The little Thanksgiving that was...n't a disaster!

I will not lie.  This past Thanksgiving was a little bit challenging.  The week prior to Thanksgiving I felt okay, but as the days to Thanksgiving got closer and closer, I was a little jealous of all of you back home.  Lazy fall days, coziness, the long weekend, and just overall preparing for relaxing with family and friends.  While you all were having holidays, we over here were working are butts off.

To help alleviate the homesickness, my boss—ever intuitive as she is—suggested we all have a Thanksgiving party.  We decided to have a Thanksgiving party the Saturday after the “real” Thanksgiving.  This party would entail me making all the Thanksgiving foods...for about 20 people.  S***!

You should know that I’ve never made Thanksgiving anything before.  Not pumpkin pie, turkey, nothing.  It’s not that I haven’t wanted to…there just has never been an opportunity, as my mom’s pretty much boss in the kitchen followed by my brother.  So this was my opportunity to make it or blow it.  Just in case I would blow it, I advised people to bring their own food.  In the meantime my coworkers teased me that they would video and post my culinary prowess, or lack thereof, on YouTube.

So the venture began to find all the ingredients I would need.   While I found some ingredients, and substitutions for others, I could not find a turkey.  Actually, I did find one that wasn’t very big for over $100.  No way was I going to pay for that.  As time drew nearer, I asked embassy folk where I might get one.  They have their own commissary, of which you need to be a member.  If I had prepared in a more timely manner, I might have been able to buy one for about $40.  But, time was running out, and the only option I had left was to buy a live turkey and then butcher it.  (My boss refused to accept chicken as an option.)

We  (meaning my boss, her colleague, and I) ended up driving two hours to pick up the turkey.  It cost about $40.  I had to stay in the car when they went in to get it, because the color of my face would drive up the price.  As I waited, fear began to settle in the pit of my stomach.  I became more and more anxious, because for a week, my coworkers had said I would be the one to kill, de-feather, and clean the turkey.  I didn’t know if they were serious or not, but decided I could force myself to de-feather and clean it; but not kill it.  Imagining having to do all these things was like sinking into an abyss of despair.  And then I saw them coming out, carrying the turkey by the feet.

The turkey was stressed, with its legs tied.  During the ride back into town, it stayed relatively quite.  I kept looking back at it, checking to see if it was okay.  It reminded me of Chloe, my conure.  I couldn’t believe I was going to have to kill and eat a bird, when a bird is my pet  (even though I eat chicken all the time…but it’s different when you see it alive before you eat it).  When we got home, it sat in the kitchen until it was time for beheading.

Thankfully, gratefully, sometime while I was working, the caretaker killed and de-feathered the bird.  I found out later that he de-feathered it wrong, as there were still feathers embedded in the skin, and darn near impossible to pluck out, but beggars can’t be choosers.  I also found out that you are supposed to clean the turkey as soon as you kill it.  But, out of ignorance, I refrigerated it overnight with innards and all, which, gratefully (again), the cook cleaned out for me the following morning.  She seamlessly pulled out the intestines, liver, and whatever else is in there.  I did keep the gizzards for the gravy though.

Before:  Head and neck are on the far left.

Saturday evening was our scheduled Thanksgiving.  I began cooking at 6 am, starting with the pies.  The apple went off without a hitch, but the pumpkin didn’t turn out as nice.  I made it from whole pumpkin as canned pumpkin was nowhere to be found.  Although the pie tasted good to me, the crust got messed up because 1) I didn’t have a pie pan, and 2) there are no temperature markers on the oven…so I was guessing.  The pie was not good enough for presentation, but I did make it from whole pumpkin…a goal I have had for quite some time.

By the time I finished the pies it was about 10 or 10:30 am.  By now all the kids are up.  This was also the weekend that the school was preparing for their annual Christmas competition, Sing for Joy, which is televised.  40 of them spent the night so that they could practice all of Saturday.  So, in addition to being stressed about making food I’ve never made before AND making it for people who will judge me and my culture based on it  (truly they will want to know if I can cook, and many have never had American food before), there were a minimum of 5 people at a time in the kitchen, not to mention kids coming through here and there asking for this and that.   The kitchen consists of a fridge, sink, small stove with two functioning burners, a freezer, etc.  It’s a good size kitchen and functional; but with five people plus, it gets a little too close for comfort. To top it off, I am irritable because I am overwhelmed.  Everyone kept telling me, “Don’t worry Amy, we’ll help you.  You won’t have to do everything alone.”  Yeah right.  They were all busy with the kids, and my Pity Pot self took over for a bit…maybe a half hour or so…then I let it go.   

Crowded kitchen.  People hovering, literally…watching every move I make.  I know they are just curious, but it is driving me crazy!  We run out of salt and flour.  I continually can’t find what I put down.  Aagh! While I finish up the pies I start the stuffing.  I season bread for stuffing, bake it and set aside.  Some people try the bread; some like it and some lie and say, “It’s nice.”  Nigerians are not very adventurous when it comes to foreign food.  I think it’s funny that when someone says, “It’s nice,” before it barely touches their lips.  I was surprised though that no one would taste the prepped apples for the pie.  Apples with cinnamon and sugar?  Yum!  To them, not so. 

