Turkeys and Goats

The great American holiday, Thanksgiving, has arrived. The tight-knit group of American families to which I’ve grown so close have invited me to their annual potluck tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to contributing Mom’s famous hummus and Liz’s famous guacamole. While overseas, I've finally come to terms with the fact that I cannot cook and cannot bake -- I can merely “prepare” easy-to-mush dishes.

Based on my kitchen skill-set, it’s not difficult deciding what I am going to “prepare." It IS difficult, with makeshift French skills, trying describe our feast to Malian friends and coworkers. The direct translation, “Action de Grâces,” does not seem to do “Thankgiving” justice. The abbreviated historical background, “la journée pour célébrer les pèlerins (pilgrims) et les Indiens,” simply will not fly.

Therefore, to transform our holiday into Malian terms, it has become “La Fête de la Dinde,” the “Turkey Festival.” The only explanation needed for such a festival in this beautiful God-loving country is: “mangeant de dinde pour donner nos remerciements à Dieu”/eating turkey to give our thanks to God.

What makes our Turkey Festival even more comprehensible is the fact that it coincides with Mali’s “Fête du Mouton”/Goat Festival, also known as Tabaski. Muslims devote one day in November to sacrifice a goat in honor of God’s mercy, when he gave Abraham a ram at the altar to take the place of his son Ishmael.

Our Thanksgiving bird does not have any such religious significance, although I do wish our history books included an allegory of a turkey being scalped in place of a pilgrim.

My Malian sister, Assi, and I in our festival finest. Gotta get a new bazin for every fête! Call me!

For the Fête du Mouton, the head of household is expected to provide the Almighty goat, which has become the ultimate indicator of male machismo. I have been watching men over the past few weeks gripping horns, tugging beards, grabbing haunches, and even cupping unbelievably saggy testicles, all in an effort to find their perfect goat match. In the days leading up to November 17th, I saw cars with backseats down carting goats, young boys driving motos with goats roped to their laps, bicycles with smaller goats curled into the bike baskets. The day before the festival, I flagged down a taxi and hopped into the backseat. There were kicks and screams coming from the trunk -- a goat hostage along for his “last ride.”

Goat hunting, and some of the finest goat testicles in Mali.

The morning of Tabaski, I woke up at my boss Claudia’s home and accompanied her son Andrew as he walked his family’s meal down the driveway into the hands of their 3 guards. All six hands held the creature down, and when the cut was made at the throat and blood was pouring out, each guard whispered “Bissimila,” meaning “in the name of Allah.”

1) "Dead Goat Walking," 2) Try to find the 3 goat heads being roasted in the fire for the next morning's soup!

While it is the goat that was killed in the name of God that Wednesday morning, Malians do not forget to pay tribute to the Father for each animal life taken. A friend recently shared the story that a large rat had begun frequenting her home. Her guards plotted together and trapped the rodent in a corner, and the instant they killed it, they uttered the same chant, “Bissimila.” Even though it wasn’t “La Fête du Rat” that particular day, they found no shame in frying the thing up and eating it for lunch.

There is something special in the way Malians treat their food here, however grotesque that food may be. Not only because there is always that direct acknowledgement to God for each kill, but because that acknowledgement is part of an understanding in Mali: what you’re eating is your hard-earned nourishment.

Kintu enjoying the cooking process, singing and clapping.

They don’t just go buy frozen, packaged ribs on sale at the grocery; Malians save up their money to hand-pick the finest animal that they can be proud of holding down until its heart stops beating. They don’t go and buy a 5-pound bag of Haribo candy at the nearest corner store; Malians take their time to make each and every dish in their iron pots on their coal fires from fresh, local ingredients. They don’t just fork and spoon gobs of food into their mouths without thinking; Malians ball up their rice and sauce in the palms of their hands for a few seconds before taking a bite -- feeling exactly what they’re eating, conscience of the size of each mouthful.

Tomorrow for Thanksgiving, we’re having our turkeys shipped from the U.S., are cooking our prepackaged ingredients in the oven, and will be eating with a full set of utensils. The Malian food principles may not carry over into our celebration of the Turkey Festival, but there is at least one tradition that both eating festivals respect: eating together.