This is a country that has lots of rules, in terms of personal behavior, and few rules in terms of safety.
I cannot buy alcohol in a shop without a license and to get that license I need a letter of permission from my employer. The same holds true if I want to, say, get a driver's license. Or change jobs.
On the other hand, apparently I am free to let my child ride in the front seat of the car, standing up against the dashboard. Or to let said child hang half-way out the window or stand up through the sun roof. Forget about car seats; I've never seen one here.
The regulations for building safety here also are few and far between, although the government is making some headway there. In its efforts to be business-friendly, the country is quite worker unfriendly.
But I digress and that's a whole other post. This is about me trying to get some booze for the holidays.
A colleague told us during Thanksgiving that he'd found an easier path to getting an alcohol license. One still needed three photos, a copy of the visa and passport, an employment contract and a "letter of no objection" from one's employer. But instead of driving all the way out to Khalifa City, the license could be obtained at a Western-style grocery store.
This was good news. In early December I asked the newsroom manager for my letter and I figured I'd get around to the store sooner rather than later. She produced it within a few days and it was valid for a month.
Today I had a doctor's appointment nearby the grocery store and could run both errands in the same outing.
But. (And there's always a but here)
It turns out that the grocery no longer provides this service to its customers. I seem to remember hearing that at Christmas-time something happens. I'm not sure if the government steps in and says, "Whoa!" or if the owners of the market don't like the volume, or if it draws too much attention to them and they've been doing it sort of surreptitiously .... Regardless, on this day, they were not providing the licensing service. I needed to go out to Khalifa City police station, the clerk said, and handed me a form.
Khalifa City is a good 25k from my home, and I was a good 10k farther away at that moment. The clerk was encouraging, telling me it wouldn't take long to get the license this way -- same-day service, apparently, as opposed to going through the grocery which might take a week. And they were open till 3 p.m. she said, so I could get there in plenty of time
That, as you may have deduced, is the key part of this discussion.
So I manage to get a cab with few hassles. Good start. He is willing to take me to Khalifa City, and more importantly, willing to wait there for me while I get the license. Khalifa City is a suburb of Abu Dhabi. It's off the island, and is a collection of large villas that cater to Western expats. (Or, as my taxi driver none-too-subtly suggested, only white people live there). But it has few amenities, in terms of shops and restaurants and there are almost no taxis available. While we are in a residential neighborhood now, we are not really in the suburbs.
Anyway, the taxi driver says he'll wait for me, and suggests that I check all my documents and fill out the form before I arrive. As I'm doing so, I realize I don't have the necessary photos. Everything here requires photos, and I spent the better part of an afternoon yesterday trying to get them. It's not that it's difficult, it's that the shops that provide them close from 1-5 and I never seem to remember this.
Again we encounter the time-frame issue.
The taxi takes me past my house, I pick up the photos and some extra documentation, just in case, and off we go out to the boonies. Past the lovely Grand Mosque, past the new sports stadium and almost to the airport.
I get there, the taxi parks, I go in and find plenty of people sitting around doing nothing ... except for the person who handles the alcohol license. That person, clearly, has gone home. Or gone somewhere. Too bad, the Emirati behind the counter sings to me. Closed! I say, but I thought you were open until 3? Now it is only 1. I admit that I kind of beg. Are you sure? Really, I was told 3, I say. Come back in the morning he says. I ask him to check my documents; I don't want to come back a third time. He waves me off to another colleague, who only says to me that she doesn't handle the licenses, come back tomorrow. They both vaguely wave to a third colleague who is praying in the corner.
(Yes, I see the look on all your faces )
I wait for him to stop praying. You're not supposed to watch people pray. It's considered rude. So I sit down so as not to be so obvious. He sees me out of the corner of his eye when he gets up, but tries to avoid me. I call out to him and ask him to look at my documents. He clearly speaks very little English. He hands me a form. I tell him I already have the form. I ask him to look at my documents, please, to see if I have everything. He says come back tomorrow in the morning.
