Sugar and Fat

It's not all bad.

In re-reading my past few posts, I have been a bit critical of Geneva and on a grander scale, the whole of the Northern Hemisphere. Geneva is not a bad place, it just takes some getting used to. 

There are some things about Geneva that I do like. The first, as I've mentioned is being able to walk everywhere and utilize the fantastic and reliable bus system. Second, there is a beautiful park right near where we live and I love going there to run, walk or work out. Granted soon this park will be covered in ice but for now, I love it. Third, Geneva is brimming with stunning bread, pastry and sweet shops. Boulangerie (bakery), patisserie (pastry) and confiserie (confectionery), these are the only French words that I need to know. 

As a person who tries to eat carefully at first I enjoyed these shops only because they are so visually pleasing. I would visit them but would only order coffee and would admire the beautiful displays from afar. But then, on my birthday, I ate a chocolate eclair and since then the floodgates have opened and now I'm a raging out of control pastry eater and guess what, I don't even care. If I've found something about Geneva that I enjoy I figure I need to embrace it. 

The eclair that started it all. 

Recently, I decided to make a day of pastry eating. I thought it would be a delicious endeavor and would make for a good blog post. My thought was that I'd walk around the city visiting multiple establishments and enjoy a sweet treat at each one. I could visit about five or six of these lovely shops within close walking distance to where we live, but I thought if I could combine a fair amount of walking into the agenda, I might burn a few calories while at the same time consuming thousands of empty ones.

To begin my pastry eating marathon, I walked down by the lake, but strangely I found myself in an area of town that seemed to have no bakeries/pastry shops. I walked, walked and walked finally becoming so hungry that I contemplated scrapping the whole idea and just eating pizza, as I did pass numerous pizza shops. Eventually I found a place called Globus. 

Globus is a department store which contains a big food hall filled with all kinds of edibles. I found a pastry counter and ordered the most beautiful, glistening plum tart I've ever laid eyes on. 

After enjoying my treat, I was so full that I couldn't continue my plan of pastry crawling so I decided to take a new direction and spread my pastry eating out over a longer time period to ensure maximum enjoyment. 

One Sunday, I asked Mr. Deep if he would like to join me in my pastry eating quest. He agreed and so we walked to a nearby shop. The case was full of gorgeous pastries, chocolates, breads and sandwiches. Mr. Deep then decided he wanted to order a ham sandwich instead of a pastry. Seriously?! But while he ate a proper lunch, I enjoyed some kind of almond flavored crispy horn filled with a caramel custard that was to die for. 

Clearly Mr. Deep missed the point of the exercise.

I'm looking forward to continuing to eat my way around the city. 

A Pig's Ear

On Saturday night Mr. Deep and I were invited out to dinner. We declined the invite at first because we were feeling tired and it was raining but my friend insisted we join her and her husband at a Portuguese restaurant in Plainpalais, an area of Geneva. I would love to tell you the name of the restaurant but when I tried to google it or find it on a map it seems not to exist at all.  And when I asked my friend said she also doesn't know the name of it.

Similar to grocery shopping, going out for a meal in Geneva can be a bit of a downer as the prices are ridiculously expensive. But my friend promised that the Portuguese restaurant was priced reasonably, had a great vibe and good wine. What more does a person need to know? I should add that my friend's husband is Portuguese. So if he thinks the food is good then it must be.

The restaurant is small with football (soccer) scarves from various teams covering the walls and the ceiling throughout. There are only a few tables, a bar and some kind of large orange gambling machines. I'm not exactly how they work but they were quite popular. As soon as one person would leave a machine another would come up and begin to use it. 

When we arrived and were seated the food began coming out immediately. From what I could tell we didn't order anything except drinks. Later my friend told me that the servers just bring food based on the number of people at the table and that there is no menu. First there were various starters such as fish croquettes and some kind of fried, half moon shaped meat pies. Next, a huge salad followed by three large platters of food served family style. The staff treated us like we had been there a bunch of times, and I do think my friend and her husband are regulars but it seemed like the kind of place that you might be treated that way regardless. 

Soccer scarves line the walls and ceiling. 

Not a great photo but you can see the size of the platter and also the large orange gambling machines in the background.

