To begin, Spain has been a terremoto (or earthquake) of madness. What madness am I referring to? And how does this roughly sketch out my first 5 weeks in Spain. I may or may not be sure myself.
However, I digress, because this post is about Thanksgiving miracles and these kinds of surprises don't happen often, or at least to me in a kitchen, with a raw and enormous bird.
Let me explain, as auxiliars (assistants) of language and culture, Thanksgiving was a given. We are American, we would celebrate it and bring the festive cheer to the Spanish teachers we have gotten to know and love. As my third Thanksgiving abroad, I wasn't expecting high chances for the signature bird of giving. In Chile, we had fresh salmon from the historic Mercado Central and China offered chicken with bacon cooked inside. Delicious, all the same, but hardly standard. That is, until this year. If anyone asks if Spaniards can cook, the answer is a resounding yes. Or at least my several invitations for the Spanish special of a lunch or almuerzo (usually a eating marathon of several hours) has always indicated that I will leave Spain carrying an extra layer of fatty evidence. And so naturally, one of the teachers found a way to order a turkey. She offered without a prod to cook the symbol of our American-giving. I consulted the internet instead for what I considered a worthy challenge for me, stuffing. Except that a week before, the plan changed, like an oblivious monkey, the number of turkeys ordered had been two. Inma relayed to me over the phone and between a mix of Spanish and English, I confirmed the planned details of the night and hung up with a knot in my stomach. Had I really just agreed to cook the other turkey? Ojala! (Another Islamic throwback to the Spanish culture and language.)
However, I digress, because this post is about Thanksgiving miracles and these kinds of surprises don't happen often, or at least to me in a kitchen, with a raw and enormous bird.
Let me explain, as auxiliars (assistants) of language and culture, Thanksgiving was a given. We are American, we would celebrate it and bring the festive cheer to the Spanish teachers we have gotten to know and love. As my third Thanksgiving abroad, I wasn't expecting high chances for the signature bird of giving. In Chile, we had fresh salmon from the historic Mercado Central and China offered chicken with bacon cooked inside. Delicious, all the same, but hardly standard. That is, until this year. If anyone asks if Spaniards can cook, the answer is a resounding yes. Or at least my several invitations for the Spanish special of a lunch or almuerzo (usually a eating marathon of several hours) has always indicated that I will leave Spain carrying an extra layer of fatty evidence. And so naturally, one of the teachers found a way to order a turkey. She offered without a prod to cook the symbol of our American-giving. I consulted the internet instead for what I considered a worthy challenge for me, stuffing. Except that a week before, the plan changed, like an oblivious monkey, the number of turkeys ordered had been two. Inma relayed to me over the phone and between a mix of Spanish and English, I confirmed the planned details of the night and hung up with a knot in my stomach. Had I really just agreed to cook the other turkey? Ojala! (Another Islamic throwback to the Spanish culture and language.)
Food poisoning was suggested as a real possible repercussion to this decision, but what was there to do? You can't waste a turkey on Thanksgiving. I consulted my other American friends. Someone had to know how to cook one. The number of turkeys consumed on Thanksgiving day in the United States is not trifle. Yet, that was another thing, as it turned out, no one had actually gotten close to the raw thing. Only the magic of the golden turkey was what we knew, however it got that way, I certainly didn't know. So, here in Spain, we rolled back our sleeves and gave in to the experiment. Our American reputations were at stake. Megan used the intelligence of the internet and I listened to her guidance. We caressed the skin with love, butter and spices. Three and half hours later, somehow, we did it.
And we enjoyed it in a Flamenco bar that resembles a bomb shelter, if the world suddenly ended, we could've certainly given thanks.
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