Breathing Therapy

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes to relax

The guy that came to give us the pump for the fountain (disabled by the landlord) which has become a breeding haven for mosquitos despite the best attempts by the resident fish and frogs arrived. He speaks no English, but ok...my driver is here and he can translate. He wants to empty most of the water, oblivious to said frog and fish and the green slime growing. Nor is he remotely interested in the fact that I have 2 puppies who get into everything.

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes for your sense of humor to return

No! I reply in haste, I will give you buckets - my driver translates. I scramble around to find as many empty receptacles to hold the disgusting water as I can find. Only to return to the fountain guy holding out a phone  and waving it wildly at me as his assistant frustrated by the delay begins pouring the putrid water across my grass.

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes for you to calm down

The phone is thrust into my hands and is a maintenance guy from the consulate whom the vendor has called to complain about how I am being unhelpful and preventing them from doing what they need to do. 

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes for you not to want to throttle someone

After receiving a rebuke that I am preventing the vendor from doing his job, I explain what is actually happening...and then...the breathing stops working. I can feel my horns growing, my talons elongating and my fangs springing into place...Gone is the relatively rational, albeit sometimes snarky middle-aged, heavy-set woman who can deal with most things in stride...in her place is an extra from the Exorcist. 

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes for you to form a plan

Did this guy just call and tattle on me to my “societal Daddy?” Yes...yes he did. He decided that I couldn’t possibly know my business and more importantly I was preventing him from doing his business....

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes for you implement your plan

This time the breathing works. In concise and succinct words I explain to the maintenance guy exactly how the boundary has been crossed, especially in light of the vast myriad of things that have remained broken and un-repaired around here. Further that I was not in need of a father. Then I turned around and had my driver tell the vendor to return all the water from the various buckets to the pond and get out off my yard.

Breathe in..1...2...3...Breathe out...repeat

Repeat as many times as it takes for your blood pressure to return to normal...this may take a while...you may want to sit down and have a nice cup of tea.

Today has been a very difficult day. Last week, I lost one of my heroes and she will be laid to rest today. Losing a loved one is always a very sad and difficult thing, but living the life we do - literally half way around the world from our home country and away from family and friends, these feelings are compounded. This is especially true when there is no way that you can arrange to get back for funerals and an opportunity to say goodbye, short of buying the plane.

My Great Aunt Eunice was and is very dear to me. She passed just 7 months shy of 98, a beautiful, rich and fully lived life and I will miss her more than I can express. She was my own maternal grandmother's baby sister. While my grandmother was a wonderful woman in so many ways, we were never very close. My relationship and refuge was at my Aunt Eunice and Uncle Leo's.

My Aunt Eunice came from a family that was well educated and the love and importance of learning was passed on. As a result, Aunt Eunice who was born in 1919 graduated from school at the age of 16. By 18, she was teaching in a one room school house, an extraordinary experience for an amazing woman. 

After she got married, she was not allowed to teach as was he norm in those days.  So she turned her talents and attention to helping her husband, my beloved Uncle Leo, in his coal mining business and to raising my cousin Melody - she took neither job lightly and as they say put her shoulder into both of their successes. Years later she returned to teaching after graduating with a BA in education...as times had changed, so did the requirements to teach. But Aunt Eunice's myriad of special gifts was her ability to bring out the best in each unique child, a gift I myself benefited from and value to this day. While my Aunt Eunice was amazing in her own right, her husband - my Uncle Leo was equally amazing and they formed an extraordinary partnership that was filled with a love so deep that it could not help but enrich everyone around them. In some small way I took comfort knowing that finally after being without him for almost 26 years, her passing meant that she was able to hold his hand once again.

I have been truly and doubly blessed because over the years I have had a chance to not only be close to my Aunt and Uncle, but also to their daughter Melody and her husband Jim - a relationship I cherish. When Melody called me with the news of her mother's passing, we wept together but also reminisced over the amazing person that her Mother was and how grateful we both were to have had her in our lives. Melody afforded me the the opportunity to write a letter to be read at the funeral for my beloved Aunt Eunice. After thinking about it for a couple of days I decided to share it on my blog. I am doing this because my Aunt Eunice did not have to reach out to me, she did not have to welcome me into her home and count me as her own, but she did. As a result, despite the discomfiture of my own "otherness," I felt I belonged, I was loved...and I knew it. I had the benefit of an amazing woman who "saw" me, who understood me, who listened to me and that, made all the difference.