Pig's ear

Another not great photo, I think because the light was so low in the restaurant. These are the gambling machines. 

Much of the food was delicious but the pig platter definitely contained some parts of the animal that we are not used to eating. Including the hoof (complete with nails) and ears. I know firsthand about the ears because when I asked Mr. Deep to put some meat on my plate he chose something that looked very strange, almost like a fish fin. When I protested he got annoyed and told me that I had requested a piece of meat and now I had to eat the one that he gave me. It was then that I was informed that the piece on my plate was an ear. I didn't want to taste it but by now everyone was watching and encouraging me to try it. So I did. I didn't like it and I don't recommend it. It was chewy and a little slimy just like you would imagine, but remember I'm brave so I wanted to give it a chance. After my one bite I gave it to someone else to eat. 

In true European form the meal the meal lasted well after the food had been eaten. After we had been digesting a while, the waiter brought out a large metal "silo" and some shot glasses. The beverage was meant to be sipped. It tasted very strong so I only had a sip or two. I love how there is a ladder on the "silo" almost like a miniature person climbs up to the stop to stir the contents. 

I'm still not sure what the name of this place is but if you are in Geneva and looking for a fun, relaxed atmosphere and don't mind eating some unusual pig parts, then check this place out, it's right near the Lady Godiva pub. Look for the scarves. 

A Tale of Two Freezers

While I've only lived in Joburg for two years, some of the things that I used to find surprising I'm now getting used to. I still consider myself to be a fish out of water in this country but the water is becoming more and more familiar. Hosting visitors gives me the opportunity to see things through the eyes of people who are experiencing South Africa for the first time and their comments remind me of the time when I too was new here. 

Recently, I took my friends visiting from the U.S. to Soweto. Because they were on a tight schedule (of course they were) we planned a half day tour. Unfortunately our guide was on Africa time and was an hour late to meet us making the Soweto visit even shorter than planned. We ate lunch at Tintie's, a Soweto must as far as I'm concerned and after Tintie's we went to Kliptown. Kliptown is an informal settlement where people live in shacks with "borrowed" electricity. In Kliptown hundreds of people share one porta potty and residents collect water for washing and drinking in buckets from a central tap. If they need to heat the water they will likely heat it over a paraffin stove or an open fire. This was my third trip to Kliptown and I find it interesting each time I go. While sad, it's also uplifting because the tour includes a visit to a place called the Kliptown Youth Programme, which provides tutoring, sports, meals and more to hundreds of kids who live in Kliptown. 

Part of the tour of Kliptown includes going inside a shack and seeing the conditions in which people in Kliptown live.  It is a strange feeling to venture inside a shack while the residents are there watching you watch them while you look at their home. Each time, I wonder what the residents think. Are they proud of their shacks because they have worked hard to make them livable? Are they hoping if people from the outside see the conditions it will bring about change? Are they just too polite to say no to visitors? I'm not sure. 

Shacks in Kliptown, Soweto

Where people in Kliptown get their water.

Inside a shack with our tour guide from the Kliptown Youth Programme. A young boy is doing his homework in the background.

A tub for bathing and washing 

After we left Soweto, I drove my friends back to our house along a route that I drive almost daily. First, we drove past a Maserati dealership and then a few minutes later we passed a billboard for a company called Doggy Paddle, which offers hydrotherapy for pets. My friend remarked on both sightings saying "we just saw people living in shacks and meanwhile other people are buying Maseratis and sending pets for physical therapy?" And my answer was yes, that's South Africa.

Quick side note, I don't have a problem with pets. I also don't have a problem with people who love their pets and treat them like children or provide them with physical therapy. As you read on, you might think that I do, but I don't. 

The Maserati dealership and the pet hydrotherapy sign sightings reminded me of the freezers, which I have never written about. I live right near a very large Spar, a grocery store. When I tell people where I live they often say, "you live right near the best Spar" and it's true, I do, this Spar is the biggest and the best in Joburg. At the Spar, in the back corner where the meat section is there are two freezers. 

The first freezer, is nondescript. It doesn't have any signage or any markings on it. If I didn't see people crowding around it on a regular basis then I probably could visit the Spar for years without even noticing this freezer. It looks like a freezer that an American who likes to have a lot of frozen food on hand would keep in his basement only it's smaller than that and square shaped instead of rectangular but it does have a lid that opens from the top. 

