Thanksgiving

The multinational group of guests -- united by Olay and the willingness to try dessert made from a vegetable

     I am thankful to God for many things this year. Reflecting upon Saturday's somewhat tardy Thanksgiving celebration, however, I have to say that the internet is near the top of the list. Separated from supportive family and friends to shepherd me through the art of producing Thanksgiving dinner, not only did I Google "how to cook a turkey" and "how to make gravy" (and found websites with helpful pictures and step-by-step instructions), but I also leaned heavily on the Fahrenheit to Celsius converter and Wikipedia (the latter to figure out what red berries I had purchased at the grocery -- currants -- and if they might reliably substitute for cranberries -- worth a shot).
     I have a renewed appreciation for all the grandmas, aunts, and moms who have filled tables on the fourth Thursday in November through the years. Thanksgiving can be a lot of work. First, there is the shopping. I visited Aligro, Migros, Coop, Aldi, Denner, Jim's British Market, and Carrefour before I found all the ingredients I needed. Some things, like turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes, aren't available just anywhere. I have great gratitude for the British this year for supplying the first two of those three items. Other necessities, like canned pumpkin and cranberries, were nowhere to be found. It turns out that if you put enough sugar and orange pieces with currants, however, they taste pretty much like cranberries. For pumpkin pies, I cooked up a bunch of butternut squash. On the other hand, a few items, like good pie crusts, are much easier to find here than in the United States.
     Then, there is the cooking. My dear family took care of cleaning the house and the yard (and Johanna made lovely placecards for everyone). I hung out in the kitchen, accompanied by Thanksgiving tunes from Grooveshark (thanks for the internet again!), and cut, boiled, mashed, baked, stirred -- and even lifted up the skin of the turkey to rub butter and herbs all over the meat (that's what the folks at howtocookathanksgivingturkey.com recommend, and with a website address like that, they should know).

The turkey, thanks to Jim's British Market and howtocookathanksgivingturkey.com.

The table, with Johanna's fabulous placecards



The pies (and my favorite kitchen decoration -- thanks, Nancy!)

    

     At about 5:30 p.m. the guests arrived. This is very early for a dinner party in Geneva. It's pretty late for Thanksgiving dinner, though, so it seemed like a reasonable compromise for us aging Americans. We invited several of Eric's co-workers, and ended up with a comopolitan group hailing from England, Belgium, France, Greece, and Spain (where I think 5:30 is more like lunch time). One of the greatest things about guests in Europe is that they never arrive empty-handed -- so we are richer by several boxes of chocolates, bottles of wine, and an adorable mini-poinsettia (to kick off the decorating for the Olay Christmas party at our house next week . . . but I'll take a few deep breaths before I think too hard about that). Another great thing about living here is that we have increased at least tenfold the amount of Ping Pong we play (by we, I mean the rest of the family, as I can still barely return a serve). To work up an appetite (in French, they say "open" the appetite), we kicked off the festivities with a Ping Pong tournament. Unfortunately for Eric's hitherto unbroken tournament record, one of the guests turned out to be some kind of Belgian Ping Pong champion, and he soundly defeated the lot of them. (Drew and Eric did better later at Around the World, but Sebastian still proved unbeatable). We also played an ice-breaker game in which everyone took a coin and had to say what they were doing during November in the year the coin was minted. It was instrctive for Eric and me that we were the only ones able to use coins minted before 1980.
     Then came dinner. Eric had watched a You-Tube video on how to carve a turkey (that extremely helpful internet yet again), and he succeeded admirably. The guests were game to try stuffing and sweet potatoes -- strange for some -- and cranberries and pumpkin pie -- strange for most. Nick (from the U.K.) even said that while he would have ordered apple pie in a restaurant as the familiar choice, if he had to have seconds of something, it would be the pumpkin pie. For those attempting to cook their first Thanksgiving dinner, I highly recommend an international guest list. I think the food came fairly close to the mark, but the wonderful thing about our guests was that, not being familiar with the typical American Thanksgiving, they wouldn't have known if it hadn't. No one complained that the stuffing wasn't quite like their Aunt Bea's or that the apple pies didn't have the same spices as the ones Grandma used to make, or that the cranberry sauce was all wrong. That is certainly something for which to be thankful! We also learned how to say the equivalent of "help yourself" in at least four languages. One never knows when that will come in handy.
     We finished the evening with a round of charades so raucous that I was a bit afraid the neighbors might call the police, which I understand is quite common in Switzerland. Our own children, of course, were by far the loudest. Put Lucas and Johanna on opposite teams and there's a duel to the death every time. The neighbors didn't call, apparently, but if the police had come, we could have introduced them to pumpkin pie as well.
   