For all of the Aunt Eunices and Uncle Leos out there...

My Beloved Aunt Eunice,

The strangest thing happens when someone that we dearly love passes.  It seems that the world should stop, if even for a while, so that the magnitude of the beautiful being that we have lost in our lives is registered throughout the entire fabric of creation. But God was smarter than that. Despite our broken hearts and teary eyes the the sun still rises and sets, and the demands of daily life continue. I believe this is because God never meant for us to rendered immobile by our sadness. Instead we are to be driven on by our incredible love and devotion to our lost loved one  so that we might seek to even in the smallest way fill their now empty shoes. This is truly how God's light passes from one generation to another in the sparking of new beacons, even as we are still mourning the loss of our own guiding light.  

You have always been that beacon for me. Your wisdom, grace, and profound unconditional love provided me safe harbor from my earliest memories and through my life. Despite the fact that I was so much younger than my siblings and a city kid too boot, you never made me feel other, but instead celebrated, loved and fiercely defended my differences while simultaneously making me always feel that with you I was home. I have taken your lessons and the guidance you gave me so freely over the years and I diligently apply every day. I greet people by name, I see them, I spend time to make sure they understand they are heard. I reach out to those who need and work every day to leave my corner of the world better than it was the day before. 

There are no words, even given all the languages of the world that could ever fully express my profound gratitude and abiding love that I have for both you and Uncle Leo. Thank for seeing me, for recognizing and appreciating the individual that I was. And even if all of that were not bounty enough in my life, you showered that same love and understanding on my child, Andrew - as you already know there is no greater thing in the world for a mother to know that her child is well and truly loved. By opening your heart and your home to us both, Andrew was afforded an opportunity to get to know and love the family who lived so far away, to learn their history, their stories and on whose shoulders he stood.

I am sitting at my desk in India as I write this letter because there was no way to make it back to Illinois in time for the funeral.  And while my heart is still heavy and tears still fall when I think that I will no longer have you to visit when I come home, I want you to know that I know whose hand you now hold. You and Uncle Leo perhaps did not know it then, but you provided a blue print for my understanding of what a loving marriage and a real partnership looked like. As I now have a loving marriage and a real partnership, I take great comfort that you are now reunited. Your beloved Melody and her sweet Jim are precious to me and I promise to make sure they know as regularly as possible that they are so loved.

In closing, I would say this. I love you and have loved you my whole life. You have filled my memories with love, and I will miss you every day. My beacon is lit. 

With my deepest love,

Deidre

I Had to Leave to Find Myself Again

Being a professional gypsy has its challenges. Every two or three years, we unplug all the various aspects of our lives, carefully wrap them up in boxes and haul them to the next country where my husband is assigned. While sometimes this is not terribly different from what other people experience moving to another major city to facilitate a job change, moving to another country and to another culture can be quite jarring.  It is especially so if the move also includes a language barrier.

We arrived in India at the end of August, just as the monsoon rains were beginning to abate. Over the next several weeks our belongings began to trickle in, and with the arrival of each box, our apartment began to take on a recognizable shape as home. But simultaneous to this, another shift was occurring.  I was losing my almost constant companion of 16.5 years...my dog. I didn't anticipate her passing to loosen my moorings so significantly that I literally found myself adrift. Worse yet, I was anxious. I floated in and out of days accomplishing what was necessary but certainly not seeking ways to re-engage in the world around me. My detachment was further complicated by the vitriol, the hate, the palpable xenophobia spewing from every conceivable media as a result of the elections at home that caused the world to seem too large and forbidding to tolerate the casual traveler, the gypsy.  I developed a significant case of angst and I lost my ability to experience wonder in the world around me. My pervasive curiosity and drive to explore completely abandoned me. I vividly remember having it shortly before we headed to our next post when two ducks made an unexpected visit to our 6th floor apartment in Switzerland.  But where did I put it after that? Perhaps I had not even arrived in India with it.  Had I forgotten to even pack into the crates and suitcases filled to the brim with all of the other elements of our life?