There is no way to me to explain delicately what this freezer is so I will just tell you. It's the freezer where the poorest of poor shoppers buy their meat. The freezer is filled with clear plastic bags of what look like bones with maybe a tiny bit meat on them. You might be naively thinking that I could easily just open the freezer and take a look or maybe make some nice soup using the bones or at a minimum take a few photos of the freezer contents for the blog, but I can't. White people simply don't open that freezer.  I am too self conscious that if I open it both white people and black people are going to stare at me. I wouldn't be surprised if the minute I opened it a store employee came running over to ask me "ma'am do you need help" which translates into "you must be confused, your meat is over here."

Directly across the aisle from freezer A is freezer B. I have also never opened freezer B but not because I am self conscious, I just don't have a need to open it. Freezer B has clear signage and sells Bentley Natural Dog Food which contains "synthetic vitamins, trace minerals and antioxidants." Their slogan, ironically, is "affordable gourmet dog food so good you can eat it too." The signage on freezer B goes on to state that this dog food is prepared in a kitchen specializing in gourmet human food and that it is balanced by leading pet food nutritionists. 

Freezer A with Freezer B (in green) in the background.

I haven't compared the prices of the contents of the two freezers because to do so, I'd have to open freezer A, which I'm not going to do. Maybe one day I'll work up the courage. 

Shoppers crowding around Freezer A

The Execution

On Sunday I saw a woman kill a chicken. She cut its head off. Depending on how you look at it I was either in the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the wrong time. Regardless, it all started with Mr. T. Yes, the guy with the mohawk. 

Last week I found out that our friend Gift is a huge fan of Mr. T.  Gift was born in 1980 in Zimbabwe. He grew up in a poor family and he and his siblings did not have a TV in their home. According to Gift, there were only two homes in the neighborhood that had televisions and those were small black and white sets, not the huge furniture-like TVs that many of us remember from the 80's in America. Somehow, Gift, his siblings and the other kids in the neighborhood became fans of the show the A-Team starring Mr. T. In Zimbabwe, the show aired on Saturday and Gift and the other kids would show up at the home of a TV-owning neighbor in hopes of being allowed to watch the program. The TV-owning neighbor, as you might imagine, was less than thrilled to have tons of kids appearing at his house every week. The neighbor would yell at the kids for tracking dirt into the house but would sometimes relent and let the kids crowd into the doorway of the house and watch the television from there. 

Deny a kid anything and it only becomes more magical and so to this day Gift thinks Mr. T. is "a cool American Black actor." Because Gift hasn't seen many movies and he doesn't own a computer, he was not familiar with Mr. T's full body of dramatic work. He had never seen or heard of Rocky III. I felt that he should see Rocky III, Mr. T's breakout performance, even though Mr. Deep pointed out Mr. T's loses the fight with Rocky at the end which could be a major disappointment. Regardless, Mr. Deep and I invited Gift over for dinner and to watch Rocky III with us. 

Unfortunately, we were not able to successfully download or stream Rocky III (thanks a lot Netflix.) Mr. Deep suggested another movie, DC Cab, but we had the same problem so instead we watched the A-Team movie, which starts Quinton Jackson as B.A., the role made famous by Mr. T. Not a bad substitute. 

But back to the chicken. 

I went to Gift's house at 5:00 to pick him up to bring him to our house for the movie viewing and dinner. When I got there, Isaac, Gift's brother-in-law, had just returned home with a chicken. A live chicken. This situation was like hundreds of others that I've faced since coming to live in South Africa. It is a situation where something is entirely foreign yet entirely relatable all at the same time. 

It is foreign, at least for me, to bring home or have someone bring into my home a live chicken with the intention that we will kill it, prep it, cook it and eat it. What was relatable was that neither Isaac, Gift or Beatrice wanted any part in killing the chicken. I am assuming that each of them have probably killed a chicken at one time or another, but all of them said they were now too scared to do it. They asked me if I wanted to kill the chicken but I declined. Gift's youngest sister, Loice, did not have a problem with it. It seems as though Loice is the designated chicken killer of the family.  As the chicken sat quietly in the doorway of their home, Loice sharpened her knife and created a little hole in the dirt out back so that she could position the chicken properly when she cut it's head off. 