Thankfully, the staff helps peel potatoes while I surmise the turkey situation.  That was a HUGE help, because I suck with the type of potato peeler they have here. I had wanted to brine the turkey, or at least marinate it in beer for a while to prevent it from being dry.  No such luck.  No beer on hand.  And people are soo busy, I don’t want to ask to send someone to the market.  So, I decide to clean the turkey, and rinse out the insides with boiling water, because it doesn’t smell right to me.  Good thing I did because there was crap, really, inside the cavity.  People wonder what in the world I am doing.  The cook gives me a look, asks, and leaves me alone.  I put it back in the fridge.  Even though it has parts of feather (akin to whisker stubble) in it, and smells a bit off for my liking, I’m still going to cook it.

I take a break for an hour or so, look for a gravy recipe, and go back downstairs to start the turkey.  First, I finish the stuffing.  Then I stuff the turkey.  It is said that if you don’t have a meat thermometer, that you shouldn’t put stuffing inside your turkey.  No can do here; people want it stuffing stuffed in the turkey.  I don’t know how to cook a turkey; and we don’t have any foil to cover it, or string to tie the legs.  Also, you are supposed to fold the wings back to support the neck.  I can’t do it; it doesn’t seem to work.  So I ask my coworker to help me, who also finds some parts that need to be removed.  She twists the wings back, cracks and tears bone out.  I realize that I’m not quite cut out for the bush, as I really don’t like hearing those sounds.

Anyway, she says to leave the heart in and asks where the gizzards are.  I told her I was using it.  Nigerians like organ meat.  Eating liver and kidney, among others, is common.  I’m grateful my coworker was there, and I admired the way in which she handled the bird with such dexterity!  She tried removing feather stubble by sticking it over the gas burner…but it wouldn’t work.  So, into the pan it went, and I basted with butter (there wasn’t much juice from the turkey…it was a scrawny bird), rotating every half an hour.

Potatoes were the easiest; I didn’t have a recipe, but watched my mom enough to know what to do.  I was really pleased with the gravy too.  As a kid I wouldn’t eat the gravy because it was made with gizzards.  Here, though, I depended on those suckers to give flavor and heartiness.  It worked!  I was so happy that it turned out, especially since I deviated some from the recipe to make it taste good, get to the right consistency, etc.

After:  FYI...there was no string to tie the legs together.

We did have about twenty people, with fried rice and salad for those who might be hesitant to try some traditional Thanksgiving foods.  The favorite amongst everyone was the mashed potatoes and gravy, most likely because it similar in texture and consistency to pounded yam (and maybe pepper soup…they kept calling the gravy “soup”).  We all gave thanks, ate, danced, and were merry.  It is always said, “Be careful what you wish for.”  The past several years I have wanted to make a Thanksgiving dinner for friends…for a diverse group of people.  While I envisioned making dinners and meals for friends when I came here, I had no idea it’d turn out like this.  Not only am I grateful that everything turned out, tasted good, was edible  (although the turkey was dry…an apparent genetic marker I did not avoid, and the stuffing wasn’t perfect) I made everything from scratch!  YES!!  AND the oven didn’t have a temperature dial.  Anyway, I am so lucky and incredibly blessed.  I love the opportunity I have and the people I work with.  This truly was a memorable Thanksgiving.

Destination Wedding: Nigeria

Any wedding (most often) is a treat to attend; yet it’s double the pleasure and double the fun when it’s a traditional Nigerian wedding.  They last anywhere from two to three hours, and while ceremonial, involve dramatic reenactment, dressing “native”, and don’t happen too often.  It’s been only a month, and I get to attend one!

It’s a Saturday and we (meaning Intellichild staff) are leaving at 7:00 in the morning to attend Ms. Tolu’s wedding.  Her wedding is taking place in the North, in Zaria, about a 3 hour drive from Abuja.  We are all dressed in some form of our finest; something native—which means traditional Nigerian clothing consisting of some dress/skirt/suit you’ve had made for yourself into a special style.  Because I don’t want to stand out anymore than I do, I choose to have something “native” too.  And I love it—clothes tailored to your fit at a reasonable price!  What more could a girl want? 

There were some misgivings the week prior to the wedding.  That was the week following the el-saheed  (check spelling) holiday.  Maybe a few days just before that long weekend, the US embassy sent out warning messages asking everyone to lay low, as there was a possibility that some buildings in Abuja might be targets for the Boku Harem (or Boku Crazies, as I fondly refer to them).  Though everything was peaceful in my area (thankfully), fighting did occur in some parts of the north.  It was through one of these areas that we would have to pass, indirectly, to get to the wedding. 