It was not until I was seated in the aisle seat of a plane headed to Austria, which my husband graciously arranged for me, that little fragments of memories creeped into my consciousness to really remind me of what I had misplaced. Sitting there on the plane, I remembered my very first overseas flight, the trepidation of flying into the unknown to a country and a continent where I had never been. That remembered version of myself puzzled over my ability to master another currency on the fly and the challenges of using decade's old language skills that had long since fallen into disrepair. But also present was that sense of wonder, the amazement that in a few short hours I would be standing with a dear friend, thousands of miles away, seeing things I had always wanted to see. As the plane lifted off I was curious as to where that novice but intrepid world traveler had gone.

The layover in Dubai, coupled with the our eventual arrival in Vienna provided me the first inklings of a world I more readily recognized. The effusive greetings of family and friends welcoming travelers exiting the customs gate bolstered my lifted feeling and as I too received the embrace of a dear friend glad of my own arrival and even more anxiety fell away from me.
My friend Catherine welcomed me "home" and with effortless grace inserted me into the daily routine of her life. Once my husband arrived and we continued our travels to Bern, Switzerland, our dear friend Doris and her wonderful daughters welcomed us with open arms, making us feel like long-lost family. Those days and weeks were a much needed balm restoring the lost me.

Wandering the streets of a city I truly love - Vienna and continuing my travels to Bern, Switzerland - a place I've called home, served as a welcome reminder of the traveler I became so very many years ago. Here in these bustling metropolises Austrians and Swiss wandered markets and stores intermingled with both tourists and settlers from faraway lands going about the business of their lives - clearly oblivious that someone may not look like them or dress like them. And I began to think that perhaps it is only the politicians should be afraid - they are so convinced of their continued success sowing fear of strangers, of foreigners, of anything that can be castigated with the label of "other" as the only viable way to protect their dominion, their power, that they have missed the point entirely. The world is becoming smaller, entire cultures are being uprooted and transplanted to continents half a world away. Transplants, natives, and tourists go about their day - the share a meal, they buy groceries, they pickup children from school, they take out the trash, they sleep and get up the next morning and start all over again. People are basically just people and each day this awareness is becoming more readily apparent and accepted as the realization this fear-mongering and sensationalism is manufactured and more often than not, an illusion that they are refusing to accept and no longer allow to gain purchase in their world. I ordered a coffee in a cafe with outdoor seating and the bells began to peel the hour, I felt the last of myself return and again wonder settled over me.

En"lighten"ment

You cannot go anywhere without seeing billboards, signs and various advertisements offering services to lighten your skin. It is a cultural obsession. The personal hygiene section of any store will offer a variety of products specifically targeting the purchaser's desire for fairer skin. Billboards proclaim their ability to effectively remove the "tan" and you can readily expect to see such services also available at almost every salon and spa. There are creams, salves, waxes, washes, laser treatments, and a myriad of things I'm confident that I have overlooked. While I can readily speculate as to why this is such an enmeshed desire within Indian culture - in many cultures actually, the reality of it comes down to a belief that fairer skin equates to high cultural status. In other words, having fair skin means that you do not have to labor every day in the sun. Consequently, it is of little wonder that cultures that hold these ideals are completely mystified by western cultures of sun worship and tanning salons. I am certain that while sunbathing is already a mystery, the idea of paying actual money to lay in a tanning bed to eradicate your fair skin is well beyond their understanding.

This has never been my issue. I was born a redhead...and all that entails. I freckle easily. I have shockingly fair skin. Despite the with the promises of various sunscreens I do not tan and even with 50SPF I burn in minutes, which then renders my skin approximately the color of a boiled lobster, then it peels, I get more freckles and return to an approximation of my previous skin tone...pale.

I consider this whole thing grossly unfair. All of my siblings tan (granted they are all half siblings), and my mother tanned beautifully. Even my son tans to a lovely shade of bronze. There have been exactly two times in my life when I managed to achieve even the slighted additional color to my skin as a result of sun exposure. The first was a few days I spent snorkeling in Barbados, the second is here in India where I have managed to achieve an albeit pale, but noticeable tan line...specially on my feet.

Now you may be wondering why I feel it is necessary to share this particular personal information - well the other day I decided to get a pedicure and that is where the story begins.

There are many things about living in India that are wonderful. One of those things is the availability of manicures/pedicures...very, very inexpensive and wonderful. As my husband and I have the luxury of a 4-day weekend and I knew we would be going out with friends, I decided to take myself off and get a pedicure. The salon could take me immediately so off I went.