Dejected, I leave and the taxi driver is surprised to see me so quickly. Finished already he asks? No, I say. They're closed. At 1. He feels bad. Where to, he asks? Home, I say.
We chat a bit in the car. He tells me where I can buy alcohol without a license. He likes to drink a little, he says. Whiskey with his friends on his day off. He asks me how the license is supposed to work. I know that he cannot afford to buy alcohol in the hotel bars and restaurants. I don't need a license, necessarily, but it will be good to have. He gives me his phone number so I can call him in the morning, if I want to go back.
When I get home, I realize we have driven nearly 70km. In a town this size, that's a lot. The taxi bill is ridiculously high by local standards. Just under $30 with a tip. My daily trip to work costs $2.70, including a very large tip.
And I still have nothing to drink.
December 23, 2009
December 20, 2009
Listening For the Call
The call to prayer is a fact of life here in Abu Dhabi. It is broadcast five times a day.
I like it, for the most part. It gives me an idea of the time (dawn, mid-day, afternoon, sunset, night) and it is a pleasant melody. It reminds me of a cantor chanting in a synagogue, oddly enough.
The call here seems different than in other Muslim countries I've visited. My recollections of Marrakech and Cairo are that the recordings are high-pitched and scratchy. Not at all pleasant.
Here, there is a mosque approximately every 300 meters -- at least one in every residential block -- so it is unusual to be out of range of the call. A person is not expected to cross a major street to get to the mosque. And if you have to go five times a day, it needs to be convenient.
(Let's leave aside for the time being the question of how anyone gets any work done ...)
At the newspaper, there is a mosque down the street, and a special mosque for workers of our company (not unusual). The speaker is right outside the entrance where I sit, so I hear it all the time. I'm often surprised to hear it, as in "Huh, it's already 7 p.m.?"
Our new apartment is about 150 meters from the mosque in our block of villas, and the sound bounces around our little patio. Our apartment is U-shaped, with the patio between the two sides. We keep the windows open this time of year, and the call to prayer is really the only thing we hear outside of the chirping birds and the hum of traffic from a nearby major road.
But I didn't expect to hear it quite so loudly in the morning. when we were at the hotel, we could hear it through the double-paned glass, and I only heard the noon-time call. Paul would know he had stayed up too late if he heard the morning call.
For the last few days, I have been woken by the call at dawn. It startles me, and incorporates itself into my dreams. Clearly, I'm not sleeping very well if it's waking me. I suppose it's a better way to be woken than having a cat poke me in the nose. It's slightly more subtle.
And I always know what time it is.
I like it, for the most part. It gives me an idea of the time (dawn, mid-day, afternoon, sunset, night) and it is a pleasant melody. It reminds me of a cantor chanting in a synagogue, oddly enough.
The call here seems different than in other Muslim countries I've visited. My recollections of Marrakech and Cairo are that the recordings are high-pitched and scratchy. Not at all pleasant.
Here, there is a mosque approximately every 300 meters -- at least one in every residential block -- so it is unusual to be out of range of the call. A person is not expected to cross a major street to get to the mosque. And if you have to go five times a day, it needs to be convenient.
(Let's leave aside for the time being the question of how anyone gets any work done ...)
At the newspaper, there is a mosque down the street, and a special mosque for workers of our company (not unusual). The speaker is right outside the entrance where I sit, so I hear it all the time. I'm often surprised to hear it, as in "Huh, it's already 7 p.m.?"
Our new apartment is about 150 meters from the mosque in our block of villas, and the sound bounces around our little patio. Our apartment is U-shaped, with the patio between the two sides. We keep the windows open this time of year, and the call to prayer is really the only thing we hear outside of the chirping birds and the hum of traffic from a nearby major road.
But I didn't expect to hear it quite so loudly in the morning. when we were at the hotel, we could hear it through the double-paned glass, and I only heard the noon-time call. Paul would know he had stayed up too late if he heard the morning call.