Some of the guests were kind enough to pose with the Alien.

 

Recipes for Butternut Squash (really, that's all it is!)

Thanks to Grandma Emy and my mom for the recipes!

Squash Pie

2 c. cooked squash (you can bake it in the oven until it is soft)
2-3 eggs
1 c. half and half or carnation milk
3/4 c. sugar (brown, white, or a mix)
1 t. cinnamon
1 t. ginger
1/4 t. cloves
1/2 t. nutmeg

Line a pie pan with homemade or prepared crust. Prick the crust with a fork. Puree squash in a blender with the eggs. Bring milk or half and half to a boil in a small saucepan and add to squash mixture. Mix in sugars and spices well and pour into unbaked pie shell. Bake at 350 for about 45-50 minutes.

Squash soup

3 large onions
1 cup chopped celery
1 clove garlic
2-4 T butter
3 c. chicken broth
2 c. cooked, mashed squash
1 t. dried rosemary
2 c. heavy cream or any milk, even skim
2 T. chopped parsley
Salt and pepper
1 dash nutmeg

Saute onions, celery, and garlic in butter. Add the chicken broth and the cooked, mashed squash. Add the crushed spices. Cook until heated through. Puree in the blender. Return to the pan on the stovetop and add cream or milk, heat through. Add salt, pepper, and nutmeg to taste. You can garnish with parsley, chooped spinach, or a dollop of sour cream just before serving.

