience has stopped you
from doing in the past?

By Sarah Markley, The Best Days of My Life

Leave a Comment