Well it’s that time of year again: the 3rd annual Thanksgiving in Gulu. The tradition is virtually the same as the US: turkey, stuffing, families. However, as any ex-pat knows, the traditions and comforts of home always need varying degrees of adaptation. For example, my thanksgiving happens on the Saturday after the traditional Thursday for the obvious reason that outside of the US, people work on Thursday. It still pains me though. When I was living in Ireland, I tried to keep it on Thursday, but it was too difficult. I had to work, and people came late after work and couldn’t stay long. Their energy was already expended on the day, unlike in the US where all energy, emotion and activity is focused on the bird. So I shifted to Saturday and discovered it’s actually easier on me and people can focus on the big event.
The other alternations revolve around food. There are the usual ingredient scarcity challenges. For example, cranberries are non-existent, as well as most dairy products. You can get pumpkins though. The biggest culinary challenge is the turkey. The whole reason why I’m writing a week early is because yesterday I bought my turkey…and it wasn’t from the freezer section of the supermarket. Or even from the supermarket. Or a market. I receive a call from my friend Jennifer saying that she’d scoured Gulu and finally located a turkey and wanted to bring him to my house. I panicked, not for lack of fridge space, but because there was no way my dog was going to tolerate a live turkey strutting around the backyard.
I remember when I was living in Ireland. I thought it was so thrilling that I had to go to an actual butcher rather than a supermarket to buy a turkey and I remember calling my mom in hysterics because the butcher wanted to know if I wanted it oven ready or not (not equaling feathers.) As per usual Africa takes it to the next level or 12. I’ve actually got to find a random person raising turkeys somewhere, buy it and keep it alive until the big day. Jennifer, Hayden and I threw the thing in my backseat and set off to buy turkey feed, which apparently is ground up maize husks.
Last year in Gulu I was so traumatized by having to meet my turkey. I couldn’t face the idea of looking after it. Every time it cried in my garage my stomach lurched at the thought of eating it. While I did garner the nerve to record Emily’s slaughtering process (man, she can get that thing beheaded and plucked in 5 minutes), in the end, I couldn’t eat it. Year 2 in Africa is a whole different ball game. This year, I’m going Kobe-style. I want this bird taken care of. Forget corn husks, I want this puppy milk fed. I want him fattened up so that he’s good eatin’.
Jennifer agreed to house the turkey. I made her swear up and down that she’d feed him constantly, pet him, bathe and protect him from the rain (hey, I’ve heard turkeys can drown in the rain from looking up and forgetting to look down….) Jennifer just rang me about an hour ago to inform me that she had transported the turkey to a more hospitable environment. She sent it to Veronique’s compound. The turkey can now roam free – in her compound he was kept tied up. The other good news was that at Veronique’s house, Jennifer was just next door working at her shop and she can now look in on him several times a day.
Thank goodness. This turkey has a big job next week and I need everyone on the turkey team to bring their A game.
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