Turkey Day

The rains have come to Malawi. Every morning huge billowing cumulus clouds congregate in the sky, and as afternoon comes they coalesce and darken, until the sky cracks open with a bolt of lightening and rolling thunder. No wonder people believe that rains are a direct communication with God, because it doesn’t ever sprinkle here. Torrential sheets of water turn the roads into rivers, and women take off their shoes and put plastic shopping bags on their heads to protect their weaves and god-awful wigs. It usually only rains for 30 to 40 minutes, but it is down right biblical. When it stops, the temperature has dropped 10 degrees, and everything smells fresh and clean and new.

The rains have brought many changes. The majestic purple of the jacaranda trees has given way to the fiery orange of the flame trees, and what used to be a dry dusty brick-red country is now bursting with green green green. The termites emerged two weeks ago. The first rains were their signal to climb out of the ground with their new wings and fill the air with their brief dance of flight. Brief indeed. Where the night before it was like a blizzard of snowing insects, by the morning there are large drifts of shed wings and no termites to be seen. The spiders and millipedes and ants have forged onto the scene as well. Last week there was a tarantula in my kitchen. A couple of days before, I was presented two baby black mambas (deadly poisonous snakes) smashed with the shovel by my guards, proof that they had been doing their job and were not sleeping on their shift.

It’s technically summer here now, but there are still tacky Christmas decorations in all of the shops, and I even went to sing carols the other night in preparation for the holiday season. We celebrated Thanksgiving two days late here, because you really can’t do the holiday right if you can’t be in the kitchen cooking all day. Thursday was just like any other day in Lilongwe, except that my friend Brendan was driving around with two live turkeys in his car. Teeny and Thomas could have used some fattening up before we ate them, but I don’t think one can ever felt as connected to (and grateful for) a meal as when you watch it meet its end and then pluck out all its feathers. (Turns out they come off much easier if you pour boiling water on it first.) Turkey feathers are actually quite beautiful, and look lovely in a glass bottle as a centerpiece on the table.

I hosted 50+ people for our Thanksgiving feast, many of whom (at least those from the UK, Europe and South Africa) had never before experienced this quintessential American tradition. They caught on pretty quickly though, and one British guest even went so far as to bring cupcake–sized sweet buns decorated with red and white stripes with blue gumballs for the stars. He is welcome back to Thanksgiving any time J. The food was delicious, the company fantastic, and the only complaint is that there was no stuffing left over for me to eat for breakfast. But it is no wonder that the Bourbon and Bacon stuffing was popular. I think even the vegetarians and the Mormons ate it. I knew it was a success because most people went home clutching their bellies and claiming that they wouldn’t eat again for a week.

I love Thanksgiving. I love being surrounded by family and friends (and here in Lilongwe, your friends ARE your family) and feeling blessed by the fun and warmth that they bring to my life. I miss all of you at home and hope you all had a great thanksgiving :)

*no birds were harmed or eaten in the taking of the photo above.