Meanwhile, I knew Mr. Deep was waiting for Gift and me to arrive back at home. He was preparing the mashed potatoes and gearing up for a fun night of A-Team watching. But, for a reason that I can't describe I wanted to watch Loice kill the chicken and so we stayed a bit longer and I watched her do it and I video'd it. I knew Mr. Deep would understand the reason for my delay.

I'm not going to post the video because I know there are a large percentage of you who would freak out. There might even be a few people who have already stopped reading because they can't bear to read about the demise of the chicken. But for those of you who are still with me, let me tell you what it was like. 

First, though the chicken sat relaxed in the doorway for a while, as soon as Loice picked it up, the chicken knew what was up and did not go quietly or without a fight. Second, it did not die right away. There is a reason for the phrase "chicken with it's head cut off." Third, Loice is a total badass. As she killed it, some blood dripped on her feet but she didn't let it bother her. She is a pro.

It's now been over 24 hours since I witnessed the killing. I have not become a vegetarian and I have not stopped eating chicken. In fact, I went to Nando's on Monday and ate some chicken without pause. But watching the chicken get killed did impact me.

First, some might chalk this experience up to hanging around with people who might be characterized as backward or third world. But I would disagree with that. I would argue that killing a chicken you are going to eat is actually more natural then going to the store to buy one. Just because most of us no longer have to kill our own chickens doesn't make it wrong if someone else finds it cheaper, fresher or tastier to do so. Just as we wouldn't think having a garden or going to a farmer's market to get the best and freshest produce is strange we should not be offended by or concerned with a person who chooses to kill his/her own chicken. I calculate that over the course of my life I've eaten chicken a minimum of 5,000 times and the number could be as high as 10,000. So how is it possible given my tremendous amount of chicken consumption that I've never seen a chicken die before? Isn't that a major disconnect? Obviously, I know that chickens and other animals are killed for food and if I see chicken on my plate I know intellectually that it was once alive, but now I really know. 

I have been trying for a while to be more conscious of not letting food go to waste. It seems like it should be easy...just don't buy it or don't order it if you are not going to eat it. However, most of us know it's not easy for those of us who have plenty of food not to waste it on occasion. Now, I really want to re-double my efforts on this and try to consume the food that I purchase so as to not let it go to waste. And if I can't use it, I will give it away. There is no shortage of people here to give it to. Don't worry, I am not going to start making chicken stock from all of my chicken bones or constructing pillows out of chicken feathers. I have not lost my mind.  But if an animal gives its life for us, we, at a minimum, should try not to waste it. And Netflix should do something about their severe lack of Mr. T movie streaming options.

The chicken after the fact.

Too Much Time on My Hands

"I've got too much time on my hands, it's hard to believe such a calamity"

-Styx, 1981

Joburg shuts down during the holiday season which means that lately I have not been busy with my usual activities like school, lamps and social groups. While I don't feel bored I guess I needed a project because I threw myself, with unparalleled enthusiasm, into helping with the planning and execution of my friend's 80's themed party. 

My friend Meghan and her husband love to throw parties and they are great at entertaining. When she mentioned she wanted to have an 80's party to celebrate their one year anniversary of arriving in Joburg, I was all in favor. I love the 80's, the music, the clothing and the memories. The only thing I don't love about the 80's are music videos because I've never seen any. When I was growing up we lived in the middle of nowhere and we had no (gasp) cable TV and therefore no MTV. Mr. Deep finds this hilarious.

Me in 1988. I'm just holding that beer for a friend.

I volunteered to help Meghan with the food and in the days leading up to the party I made sloppy joe meat which is minced beef with the perfect balance of sweet, salty and spicy flavors.I also made Jello jigglers which if you don't know is jello cut into shapes with a cookie cutter. I made mine with vodka. It wasn't as easy as it sounds because jigglers are very fragile. I didn't want to take broken jigglers to the party so I ended up eating the broken ones myself. 

