WHEN IT COMES to English folk and Turkey Day, it's hard to tell which baffles them the most - the idea of thanksgiving as an occasion for a holiday or the concept of sweet potatoes as something edible.

This year, my wife Elizabeth and I threw open the doors to our cottage to 18 of our friends down the lane, from the pub and in nearby villages for a Thanksgiving Day buffet dinner of turkey with all the trimmings.

All were English (including Elizabeth, whose idea this was in the first place), few had even heard of Thanksgiving and fewer still had even the earthliest idea of the role of the sweet potato in the greater scheme of things.

Anyway, it was a bit of all-America down Mill Lane - three small American flags adorning the hanging baskets, Stars and Stripes napkins strategically placed and, on the dining room table, a 22-pound roast turkey with gravy and dressing, corn, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and three dozen pecan pielets.

That was the easy bit. The tough part was explaining what it was all about.

"This isn't one of those American independence things, is it?" inquired real estate dealer Tim, in whispered tones redolent with suspicion that he might somehow have stumbled into a den of anti-monarchists plotting to bring down Her Majesty's government.

The English haven't forgotten 1776 and all that, and as much as most of them admire America and all things American, they are still bemused that the New Worlders could give up ties to Mother England, the beneficence of King George III and weather that still assures us of a minimum of 16 seasons or so every year - most of them rainy.

I bit my tongue to keep from reminding our visitors that the Pilgrim Fathers were also escaping recurrent outbreaks of bubonic plague, lunches of jellied eels and weather that condemned them to a minimum of 16 seasons or so every year - most of them rainy.

Those "independence things" such as the Boston Tea Party, the rebellion against the Stamp Act and the unpleasantness at Bunker Hill, I assured real estate pal Tim, were matters of the 18th century and nothing to do with Thanksgiving.

He appeared mollified when I informed him that the Pilgrim Fathers arrived in the New World early in the 17th century after fleeing religious persecution in England (only to give birth to their own brand of religious bigotry with the Puritans, but that's another subject, and I deemed it wise not to go down that road - at least not before dessert).

I added that Thanksgiving was declared by the settlers in the new land called America to celebrate finally getting a crop in that wasn't eaten by the alligators, catching a turkey after failing in their efforts to nab a bald eagle, and Miles Standish's being saved from the ax by Pocahontas and the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

Okay, so I embellished the plot just a bit, but it kept our guests entranced (Elizabeth says a better descriptive would be "bewildered," but it all depends on your point of view). Besides which, my version was more interesting, and anyway, it's not as if they were going to face a spot quiz on it, alright?

Then someone - I think it was Mike, the lawyer - asked, "When do the fireworks start?" That left me a bit perplexed, until I realized that the napkins, which depicted bombs bursting in mid-air, were in fact leftovers from a Fourth of July party thrown by friends.

I said, "No, Mike, no fireworks. No firecrackers. No rockets' red glare. Thanksgiving is a peaceful time for, well, giving thanks - in part for no fireworks to annoy the cats and your dog." He seemed crestfallen, and went back for a fourth glass of Californian Chardonnay. Or maybe it was the Australian Shiraz.

Then Brian, who lives across the lane and does I have no idea what, apologized for failing to bring a Thanksgiving gift because he had no idea what to buy, or what we needed. Would a gift certificate do?

I patiently explained that, unlike practically every other holiday in the western calendar, Thanksgiving is blissfully free of the presents thing and that there is no such animal as a Thanksgiving gift, mainly because the Great Pumpkin forbids it. That shut him up, although he appeared a bit puzzled.

By now I was waxing lyrical. In fact, I allowed, part of the purpose of Thanksgiving was just that - giving thanks that there were no gifts to get or give, no ties with nudes expertly woven in, or potholders from the sticky hands of infants, or C-cup bras to be exchanged by quadruple-D females.

In fact, I rolled on, one of the Pilgrim Fathers, Benjamin Franklin, specifically decreed that Thanksgiving was an occasion for refraining from gifts, and that it would henceforth be recognized as such, to be followed one day later by the onset of the seasonal Great Flood of greed now known as Christmas.

"The Americans are onto a good thing," I said smugly, "having a natural barrier like Thanksgiving in November, to divide the sanity of the rest of the year from the madness of Christmas."

On the other hand, in parts of England, I pointed out, shop assistants were donning Santa gear and reindeer antlers in mid-August to make sure we could all avoid the last-minute Yuletide shopping rush. There was much perspiration and heat prostration among the holly, the tinsel and the mistletoe.

"How sensible," one - I think it was computer expert Mike, Julie's hubby - opined. "Wonder if we could get Parliament to give us a Thanksgiving Day?"

At this point, I bowed out of the debate, having contributed what I deemed to be considerable food for thought, Thanksgivingly speaking.

Anyway, by that time my audience was drifting away, in my wife's direction. She was conducting a seminar on the preparation and cooking of sweet potatoes to folks who've seen them on vegetable stands for decades and never once were tempted to try them.

Well, what can you expect from a nation given to dining on kidneys, hog innards and eels suspended in green jelly ...

Thought for the Day: Never put off till tomorrow what you can avoid altogether.

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