For expatriates, a good turkey is hard to find

When Americans find themselves overseas in late November, they often find themselves going to extreme -- and frequently entertaining -- lengths to celebrate Thanksgiving.

It entails a dedication to tradition, and a willingness to embrace new ones. Here are some tales:

William J. Kole, Vienna Bureau Chief

Our first Thanksgiving in Europe was in 1995, and as a newly minted foreign correspondent, I was determined to reach for great gastronomical heights.

But there were complications. The French had turkeys, but they all seemed dismembered: a thigh here, a breast there. No whole birds to be stuffed and basted. And, pardon my French, their turkey always seemed a tad tough.

In theory, good old dependable American "Butterballs" could be had, but the only ones we knew about were sold to diplomats at the U.S. Embassy commissary, which was strictly off-limits to journalists.

So we opted for Plan B -- "B" as in bunny.

Wandering our local market, we'd always been struck by how succulent the rabbits were, and we knew from my Belgian-born mother-in-law how to stew them until deliciously fork tender in brown Trappist beer and onions.

The only real challenge was whether to pair it with a Chateau Margaux or a Nuits-Saint-Georges.

It seemed a foolproof plan. That is, except for the tears.

Our kids were just 7 and 5 then, and the tears came hard and fast as we gathered around our feast. I've interviewed prime ministers and presidents on three continents, but the quote seared most deeply in my psyche is this plaintive plea:

"Why, Daddy? Why are we eating the Easter Bunny?"

Fred Glick, London

When I was based in Cairo, I'd ask the poultry man to make sure my turkey was plucked and ready Thanksgiving morning. Invariably it wasn't.

So instead of going home and getting the cooking under way, I'd find myself sitting, drinking a cup of tea, surrounded by dozens of caged chickens and the cats that hung about, waiting for my turkey to be plucked.

In 2001, I began keeping notes of our feast: who came, size of the turkey, how much was left, what sides we served.

My notes detail a progression of birds, beginning with a 17-pound hen (OK) to a big tom (tough) to two smaller hens (flavorful and tender), and finally in 2004, our last year in Egypt, a gigantic 22-pound bird from the new French grocer.

That final bird was, at last, the American ideal. It's not that the others didn't have plenty of meat. It was just differently proportioned. Think Playboy vs. National Geographic.

In our current home, London, there are no fresh, whole turkeys available at Thanksgiving. They're all raised to be ready for Christmas. So we are left to the frozen remnants of the previous year.

Tightly wrapped in plastic, hard and heavy as stones, they are a bit of a letdown. It's not that anyone can tell the difference, but foraging has become just ordinary shopping.

Victor L. Simpson, Rome Bureau Chief

In Italy, having an all-American Thanksgiving is all about timing.

When we first came here in the 1970s, we learned during our first Thanksgiving of the incompatibility of Italian customs with a major food-centric holiday held on a Thursday.

My wife sent me out with a shopping list of key items, such as cranberry sauce, to get from the only store in Rome that carried them. That's when I discovered that food stores in Italy are closed Thursday afternoons.

Since then, we shifted our celebrations to Saturday, allowing Italian friends who otherwise would be working to come. They go bananas over stuffed turkey, sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. Especially now that we can buy the ingredients!

Patrick McDowell, Asia-Pacific Editor, Bangkok

In 1988, I was in a small village in southern France with my girlfriend (now wife) Soizick, staying near her family. Thanksgiving came and I decided I had to give these sure-to-be-in-laws a taste of the American experience.

After calling Mom in California for her stuffing recipe, I set out in search of a turkey.

But in France, no one eats turkey until Christmas. I visited every butcher in the area, relying on my girlfriend to explain why we needed a turkey. "Pour la fete Americaine," she'd say. "For the American party."

The light bulb would switch on and they would apologize and send me elsewhere. I finally ended up in the picked-over meat section of a supermarket. I was getting ready to settle for chicken, when I found a couple of turkey legs and de-boned roasts of various parts tied together with string.

Back at our flat, I cut open the strings on the two roasts, then pushed and mashed the pieces around until they looked like bowls. I then piled Mom's stuffing high into one of the turkey craters, then took the other and smashed it on top.

It was a giant sandwich. We tied it together with black sewing thread, placed the two legs next to it and cooked everything according to my mother's formula of 20 minutes per pound at 325 degrees.

It worked out great. My wife's family pronounced the effort a success, saying they were thrilled to try a meal that the French say is the one day a year Americans eat better than they do.

Anna Johnson, writer, Cairo

It took nearly a week and 10 taxi trips through the chaotic streets of Cairo, but I managed to find nearly everything I needed for my first Thanksgiving in Egypt last year.

That is, except for the centerpiece. A day before the dinner we still couldn't find a turkey.

A friend had placed an order for a turkey at a market that supposedly sold them to foreigners. But when he went to pick it up, the market claimed it didn't have any. The avian bird flu had forced many of the bird sellers to shut down.

In desperation, former AP intern Andrew Bossone went to an open-air meat market, the sort where uncovered meat hangs from hooks and flies buzz around. Luckily, he didn't need to resort to that. He found two frozen 12 pounders.

Meanwhile, I was back at my colleague Lauren Frayer's apartment where dinner was to be held. Plenty of improvising was called for. There was no shortening for the pie crusts, never mind rolling pins and measuring cups.

In the end, dinner was wonderful. About two dozen Americans, other expats and a few Egyptians showed up -- many who had never had stuffing or corn casserole (true Midwestern treats) before.

But this year, I'm giving myself a month to prepare.