sloppy joe

jigglers

Meanwhile, Mr. Deep also became involved in the party planning. At first Meghan planned to hire a DJ but the guy never responded to her so Mr. Deep happily volunteered to organize the music. He developed a playlist of over 15 hours and strategically divided the tunes into three categories. 80's Party Mix, general songs to be played throughout the party, 80's Request Pot, extra songs that people might want to hear because if someone requested Fame by Irene Cara Mr. Deep didn't want that person to walk away disappointed. And the third, a self explanatory category called Let's Fucking Dance.  Mr. Deep took the project seriously asking for input from others and making notes of songs and artists to be included. Then, one night he suddenly seemed tired of the endeavor. This became clear when I casually asked him "do you have any Asia on your playlist?" to which he replied, "I'm done." Mr. Deep also took his look seriously. His outfit consisted of a pink Izod  (now called Lacoste) polo shirt and a pair of docksiders. 

Mr. Deep the prepster

My manic obsession kicked in just a few days before the party when I began giving serious thought to my outfit. Originally I had the idea that I would just dress the way I used to in the 80's. Forty eight hours before the party I realized that this plan was very boring. Why dress like a 17 year old from a small conservative town when you can drape yourself in all the glory of the excessive decade...and this is when my craziness began in earnest. 

It was then that I realized that there were literally one million directions I could go with my 80's look. For example: 
Jane Fonda workout  
Working woman with shoulder pads
Glamorous like on the TV show Dynasty
Prostitute like in the movies Trading Places and Risky Business 
Sweet and innocent like Brooke Shields (yes I know she did the racy Calvin Klein ad but for the most part she was sweet) of course I quickly ruled this one out for being too boring.
Androgynous woman  
Punk rocker 
A person from the 1980's who still dresses like it's the 70's

I was overwhelmed by the possibilities. 

The day before the party I was frantically trying on suits as I was considering going as a flight attendant from the 80's (or as we called them back then stewardesses) but I realized I would have to buy a wing shaped pin and I thought that might be hard to come by. But the real low came when I found myself wearing nothing but my shiny black plastic raincoat, sitting in front of Mr. Deep's computer googling 1980's Russian spy. And my gardener was at the house at the time! I obviously was not thinking clearly. Side note the day of the party it poured all day and night so a raincoat would have been a perfect costume.  

I headed to the mall and luckily 80's and 90's style clothing is back in stores full force so it wasn't hard to find an outfit quickly and painlessly. I ended up wearing acid washed tight jeans, silver pumps, a black top with lace, huge hair and loud make-up. I dressed like a rock band groupie following Motley Crue during their 1987 Girls Girls Girls tour.  

Although my hairstyle did not come out perfectly as my hair is not cut in as many layers as it was back in the day, as I styled it the whole era came rushing back to me. I used to think that I spent hours getting ready to go out in the 80's because I was in high school and that's what high school girls do. In actuality, it took forever to get ready in the 80's and you were never really finished with your hair or makeup because there was no such thing as too much of either. Eventually, you just ran out of time and had to leave your bathroom. 

Big hair selfie

In case you are invited to an 80's party, here's a quick hair styling tutorial.

First, wash your hair.Then add a cantaloupe size puff of mousse. Scrunch the mousse into the roots. Feel free to add more mousse.  Next, hang your head upside down to blow dry. Don't worry if the dryer is too hot or on a high setting just blow the daylights out of your hair. Next, grab a curing iron. Put it on the highest heat setting available and begin to curl your hair. Once the hair is wrapped in the iron hold the iron an inch or so from your head for maximum volume. You can even spray your hair with hairspray while your hair is heating in the iron. As for the type of hairspray to use I suggest Aqua Net but any strong hold aerosol will do and don't buy anything natural or organic as you need full on chemicals. Continue to curl for at least 45 minutes. If you see a curl you don't like just redo it, it's not a big deal. Don't be alarmed if you see smoke or smell burning hair. This is completely normal. Once you are satisfied or have to leave for your party, whichever comes first, apply a thick coating of hair gel over each ear pushing the hair back. Don't worry if it feels wet. It will dry eventually. 

More Confidence

This is part two of my interview with Confidence. If you missed part one you can read it here. 

"Sometimes it was hard to listen in class but I always called my crying tummy to order."

- Confidence Tshivhula

Confidence answers my questions thoughtfully, slowly and carefully pausing to contemplate each answer before replying. I can tell that certain topics are difficult for her to talk about. Here is more of her story.