This is the salon where I get my hair cut, so I have become something of a "known" quantity. They know my name, they know how I like my coffee and they are warm and friendly every time I go. So I settled into the pedicure chair and looked forward to the pampering. I had a lovely whirlpool treatment, a moisturizing treatment, a foot massage, all followed with a full pedicure and polish. It was lovely and relaxing.

As we neared the end, the lovely lady who had given me the pedicure asked me a question. In fact, she asked it twice. I did not have the vaguest idea what she was asking. Suddenly the receptionist for the salon, who speaks flawless English, appeared. She said, "Madam, we have noticed that you have some tanning on the tops of your feet and your hands, she (being the pedicure lady) was asking if you would like it removed?" I must have looked shocked and then to their dismay I started laughing thinking to myself this was not the "enlightenment" I sought when I came to India.  "No," I said, "I've worked very hard for this, I think I will keep it!" I paid my bill and tipped my pedicurist and left two terribly confused women behind me. 

It's A Wrap - Shopping For Saris

"Incredible India" as the slogan goes...is a burst of color swirling against a backdrop of sounds and smells - vibrant and alive. Your senses - all of them -  can be so engaged that it literally will make your head spin. And if India is colorful, which it most assuredly is, then I would contend that it is the saree or sari that serves as palette and brush. Bright, bold, soft, somber, abstract, floral, elegant, jewel encrusted, beaded, flowing encasing the life-force that pulses through the country. As ethnic clothing goes, the sari is perhaps one of the most singularly identifiable wardrobe items in the world and I must say that there is nothing else makes you feel quite as regal. But to say sari and mean only one thing is a discredit to the garment because it can literally be worn dozens upon dozens of ways...or so it would seem.

I had the wonderful privilege of going sari shopping with two of my dear Indian friends recently. To say I was unprepared for the experience would be an understatement. Having lived in India now for a few months, I had already adjusted my mindset when shopping for things like jewelry. When you enter a jewelry store in India you do not wander around per se and peruse the cases. You sit, are offered refreshments, and salespeople scurry around and bring anything you might be interested in or would like you to see. The same thing, with a few exceptions, happens when you go sari shopping. You enter a store which is usually lined with shelves (floor to ceiling) all the way around the store. You sit and tell the waiting salespeople what you are seeking. For example, you may be looking to purchase a sari for a particular function or perhaps you are just looking for the latest trends. Whatever it is, salespeople scurry off in various directions (unless you have the foresight to sit right in front of the shelves holding the type of sari you desire). Baskin Robbins has NOTHING on this process...to say that every color configuration is available is a gross understatement. Not only are all the various color combinations available, they are frequently available in two or three varieties of material from silk to cotton-silk to brocade to banana fiber-silk to jute...no really.

Once you have told the salesperson what you are looking for the unfurling of the the most spectacular array of colors and textures begins. Now as I was not the primary customer for this expedition, I had the luxury of sitting back and watching the whole production. A series of interjections praising the option or directing a minor adjustment to the request begins, interspersed with a distinctive shaking of the head or a head bob to indicate that the offering could be added to the stack of "maybes" already beginning to grow at the edge of the counter. As the options are depleted, the next phase of more closely examining the "maybes" stack begins. A salesgirl is summoned and my friend takes her place in front of a full-length mirror to have the various choices draped (as in wrapped like a finished sari so as to provide the customer a sense of what the finished product would look like) for her review. By way of clarification, when you go shopping for saris in this fashion it is important to know that is literally 5 to 9 yards of material (depending on the draping). Within the length of that material is not only the sari itself, but also material for the accompanying blouse...an either matching or contrasting material. Once purchased, you haul your treasure to your favorite tailor and voila...insta-sari. Well, sort of. After the accompanying blouse is made, then comes the process of wrapping, tucking, pleating and draping. The resulting ensemble is quite beautiful. By way of a quick history lesson, the Indian sari is believed to be the oldest "non-stitched" garment. While getting the hang of actually wearing one takes some practice, they are not only extraordinarily versatile, but comfortable as well.

