Thanksgiving Part II: The Feast

Fist off, apologies for such a delay in posting, and for leaving you all on what I’m sure is the edge of your seats. Excuses include a trip back home, the holidays, and jetlag, but enough of that.

So to recap, most of the groceries for the dinner had been acquired by Wednesday night. The plan was to make the piecrusts on Wednesday, do most if not all of the desserts on Thursday night as well do some other chopping prep, possibly start the sweet potato dinner rolls, and finish the rest of my assigned dishes the following morning. This all sounded quite reasonable.

The plan got off to a good start – all shopping was done and piecrusts were made by Wednesday evening. Thursday was when things went slightly (but not disastrously) awry.  Over the course of the day, several of my coworkers came over to reiterate how excited they were for the dinner, and casually ask if, you know, it would be alright if they brought their Mom, or a friend in town, or by the way, have you invited my boss? Because it making the discussion of my weekend plans awkward if he’s not invited. Now, I’m never one to turn someone away from a party I’m hosting, so of course I said yes to everyone’s request. But it also fueled my greatest fear: not having enough food at my party. This is a deep-seeded fear of mine, the origin of which I can only trace to the central, essential importance my family gives to food in all celebratory occasions. 

Thursday also happened to be the last day in the office for one of the coworkers on my team, which of course meant post-work drinks at the office’s favorite watering hole – and most importantly – on the boss’ credit card. The plan was to stay for just a glass of wine (just one!), go home and do some prep, head out again to make a brief appearance at a friend’s birthday drinks, and get to bed at a reasonable time for an early start the next day. But somehow one glass of wine rolled into two or three or who knows really, and I found myself glancing down at my watch and dashing home in a mild panic.

I dove into pie making with a new sense of urgency and admittedly a slight buzz from the evening’s celebration. Nevertheless, I managed to produce an apple pie, pumpkin pie, ginger cookie crust, and some chopping of stuffing ingredients – and all by 2:30 am! A few short hours later I was back in the kitchen. The morning prep actually went quite smoothly, and it was a huge sigh of relief once the turkey was in the oven – though considering neither I nor my co-conspirator had successfully cooked a turkey before, I wasn’t exactly breathing easily…

To be completely honest, I was concerned that we may have put the turkey in later than we should have. Instead, the turkey finished cooking 45 minutes before expected.  I started (frantically) texting friends to suggest they forgo any sort of social decorum to be “fashionably late” and arrive on schedule if they had any hope of warm turkey. Of course just as the turkey was early, some of the sides were taking longer than expected to cook, and soon I found myself crouching in front of a hot oven testing sweet potatoes while simultaneously fielding phone calls and fending off well-meaning offers of help in the kitchen.

But even with the early turkey and the late sides, the meal was eventually served, buffet style, to all 17 guests. And yes, there was plenty of food for all. For several of my guests, it was their first Thanksgiving dinner, and though I’m not one to brag, I like to think it was a fairly good one. Reflections and findings include:

•      They may not be the most environmentally friendly or up to Martha Stewart’s standards, but by the end of the night I was so thankful for disposable plates.
• Expectations for having time to take a shower before guests arrive will probably not be met.
• Pumpkin pie is apparently very American – hardly any of the non-Americans present knew what it was. The finding was further confirmed when I brought leftovers into work (which disappeared remarkably quickly…)
•  I need to do a better job of communicating that there is always room for dessert on Thanksgiving. Always.  I was eating pie for days.

Dubai Thanksgiving Part I: The Shopping

Soon after the festivities of October 31 had passed, my internal holiday clock commenced the countdown to Thanksgiving. As someone who looks for any excuse to cook food I would normally never make for my own consumption, I don’t think there was any doubt in my mind that despite the fact that I’m living in a country that does not recognize Thanksgiving as a holiday, and among an expat community that does also not celebrate Thanksgiving, that I would make a Thanksgiving feast. So, the one other American girl in the office and I decided we would join forces and show some of our new friends what the American tradition is all about.

