For Thanksgiving in Switzerland, I wanted turkey, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, cranberry sauce, the works. After I invited some of my new Swiss friends and a couple American expats to the feast, I began the preparations. I had never seen a frozen turkey at the grocery store, so I went down to the corner butcher to place an order. 

“Should the turkey come from the USA?” the butcher asked in halting English.

“I am so very sorry, but we do not have turkeys in Switzerland,” he said. “Will a French turkey do?”

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A country without turkeys was a clue that finding what I needed to prepare this meal would be more difficult than I had imagined. With a week to go before the big day, I placed an emergency call to my Aunt Joann, who mailed a turkey bag from Texas via overnight express. I managed to find marshmallows by driving to Germany and in Bern, I found the sweet potatoes.

Some things I could not find like crème of mushroom soup and toasted onion rings. Giving up the green bean casserole was not a big sacrifice.

After the ingredients were collected, the remaining issue was who would make the gravy. I have gotten by all the Thanksgivings in my life because someone else made the gravy. Yet, none of the people coming knew how. My Swiss friends had never even heard of gravy. This meal would be new to them. It was up to me. 

The night before Thanksgiving, I began to worry about the turkey. With the language barrier, had the butcher really understood? The next morning, I was there when the shop opened.

To cart the turkey home, my expat friend Margaret brought a dolly and the butcher provided a cardboard box but no lid. The dolly wheels clacked conspicuously on the cobblestones as we rolled the turkey to my place. People stopped what they were doing to stare at the headless, monster-sized bird reclining in the open cardboard box. With his wings flopped out, it looked as if he was holding on to the sides of the box. We wheeled the turkey into my apartment building, pressed the elevator button, and prayed none of the neighbors would step out and start screaming. 

The French turkey had not come equipped with a pop out “I’m done” indicator, nor was he pumped full of fluids to self baste. Instead of short fat legs, he came with legs that were a foot long and quite sturdy.

“They aren’t here,’’ she said. 

“Oh, they’re in there somewhere,’’ I said. “Stick your arm in further and if not, try the other end.” 

No good. The giblets had been left back in France. 

Last hurdle, and it was major. Would the gigantic turkey fit in my oven? It is not much larger than an American microwave. As much as I did not like the idea, if the door would not shut, someone was going to have to saw off the turkey’s legs. After we stuffed the turkey and wrestled it into the turkey bag, it was a tight fit, but the oven door closed.