For the last few days, I have been woken by the call at dawn. It startles me, and incorporates itself into my dreams. Clearly, I'm not sleeping very well if it's waking me. I suppose it's a better way to be woken than having a cat poke me in the nose. It's slightly more subtle.
And I always know what time it is.
December 16, 2009
Moving House (As the British Say)
Well.
No gmail access (and thus no blogger.com access) for two days combined with a move equals me being behind in blogging. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
We moved over the last of our stuff this morning before work. This on the heels of a huge Ikea run and a grocery run, in addition to more crap then we thought we owned. And we haven't bought anything since we've been here, so why was there so much stuff?
Let's recap: We signed for an apartment we said we didn't want. It took us three days after the lease began to get keys. ("I've lost them. No, I have them. No, I've lost them. We need to call the locksmith. Come another time.) The apartment flooded on the fourth day. We started to move on the fifth day, by which time the inch-plus of water covering the floor had been cleaned up. More moving yesterday. This morning we moved out of the hotel. Now we just have to unpack -- and there's nowhere to put anything.
The apartment is furnished, so I was able to get most of the things we needed in one long Ikea trip. But just because a place has furniture doesn't mean it's move-in ready. So I shopped for sheets and towels and blankets and pillows and dishes and silverware and glasses and pots. We have the bare necessities now. And bear in mind I have no storage, so the necessities really are bare.
Today I picked up the laundry -- all that new linen had to be washed, and we have a machine but no dryer -- and tonight we'll sleep there.
Phew.
The laundry episode was a bit amusing. When I dropped it off on Monday, it was all still in the package. The laundry guy didn't seem to mind. We were lucky to discover (OK, it's not luck -- we asked around) a laundry right behind the office, making it quite convenient. Our new place is in an entirely residential area, making it nice and quiet, but less convenient for getting things done.
So I drop off the laundry and I ask the guy does he want me to take everything out of the packages. No, he says, no problem. "No problem" is a mantra here. Nothing is ever a problem (especially, I imagine, if you have a lot of dirhams). We count the things: 6 pillow cases, four sheets, a comforter cover, four bath towels, four hand towels. Done.
He asks my name. I say Leah. He says two days. I say Wednesday? He looks at the calendar and says yes. I say do I need a receipt? Some sort of paper? No problem, he says. I say you'll remember me? Yes, he says. No problem.
I returned today, and found the laundry, like so many small shops, is closed from 1-4. Sometimes even until 5. My third trip out side, I discover he's finally open. I walk in. He says Leah! I say hello. He says six pillow cases, four sheets, eight towels and goes in search of something under a table. Out he comes with my laundry, nicely packed and stacked in a re-usable shopping bag.
I'm pleased it's all there. I'm pleased he remembered me. I'm surprised, too. But sort of not. This often seems to be the way things work here. Mysteriously.
We hadn't discussed price yet. Fifty-two dirhams he says to me. I fork it over. All my linens washed, dried and ironed for $14.
No gmail access (and thus no blogger.com access) for two days combined with a move equals me being behind in blogging. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
We moved over the last of our stuff this morning before work. This on the heels of a huge Ikea run and a grocery run, in addition to more crap then we thought we owned. And we haven't bought anything since we've been here, so why was there so much stuff?
Let's recap: We signed for an apartment we said we didn't want. It took us three days after the lease began to get keys. ("I've lost them. No, I have them. No, I've lost them. We need to call the locksmith. Come another time.) The apartment flooded on the fourth day. We started to move on the fifth day, by which time the inch-plus of water covering the floor had been cleaned up. More moving yesterday. This morning we moved out of the hotel. Now we just have to unpack -- and there's nowhere to put anything.
The apartment is furnished, so I was able to get most of the things we needed in one long Ikea trip. But just because a place has furniture doesn't mean it's move-in ready. So I shopped for sheets and towels and blankets and pillows and dishes and silverware and glasses and pots. We have the bare necessities now. And bear in mind I have no storage, so the necessities really are bare.
Today I picked up the laundry -- all that new linen had to be washed, and we have a machine but no dryer -- and tonight we'll sleep there.