Eventually Confidence got an electrician to reconnect the lights in her shack but she still had to endure the dirt floor, the holes in the walls, the door that she couldn't lock, the rats and the faulty roof. Because she couldn't lock the door and was afraid, Confidence stopped sleeping at the shack, using it only as a place to store her belongings, and began sleeping in the lecture halls at school. After studying at the library until late at night, she'd go to her hiding spot for a few hours sleep. Other students sometimes noticed that she hadn't changed her clothes from one day to the next but when they commented she told them she "didn't like washing clothes."

Confidence had no money to buy food and went days without eating. At night she would visit a nearby market after closing and search the bins for discarded food. Sometimes she'd find carrots and tomatoes still fresh enough to eat. Sunday was her favorite day as lunch was served following the church service she attended. She volunteered for the task of washing lunch dishes so she could eat the leftover food from people's plates. 

I asked Confidence how she was able to concentrate in class and sleep at night when she was so hungry. She said it was difficult at first, but after a while her body adjusted, "I wasn't used to food anymore." Although now her situation has improved she says she cares little about eating and doesn't have the same appetite that she used to.

One night Confidence returned to her shack to retrieve some clothes and her landlord was there waiting for her. He was tired of her late rent payments and he chased her away. Confidence begged him to allow her wait until morning to move out but he would not and so in the middle of the night she went to stay at the home of her church pastor and his family.

Confidence loved and admired the pastor and his wife and she was happy for the chance to live with them and be a part of their family. But instead of treating her like family she says that they treated her like a servant. While she was allowed to live in their house rent free, she was expected to do all of the cleaning and housework. The family had a washing machine but Confidence was not allowed to use it and had to wash her own clothes by hand. They also did not share any of their food with her. When she talks about this time I get the feeling that living with the pastor was a more difficult experience for her than living in the shack as she was so hurt and disappointed by people she thought were nice but proved not to be genuine. After three months Confidence moved out of the pastor's home and she no longer attends that church. 

She was also disappointed and surprised by behavior displayed by some of her fellow classmates. She witnessed students dressed in fancy clothes and shoes that she describes as "breathtaking" being dropped off at school in expensive cars. At first she thought these students were being dropped off by their parents but later she realized that some of them had much older boyfriends who were paying for a high end lifestyle in exchange for sex and younger companionship. 

Since her first year at varsity (she is now in her third year) Confidence's financial situation has improved a bit thanks in part to a monthly stipend of R500 (approximately $35) that she she receives from the Edu Fun Further Education Program (FEP.)  Edu Fun is the same organization that I volunteer with at the Diepsloot Combined School (DCS) helping younger children with their English. Through the FEP arm, Edu Fun supports approximately twenty varsity students all graduates of DCS. The students receive a stipend to help them with food, transport and living expenses while they are at university. Confidence didn't learn about FEP until she was in her second year of varsity. Edu Fun's website seems to be under construction currently but here is a link to the Facebook page.

Thankful: Part Two

If you missed my last post, Thankful: Part One, you can view it here.

A raw turkey desperately in need of a heat source

At 3:30 p.m., two hours before I had to put my Thanksgiving turkey into the oven, the electricity went out. You may be wondering why. The simple answer is because this is Africa and things like this just happen sometimes. 

For the first 15 minutes, I sat quietly trying to ignore the situation telling myself that it would come back on any minute. When it didn't, I sent Mr. Deep a frantic SMS and then went outside to determine the answer to the big question...is the whole neighborhood out or just us? The hope of course, is that the whole neighborhood is out in which case you can assume that the problem is a known issue, being worked on and hopefully will be fixed soon.

I quickly learned that the whole neighborhood was out. Then, I had to decide to what to do about Thanksgiving dinner. 

I consulted Mr. Deep. Mr. Deep, you will remember, was not going to be present for the Thanksgiving dinner because of his office holiday party being held the same night, but luckily I was able to chat with him while he was still at his office and before his festivities began. 

Mr. Deep suggested I cook the turkey on our charcoal Weber braai (grill.) He tried to walk me through the process via SMS, explaining that I needed to light the coals, then move the coals all to one side to cook the turkey over indirect heat. He also said I'd have to rotate the turkey every so often and monitor the temperature. He suggested I have a second batch of coals ready to go in case I need a heat boost. All of this sounded very daunting. While Mr. Deep is always confident in his opinions, he did write, "keep in mind I have never tried this but what options do we have?" I could only imagine our bird, black and charred on the outside and raw on the inside. 

