My family embraced the Thanksgiving holiday when we moved to the US from Pakistan in the 1970s. It was another excuse to have a dinner party, even if the food was a bit strange. Over the years we came to love the Thanksgiving turkey and gravy, and stuffing and mashed potatoes. Maybe with an extra dash or two of pepper to add spice.

When my mother and some of my siblings moved back to Pakistan in the 1990s, they continued celebrating the American holiday.

“Happy Turkey Day, Foosie,” my mother said over the phone one year. She was calling from Pakistan. “We’re getting ready to have our Thanksgiving dinner.”

“You’re having Thanksgiving dinner in Islamabad?” That seemed so wrong. “With a turkey? Do they even have turkeys there?”

“Not exactly,” my mother responded. “But we managed to find one. And Mimo made stuffing and mashed potatoes too!” She exclaimed with a little too much excitement. I love Thanksgiving as much as the next sister, but in Pakistan?

Nevertheless, I take great joy in planning and cooking the Thanksgiving dinner every year. Here in the US, where it seems more appropriate. We invite friends and family every year, which sometimes might include a South Asian or two.

A few years ago, I was planning the Thanksgiving menu. “I’m going to make an herb roasted turkey with gravy, sausage stuffing, mashed potatoes, and brussels sprouts in a horseradish cream sauce,” I explained to Jenny.

“We’ll start with pomegranate champagne cocktails, parmesan and caramelized onion scones, rosemary spiced roasted pecans, and thyme dip with toasts,” I continued.

“You shouldn’t do everything yourself,” Jenny suggested.” People like to bring things.”

So when my one of my friends, a Bengali, asked if he could bring something, I said, “Sure. How about cranberry sauce?”

“What is that?” he asked.

“Or dessert,” I said, not sure how to explain cranberry sauce to a Bengali.

“Okay, I’ll bring a chocolate cake.”

“He’s bringing a chocolate cake,” I said to Jenny with mild disappointment. “Who has chocolate cake for Thanksgiving? That’s not a Thanksgiving dessert.”

When another of my friends, also from the Indian subcontinent, asked what she could bring, I suggested the cranberry sauce again. “How about cranberry sauce?” I asked.

“How do you make that?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “I would go to a gourmet grocer and just buy some. Make it easy on yourself.”

When she arrived, carrying an enormous bowl, I asked, “What’s that?”

“It’s the cranberry sauce. You asked me to bring it,” she replied.

“The entire bowl is filled with cranberry sauce?” I asked.

“You said there would be thirteen of us.”

I don’t think she understood the concept of cranberry sauce as a condiment. And then I noticed it was pink. “Why is the cranberry sauce pink?”

“What do you mean? It has cranberries in it. I made it myself.”

“Did you make it from a recipe?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Of course. It’s Susan Stamberg’s recipe. I got it from NPR and I quadrupled it since there are thirteen of us.”

The cranberry sauce was the largest dish on the table, bigger than the Turkey platter. We placed it in the center of the table since there was no room for it on the buffet. I’m not a fan of the cranberry sauce, especially when it is pink and fluffy, so I didn’t try it, but everyone else seemed to enjoy it. And there was enough leftover to send home with every guest. And then some.

This year my cousin Sonia is joining us for Thanksgiving. She grew up in the UK. “Right,” she said in her Queen’s English. “So what do people do on the Thanksgiving holiday?”

I don’t think I’ll ask her to bring the cranberry sauce.