About a week before the big day we planned and divided up the menu. I volunteered to be in charge of desserts (which ended up consisting of two variations of pumpkin pie, apple pie, and pecan cookie bars), sweet potato gratin, stuffing, and dinner rolls. My cooking partner volunteered to be in charge of the turkey (and gravy), cranberry sauce, and butternut squash soup. An enthusiastic British coworker offered to bring the mashed potatoes, and we figured given the prevalence of bangers and mash in the UK, we would let him contribute.

Earlier this week I meticulously made up a list of all the ingredients and various cooking items I needed and set out to Lulu Hypermarket in the Karama area of Dubai. Karama is a neighborhood in Dubai known for its large South Asian population (and thus its numerous delicious South Asian restaurants) and for being the place to go to get a “genuine fake” bag. I had been there the week before with a co-worker, and she had introduced me to Lulu. I was fascinated by the store – not only did it have a massive amount of inventory – from appliances to kitchen supplies to linens and groceries – but it also stocked hundreds of foodstuffs that are probably commonplace in an Indian or Pakistani kitchen, but that I would have no idea what to do with. In any case, I decided it would be a good place to start my Thanksgiving shopping because it would allow me to pick up some of the pans I still needed as well as knock off most of the things off my ingredient list, all at a cheaper price.

So, I set off on a Tuesday evening after work. The traffic was terrible, so I took a quick look to make sure Lulu was in walking distance of the Metro, and set off on my way. As I exited the Karama station, I was immediately bombarded with choruses of,  “Hello madam, bag? Gucci, Prada, very good price! Yes yes, please this way.” With repeated “No thank you” s and the occasional smile, I purposefully set off, hoping that if I looked like I knew where I was going, I would get fewer salesmen chasing after me. Now, you may have previous noted that I took a “quick” look to make sure Lulu was in walking distance. Apparently I should have had a longer look, because it soon became clear that I did not in fact know exactly where I was going. I eventually conceded this fact to myself and asked for directions. I seemed to get slightly conflicting answers from different people, but chalked the conflicting rights and lefts up to language issues and eventually saw “Lulu” in green neon, and headed toward it. It looked a bit different than what I remembered, but I figured perhaps this was a different entrance from the one I had previously entered, and forged ahead, relived I had finally reached my destination. Upon entering the store, however, it became clear that this was not where I had been before. You see, I was unaware that in the same neighborhood there is apparently both a LuLu Shopping Center (with multiple "LuLu" stores and a LuLu Hypermarket. I won’t bore you with all the details, but after more wandering, lots of curious looks, several unsuccessful direction queries, and a few moments of doubt as to whether getting lost in unfamiliar neighborhood was really worth saving a few bucks later, I was able to backtrack the trail of people carrying Lulu Hypermarket shopping bags to my intended destination. Relieved that I had finally found it, I grabbed a cart, pulled out my shopping list, and started on my way.

All and all, I was able to knock many things off the list by going to Lulu. However, there were still a number of things they did not have: 

• Cranberries
• Fresh thyme and fresh sage
• Sweet Italian sausage and bacon (they didn't have a pork room - more on this phenomenon at a later point)
• Sweet potatoes (well, they technically had something labeled sweet potatoes, but I was not convinced that what they called a sweet potato and what I called a sweet potato were actually the same thing...)
• Graham crackers 
• Disposable aluminum pie tins (I had already been to several sores looking for these, so this was particularly disappointing)
• A large aluminum roasting pan for the turkey
• Butternut squash 
• Non-shelf stable whipping cream
• Ground cloves or nutmeg  

Surprisingly, they did have frozen turkeys, but I had seen bigger ones elsewhere, so I decided to hold off.

