Thanksgiving in the States

LIZ SAYS:
After a moderately hellish trip over the sea in steerage, we woke up in sunny and oddly un-frosty Milwaukee. The waitress brought us two bountiful glasses of ice water while holding the steaming Bunn pot in the other hand and asked us if we wanted coffee. When I asked for tea, she said, "Here, you go, honey."
She bought Dick's blueberries with a, “There ya go, sweetie.” I basked in the blur of friendly America. We plowed through the Hungry Man Breakfast consisting of a salty sweet smoked pork chop and a short stack of maple drizzled pancakes. The breakfast also came with toast, coffee, juice and hash browns, but the cakes and chop were plenty. It was odd to have coffee, just plain old coffee, not cafe creme or espresso. I was reminded of that burnt taste the Bunn pots give, it was almost nostalgic, I think. I’m still not sure I can feel nostalgia.
The waitresses are talking about their prospective Thanksgiving rituals. "I'm in charge of the pound cake and the macaroni and cheese. Yeah, we all just make a dish or somethin’ and bring paper plates and cokes. Everybody takes home plates and plates but we only spend like, 20 dollars.”
“Yeah, and my step mother makes... And if I don't go there my father will probably cook, too. My grand mother loves to make...yeah, we always have somewhere ta go.”
In my head, could see her whole family, cooking and anticipating, getting together, piling food on paper plates and chatting up a storm.

I bought a turkey in Paris for Thanksgiving last year. The market had turkey, but it was mega expensive. The thing cost me 70 euros. It was delicious and moist, but, hey, I did cook it after all.
It was a beautiful fresh bird and I loved going to the butcher and placing a big order. It was no Butterball, it came with its head and feet, which the butcher kindly removed for me. He also gave me some fresh herbs to season it with, something good French butchers do.
Anyway, I’m back in the land of turkey and it’s Thanksgiving, so I have got to have turkey before I leave these feather strewn shores.
We decided to check out the big brunch at the fancy hotel for dinner at breakfast time.  It was a feast of typical Sunday Brunch at the Fancy Hotel proportions laid out over football field long tables of silver chafing dishes comprising the basic elements of a Thanksgiving meal. Turkey, an excess of starchy, rich dishes and cranberry something. I ignored every hint of breakfast or lunch and went straight for the canned cranberry sauce, roasted turkey and cornbread and sausage stuffing. It was an oral epiphany, the perfectly familiar combination of sweet, tart, smooshy, smooth, salty and soft, and lightly flavored tender white meat. Yum.
Only Americans know the carb bloated joy of sweet potato soufflé,etc., with grand slabs of glorious turkey breast freshly carved off the bone by a smiling young man wielding a big sharp knife. Of course, I didn’t eat all that, no, not me. And, I couldn’t even contemplate the dessert tables. I, personally think that Thanksgiving is not about the desserts, so the things called Cheesecake Lollipops didn’t even phase me.