My friend did not find precisely what she was looking for, so all eyes turned to me. Luckily, as I was leaving the house that morning, my amazing housekeeper Lakshmi suggested that I should really look at a black sari. She said you never know when you might need something formal for a wedding or an event here in India. It is also important to note that I'm of Scottish descent. This matters for two reasons. First, I have red hair which translates to no "pink," ever. Second, I am very fair skinned and therefore gray and silver have a tendency to make me look like I am headed to a morgue instead of whatever festivities may be looming. So I made my request of the salespeople and a new round of scurrying occurred. Despite my very best efforts to explain the "no pink" scenario at least a half dozen options were presented with the most vibrant of raspberry or fuchsia. I finally had to resort to holding the offending color up to my hair which resulted in much intake a breath, head bobbing and a chorus of "no madams," so I felt confident they had finally received the message. Finally, two very beautiful black sari options were presented. The first with a stunning temple border and the second with a contrasting cranberry pattern on the body, which repeated to the paloo  (the piece that traditionally drapes across your arm). With those two options at my disposal, the salesgirl was summoned and I dutifully placed myself in front of the full-length mirror to examine how the finished product might look. While I really did think the temple border was beautiful, the second option was absolutely breathtaking.

This is a temple border:

Happily I purchased my sari and can't wait to have it made. The whole experience was rather amazing and was such a contrast to purchasing clothes from a western retailer. Do not misunderstand, Indian fashion is as cutting edge and hip as any culture in the world, perhaps in some ways more so. But the idea of purchasing clothes from a very limited seasonal palate seems so mundane now, so contrived. I may never look at clothing the same way. After all, why color with 4 pre-approved crayons when you can have the big box and pick what pleases you?

Lakshmi and me:

My friend Shirin did eventually find the sari she wanted, lovely isn't it?

Arming Your Housekeeper and Managing Grief

I've been out of contact for a bit and for that I do apologize. December was a terrible month - holidays aside. We lost our 16.5 year old terrier...who had been my constant companion. I started this post on December 9, my apologies for not getting it done sooner, but I literally just had no more words, plenty of tears, but no ability to convey my grief. Now, these several weeks later it is time for me to attempt to get back in the saddle, so to speak, and get this blog on a regular schedule of timely entries. Forgive my grief and my nostalgia.

---
 What no one could have known was how difficult these last 10 days have been for me...Thanksgiving aside.

16 years ago, I was given the most wonderful of gifts. A wedding gift. A small little tuft of fur, with one floppy ear, which would later straighten. A little brindle terrier girl we named Maggie. Well...I named Maggie. She was named for Patricia Neal's character in one of my favorite movies..."In Harm's Way" in which she starred with John Wayne. She was to be our dog. She wasn't. She was then and even now at the advanced age of 16 is every bit my dog. And I love her as much if not more than the first time I set eyes on those sweet little brown marble eyes.

Maggie was a unique pup. She loved to bounce and play, but was never really the excitable type - unless you messed with her stuffed animals...or me...then all bets were off. Sweet natured and gentle, she had a long memory. Holding a grudge against Barrett for swatting her as a puppy, lo these many years later would circumnavigate a room...eyeballing him the whole time, daring him to come near. That is, unless I wasn't home, and then he would do, lol. It should be noted that her attitude did not prevent Barrett from loving her too, it just made her a little prickly sometimes and never a day passed where he did not try to make amends...holy terriers are quirky.

We did not know when we got her that we would be joining the Foreign Service and subsequently dragging her all over the planet. But such is the life of a Diplodog, relegated to a cyclical dance of booster shots, health certificates, riding under airplane seats (and occasionally being relegated to the "accompanied baggage hold" so that the temperature and cabin pressure would be maintained at levels safe for her. A merry-go-round of temperate or not so temperate weather, feral cats (the forward scouts of the Huns...in case you didn't know), long car rides and even 4-star dining. Maggie traveled more than many adults I know. In her 16.5 years she visited 7 countries, 4 continents and survived or enjoyed (depending on the trip) a multitude of home-leaves and vacations. She traveled with us everywhere.

So as we say goodbye to 2016, the year I lost my sweet girl, I thought I would share one story that features from Israel.

We had just returned from R&R and had planned on holding a party (my sweet husband's idea) to celebrate Texas Independence Day - March 6. We didn't quite make the day because weather had been rainy and as we were planning on hosting in our garden, we had to be flexible on the date. We had planned on having a tostada party and even shipped in tostada shells from Texas for the occasion. This would be my second big Foreign Service hosting opportunity, but the first one at post. It literally seemed every time I turned around that my husband had invited more people. I tried not to be alarmed and kept marching forward with my preparations.

