My Very African Thanksgiving

My friend Dave and I weaved ourselves through Marché St. Michel. Heat beat down through the metal roofing making the market mamas even feistier and more difficult than usual. In broken French they asked, “What do you want?” and we said “Todo todo,” the word for turkey in Fon.

We found one quickly. He was beautiful, shiny feathers, large, with an illustrious chin flapping from his beak. We looked at others, but in the end, this one would be our thanksgiving dinner. He would be named America.

Dave had to stay in the city, but fortunately, Carla needed a ride back to Ouidah. America, now stuffed in a cement sack half his size, warmed my back. He was the original turkey sandwich, between myself and Carla, on the back of my motorcycle.  Just his head rested outside of bag, his face catching the hot afternoon wind rolling off of my shoulders.

 Upon arrival in Ouidah, we jumped off the motorcycle and presented Adrien with the turkey. “It’s old,” he said. I cursed myself for not knowing the difference between an old and young turkey while Adrien snipped off the cords that tied America’s wings and feet together. He stepped out of his sack, fluffed his feathers into full glory and approached is new wife, Lucy, who had all too eagerly been awaiting the arrival of a male turkey in my household. This eagerness was all too evident when, seconds out of the shopping bag, America mounted Lucy, and the poult-making began.

The next days passed all too quickly for dear old America. In addition to a lot of intimate time with Lucy, he wandered around the yard, eating, bothering the other animals, and assuming his position as the largest and prettiest bird in the yard. The ducks would not mess with him, nor would the chickens. The dogs would coyly approach him, and back off as his hissing and gobbling became more furious.  Lucy counted the days with eggs, all while fluffing up her feathers to keep his attention. 

And then the fatal day came. I sat in front of my work computer, surfing youtube. I found it – how to slaughter a turkey.  I watched the video over and over. I made Jacob sit down and watch it twice. He explained it to Adrien. The fattened factory farm turkeys were two times the size of America, but we assumed the process was the same. The deed was done that night.  America was no more.

Jacob posing with America on the Eve of Thanksgiving

America spent his post-life day swimming in a bath of rosemary, sage, and salt. A makeshift spit-oven was created. Lydia and I dug a foot deep hole in the ground. We placed cinderblocks around the hole, and placed a metal basin that would rest in between the fire and America.

At 7 o’clock I woke up and realized that I had slept in! I wanted to start the fire much earlier! All day, I spent sitting around the fire watching the bird cook. Tirelessly I turned the bird on the spit, adding water to the basin to conserve some of the drippings. On and on the day went until 5 o’clock when my guests agreed that it was time to eat.

Lydia carved the turkey. Oh no – red. We were sure the juices were dripping cleanly, but it’s a turkey and there’s a lot of meat to be cooked. She carved off for us to start eating and Adrien set up a make shift grill to cook the rest of it quickly.

Lydia and I posing in front of our spit oven. 

Nancy Mashing Potatoes.

We had it all – sweet potatoes, stuffing, buttery mashed potatoes, beans, and a fruit salad.  Thanksgiving has a spirit unparalleled by other American holidays. No one expects anything, but to eat. And everyone helps. This is my fourth thanksgiving in Benin, and I’m amazed by how easy it is to recreate that environment, even when I’m not with family.  Wherever you are, you can recreate it.

You might have to raise and or kill a turkey.

You might have to roast it on a spit.

Although his flavor was great, America was tough. But who could complain? It was Thanksgiving.  

America lives on in Lucy.