The Trans-Onesienne or The Aliens Try to Figure Out What Makes the Swiss so Fast

      Here we have the start of the Trans-Onesienne, which was our family's foray into Swiss road racing. You can see Eric over toward the bottom right. You can't see me because I seeded myself way in the back. One reason for that self-seeding is that I am truly not very fast. Another is that I would much rather pass than be passed as the race progresses. And the third . . . you will see as the story progresses.
     In the interest of orderliness, I will begin with some differences between racing in Switzerland and racing in the United States. First, in Switzerland, the races begin in the afternoon, presumably so the participants can enjoy a good night's sleep. In the U.S., races begin before dawn, presumably so that by the time the participants truly wake up, they are finished with the run (that's how I look at it, anyway). Secondly, in Switzerland, they have race(s) -- that is, more than one. So in this case, the smallest children could run at 12:45 p.m. with their parents, then the next age group, and so on. Furthermore, the races are different lengths. If you are a poussin or poussine (which is a child under nine, but I think translates literally as "chick") you run 1 kilometer. If you are a VI Femme or Homme, as Eric and I apparently are (I'm not sure what "V" stands for, but I have a sneaking suspicion that is may be "vielle/vieux," which means "old."), you run 11k (in this race -- others are different distances). So, Johanna and Lucas, being "ecoliers" (schoolchildren), ran 2k at 13h45, which is what they call 1:45 p.m. around here. Eric and I didn't run until 15h30. All of this made for quite a long day. The saving grace was that the race began and ended less than a kilometer from our house, and Eric and I actually passed our house THREE TIMES during the race (more about that later).
     We were totally prepared for this race. Johanna and I walked her course, we ate a good breakfast, and we showed up half an hour early. Drew, who would have been our cheerleader and photographer, had gone to France to play soccer with his buddies there. (This, incidentally, is why most of the pictures we have are of Eric. We only have them because his friend from work was on the course, and Eric was the only member of the family that Francois recognized.) What we were completely unprepared for was the third important characteristic of racing in Switzerland, which is that with racing, as with so much else, the Swiss are NOT KIDDING. At 1:30 p.m., the poussins took off for their loop, and the second those little chicks were out of the way, the ecoliers jammed themselves into the narrow starting gate and spent the next 15 minutes jockeying for the best position. Johanna and Lucas, not understanding that elbowing, shoving, and stepping on toes are Swiss race etiquette, were quickly shunted to the rear of the scrum, and when the starting gun went off, they lost more ground in an effort to avoid trampling younger children (which is also perfectly acceptable, apparently). In case it's not already clear, this is why I seeded myself way in the back for my race! Given the bad start and the fact that neither alien offspring seemed to be feeling well, they finished okay. Johanna was fourth in her age group, and she now knows to bring a cattle prod when we run the Escalade in two weeks. We won't share the places of any of the other runners in the family. Suffice it to say, while we were initially disappointed by Johanna's place, her finish looked better and better to us as each of the rest of us completed our course.
     So, the ecoliers portion of the festivities out of the way, we returned home briefly, then zipped back to the starting line for the old folks race. My stomach was churning with nerves. I don't usually get nervous before a race, but seeing how speedy the school children were, I had some serious apprehension that I might well be dead last in my race. I know someone has to be last, and I know that it's a blessing to everyone else if it's me, but that doesn't stop me from fearing it, all the same. Just before the start, an elderly man asked me how many times we ran around the course. I told him I thought it was twice. He said, "Do you mind if I ask someone else?" (He was clearly correctly interpreting my lack of French acumen to translate into a lack of acumen in general.) He did ask someone else, and then informed me that no, we would be running the course three times. This was bad news, because I had practiced the course and knew that there was one long and steep hill. Now, one long and steep hill in an 11k is no big deal. Two hills, which is what I had been anticipating, is a bigger deal, but still not a problem. Three long and steep hills, however, begins to look like a pretty hilly course. The other minor issue was that I had told Eric that the course was two loops, and, since he was up towards the front of the pack, I had no way to correct the misinformation I had provided. If there's anything worse than a third long and steep hill, it has to be a surprise third long and steep hill.
     The gun went off, and everyone back in my neck of the woods shuffled along until we could cross the starting line and begin to run. I will spare the reader a blow-by-blow, and offer some impressions instead. One yells, "Allez! Allez!" or "Courage!" to runners during a race. There is no water on the course (Francois informed us that of course there wouldn't be for such a short race). 11k is at least twice as long as 10k (at least that's how it felt to me). We actually ran one small loop four times, and the big loop with the hill three. I was not last, and I even passed some people on the hill of deja vu. The winners of the race (about the top 20) lapped me. No elderly ladies lapped me, but some certainly finished the race before me. Eric says he narrowly outsprinted a woman in her 60s near the end. Eric was a little irked about the three hills, but I think he has forgiven me. Look how great he looked at the end.

     Especially as compared to me! If I look tired, it's because I could barely get a breath by this point.



     Upon reflection, Eric and I concluded that the reason the Swiss are so fast is that everyone in this country is in good shape to begin with. They walk. They bike. They ski. No one needs to enter a race as motivation to get in shape or lose weight. The people who are racing here are people who take running seriously and are truly competitive. That's certainly not a bad thing. Another not-bad thing about the Trans-Onesienne was that rather than being given a t-shirt, participants were given a commemorative jar of local honey, donated by the Geneva Apiary Society. As much as our family loves honey, that was a wonderful souvenir for us. The best thing about the day, though, was something that we found to be the same in Switzerland as in the United States. The running community in both cultures is made up of truly friendly and "gentil" people who are encouraging to one another and enthusiastic about sharing their love of the sport.

