Quoth the Turkey

The story of how I made my first ever Thanksgiving dinner at/for Café du Livre (the best little restaurant in Marrakech) on about 10 hours notice. Certainly stressful and a little accident prone but the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.

Many thanks to Kenny and Sheryl for running around all day looking for supplies, to Youness and the Café du Livre staff for hosting and putting up with my presence in their kitchen and to Eliot for still loving me after seeing what a control freak I become the moment I enter a kitchen.

 As a result of several days of proctoring tests (i.e. sitting around looking serious and doing nothing), this post is written in verse, because what the hell else was I going to do silently for 3 hours?

Quoth the Turkey

T’was the night ‘fore Thanksgiving and all through the town,

Not an expat was sober, yet the mood was quite down.

The vodka was placed in the freezers with care,

In the fear that no turkey soon would be there.

At Café du Livre, they were drenched in dismay,

Mourning the loss of excessive food day.

They grieved and they grumbled, they hemmed and they hawed,

In the hope to appeal to the Thanksgiving God.

Then from quite out of nowhere, our Youness did speak

Of a wondrous idea that made my whole week.

“We’ll have Thanksgiving here! Tomorrow!” he cried.

“I’ll make stuffing and turkey. It’s easy!” I lied.

In the morning I woke with the memory of fun

And I thought to myself “Dear God, what have I done?”

I can’t cook, I can’t roast, I can’t fry, I can’t scramble

Boy, making me chef was one hell of a gamble.

But I went nonetheless and was met with surprise

When I found there a restaurant’s worth of supplies.

And the littlest turkey was trussed up quite pretty,

Still warm from its slaughter that morn in the city.

So we snipped and we seasoned and salted the breast

And felt pleased when we saw how nicely ‘twas dressed

In the oven we crammed it, which made me quite queasy,

And I thought to myself: “This will not be easy.”

Next came the biscuits, best part of the meal.

Though searching for cornmeal had been an ordeal.

In the bowl went the flour, the cornmeal and powder,

“Please stop taking photos!” I began to cry louder.

With a spoon I did mix them and then with my hands

Forgetting, of course to first find some clean pans.

My hands they were freezing, my fingers were white

And I wished oh I wished I were done for the night.

I kneaded and flattened and shaped them in spite

Of forgetting what oven temperature’s right.

In the oven they’d rise not more than an inch

But the people were hungry, they’d do in a pinch.

After that came the stuffing, not placed in the bird,

As I read through the steps they hung on every word:

“On eggs and on onion, on sausage, on pepper,

On apple…no, bacon. That sounds so much better.

The food stuffs we’ll sprinkle on mountains of bread,

And we’ll mix and mash to make stuffing,” I said.

In the oven we thrust it, t’was getting quite crowded

With the stuffing and turkey in tin foil shrouded.

Potatoes we peeled them and tried not to linger

As I sharply removed the tip of my ring finger.

We tossed them in water all bubbling and hot

And when tender we mashed them right there in the pot.

I wanted so badly to have just one taste

Of that deliciously starchy white peppery paste.

And yet each time I tried someone slapped me away,

Even though I was the chef and I’d waited all day.

The beans they were sizzling in garlic and butter

When the staff looked at me as if I were a nutter.

Their patience with amateurs starting to fade,

I tried harder and harder to stay out of their way.

With the butter and flour and juice from the turkey,

Came a breathtaking sauce, so dark tan and murky.

We stirred and we stirred and we seasoned it bravely,

And fashioned a stunningly tasty brown gravy.

Finally the food it was ready for eating

But instead of enjoying, they stood ‘round it bleating

About plating and patterns and napkins and spoons

As I glowered there hungrily plotting their doom.

The plating was pretty, too complex for me

All neatly aligned and all drenched in gravy.

The sumptuous feast I’d constructed myself,

It flew and it flew and it flew off the shelf.

The food was all gone in 15 minutes flat

And we grinned at each other all feeling quite fat.

But something felt missing, we all wondered why…

Low and behold we’d forgotten the pie!

“No matter,” we thought, for the food was divine.

For dessert we’ll just have a glass of good wine.

‘Round the table we’ll chat and we’ll giggle and munch

 And savour our time with this marvelous bunch.

 “Shit, it’s almost 6.30!” I said, being rude,

As I yelled at myself with a mouthful of food.

I’ll be late for a class I don’t wish to attend.

So I left as my stomach began to distend.

My class was, of course, not the best I had mustered,

As the wine and the beer had left me quite flustered.

I preached ‘bout Thanksgiving, our culture and food

And I asked of my students what thanks they’d accrued.

Some spoke of their families, their friends or their lover

Some were thankful for grades in one class or another.

“I’m thankful for gorgeous English teachers” one said, as I blushed.

“Let’s move on now” I said in a manner quite rushed.

So we grammered and Englished right into the night,

And their vocab did soar to a marvelous height.

But just as my voice was starting to get croaky

The bell rang and I left to go sing karaoke.

And thus ends the tale of the foremost Thanksgiving

Where through recipe and ritual I began sieving,

For a Thanksgiving feast of my own rendition.

Happy Turkey Day to all. Make your own new tradition!