Phew.
The laundry episode was a bit amusing. When I dropped it off on Monday, it was all still in the package. The laundry guy didn't seem to mind. We were lucky to discover (OK, it's not luck -- we asked around) a laundry right behind the office, making it quite convenient. Our new place is in an entirely residential area, making it nice and quiet, but less convenient for getting things done.
So I drop off the laundry and I ask the guy does he want me to take everything out of the packages. No, he says, no problem. "No problem" is a mantra here. Nothing is ever a problem (especially, I imagine, if you have a lot of dirhams). We count the things: 6 pillow cases, four sheets, a comforter cover, four bath towels, four hand towels. Done.
He asks my name. I say Leah. He says two days. I say Wednesday? He looks at the calendar and says yes. I say do I need a receipt? Some sort of paper? No problem, he says. I say you'll remember me? Yes, he says. No problem.
I returned today, and found the laundry, like so many small shops, is closed from 1-4. Sometimes even until 5. My third trip out side, I discover he's finally open. I walk in. He says Leah! I say hello. He says six pillow cases, four sheets, eight towels and goes in search of something under a table. Out he comes with my laundry, nicely packed and stacked in a re-usable shopping bag.
I'm pleased it's all there. I'm pleased he remembered me. I'm surprised, too. But sort of not. This often seems to be the way things work here. Mysteriously.
We hadn't discussed price yet. Fifty-two dirhams he says to me. I fork it over. All my linens washed, dried and ironed for $14.
December 12, 2009
Aggression and Testosterone
Anyone who knows me knows that I like men. I've worked in male-dominated departments for years with few incidents. I don't think I've ever been accused of being a feminist man-hater.
Having said all that, however, I've come to find myself quite ill at ease in this male-dominated society I now live in.
I am surrounded by men and more than that, I am part of a society that seems to have no place for women. And certainly not Western women.
There is an aggression here that is unsubtle. You see it on the roads, and in the sheer numbers of men out on the streets. But I don't fear for my safety; I fear for my visibility and my sense of self.
In this society, I don't really exist. And that's weird. And rather than inspiring me to step up, it has made me shrink back. Serious business deals aren't done with women. The real estate agent addresses Paul and I'm just in the back seat of the car, along for the ride.
Women here wear the abaya for religious and cultural reasons. It protects them from the prying eyes of men who are not related to them. And I actually get that. But it also puts them in the background. They are shadows that fill in the margins around the men.
And so I struggle to find my place among all of this.
Having said all that, however, I've come to find myself quite ill at ease in this male-dominated society I now live in.
I am surrounded by men and more than that, I am part of a society that seems to have no place for women. And certainly not Western women.
There is an aggression here that is unsubtle. You see it on the roads, and in the sheer numbers of men out on the streets. But I don't fear for my safety; I fear for my visibility and my sense of self.
In this society, I don't really exist. And that's weird. And rather than inspiring me to step up, it has made me shrink back. Serious business deals aren't done with women. The real estate agent addresses Paul and I'm just in the back seat of the car, along for the ride.
Women here wear the abaya for religious and cultural reasons. It protects them from the prying eyes of men who are not related to them. And I actually get that. But it also puts them in the background. They are shadows that fill in the margins around the men.
And so I struggle to find my place among all of this.
December 7, 2009
Junk Mail -- Any Mail Will Do
I've been looking fairly compulsively at my mailbox at work lately. And I know this is silly, because who would send me mail?
But it's not entirely , because there is no national postal system here, in the way that people in most other developed countries think of it. Yes, you can send mail to and from the UAE, but where it ends up ... depends on how you address it. Because there is no street address system here.
For example, I live in the Sahara Residence 9 on Electra St. If you send mail to me at that address, there's a good chance I would get it. And my laundry, Atlas Cleaners, lists its address as: Behind the Green House Building on Najda. If you don't know where the Green House Building is, you're out of luck. (And behind is rather relative -- there is a two-sided alley "behind" the Green House Building)
My company has a PO Box for mail, and so everyone has everything sent to that address. And while the system seems odd to me, it also seems to work. I actually received mail addressed to Leah and Paul, The National, Abu Dhabi, UAE.