Anyway, we all packed ourselves into the bus at around 7:30 am and headed out.  One thing I love about my stay in Nigeria is that the energy is always set with prayer in some form.  As we make our way out, a staff member leads us in a song of thanks---thanks in advance for a safe journey and time to be together.   The road trip is scenic.  We pass by Zuma Rock, the tallest rock in West Africa, which they say is haunted.  And I get to know new teachers on a more personal level. 

We arrive about ½ to an hour late  (it’s African time).  This is in part due to the many road blocks and check points.  In Nigeria the military is always checking for bombs.  You’ll find yourself at these checkpoints on entering and leaving a state.  The military men are still intimidating to me, as they always look so stern and hard.  But all Nigerians greet them cordially, and in most cases the soldiers greet them cordially back.  Yet, if you look suspicious  (and I don’t know how you look suspicious), you are asked to pull over.  In most cases, people just have to slow down at the checkpoint a bit.  Sometimes they stop you and knock on the sides of your van/car.  Then you get the okay to go.  I’m not sure how knocking on people’s cars indicates whether a bomb is present or not, but I think it’s pretty funny that that is the solution.  One woman in our party rode up separately to the wedding.  Her bus driver got asked to pull over, and he refused.  Instead, he sped away and a police chase ensued down the expressway.  Once caught, the drivers and passengers were all dragged to jail.  Luckily, after much pleading, law enforcement released the passengers, and she did make it to the wedding before it was over!

Despite our tardiness, we realize that we haven’t missed much of the wedding.  The groom’s relatives (I think) are making their entrance.  (I say “I think” because the wedding is conducted mostly in Hausa, with some Yoruba mixed in.  This is an aspect of what makes it traditional.)  At this point in time, I don’t think things are too different from weddings I have attended.  The wedding is outdoors and has themed colors. The groom’s party is seated on one side, beneath a canopy, and the bride’s party is seated on the other.

There is a big hulabalu when the groom’s party enters.  They are requesting the bride’s family for their daughter’s hand in marriage.  The groom’s family is turned away at least three times before an acceptable offer might be made.  That offer includes a letter, a “why is your son good enough” sort of thing, money, etc.  Once the offer has been accepted by the bride’s family, the groom and groomsmen have to go and prostrate themselves before his prospective in-laws.  Then they have to perform a serious of exercises: jogging and jumping jacks to prove fitness levels, bending over and hoeing to ensure good farming skills, and dancing to make sure he can move well. 

Once the groom is seen as fit to be a husband, his offer is accepted, and the bride enters with her party.  Friends from the audience, in addition to the bridal party, escort her to meet her husband.  It is at this point that I am pressured to go and help escort her in.  I don’t want to because 1) I don’t know the bride very well and 2) I don’t want to stand out.  Too late.  They’ve pulled me up and I stay in the back, following the party.  There’s singing and dancing.  I have no idea what I am doing.  Smiling, feeling uncomfortable, I try to match the moves and chants as best I can.    I finally see my boss and she ushers me to come back to my seat.  Thank God.  I felt as though I have overstepped boundaries.

During the nuptials part of the wedding (which seems a bit more ceremonial, yet is different than what I am accustomed to) we are served a meal, desert, and favors.  After all is said and done, we take photos, blablabla and pack it in to haul out.

It’s a little after 2 when we leave.  It’s hot of course, and about an hour into our drive back, the fan belt starts acting up.  We pull off the side of the rode, across the way is a mechanic, thankfully.  However, the mechanic intends to rip us off with a replacement belt, so the concensus is to have people in our party hop on a motorbike to the next village/town and get the part for the correct price.  Enter waiting in the hot sun.  I am tired, and my stomach is acting up.  We had shut off the air earlier because of the belt.  At least we have cold water and drinks.  Finally, after about forty-five minutes or so, we are back on our way.

We are squished a bit, as we have more passengers than on the way in, but it’s not so bad.  As dusk approaches it cools off a lot, and I am thankful for the breeze.  It feels soooo good!  We are lucky to have uneventful anything until we get near Abuja.  By then it’s dark, and our luck changes.  First, traffic is awful.  It’s worse than SF traffic…and it’s hot!  (I don’t know what happened to the breeze.)  Some of us are dripping, while others of us are merely glistening.  But we could have it worse; there are vans next to us packed with twice as many people, without air too.  To top it off, someone bumps us.  No damage is done, yet it is at this time we realize water is leaking.  We all hop out and get some air.  It feels good! People wash off, make calls, and otherwise just hang out on the side of the road watching traffic not move.  It’s at this time that a passenger in a jam-packed bus a few lanes over shouts, “Oyinbo  (white person), are you lost?  Don’t you know where you are?  Do you know you’re in Nigeria?”  The response: laughter.  It was funny. 

I’m not sure how they fixed the water leak, but we finally, FINALLY get home safe and sound.  It took us 3 hours to get to Zaria and 6 hours to get back.  Although I was exhausted, I had a fun adventure.  I think breaking down on the side of the road was one of the highlights; I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s because Nigerians are so good at making any situation a humorous, fun one.

PS--I DO have pics, but there's I can't seem to get them off of the camera because we can't find the cable. They will be posted though, hopefully sooner than later.