“When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength. Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself.”—Tecumseh
Thanksgiving is perhaps the most uniquely American of all American holidays. Each year, families and friends travel thousands of miles to gather at tables across the country. For a day or a weekend, Americans put aside their differences, forgetting about work, school, politics, and the daily grind to celebrate a long-ago meal—or, at least, the folklore we were told as schoolchildren. Whatever the historical truth, we come together to express our gratitude for the abundance of the earth’s gifts that find their way to our plates. A day of joy, pleasure, sharing, and fun, Thanksgiving is defined by eating and drinking, larger-than-life parades, games of touch football played amid the crunch of gold and red foliage, and a profound celebration of what it means to be American.
But, as the French say: “Autre pays, autre coutume.” Roughly, “another country, another tradition.”
I do not celebrate Thanksgiving and haven’t since I moved to France and became part of a French family decades ago. I know that many people carry their traditional holidays tucked safely into their baggage wherever they roam, but I travel lightly. When I left family and friends to settle in a new country, there simply wasn’t room in my meager belongings to take all those traditions along. I was probably looking for new ones.
To be fair—and I’ve gotten flak for this in the past—but I never really felt the Thanksgiving vibes. As truly, deeply patriotic and American as I’ve always felt and still do, I never really connected to the outward displays of connection to my country. I’m certainly not alone in putting this particular holiday aside and questioning its celebration. The folklore of the story covers a darker, more complex, even sordid past, and the commercialization of the holiday has diluted the meaning it does have. Admittedly, there is so much fun in the planning of the meal and all the hoopla, coming together with family and friends, watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving again and again–these things I do miss. But that same pressure we put on the day and the need to make it Norman Rockwell perfect risks turning the whole occasion into an obligation rather than a pleasure. The stressful expectations and the self-indulgent overabundance can dull the joy that should be central to the occasion, the pleasure of a shared moment.
The real celebration is simply the act of gathering.
“I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite—only a sense of existence.”—Henry David Thoreau
Once I settled in a new country, became part of a new culture, and entered a mixed marriage—religious, national, and cultural—the question became: How do we choose what to celebrate?
Do we commit to every festival and tradition from our varied heritages? Or do we pare it down to the bare minimum, saving the bells and whistles for the obvious milestones, like birthdays and maybe the New Year? My husband grew up in a family that celebrated nothing, and I came from one where we celebrated many, but modestly. Because we had few close connections in our new life, we essentially started from scratch, holding on to only the customs that truly resonated with both of us or creating our own. This allowed us to focus on the moments that had genuine meaning and consciously set aside anything that felt overly commercial or obligatory.
I am a food writer who’s spent years observing, cooking, and living French food culture now sharing that passion with a man who grew up cooking. It’s obvious where we built our new life: the kitchen, and in the easy, everyday act of cooking. I’m fascinated by what makes any meal special and unique, the rituals and the gestures, the traditions of who cooks what, how it’s prepared, and to whom it is served and why.
When I became immersed in this new French culinary culture, I began to see exactly the things I had overlooked in my own. That the precise actions in the kitchen, the prioritization of the choice of foods served, the way the table was set, and the interactions of those gathered around the table—all those rituals of preparing and sharing food carry an intrinsic weight that I, and many in the hurried modern world, had long taken for granted. These were not automatic gestures, but deliberate, mindful, often symbolic acts that revealed the intentional meaning hidden beneath the habitual performance of a meal. In each repast, whether a simple weeknight dinner or a proper holiday feast, there is always something convivial, something ceremonial, and something celebratory.
And, as for Thanksgiving, it never really felt natural or right to prepare a feast in the name of something that my new friends and loved ones know nothing about, something they feel absolutely no connection to. And, over time, I’ve grown to feel disconnected from it myself. And these days, especially, many of us do: We’re struggling to find what it is we are celebrating.
But here’s the truth, wherever you live, whatever the mood of the country: setting aside differences, gathering the people you love around the table, and sharing a carefully prepared meal is a celebration in itself. It’s an affirmation of our bonds as a family and as a community, a tradition that transcends politics and history. That ritual, at its heart, is what matters most, and that is what we are all thankful for.
