Thanksgiving & l3id lKbir Round Two

Before getting to the gore, I'd like to briefly recount this past Thursday's Thanksgiving extravaganza, hosted and attended by myself and my fantastic sitemate.

Donniell arrived in the early afternoon, dead-but-still-warm chicken in tow, and wasted no time preparing the feast. Deftly concocting a homemade stuffing, she proceeded to fill the bird's recently vacated cavity and lavished its plucked skin generously with butter and spices.

Six and a half hours later, we removed it from my humble oven, crisp and golden on the outside, juicy within. Garlic mashed potatoes came into existence, as did creamed peas and a bit of gravy. I was quite impressed.

It was all delicious, devoured voraciously yet appreciatively. Second helpings were conquered in a fashion analogous to trudging up a mountainside in knee-high snow with a weighty backpack, but lacking the sense of healthy accomplishment and vitality afterward.

Normally I would not feel compelled to persist in or even attempt such a feat, but such meals as rare-- I'd have to say that Donniell's creation was the most "home"-like of any food yet during the past fifteen months, and even the scent of the cooking itself was enough to induce warm, fuzzy, curl-up-in-front-of-the-fireplace-next-to-the-dog yearnings. And feast or not, I'm lucky to have someone around to spend the day with. Feels like I've been away from home a long time.

Next holiday:

Some of you might recall last year's depiction of l3id lKbir, perhaps Morocco's biggest holiday in terms of food, festivity, and sheep slaughter. Though I'd like to divert the focus away from the gruesome and entertaining aspects of the celebration in favor of the more wholesome and boring ones, I did witness a jaw-dropping moment during the disemboweling of the animal that I cannot resist writing about here. Upon removing the lungs from the inverted and dangling sheep's chest cavity, the friendly man spattered in blood held them up by the still-attached esophagus for all to see. He then blew forcefully into the esophageal opening, causing the lungs to inflate fully-- pink, glistening, and strange in the morning sun. It was so cool.

The afternoon consisted of a bottomless glass of sweet tea and delicious grilled skewers of fat-wrapped liver (*drool*) at a friend's house. A group of about thirty American students from an organization called Morocco Exchange was staying in town with host families for a couple of nights, and I spent most of their time here with them as they witnessed the holiday in full maroon splendor.

Yesterday evening after devouring an impressive portion of the biggest and most delicious dish of couscous I've had yet in Morocco, we found ourselves in a corner of the neighborhood, underneath an intoxicatingly-scented night blooming tree, watching a frenzy of drummers and dancers in the night as the glow from a fire reached up the walls of the surrounding houses. One of those moments of awe, wherein the experience is so visceral and surreal-- witnessing the spirit of the celebration in everyone, watching the people I've become such good friends with in their element, realizing just where I'm standing and what I'm seeing. This is a pretty amazing place to be.

This afternoon the kids are parading through the streets. I hear them chanting in droves as they taunt the harrma-- the stick-wielding man dressed in sheepskin who threatens to hit you if you don't fork up a coin or two. Unfortunately for me, I have to make my way across town to visit the host family. It's a long walk and I know they are out, there prowling the alleyways...