I should take a moment here to explain something. Tel Aviv, like a lot of Israel, has feral cats...they are everywhere. I have joked on several occasions that if two Israelis are standing in a field...anywhere...there will be a dozen cats. Our sweet Maggie was Cairn Terrier (or Holy terrier, if you asked my father) and as such a bit territorial. While she had been raised in her early life with us in a house which included another dog and a cat, as she aged, her tolerance for any animal that "didn't belong" in her yard substantially decreased. As the weather cleared up, so did the appearance of more cats in her yard - she was not amused and would race after them, fiercely barking until they had been "deported" from her territory. We frequently joked that they did not have the appropriate visas to be in the yard - Foreign Service humor.

As we continued to make preparations for the party, we hauled the large rolling trash bins to just outside the kitchen side door. Almost immediately, we realized we had a problem. The arrival of the trash bins apparently was the equivalent of ringing a dinner bell for the cats and they perched themselves up on the wall above the bins anxiously awaiting any potential delicacies. Closed lids on a trash bin means nothing to these cats, as was proven by us finding the turkey carcass from Thanksgiving at our front door - so we knew we were going to need more than just rocks on keep them out. Additionally, the moment the cats starting lining up on the wall, Maggie would begin barking, leaping up the whole time in hopes of catching an unsuspecting feline's cat or dangling foot. In addition to driving us crazy, we also did not want to drive our neighbors crazy with our obsessed dog's barking.

Finally, the day of the party arrived, as did a solution. As I had already had several run-ins with the feral cats, my brother in Portland, Oregon had sent me a Super Soaker water gun. Knowing that I would never be able to keep Maggie from escaping outside while guests were going in and out, our housekeeper Sinora and I devised a plan. Since Maggie already knew that the cats had targeted the trash, and as the trash would be in relatively constant use from the disposal of paper plates, etc, we were confident that she would alert us if any cats showed up to pillage the dumpsters for food. Once that happened, Sinora would step out the kitchen side door and use the water gun to disperse the cats from the wall. Once peace was restored, Maggie would return to visiting guests and Sinora could return to helping me in the kitchen. The plan worked beautifully. The food was terrific, our guests enjoyed themselves, the Tex Mex food was well received and even better, we did not have to face trash being dispersed everywhere from feral cats - thanks to Maggie with backup from Sinora with a water gun.

A few days later I was talking with a good friend who happened to be The Irish Ambassadors wife, who said, "So, I hear you armed your housekeeper?" All I could do was laugh.

Sticky Notes, Oven Thermometers, Community and the Important Thing - A Thanksgiving Recap

Last week was a big week for us...Us being Americans. Thanksgiving week can be a crazy and frenetic time. It was especially so for us. The luxury of putting a holiday meal together when you are stateside is a relatively easy, if time consuming process. There is the actual meal to plan, necessary ingredients to obtain, the seating arrangements and so on. However, when you are in a foreign country that A. Does not celebrate the same holiday - let alone regularly eat the same foods, and B. You are planning the meal for several of your fellow Americans and their families, it it quite another thing. If you really want to spice things up, you add an American made full-sized gas stove - quite a luxury - that has been "adapted" and I'm using that term loosely to India's gas supply. But we'll get to that bit in a minute.

A friend and fellow FS (Foreign Service) spouse and I had volunteered to host way back in October. The prospect did not freak me out, I have fed a lot of people at once..a LOT of people. So things like dishes, cutlery, and serving bowls/platters are something that I drag around the planet. My friend was eager and willing to do whatever was necessary to make this dinner a success. We had already been told that previous holidays of this kind had relatively small turn-out (12-15), so do not be disappointed if you do not get much response...ha! The challenge came in the form that we had to get our order into the commissary (and trust me I'm grateful to even have a commissary) in New Delhi over a full month prior to really knowing who was actually coming. So we met, we postulated, we planned, we guessed...no really....and fingers crossed we placed our order.

