Day 32…Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate…Remembering Thanksgiving in the bush November 2018, menu included…

The two days leading up to our Thanksgiving dinner felt like a marathon held under the unrelenting African sun. With the heat pressing in on us, an almost tangible presence, I kept reminding myself that we had chosen this life, this adventure, and that moments like these are as much a part of our story as the quiet evenings on the veranda. Tom and I worked shoulder-to-shoulder through it all. Yes, I handled most of the cooking, but he peeled mountains of potatoes, washed endless stacks of dishes, helped with the pies, set up the veranda, and stepped in wherever he could. When it comes to hosting, we truly do operate as a team.

I tried to remember the last time we’d prepared a full dinner for twelve. The year must have been 2012, sometime before we locked the door of our Minnesota home for the final time. I had forgotten the sheer effort involved, not just the cooking, but the coordinating, the timing, the constant motion. Yet, as soon as friends began arriving and the laughter began floating across the veranda, I knew it was worth every sweaty minute.

For a brief moment, though, I feared we might miss our 7:30 pm “dinner-is-served” target. I had a few dishes left to reheat and, wouldn’t you know it, the new microwave refused to cooperate. With the clock ticking, I abandoned the idea and quickly reheated everything on the stovetop. It wasn’t elegant, but it worked. In the end, we were only ten minutes late sitting down. A victory, really.

The dinner unfolded in the most delightful way. Each couple received an entire stuffed chicken, surrounded by an array of sides that filled the table with color and aroma. The enthusiasm in their faces, the pleasure of tasting foods many hadn’t eaten in years or ever, was the best reward of all.

When the meal wound down, we invited everyone to pack leftovers using the takeaway containers Dawn and Leon had brought from Jabula. Watching our friends playfully fill their boxes reminded both of us of all those years back in the US, when family members left our house, balancing containers of leftovers and, of course, a pie.

On the pool table, the full-sized pumpkin pies were lined up, ready for each couple to take one home. We served a separate pie after dinner, topped with whipped cream, as requested. I told myself I’d resist, but who was I kidding? I sampled a bit of this and that. How else could I be sure everything tasted right? By the end of the night, I even allowed myself a sliver of the regular pumpkin pie. A holiday indulgence, I suppose.

The next morning, with no leftover chicken but plenty of sides, we decided to roast a “flattie,” some chicken livers, and a few bone-in breasts. That will carry us through several easy dinners. I’m back to my usual way of eating, content with chicken, salad, and steamed spinach, while Tom happily anticipates digging into the stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rolls, and pie. That man never met a carb he didn’t love.

The aftermath of a dinner for twelve is no small thing. Dishes everywhere, serving pieces scattered, napkins in need of washing. Louise, thoughtful as ever, arranged for Vusi to come this morning. Even so, Tom, who hates leaving dishes overnight, ran the dishwasher twice before 6:00 am, trying to lighten the load. I washed the linen napkins, cleaned the counters, did laundry, and organized the refrigerator.

Despite the bustle of the previous night, our wildlife friends still wandered into the garden. Tusker appeared briefly, and our inseparable warthog duo, Siegfried and Roy, came looking for pellets, responding to their names no matter which of them we called. Even in the chaos of hosting, those simple, familiar interactions anchored us.

As promised, here is the Thanksgiving menu we printed and placed at each table setting, our small attempt to help everyone pace themselves through a feast prepared with love, sweat, and more than a few moments of improvisation.