Trying to get a taste of Thanksgiving in Ireland

I WILL wake up tomorrow morning as if it is any Thursday. 

The shop aisles in Cork will be quiet, unlike the grocery stores in my native America. The English Market won’t have hanging geese on display ready to roast. There will be no special displays, nor clusters of twenty-somethings on their phones asking mom how many cartons of cream she needs. Instead, there will just be the usual smattering of shoppers, quietly selecting routine ingredients. It might be Thanksgiving Day in my heart, but it is just Thursday in Ireland.

Though I go to all the same shops every day of the year, questions about my Americanness don’t seem as prevalent until Thanksgiving week, when I am buying turkey, cranberries, or celery. It is then, when I’m considering ground polenta for cornbread stuffing, that I’m asked about my Americanness. It is as if these questions are saved up all year, just waiting for me to do something typically American, like say ‘awesome’ or bake pumpkin pie. Inevitably, the questions creep from their hiding places and find their voices: