By aMy SCHwarZSTein-Capron

I am hosting our Thanksgiving gathering at my overpriced , bug-infested cottage on Thalia Street . Like most wooden clapboard structures of its age in Laguna it has no insulation — too hot in summer or too chilly in winter . Charming ceiling fans cool it down and a brick fireplace gives warmth . A two-bedroom , one of which , my daughter complains , has no door .

Typical , makeshift , and wonky , but delightful and one of a kind .

Our aging Labrador sleeps curled up on a seagrass rug , keeping us safe . Coco , we joke , is for coco-nuts rather than Coco Chanel ( the effects of flying in the cargo hold from France ). No more running in the forest or sprawling on the lawn of our old French manor . Now she barks at golf carts cruising by and is leashed at the beach . Once she ate half the holiday pie left on the countertop . I cut off the gnawed part and served it anyway !

Thanksgiving was held at our childhood home on El Bosque , a circa 1930 Spanish revival in the El Mirador neighborhood . My happy place , my safe haven .

My mother prides herself on being a terrible cook , famous for her legendary shoe-like meat . My father , who recently passed , picked up some basics out of necessity and my sisters and I are foodies . I tried out new recipes with my parents ’ encouragement , and sometimes my dishes were even better than the store-bought . We ate traditional fixings : stuffed turkey , Ocean Spray cranberry sauce and yams with mini marshmallows . These days , I make nut loaf and squash Wellington .

We laughed and screamed , our love language . We overindulged , watching the Macy ’ s parade , and football games televised in colder climates . In Laguna , we ate poolside with the beach beckoning down the street for a sunset stroll .

I went off to university in Europe , too far and costly to fly home . I celebrated with fellow Americans and other friends for a Thanksgiving feast made with local ingredients : walnuts instead of pecans , sweet potatoes sold in the exotic food markets and polenta , a perfect substitute for cornbread . Corn on the cob , I was told , was for feeding livestock and not for the table . Pumpkin was unpopular . It required work to get it down to pulp for soup or a tart . Sometimes family could make the trip , bringing Libby ’ s pumpkin puree cans in their suitcases .

After Friendsgiving in Lugano , I moved to Paris . I fell in love with a Frenchman and started my own family . I spent weeks shopping , cooking and preparing . Later , in the countryside , I went to local farms for the ingredients .

Turkey is a Christmas tradition

there ; finding one fat enough before then was always a challenge . I was the crazy American lady who needed a turkey in November . I chose a live bird . The farmer did the necessary and wrapped it in wax paper including the giblets for gravy . My children looked shocked watching me cut off the neck , which to my dismay always was left on . Now a vegetarian , I ’ m surprised I could stomach it back then .

We invited our friends and neighbors . We toasted with wine and champagne , thankful for the love and good in our lives . The last Thanksgiving memory I have in France is canceling the turkey order when my husband died .

A year later , I shipped a container , listed the house and returned to my childhood home on El Bosque . Even in loss , I gave thanks to family and friends who were there for me in Laguna Beach . Wherever I live , Thanksgiving represents home and bringing family and friends together to celebrate gratitude .

Amy Schwarzstein-Capron is a Lagunatic and Francophile who loves to read , cook and lawn bowl while enjoying her family and friends .