“She’s bringing potato smoothies?” Michael asked.

“Smoothies? Where did she say that?” I asked while scrolling through the messages in our Thanksgiving 2023 WhatsApp group.

“Patatas batidos,” Michael said. “I looked it up — it means potato smoothies.”

“But did you read what she wrote right after that?”

I translated it for Michael. “She says she doesn’t know how to say mashed potatoes in Spanish.”

“So she’s not bringing potato smoothies.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Michael wants all the classics on our Thanksgiving table. But he doesn’t want to make them all himself. Which means relinquishing some control over the menu. Which he also doesn’t want to do.

That’s why he posted all the required food items to our WhatsApp group so that our 18 invited guests can choose one or more things to make and bring.

Except that 13 of those invited guests are Spaniards–eight of whom have never attended a Thanksgiving dinner, let alone cooked for one.

And did I mention that “pot luck” is not really a thing here in Spain?

When Spaniards get together, it’s in the cafes, bars and restaurants. Rarely do they go to each other’s homes. And if they do? The tradition is to bring some sweets from the pastry shop.

Or, apparently, croquetas.

“They’re bringing croquetas? That’s not on the list!” Michael said when I told him the response I got from one of our invitees.

“I invited them first. Once they accepted, I was going to tell them about the pot luck and the menu. But their response said that they were coming and bringing croquetas. And I’m not going to tell them, ‘You can’t bring those.'”

“Can we tell them to bring croquetas and something else from the list?” Michael asked.

I rolled my eyes. Michael got the message.

“We’re mixing cultures here, hon. This is not going to be a completely American Thanksgiving.”

In fact, we’re not even having it in our home. There’s not enough space.

So we rented a restaurant.

Well, a former restaurant.

We want home-cooked food and the feeling of “home.” So we found a place on AirBnB with a huge dining room. Which is quite unusual by Spanish standards. When we went to look at it the other day, the Spanish woman who has been the caretaker there for more than twenty years told us about its history.

Now it’s owned by Americans who live in our town. When Michael wrote to them and explained what we wanted to do, they completely understood.

“We had 18 people there last year for Thanksgiving,” they told us when they ran into us on the street last night, quite unexpectedly.

We’d never met them before. We were just walking along the street when Michael heard someone call his name. He turned around and didn’t see anyone he recognized.

A couple walked up to us and introduced themselves as the owners of the place we were about to rent.

“We heard you speaking English and figured it must be you,” they said.

This was a good assumption. We’ve lived in this town for a year and, in that time, I’ve only met nine other Americans. Seven of whom were just visiting.

“We’d like to invite you to your own place for Thanksgiving dinner,” Michael offered. But they had other plans.

Which is fine, as you can’t just run in to a supermarket here and buy an extra turkey breast should you decide to invite ten extra people to your Thanksgiving dinner.

We ordered our turkeys from the local butcher two weeks ago. He doesn’t actually raise turkeys. But knows a guy who does. So we ordered two. Twelve pounds each.

In the US, we’d get a 24 pound bird and call it a day, but I have yet to see an oven in this country that could fit a 24 pound bird.

In fact, for our first Thanksgiving in Spain, Michael actually bought and roasted a “tester turkey” just to be sure we ordered the right size for our oven.

Our local Spanish friend asked if we’re sure we can fit a 12-pound bird in the oven at the AirBnB. “I’m pretty sure,” Michael said, now having hosted two successful Thanksgiving Day dinners in Spanish-sized apartments.

As Thanksgiving Day is not a holiday here, and as five of our guests are in elementary or secondary school, we will not be eating at the traditional American Thanksgiving hour (sometime between 1 and 4pm).

And because we’re Americans, we won’t be eating at the traditional Spanish dinner hour (sometime between 9 and 10:30pm).

We’ve settled on appetizers at 5 and dinner at 7:30.

“You know, when I was growing up we didn’t have appetizers for Thanksgiving,” my mother told me yesterday. “We ate at 1, rested, the men watched football, then we all started wandering back into the kitchen at 5 for leftovers. The appetizers only started when I married your father.”

Dad is Italian-American. In that tradition, every big family meal has to be preceded by appetizers. Stuffed artichokes. Roasted red peppers. Fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella. Stuffed mushrooms. Shrimp and cocktail sauce. Those tiny pickles.

“Well, we can’t have dinner until the school-age kids get home,” I explained to my mother. “And the Spaniards don’t eat at 5, so it’s a compromise.”

As is pretty much any occasion when we try to integrate our native culture with the culture of those around us.

Well, unless someone tells us they’re bringing potato smoothies. There are some compromises we’re not willing to make.