And that was from my bank.
I don't have an address for our new apartment. The broad description on the contract is Street 19, Flat No. 11, Al Muroor. When I go to sign up for Internet service, I will also tell them the sector and plot number -- in the hopes they will find me.
There are rumors that a new mail system is forthcoming. But it won't be based on addresses, it will be be based on GPS coordinates. That should be interesting; one wrong number and your mail ends up in Namibia.
This is not to suggest, either, that the mail works well going out. Stamps seem available only at the post office, and I have seen just one of those. A colleague tells me they are available at certain hotels as well -- but not mine. There also are very few post boxes. I tried to mail a letter from work, but was told there was no option for that. Which is funny, because you would think if mail comes in, at some point it goes out. But nevermind.
We discovered when we finally were able to get a stamp and mail a letter that it takes three weeks to get the U.S.
Maybe they use carrier falcons.
(And for those of you who would like to send us real, actual mail, this is how best to find us: The National/Abu Dhabi Media Company/PO Box 111434/ Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates)
But it's not entirely , because there is no national postal system here, in the way that people in most other developed countries think of it. Yes, you can send mail to and from the UAE, but where it ends up ... depends on how you address it. Because there is no street address system here.
For example, I live in the Sahara Residence 9 on Electra St. If you send mail to me at that address, there's a good chance I would get it. And my laundry, Atlas Cleaners, lists its address as: Behind the Green House Building on Najda. If you don't know where the Green House Building is, you're out of luck. (And behind is rather relative -- there is a two-sided alley "behind" the Green House Building)
My company has a PO Box for mail, and so everyone has everything sent to that address. And while the system seems odd to me, it also seems to work. I actually received mail addressed to Leah and Paul, The National, Abu Dhabi, UAE.
And that was from my bank.
I don't have an address for our new apartment. The broad description on the contract is Street 19, Flat No. 11, Al Muroor. When I go to sign up for Internet service, I will also tell them the sector and plot number -- in the hopes they will find me.
There are rumors that a new mail system is forthcoming. But it won't be based on addresses, it will be be based on GPS coordinates. That should be interesting; one wrong number and your mail ends up in Namibia.
This is not to suggest, either, that the mail works well going out. Stamps seem available only at the post office, and I have seen just one of those. A colleague tells me they are available at certain hotels as well -- but not mine. There also are very few post boxes. I tried to mail a letter from work, but was told there was no option for that. Which is funny, because you would think if mail comes in, at some point it goes out. But nevermind.
We discovered when we finally were able to get a stamp and mail a letter that it takes three weeks to get the U.S.
Maybe they use carrier falcons.
(And for those of you who would like to send us real, actual mail, this is how best to find us: The National/Abu Dhabi Media Company/PO Box 111434/ Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates)
November 25, 2009
Thanksgiving, Part II
I did it! And it was awesome!!
I actually pulled off a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings (except pumpkin pie -- my fave) for six people.
And it was all thanks to my Mom's super suggestions and advice, and Paul's invaluable help. I just don't get how all you Thanksgiving makers make all those dishes simultaneously. I ran out of hands a few times. Paul jumped in to make the mashed potatoes while I finished up the gravy, green beans and stuffing (and entertained and early-arriving guest).
Phew.
One bottle of Champagne, four bottles of red wine, one 12-pound turkey, seven potatoes .... you get the drift ... and one meal with five contented companions. We were five Yanks and a Brit, and we talked some shop -- the one thing we all have in common -- and a little about our adopted country and what the holiday was about. But it was just nice to do a dinner in a home. A dinner party. A special dinner party.
You don't really need the details though, as you're all about to embark on your own. So as I wish you all the best for a wonderful holiday, I will leave you with this anecdote.
I'm cooking the turkey, we're about halfway into the time. I hear a switch click and about five minutes later realize that not only was my water not boiling, but the turkey had stopped bubbling.