Having done all of this before, I had the necessary formulas to figure out how much food to prepare for any number of guests (Thanks Eden Goldberger). The meal was planned for some hors d'oeuvers, veggies and dip, turkey, stuffing (likely both cornbread and regular) green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce, salads, mashed potatoes, gravy and of course...pies. I jokingly dubbed the whole effort "Operation Get Stuffed." Utilizing sticky notes (a favorite, ask my friends) I wrote out our battle plan and posted it on one of my cabinet fronts. But something strange was happening with my oven and it wasn't the usual "hot spots" than sometimes happen with ovens. It seemed like that temperatures were all over the board. So I called my brother in the states. He's a good egg. He works for a big-box merchandiser and grocery chain in Oregon and he agreed to get me an oven thermometer and put it in the mail right away. Right away you should know, translates into a minimum of 3 weeks to get here. So fingers crossed that it would arrive in time for me to figure out what was going on with my stove, plans proceeded.

Because a few of our community are vegetarian, I made use of the weekend before the event to make eggplant involtini. It is a great entertaining dish involving grilling eggplant steaks and stuffing them with a combination of bulgur wheat, pistachios, feta cheese, etc and covering them in a casserole with a terrific tomato sauce. I figured two large casseroles should more than cover my vegetarian guests with a bit left over in the event it appealed to anyone else. Just about the time I was ready to put them in the oven, the thermometer from Oregon arrived. As suspected my schizophrenic oven, was heating to almost 100 degree over what the setting indicated. This answered a lot of questions, but as you might imagine, set off even more alarm bells in my head...what in heaven's name would it do while I was trying to cook a turkey? A test run seemed like the only logical solution to such a problem - where a potential negative outcome would adversely affect 41 hungry people. Fortunately, I had just such an opportunity at my fingertips. Each year the Americans at the Consulate hold a pre-Thanksgiving celebration. It offers the locally employed staff a chance to sample some of the holiday foods. In India, however, as a large percentage of the staff are vegetarian it has mostly served as a pie party. We had decided in addition to the pies, we would cook a small turkey and those who are not vegetarian would have a chance to try it. So the day before our dinner would serve as a test run of sorts for the crazy oven. But I still needed somewhere for everyone to sit.

Now unless you are having a party where people will walk around with their beverages and perhaps small snack plates you do not really have to consider seating. A Thanksgiving meal with all of the trimmings requires tables, chairs, dinnerware, glasses, cutlery and napkins. Lucky for us, we are at a furnished post with a stellar GSO (General Services Officer - he's the guy who keeps the post functioning) and his facilities maintenance team. Once we figured out really how many people were attending, they swooped in with an additional two full-sized dining room tables and chairs. Now equipped with the requisite seating, meal preparation could begin in earnest.

Pies were made (Thanks for the pumpkin Joy, your shipment made it just in time), potatoes were mashed, eggs for deviled eggs were boiled, hummus was blended...and yes the test turkey, bravely going where no turkey had been before - into the depths of an oven whose temperature could not be relied upon. I'm a seasoned cook, I've worked in some pretty weird and far-fetched environments, but this was one of the quirkier ovens I've ever depended upon. Watching the temperature like a hawk, I employed a myriad of tactics from venting to intermittent cooling...that is when I discovered that I touched the temperature dial just a bit the temp would drop up to 75 degrees. If I adjusted it too much it would drop 125. Using a marker I made notation on the dial as to where I "should" remain for optimal cooking and crossed my fingers. Success! A beautifully browned and juicy turkey was cooked, wrapped, delivered and devoured by consulate staff. Now, if I could only repeat the process in spite of my temperamental appliance.

The day of the event was a blur. Friends pitched in to help cook and serve (you know who you are and thank you)! Everything turned out great. Even the oven cooperated - with a bit of cajoling and produced yet another beautiful turkey. My friend also produced a beautiful turkey which brought the number of turkeys for our meal to 2 - apparently her oven was not as temperamental. Despite having 7 surprise diners in addition to our 21 adults and 11 children, we managed to produce a Thanksgiving holiday meal that would have been the envy of anyone stateside. The most important ingredient for the whole event was the fact that we had successfully brought a big percentage of the community together...around one table. Away from the chaos and frenzy of the office, people broke bread, shared a meal and laughed - enjoying the simple luxury of one another's company around a table.

This career requires my husband and I to be thousands of miles away from our family and friends - something that is especially hard during the holidays. But as we looked around our table we were reminded that we are truly blessed - We saw friends. Individuals whom we respect and depend upon, especially while living abroad. People whose company we truly enjoy. And we realized that combined with our friends and family all around the world wealthy beyond measure.

To you all...we are blessed to know you, we are blessed to have you in our lives... And that...is the important thing.

And to my brother Stephen....Thanks! The thermometer was a lifesaver!