There's nothing like an American Thanksgiving

I can't remember the last Thanksgiving I spent in the States. It was certainly at least five years ago, and as many as 10. Given the holiday's close proximity to Christmas, traveling back for it is usually impractical if you have big yuletide plans. But this year, given the "carpe diem" motivations of my mother's illness ... and the ability to do my job from St. Louis for a couple of weeks ... a proper American Thanksgiving made sense.

I indulged in all the critical elements of the holiday. Food. Shopping. Getting up the Christmas decorations. Starting the Christmas baking. Catching up with old friends and extended family. The weather being particularly fine, I was even drafted into raking leaves at my childhood home. I may have grown up and moved on, but those damned oak trees are still carpeting the place in a thick layer of brown which must be removed. It wasn't fun when I was 13; it's not much more entertaining now. But at least I can justify it as exercise needed to stay in all the new clothes in smaller sizes that I just bought.

The highlight of the trip was the Thanksgiving meal itself. This is not a given. I am an only child of divorced parents, without aunts, uncles or cousins in town. The biggest family meal I can put together is for three; rarely does that add up to the festive expectation set by movies. Thus it was a delight to be included as extensions of the Edgar family, where five children of my generation, all married with their own progeny, and random extensions like us pushed the guest total to near 30. The kitchen was a merry production line, laughing children ran laps around the house, wine flowed and there was enough food to feed an army. The patriarch of the family has this event down to a science, clearing out the sitting room and filling it with a huge, medieval-style, c-shaped banquet table.

I was reminded, as I watched the menu coming together, of just how laden with sugars and fats this traditional meal is. Sure, the roast turkey is healthy. But we put it with cranberries and sweet potatoes that could both be desserts, potatoes lashed with cream and butter, and a green bean casserole that masks the vegetables with cream of mushroom soup and deep fried onions. And that's before you tuck into the pecan pie or piled whipped cream on the pumpkin pie. It's a weight watchers nightmare. But damn, it was good.

All this food is, of course, traditionally followed by shopping. My dad played his usual role of wingman, carrying bags and catching up with me between shops. The malls were crowded but not excessively so. I found parking even at midday. The sales were good, but not jaw dropping. Still, I managed to find enough at Dillards, Macys and Coldwater Creek to do all the wardrobe replenishment I needed.

I augmented the holiday routine with one special night out. Kemoll's has been one of St. Louis' finest Italian restaurants since it opened in 1927. (Yes, Italian. Despite the name. In the '20s, people had difficulty with tricky names like "Camuglio", so the family anglicised it to Kemoll.) Their deep fried artichokes, toasted ravioli and variety of veal dishes have marked many a St. Louisan's special nights, including mine. Last year, Kemoll's moved into the 40th floor of the Met Life building, once of the city's highest, thus adding amazing views of the riverfront and arch to the great food.

I have to admit to some flashbacks with the appetizers ... in my high school days this was the American Bar Association, and the venue for my junior prom. It was not the most pleasant of evenings, as my badly-chosen date ignored me in the early hours, then ended up snogging a classmate in my car at the after-dance party. While I was not damaged for life, it was certainly traumatic, and hadn't left me with fond memories of that room. I'm delighted to report that a fine dinner with some excellent wine, in the company of my mother and the adopted sister who's been a best friend since we were three, banished all those nasty ghosts.

As did the idea of a perfectly-chosen date waiting for me back in England. When I introduce him to St. Louis, I'll be treating him to a romantic dinner here.