I thought this was weird. Who would guess that you could turn off the main gas line from outside the kitchen. In fact, from a switch that is (and was) right next to the door to the bathroom. Which has no light switch inside.
Well, you can.
I finally made the connection between the switch and the fact the oven turned off -- and then had a bear of a time (and a bit of a panic attack) trying to get the oven back on. I was only halfway through cooking!! What would I do with a half-cooked turkey??
Our hostess, who might have known what to do (but really, I don't think so), was sound asleep. I wasn't about to wake her. We had already invaded her apartment to make the dinner.
Now this wasn't the first issue with the oven. The night before, on the advice of my mother, I tested the oven to see if cooking times were accurate, if it had any weirdness, and it did. In fact, the night before I was planning to make a cake to test the oven. When I set the oven, it never got hot. Again, a dilemma. And again, my hostess was not available.
It turns out with this particular oven, a well-regarded brand (Siemens), you must leave the oven door open for three minutes so that the pilot light can catch properly. Never heard that one before. I eventually figured it out, the cake was fine (it cooked on the fast side), and I had an idea of how the oven was running.
So with the turkey, I made sure to leave the door open at the start. But now, I had no gas. The switch was on again, but that made no difference. Finally, we found the door to the gas panel, and there were some convoluted directions. It seems that we could restart the gas by turning various nozzles and switches and get it started again. The diagram explaining all this bore no resemblance to what we actually did.
After a 15-minute delay, we managed to turn the oven back on. Phew.
That was the only major mishap (OK, Paul, who was taking the turkey out of the oven -- which was by now two inches deep in boiling turkey juice -- almost dropped it when the oven rack slipped and he had only tea towels to hold on to the roasting pan. And I dropped the leftover cake on its head on my way home.)
But considering I had a handful of pots and utensils not quite meant to do what we needed them to do (too small, too big, too shallow, too deep) the whole thing turned better than I could have hoped.
Hurrah!!
(check this link in the next day or so to see photos)
I actually pulled off a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings (except pumpkin pie -- my fave) for six people.
And it was all thanks to my Mom's super suggestions and advice, and Paul's invaluable help. I just don't get how all you Thanksgiving makers make all those dishes simultaneously. I ran out of hands a few times. Paul jumped in to make the mashed potatoes while I finished up the gravy, green beans and stuffing (and entertained and early-arriving guest).
Phew.
One bottle of Champagne, four bottles of red wine, one 12-pound turkey, seven potatoes .... you get the drift ... and one meal with five contented companions. We were five Yanks and a Brit, and we talked some shop -- the one thing we all have in common -- and a little about our adopted country and what the holiday was about. But it was just nice to do a dinner in a home. A dinner party. A special dinner party.
You don't really need the details though, as you're all about to embark on your own. So as I wish you all the best for a wonderful holiday, I will leave you with this anecdote.
I'm cooking the turkey, we're about halfway into the time. I hear a switch click and about five minutes later realize that not only was my water not boiling, but the turkey had stopped bubbling.
I thought this was weird. Who would guess that you could turn off the main gas line from outside the kitchen. In fact, from a switch that is (and was) right next to the door to the bathroom. Which has no light switch inside.
Well, you can.
I finally made the connection between the switch and the fact the oven turned off -- and then had a bear of a time (and a bit of a panic attack) trying to get the oven back on. I was only halfway through cooking!! What would I do with a half-cooked turkey??
Our hostess, who might have known what to do (but really, I don't think so), was sound asleep. I wasn't about to wake her. We had already invaded her apartment to make the dinner.
Now this wasn't the first issue with the oven. The night before, on the advice of my mother, I tested the oven to see if cooking times were accurate, if it had any weirdness, and it did. In fact, the night before I was planning to make a cake to test the oven. When I set the oven, it never got hot. Again, a dilemma. And again, my hostess was not available.
It turns out with this particular oven, a well-regarded brand (Siemens), you must leave the oven door open for three minutes so that the pilot light can catch properly. Never heard that one before. I eventually figured it out, the cake was fine (it cooked on the fast side), and I had an idea of how the oven was running.