The next day I headed to Waitrose in the Dubai Mall, largely considered one of the best (read: fanciest) grocery stores in Dubai. It’s definitely geared to the expat population – and you pay the according premium – but you can find things there that you can’t elsewhere. Massive, American-sized Jennie-O Turkeys for example (important when you have an invite list that by this point had swelled to somewhere between 17-20). But I have to say, Waitrose still let me down, as I left without:

•  Sweet Italian sausage (though they did have sausage more generally)
• Ground cloves
• Cranberries
•  Graham crackers 

Now, ultimately I only needed a ¼ tsp of ground cloves for one of the pumpkin pies, so that wasn’t a deal breaker. I was surprised by the lack of sweet Italian sausage, simply because it’s so widely available in the states. They did, however, have varieties of what I can only assume must be standard sausage fare in the UK that I had never seen (Lancaster sausage? Irish sausage? Canterbury sausage? Toulouse sausage? What are these things?) 

The absence of graham crackers was definitely a surprise. Upon further discussion at the office with my British colleagues, apparently what I thought was a childhood staple is in fact, very much an American thing. My co-workers didn’t even know what a graham cracker was.

The lack of cranberries was definitely the biggest problem – I had hoped they would at least have some frozen, and its hard to make cranberry sauce without the cranberry. One coworker suggested we put craisins, cranberry juice, and some apples in a blender and call it a day, which was - well - creative thinking I suppose, but not exactly what we had our palates primed for. 

We had resigned ourselves to buying canned cranberry sauce (which was available at Waitrose) when, in a last-ditch effort, my co-cook visited the grocery store that recently opened in our office complex. Incredibly, they had fresh cranberries. Thanksgiving could go on.

Stay tuned for part 2: the cooking!

Breaking news: Rain!

Thursday was another Dubai first: my first rain! At first I assumed the drops I felt on the way to work were window washers or AC units, but slowly the drops turned into a drizzle, and by the time I made it into the office, there were even a few strikes of lightening in the sky! The office was abuzz with personal reports of the novel weather. 

As we started scanning the day's news, however, the headlines didn't quite match up with our observations. Words like "chaos" and "massive" were used to describes the weather, which were, well, not the words I would have used to described an hour's worth of rain. Around 10am, an email went around the office notifying us that all of the schools in the country had been closed. Yes, closed. Here is a photo taken outside my building an hour or two after the shower. 

Now, to be fair, the drainage system in most of the city and surrounding areas ranges from awful to nonexistent. I've also been told to avoid being on the roads when it rains (even in a taxi) because 1) people here don't really know how to try in the rain, and 2) sometimes over-ambitious locals in their fancy cars will try to do some fancy tricks on the slick road and wipe out, both of which result in a higher rate of accidents. 

Luckily, the rain had stopped by the time I had to walk home, but the following day, there was of course a torrential downpour just a few minutes before I was to head out for the day. It only lasted for maybe 10-15 minutes, but completely flooded the street next to my building (which of course, the neighborhood kids clearly thought was the coolest thing to happen in a long time). 

I'll admit that it was nice to have a bit of variety in the otherwise-monotonous weather, but I'm hoping the rain dies off before it become truly necessary to invest in an umbrella... 

Apartment Hunting

Looking for a place to live anywhere is hardly ever an easy – let alone enjoyable - experience. There’s the searching, the viewings, the deciding, the paperwork. But add all that on top of a ticking deadline, a new city, and the rules and regulations of a new country, and you’ve got by far the most stressful thing I’ve experienced since moving here.

Upon my arrival, a couple things became very clear: 1) there were a select few areas where it would make sense for me to live, given that I don’t have a car (and hope to avoid getting one at least for a bit) and 2) Dubai is in the midst of a housing bubble, with rent going up significant in just the past couple months. The second point was a particularly disappointing discovery, as it soon became clear that it would be nearly prohibitively expensive for me to get my own place. To give you a sense of what I’m talking about, a tiny tiny studio apartment around 400 sq feet – some of which don’t come with appliances – is easily going for approximately $1450 a month. In many cases not including any utilities.

