A Holiday Lost in Translation

From Lisa’s blog:

I
always enter Thanksgiving week with mixed emotions. This Thanksgiving
is bordering on bizarre.

It turns out that turkey is not a bird that you EAT in
Swaziland. I have been looking to purchase a
turkey for a week now, and have received every answer from, “Yes,
Madame, I can get you a Turkey for R25O.OO, in 2 weeks” to “No, so
sorry, Madame, we lost our Turkey permit…”

My
amazing husband, who consistently makes whatever is important to me
his personal mission, joined me yesterday for one last try of turkey-hunting just outside of town.

This butcher was
actually lovely, save the fact he does not speak “American.” Gary was
ever determined to make him understand my request for a
“Turrrrkkkkkkkey,” and at one point actually had his thumbs tucked into
his armpits and moved his elbows up and down and proceeded to “gobble,
gobble.” It worked! Our new butcher friend
lit up like a firefly.

“Oh, Turkey, yes, Turkey.”
VICTORY AT LAST!

“Yes, Turkey, yes, we need a BIG one,” Gary smiled huge and showed our
butcher friend with this hands far apart just what he meant by “BIG.”

Our
butcher-friend’s smile turned to a frown; he then explained to us
after another session of charades that he does not actually have a turkey.

He just was excited that he understood what we were asking for… fair enough. So, 20 minutes later, we were out the door with two chickens and a leg of lamb. “It will be great, babe” I was assured with a kiss to my forehead.

Yes, it will be great, we will make it great. We
will not focus on the fact that we miss our friends and family so much
it hurts, or that we are facing new levels of persecution.

NO FOOTBALL
ON THANKSGIVING DAY: that is just wrong! We are not going to focus on the fact that is 120 degrees by six o’clock in the morning, and I have three ovens going.

I am personally going to try to get over a lifelong aversion to lamb. I
had an aunt that always made lamb.

Flashback to the 1970’s, and you will
see me, my older sister and my cousins all sitting at the very cool
“kids table.” We are all in plaid bell-bottoms
smothering the defenseless lamb in ketchup and trying desperately to
bi-pass the gag reflex, so we could show
our clean plates, and have some pumpkin pie.

I never could figure out
why all the adults raved about what a great cook my aunt was. It is
only now as an adult that I realize that my lamb-serving-aunt was
either bi-polar, crazy, demon-possessed, or all of the above. I
guess the adults didn’t want to rile any of her “friends” lurking just
beneath her smile during the holiday meal (I bet they were gagging it
down too).

It seems our holiday traditions are being stretched again. We have to start new ones, and last night I had an absolute blast cooking with my kids. Caleb was even given the ‘secret” ingredient that takes average peach cobbler into the realm of “Black Peach Cobbler.”

The
secret was only shared with the understanding that he must never reveal
it to anyone, until a woman actually shares his last name. Girlfriends
and fiancés need not even ask. My boy even made it all by himself; I am sure it will be the best ever.

In
the true spirit of the first Thanksgiving, we are embracing others’
cultures, and hoping they will embrace ours.

This is our first
Thanksgiving with our South African friends, and they have asked us to
share the history of this American holiday. We thought a re-enactment would be the most effective.

So, after our meal of Lamb, chicken and iced tea, we are going to kill them and take their land. No
worries, we will give their great-great-grandchildren a free, or at
least discounted college education. It’s all good!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO
ALL! And God Bless the USA!!