The Bus to the End of the World and Subterranean French Hysterics

The Bus to the End of the World

    One might think, knowing our family, that one of the first orders of business upon our arrival in Geneva would be to find a running group or team or club or gang or something. After all, we are annoyingly enthusiastic about the sport. I did, upon finding out we were moving to Switzerland, do a little poking around on the internet. Finding, however, that any searches for "cross country" turned up skiing sites, I allowed myself to be distracted by other concerns, such as packing. When we reached Geneva, we found that sports are not organized so much by the schools as by local sports clubs. None of the ones around us seemed to have anything called "track," "cross country," or even "running." So the autumn slipped by in a haze of figuring out church, school, buses, grocery shopping, and other essentials.
     It turns out that in my search for running, I was looking for the wrong thing (as so often is the case in a stange place). If you want to join a running team in Geneva, you have to look for "athletisme." I only found this out by accident, when one of Eric's co-workers offered to help us get in touch with the Stade de Geneve, which is an actual place, but also the name of a running team. We enthusiastically signed up and headed for practice (in truth, I enthusiastically signed Johanna and Lucas up, and they -- less enthusiastically, but still willingly -- headed for practice). My thinking was that the kids could get some exercise, meet some friends, and be forced to speak a little French. The only obvious problem with the whole setup was that the Stade de Geneve team practices at the end of the world. Literally, the name of the bus stop where the kids disembark is "Bout du Monde." It made me feel very Harry-Potteresque to be riding the Bus to the End of the World!

      Only Johanna attended the first practice, and, despite the fact that no one there spoke English and the workout was really hard, she ended the evening happier than I've seen her in Switzerland (and she hasn't been unhappy). The second evening a really nice girl showed up who speaks English (unfortunately for the learning-French portion of my plot). The real trouble came in week two -- last Monday -- when Lucas came along and we met the Really Mean Swiss Coach. We arrived early, and only one coach (a man) was there, so I took Lucas over, introduced him, and explained that he was new.

      "Quel age?" the coach barked. I told him.
      "Cinq heures!" (It was now six -- not five -- and I was pretty certain that six was the time I was supposed to be here.)
      "Six heures?" I ventured timidly.
      "Non. Onze ans. Cinq heures. Cinq heures! Vous etes trop tard!"
      I tried once more, asking if possibly Lucas couldn't practice with Johanna, since he was here now.
      "Non! Il est trop petit. Elle est trop grande!" He said with not a hint of irony about calling Johanna too big for anything.
      I was going to ask if maybe a different (I wasn't going to say "nicer") coach would be showing up anytime soon, but the man turned and started yelling at some adults (who looked as terrified as I felt) something that sounded like "Six trop!" Six trop!" which made no sense to me. So, deflated, I left with Lucas.

       We returned on Wednesday, and I was determined not to let the Really Mean Swiss Coach scare us off again. So we bravely huddled in the corner and waited for a different coach to show up. It didn't happen, so just before six, I tiptoed over to the coach, clutching a printout of Luc's registration, which indicated that he was, indeed, signed up to practice at six o'clock. I smiled sheepishly, said, "Bonsoir Monsieur," and tried to explain the situation, showing him the printout. He took a cursory glance, sniffed derisively, and informed me that what he was holding was Johanna's registration. I was going to embark on an explanation of why this was not the case, but found I couldn't remember a word of French. A teenaged boy sitting next to the coach asked (in English) if he could help. I explained the situation and he shrugged apologetically and suggested I wait for another coach. Shortly, a young female coach showed up, and I noticed that several boys about Lucas' age were walking over to her. Upon asking how old these boys were, I received the baffling but welcome response that they were all 11 -- the same age as Lucas. Luc joined the group of boys -- who had been standing right in front of Mean Coach when he told me this was not the time for 11-year-olds -- and off they went. It would be a happy ending, except that Lucas decided that he didn't like the team (I don't think the mean guy helped), and so now Johanna takes the Bus to the End of the World alone.

In other sports news: The Alien and her husband will run the Trans Onesienne road race on Saturday, Nov. 19. If it's at all interesting, amusing, or embarassing, rest assured you will find the full report here.

The Alien attempts to sign her son Drew up for tennis lessons during the wrong season in a foreign language. Success has been, predictably, limited, but next week he will start a "physical conditioning" class -- whatever that is. We skipped the "mental preparation" option. Perhaps we will regret it.