I considered scrapping Thanksgiving entirely, ordering pizza or taking my guests out for dinner but I really didn't want to disappoint everyone. Thanksgiving dinner is something you look forward to and I knew my visiting American friends were excited about it. Pizza, while great any other day of the year, is not an acceptable substitute. In addition to my American friends, I had also invited Gift. I had been sharing the details of the amazing traditional Thanksgiving meal with him to build up his excitement. He told me he had never eaten turkey before. So for the sake of my guests, I had to give Mr. Deep's idea a try. 

The turkey was not my only challenge. While we do have a gas stove (but not oven) I wasn't sure how I was going to heat up the potatoes, stuffing and green bean casserole on the stove while also making the gravy. But these issues would have to be addressed later, I had to make an attempt to get the turkey cooked. 

While I was appreciative of Mr. Deep's patient guidance and suggestions, I was also becoming extremely annoyed at him for having to go to his party. I was actually wishing we had a kid so that I could have lied and told Mr. Deep. "You have to come home right away, I think little Paulie has a broken arm." Then when he arrived I would have said, "oh he seems fine now, but while you're here can you braai this turkey?" I know Mr. Deep could have pulled it off. But Mr. Deep was leaving the office for his party and I was left with a bag of charcoal, a raw turkey and cold side dishes. 

I had planned to heat up my mashed potatoes in the slow cooker

In addition to being scared that this braai the turkey idea would fail miserably possibly resulting in a ruined meal or worse, salmonella, I also had a logistical challenge. I was supposed to pick my friends up at Lanseria Airport at 5:50 (they had flown to Cape Town for a few days) and then I had to pick Gift up at his house. I wasn't going to be home while the turkey was cooking to rotate it, monitor the temperature and light a second batch of coals. Mr. Deep suggested I get an Uber for Gift which would get me back home quickly after my airport pick up.  

So I frantically got in touch with Jonathan, our favorite Uber driver, and asked him if he could pick up Gift. Because I was in crisis, rather than just calmly requesting his assistance I told Jonathan about the whole drama. I told him that we'd pay him by EFT and I let him know generally where Gift lived. I then had to let Gift know that Jonathan would be fetching him. Once I got all of that straightened out, it was 4:30 and I had to proceed with this absurd plan and light the coals. I only had a 3/4 of a bag of charcoal, not enough for a second set of coals if needed. I also realized in a panic that since the refrigerator wasn't working the beer and wine would not be cold. It's one thing to tell your guests they aren't going to have turkey, but it's another thing to make them drink warm beer, so I decided I also needed to run out and get some ice. I quickly changed my clothes as by now, I was really running out of time. It was 5:00 and I had to leave by 5:30 at the latest to pick up my friends. 

I drove to the Spar grabbed three bags of ice and a bag of charcoal. As always happens when you are in a major rush, there was a delay as the person in front of me at the check out line had apparently had never used a credit card before. Finally I made it back home. I rushed in, slammed the bags ice onto the floor to break up the chunks and emptied all three bags into the sink. I threw some beer into the ice and ran outside. I moved the hot coals to one side, added a few pieces of firewood (at this point why the hell not) and put the grate on. I placed the stuffed turkey, in the pan and covered with foil, onto the grill. I put the lid on. The braai was really hot (400 F) and smoke was everywhere from the wood. Of course I also left the big sliding glass doors open so the house was now filled with smoke. I was not feeling confident in this plan but I had to hope for the best and leave the house to collect my friends. 

I grabbed my purse and shut off the kitchen lights. Wait? The kitchen lights were on. The power was back! I have no idea if it came back on while I was at the store and I was so busy dealing with the ice and the charcoal that I just didn't notice? Or maybe it had only come back on that very second. I ran outside and grabbed the turkey off the braai. I came back inside, threw the turkey in the oven, turned the oven on and ran out the door. 

Three hours later we enjoying our delicious turkey with all the trimmings.  

Success!

My pan shall forever serve as a reminder of what I endured.