A couple of other (not-so) fun facts about housing here:

•        You often pay the entire years worth of rent up front. Plus a deposit and agency fee of course

•          It’s almost impossible to rent a place without dealing with some sort of agent. Agents are notorious for being flaky, particularly for not returning phone calls, which seems strange in a career based on commission…  

•      There are almost no renter’s protection rights here. Technically, the landlord isn’t supposed to raise the rent between the first and second year you live in an apartment. But in reality, I’ve heard of more than one person being told that they will have to move out next month because the landlord’s “daughter” wants to use the apartment, and then the apartment will promptly be re-listed for a much higher price.

•       The middle ground is hard to find. Your most common options are a shiny, new luxury apartment complete with pool and gym facilities (perhaps a squash court as well), or sharing a bedroom (yes, one room) with 4 other people. The one in-between option is renting a room in a villa (which sounds much fancier than it often actually is), and occasionally just as expensive as sharing an apartment.

Perhaps you can now get a sense of why finding a place to live was stressful.

Before I cause any panic attacks, fast forward to the end result: I’ve found a great place to live, with great flat mates. And while the journey to the end result was horrible at the time, I can now laugh at its absurdity.

A couple of the highlights:

-       

•       After getting lost and trekking through the sand in 100+ degree heat to get to a modest villa with a room to rent, I met the French woman leasing the place. She was recently divorced. Apparently she got the house (which she didn’t even actually own) and he got the car. She showed me the place (a small room with no closet and a shared bathroom… All for over $1000 a month!) and shared charming views like, “I don’t ever rent to Indians, even the ones with good jobs smell bad” and “don’t worry we’re not close to any mosques”. (Greeaaaaat) I would have to give her 30 days notice if I decided to move out, or she could do the same if “one of her friends wanted to come visit”. Let’s just say it didn’t work out.

•             Viewing an apartment that turned out to be in an office building, and getting very directly propositioned by two men in the elevator on the way to view the place. Thanks, but no thanks. 

•      Using my lunch break to go check out one of the top 10 messiest apartments/rooms I’ve ever seen. (Hey, at least I give them credit for sharing what it would really be like to live there)

•             Replying to an ad for an “individual villa for a lady;” deciding it probably was no longer a great idea when I got a call from the man (with a deep, deep, heavily accented voice) renting it out who asked if I could come during the evening. Only the evening…  I decided the fact that it felt like something out of a pilot episode for “Without a Trace: Dubai” probably meant I should pass on actually viewing the place…

So yes, it was exhausting. And stressful. But now I get to wake up to this every morning:   

Food Adventure #1: Chinese

I’m admittedly a bit of what some might call a “foodie.” That said, I like to qualify this by calling myself an unpretentious foodie. I appreciate all food from cheap eats to fine dining: if it tastes good, I’m in.

In my short time here, I’ve already had a number of memorable culinary experiences, none of them Emerati (exactly what Emerati cuisine is seems to be a question that no one really knows the answer to). One of my co-workers also fancies himself a foodie, so he’s been kind enough to invite me along on a number of his excursions in the past few weeks, including his birthday a mere 4 days after we had met. As it turns out, it’s been among my most memorable food experiences to date.

He selected a Chinese restaurant, which I was told was known around town for two things 1)its fairly authentic Szechuan cuisine and 2) the fact that it serves alcohol without a license, and disguises their illegitimate dealing by serving beer in teapots. (and 2a, serving as some sort of Chinese government front, but I’ll leave those speculations for another time).

I arrived with a couple of other co-workers, at which point we were hustled away from the main entrance of the restaurant, back outside and into a large room with a separate entrance, complete with one of the largest round tables and undoubtedly the largest lazy Susan I’ve ever seen. As people started to filter in, someone took the liberty of ordering some Tsingtao, which disappointingly did not arrive in teapots (why will soon become clear), but was rather unceremoniously placed on the lazy Suzan.  At this point, a couple key details of the evening emerged:

1)   The Lazy Susan was motorized, and thus never stopped moving. Once the food came around, this made the dining experience a test of timing, as you had to a)assess what a dish might be b) decide if you wanted it c) attempt to quickly dump some food on your plate, which occasionally involved trying to pick up slippery objects with chopsticks and d) return the serving utensil, all in about a 10 second window. People’s success rate was directly proportional to chopstick skill and number of beers consumed.