Subterranean French Hysterics

     This incident is pretty old by now, but it is too good to leave out. A few weeks ago I went to drop off some quince jelly at Luisa's house. For reasons which were important then but aren't important here, I drove the car. By now, everyone should realize that that was Mistake Number One. Traffic wasn't bad, so I reached Luisa's neighborhood quickly. Unfortunately, I could find absolutely nowhere to park. I drove around for a bit, then spied the welcome blue "P" that means public parking. I pulled into the underground lot marked for the Charmilles Shopping Center, parked my car, found Luisa's apartment, handed over the jelly, and zipped back to the car, by now running slightly late for my next appointment.
     What should meet my eyes when I entered the parking garage but a solid metal door, blocking the entrance to the lot where I had parked. I now could see clearly that the Charmilles Center parking was to the left, and I had inadvertently pulled into private parking, on the right. The door, which I hadn't noticed because it had been up, was now quite firmly down. And, as one could predict in cases such as these, I had left my cell phone in the car. As I paced nervously about, a car pulled up and the driver asked if I had forgotten my key. I tried to explain, and said something like: "I drive in. The door is open. I come back. The door is closed. I thought this was Charmilles Parking, but it is private!" She laughed and drove away. In her defense, I will say that I was probably not very clear -- and what was she supposed to do anyway? I pressed the call button on the conveniently located machine that opens the door, but nothing happened.
     Glancing hastily around, I noticed a telephone number on the door and decided to write it down and see if I could find a telephone somewhere. Perhaps the number would connect me with someone who could 1. Understand what I was babbling about; and 2. Come and help me. Somehow in my search, I ended up not in the shopping center, but in an underground office space. As I turned to leave and continue looking for a phone, a nice young man noticed my distress and asked if he could help. So I lauched into toddler-level explanation of events, "I drive in. The door is open. . . ." ending this time with: "Je suis tres stupide!" He took me to his telephone and when it became obvious that I was unable to explain adequately to the person who answered, came to my rescue there as well. Unfortunately, though the situation was now perfectly clear to the party on the line, he was just the man fron the surveillance company, and could do nothing about opening the door. He suggested I press the call button on the machine by the door. I had done this, of course, to no avail. Trying to control my mounting panic and supress visions of my car being impounded by the Swiss police and -- worse -- having to tell Eric about it, I told the man whose phone I had used thank you and that I would go press the button again. He must have noticed that I was quickly losing my grip . . . and perhaps feared what other trouble this imbecille foreigner might get herself into if left loose in the city, because he offered to go with me.
     He used his key to get into the elevator, and when we reached level -2, there was the car. It seemed like progress to be on the same side of the door as my vehicle, and I felt myself relax a bit. We walked up the ramp and saw that the door was, indeed, firmly shut. My new friend, however, noticed something -- bumps on the ramp floor that, if one drove over them, would activate the opening of the door from the inside. He explained this to me, using very small words. I thanked him about a gazillion and one times, climbed into the car, and drove effortlessly over the bumps and out of the private parking garage, thanking God for sending help and vowing, once again, to NEVER DRIVE IN GENEVA IF I DON'T HAVE TO!

In other French-language news: The Alien Visits the Elderly Swiss Lady with the Jelly Jars (happening tomorrow -- say a prayer if you think of it)

The Alien Attemps to Improve French Comprehension by Watching Internet Cooking Shows (I now know how they make brie and butter, and can reliably recognize when someone is talking about cows, milk, or cheese. This is sure to come in handy next time I lock my car in a private parking garage,)
   

The Great Quince Jelly Bash



The Fruit of Our Labors

     It was a warm day in late October when the alien loaded up the Versa (the smallest 7-seater car we could find) for a rare crosstown drive. Normally, of course, I would take the bus or bike the 4 miles to Cologny, but I had to transport five grocery bags of quince, two large kettles, six bags of sugar, 16 jars, and assorted other accoutrements, so clearly, this was an occasion to use the family vehicle. I had sweet-talked four friends into exploring the world of jelly-making, a world with which I, at least, had no familiarity. I however, have excellent jelly-making genes on both sides, so I was sure -- much like the kings of old -- that heredity would carry me through where experience and knowledge failed. Some of my friends had actually made jam or jelly before (though not with the strange, bitter, rock-hard quince). Our ace in the hole, however, was Claudia's housekeeper, Elena. We were going to try the jelly at Claudia's house, mostly because she has a steamer oven, which she had heard could be used for quince jelly. As an added bonus, Elena had actually made the jelly before, and was going to act as advisor.

