Saveur

One November day during my freshman year of college, in a fluorescent-lit Providence dorm room, my roommate sat wide-eyed and cross-legged on her extra-long twin bed and hesitantly asked a question that pierced my New Jersey soul. "So, since you're Greek, do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

How do you begin to answer that question? My first instinct was to smack her upside the head and say, "Whatsamadduhwitcha?" Instead, I just answered yes, simply and without my usual sarcasm, and hurried out of the room, hoping to avoid the questions about Telly Savalas and Yanni that were bound to follow.

To this day, whenever Thanksgiving approaches, one of my friends will tease me about my former roommate's query, and it gets me thinking. When do Greeks not embrace an excuse to eat?  It may have been ignorant of my roommate to ask whether I celebrated the ultimate all-American holiday, but it did make me realize that my Greek-influenced traditions were suely unique. Were other families eating pumpkin pie with a side of baklava?

When I was growing up, our "Greeksgiving" celebrations were sprawling potluck dinners, shared with an extended community of four or five other Greek families. Over the years, though, the meal—like our family—has become more Westernized, and the turkey, once a lonely island in a sea of pastitsio, feta cheese, and olives, has become the focal point of our meal.

After I began attending culinary school at Johnson and Wales, I began testing out new dishes at family events, including Thanksgiving. Each of my creations would undergo intense scrutiny and analysis, but as my family and friends were exposed to a world of food outside their Greek comfort zone, our potluck Thanksgivings morphed into a kind of cross-cultural recipe competition. The year when one of my aunts and I both made a cranberry–orange relish, things got particularly ugly.

Come to think of it, maybe this year I should make spanakopita.

—Anna Papoutsakis


In 1998 my sister-in-law decided to host a Thanksgiving feast for 30 people. While planning the menu, my brother-in-law mentioned more than once how much he loved pumpkin pie, so, confident cook that I am, I volunteered to take on the task of making one. I was sure I'd bake a pie that he'd remember for years.

To add to the fun of the festivities, I decided to spend the night before Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law's house, helping her prepare and putting together my heavenly pie. (Note: My two young children were also in tow.) As we busily cooked for the next day's feast, we suffered only minor interruptions, and I was surprised at how quickly we finished.

Jump forward to Thanksgiving Day. The house was bustling with revelers, content from roast turkey and the fixings. Then the time came to present the grand finale: apple pie, pecan pie, and, of course, my delicious pumpkin pie. My husband, son, and brother-in-law were the first to dive in, and I looked on anxiously as they took their first bites. I'd been expecting moans of pleasure but was instead faced with scrunched-up noses. I scooped a forkful into my mouth and realized I'd forgotten the sugar! I blamed it on the kids and begged for another chance; in fact, I made another pie the very next day, with sugar. Even now, every Thanksgiving my brother-in-law, via phone or, if we are lucky, in person, recounts the tale of my famous pumpkin pie sans sugar. If nothing else, I guess I got my wish: I made a pie he couldn't forget.

—Julie Wilson