So with the turkey, I made sure to leave the door open at the start. But now, I had no gas. The switch was on again, but that made no difference. Finally, we found the door to the gas panel, and there were some convoluted directions. It seems that we could restart the gas by turning various nozzles and switches and get it started again. The diagram explaining all this bore no resemblance to what we actually did.
After a 15-minute delay, we managed to turn the oven back on. Phew.
That was the only major mishap (OK, Paul, who was taking the turkey out of the oven -- which was by now two inches deep in boiling turkey juice -- almost dropped it when the oven rack slipped and he had only tea towels to hold on to the roasting pan. And I dropped the leftover cake on its head on my way home.)
But considering I had a handful of pots and utensils not quite meant to do what we needed them to do (too small, too big, too shallow, too deep) the whole thing turned better than I could have hoped.
Hurrah!!
(check this link in the next day or so to see photos)
November 24, 2009
Thanksgiving, Part I
As many of you may have read on Paul's blog, I decided to make a Thanksgiving dinner for a handful of people.
(We're doing it on Wednesday, because we're both off that day. When you do Thanksgiving a. abroad and b. in the newspaper business, you have it as close to the day as you can with the most people available.)
For most of you, this is not terribly remarkable. But it's my first turkey. And Thanksgiving is absolutely my most favorite holiday. I find it sad that I have missed Thanksgiving at home oh, about 9 of the last 12 years. My friends in Paris put together amazing Thanksgiving dinners, and I think my all-time favorite was the rotisserie turkey we got one year. But ultimately, I like my Mom's best. Always have, always will.
And so, in a bit of a panic, I called her the other day to let her know the plan. She was very calm and encouraging. I really appreciated that last part. I was pretty pleased that we managed to find all the necessary things for the meal, but frankly, I've always stuck to the cranberry relish and pumpkin pie as my contributions. I don't know the first thing about turkey, gravy or stuffing.
After studying recipes on the web and talking to my mom (her advice: follow the directions on the turkey, don't forget to clean out the packages that are inside and don't stuff the turkey your first time) I think I can do it.
Right now, I've just finished prepping the gravy and it smells so good! It makes me really enthusiastic for the rest of the meal.
I'll leave that on the stove for a few hours, and afterward, I'm heading to a friend's house to test her oven. It's beautiful and brand new, but I don't think she's used it for anything other than toast. So i'm going to bake a chocolate cake (couldn't find brownie mix) just to make sure it's all good.
I'm so excited!!
(We're doing it on Wednesday, because we're both off that day. When you do Thanksgiving a. abroad and b. in the newspaper business, you have it as close to the day as you can with the most people available.)
For most of you, this is not terribly remarkable. But it's my first turkey. And Thanksgiving is absolutely my most favorite holiday. I find it sad that I have missed Thanksgiving at home oh, about 9 of the last 12 years. My friends in Paris put together amazing Thanksgiving dinners, and I think my all-time favorite was the rotisserie turkey we got one year. But ultimately, I like my Mom's best. Always have, always will.
And so, in a bit of a panic, I called her the other day to let her know the plan. She was very calm and encouraging. I really appreciated that last part. I was pretty pleased that we managed to find all the necessary things for the meal, but frankly, I've always stuck to the cranberry relish and pumpkin pie as my contributions. I don't know the first thing about turkey, gravy or stuffing.
After studying recipes on the web and talking to my mom (her advice: follow the directions on the turkey, don't forget to clean out the packages that are inside and don't stuff the turkey your first time) I think I can do it.
Right now, I've just finished prepping the gravy and it smells so good! It makes me really enthusiastic for the rest of the meal.
I'll leave that on the stove for a few hours, and afterward, I'm heading to a friend's house to test her oven. It's beautiful and brand new, but I don't think she's used it for anything other than toast. So i'm going to bake a chocolate cake (couldn't find brownie mix) just to make sure it's all good.
I'm so excited!!
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