      I will complain only briefly about how long the 4-mile drive took (I had planned on it, so it wasn't a big deal), and jump to the point where the jelly-making commenced. In addition to their other unusual properties, quince are furry, kind of like peaches, except the fur rubs off easily. So Claudia diligently scrubbed each quince to rid it of fur, while Carol and I used razor sharp knives to slice the fruit into smallish pieces (we did have a certain amount of debate about the size of the pieces, which Elena settled by telling us -- a bit impatiently, but nicely -- that it didn't really matter. She also told us to leave the seeds in and skins on, making the whole process much more simple.). Some quince cooked in the steamer oven, others boiled on the stove. By this time, Luisa arrived, and a few minutes later, Jo. Team Quince was complete.

Carol checks the stovetop quince. Actually, she didn't really -- she's just posing for an "action shot."

      When the quince was soft, the real fun began. To make quince jelly (as opposed to jam, which one can also make), one uses quince juice, not quince pulp. We experimented with a variety of methods of extracting the juice from the pulp. One website said to put the pulp in a pillowcase, tie the pillowcase between two chairs, and let the juice drip through all night. Since our children all needed to be retrieved from school at 4:15, we obviously did not have time for this amusing exercise. Plus, Elena told us that the only advantage to that method was that the jelly would be pink. Pink jelly sounded fun, but not worth the wait. After trying a wire strainer with minimal success (the pulp slipped through), we used a large kitchen towel. We wrapped the mush in the towel, twisted the ends tightly closed, then squeezed the towel so that the juice came out. It was sort of like milking a cow, except that it was definitely a two-person job. Also, it was quite a workout (I understand that for the inexperienced, milking cows can be as well). Nevertheless, the kitchen smelled lovely. (I read that quince have been used for perfume and air freshener since ancient times.)

Jo and Claudia milk the quince.

Luisa looks on with a bowl of mush.

     

      Of course, everything always takes twice as long as planned, so by the time we had extracted three kettles full of juice, most people had to leave for school pickup. Since my kids are older and can take the bus alone, I stayed behind to bond with Claudia over the final step: The gelification of the juice. This is accomplished by adding a truly astonishing amount of what, in French, is called sucre gelificant (I'm not sure what it is in English). Quince is kind of like rhubarb, in that it is so repulsive on its own that the only way it can be eaten is to sweeten it beyond recognition. At least the leaves of the quince tree aren't poisonous. I think.
      So we added the sugar, boiled and bubbled, and poured the scalding liquid into our pre-sanitized jars. As a novice jelly-maker, I found it particularly satisfying that the lids of the jars did indeed seal as the liquid cooled, just like they were supposed to. Now I have a pantry full of quince jelly, which is my new favorite spread. The world, however, is not a perfect place. Not only do I have three bags of quince left (not rotting I hope) in the garage, but it turns out that no one else in the family even likes quince jelly. What I have to say is, too bad for them.

  * * *

      This story has an interesting epilogue. Eric and I were at the grocery store buying more jelly jars, when the elderly woman ahead of us in the checkout line began pointing at our jars and talking to us in French. I thought I understood something about her telephone number, but not much more than that, so Eric and I did our usual smile and nod in a friendly way. Nevertheless, the woman persisted, and we finally understood her to be offering us a bunch of jelly jars that she was going to throw away. One does not usually run into friendly and talkative people in Swiss grocery stores (they are perfectly polite -- just not friendly and talkative), and I decided to accept the jars. She gave me her telephone number and I actually succeeded in reaching her on the phone and setting up a time to pick up the jars. I went one afternoon, and she greeted me warmly at the door of her eighth-floor apartment. We had a friendly chat in German (her first language, of which I understand about 10 words, including "Wo ist der Bahnhof," which was pretty useless in this context), French (in which she is fluent), and English (she had a French-English dictionary right by the door in anticipation of my visit). She gave me the jars, kissed me on both cheeks (Genevans do three kisses, but she's from the German part of Switzerland, so it was only two), and sent me on my merry way. I am delighted to have had a real visit with a real Swiss person, and am trying to work up my courage to call her and set up another visit. The jars will be very helpful when I get around to cooking up the rest of the quince, as well!

Paris Pictures (More than 200 Pictures! Enter at Your Own Risk)