In the French tradition, the careful ritual of the meal always finds its moment of pleasure over dessert, lingering at the table into the wee hours just to talk, to laugh, and to bond. As we usher in the beauty of autumn, my favorite time of year, this becomes the perfect moment for baking with the star fall fruits: apples and pears. These two seasonal, traditional French cakes, the classic Gâteau aux Pommes (French apple cake) and the Gâteau moelleux aux poires et amandes (pear and almond cake), are each simple enough to bake for a weeknight breakfast, brunch, or dinner, yet elegant enough to serve at any gathering.
And if you like, read about the surprising history of the traditional all-American pumpkin pie, which started in France.
French Apple Cake
This apple cake is the epitome of French home baking: simple, rustic, and homey, yet somehow quite elegant. Light yet flavorful thanks to the fruit, this apple cake stays tender and moist for days.
6 apples * (see note)
4 large eggs at room temperature
¾ cup (150 grams) sugar
1 ⅓ cups (170 grams) flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 tablespoons milk
½ teaspoon vanilla
Granulated sugar (or cinnamon sugar) for serving
(* For the apples, choose fairly crisp apples that become meltingly soft and tender when baked. Choose apples that are tart and sweet and retain their flavor when baked, as much of the flavor of this treat comes from the fruit. I used Rubinette apples.)
Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Grease (with more vegetable oil) and lightly flour the bottom and sides of a 9-inch round x 2-inch deep (23-cm x 5-cm) cake pan, shaking out excess flour.
Peel and core the apples. Cut each apple into thick wedges, about 16 or so per apple.
In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs with the sugar until thickened and pale, about 2 minutes. Stir together the flour, baking powder, and salt and beat into the egg-sugar mixture in 3 or 4 additions, beating after each addition just until blended. Scrape down the sides. The batter should be thick and creamy.
Add the oil, the milk, and vanilla and beat just until well blended. The batter should be thick enough to leave ribbon trails when the beaters are lifted.
Reserve the slices from one apple and then place the remaining apple slices in the pan in concentric circles, filling the bottom of the pan from edges to center; this might make 2 layers of apples. Pour the batter onto the apple slices in the cake pan, spreading the batter evenly. Gently lay the reserved apple slices in a circular pattern on top of the batter and press just to settle into the batter, not submerging them.
Bake the cake in the preheated oven for about 50 to 60 minutes or until the top of the cake is a deep golden brown and the cake is set in the center. Use a tester to check that no more raw batter remains. If the surface of the cake browns too quickly, simply lay a piece of aluminum foil on top of the cake while it continues baking.
Remove the cake from the oven onto a cooling rack and let cool before serving. Dust the top of the cake generously with sugar (or cinnamon sugar) to serve.
Pear and Almond Cake
Delicately flavored with almond and a hint of dark rum—or kirsch, if you want to be truly traditional—the pears add a fruitiness to this wonderful cake. Use all the pear slices, just pressing them closely together into the batter. I’d even add a fourth pear if your pears are small, increasing the fruitiness. I used ripe Williams pears.
3 ripe pears
Juice of half a lemon
10 tablespoons (150 grams) unsalted butter, softened
¾ cup (150 grams) sugar
3 large eggs
¾ cups (100 grams) flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 ½ cups (150 grams) finely ground almonds
1 teaspoon vanilla (or the seeds scraped from one vanilla bean)
1 to 2 tablespoons dark or amber rum (or kirsch)
Sugar for dusting
Silvered almonds for garnish
Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a 9-inch (23-cm) round x 2-in (4-5-cm) deep cake pan; line the bottom of the pan with parchment or oven paper.
Peel and core the pears, and slice. Place in a bowl and toss with the juice of half a lemon. Set aside while you prepare the batter.
Cream the butter with the sugar in a large mixing bowl until smooth and creamy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time. Add the flour, baking powder, and ground almonds and beat until smooth. Beat in the vanilla and rum.
Spread the batter evenly in the prepared cake pan. Press in the pear slices. Dust with a tablespoon or 2 of sugar then generously with the slivered almonds.
Bake in the preheated oven for about 45 minutes or until puffed and golden brown.
Remove the cake pan to a cooling rack for about 10 minutes. Carefully loosen the sides of the cake from the pan with a knife blade then turn the cake out of the pan onto the cooling rack.
This cake is perfect eaten warm or at room temperature but avoid placing it onto a serving dish while it is still hot.
This cake would be wonderful served with vanilla ice cream, a pear sorbet, or a vanilla (or rum-spiked) crème anglaise.
Jamie Schler is an American food and culture writer—immersed in French culinary history—living in France where she owns a hotel, makes jam, and writes the Substack Life’s a Feast.
Dining and Cooking