2)   The beer was warm.  And I don’t mean room temperature, I mean, actually warm to the touch. We asked for ice, which apparently wasn’t available. They seemed just as confused about our request for as we were that they had served us warm beer.

3)   The reason the beer did not have to be in teapots was because the restaurant staff actually locked us in and pulled the curtains, thereby disguising our illicit activity and making our party seem infinitely more sketchy.

I can’t tell you most of what I ate and never even saw a menu, but I can tell you that the food was good (though oily), and definitely different than the American Chinese food most of us are used to – no sweet and sour chicken or chow mein here. (*update* I have since been back, and these items are indeed on the menu, in a section labeled, “non-Chinese food”) The birthday boy also ordered a couple of bottle of baiju – the only other alcoholic beverage available aside from warm Tsingtao – which is a Chinese hard liquor that I think is safe to say tastes terrible. At some point, a couple guys at the table thought it would be a good idea to recreate a sake bomb with baiju and Tsingtao – jury is still out on whether this was actually a good idea (I did not partake). But what did seem like an excellent idea after a few rounds was karaoke, which at some point we discovered the room was equipped with. Of course, selecting a song involved paging through many, many, many Chinese pop songs until you finally found a song that someone (sort of) knew, in some cases was set to completely the wrong speed, and in all cases included a bizarre Chinese music video that had nothing to do with the song itself.

While this is all happening, people had been going in and outside for a smoke, and the wait staff would close and lock the door behind each time. I had not been keeping track of this activity much until suddenly it became clear the door was stuck. Several of our group members had tried unsuccessfully to open it, and next thing you know, 2-3 Chinese women are pulling with their full weight on the handle of the door, which of course then became completely detached from the door and sent them flying. Meanwhile, one of the party attendees had wandered into a hallway looking for the restroom, and had come back riding a bike, which he proceeded to ride in circles around the room.

I think it was somewhere around this time that we decided it would probably be a good idea to head elsewhere.

I could tell you about the rest of the night, and the other “good” ideas we had (of COURSE we should make a limbo stick out of straws!) but really, our backroom Chinese meal is what I’ll remember for years to come…

Update

Tried washing my sheets last night. Four and a half hours and one fuse outage later, went to bed on an uncovered mattress and a duvet without a cover...

An Evolving Relationship

First off, I apologize for the large, large gap between entries. My excuses are 1) I’ve been really busy which means 2) there’s lots to write about, which resulted in 3) indecisiveness about what exactly to write about. However, two nights ago, I finally found myself inspired and with direction.

This entry is not about my new job, new apartment, new social life, or new country. It doesn’t describe a cultural misstep, or a concept lost in translation. But it does very accurately capture the spirit of this blog. 

I think it’s safe to say that washing machines are not typically associated with excitement. I would describe my feelings toward them, until recently, as fairly neutral. Similarly, though I have nowhere near the ninja-level laundry and stain-lifting skills as my mother, I like to think of myself as - at the very least - adept.

The primary difference between the laundry machines I’ve encountered here and those I’ve encountered in the States is that the ones here are washer-dryers. Yes, it (in theory) both washes and dries your clothes in a single device. You might think, fantastic! No transferring from one to the other? I can just stick my clothes in, press a few buttons, and that’s it? Am I dreaming?

So yes, in theory, this has the potential to be a magical device. In practice, however, this has not been my experience, as illustrated by the following:

ATTEMPT #1:

Location: Hotel-apartment

Circumstance: Out of gym clothes (yes, even after multiple uses), critically low on underwear

Attempted cycle: cold wash, no or light dry

What actually happened: After consulting the panel, which consisted of no actual words – only symbols and numbers with no intuitive meaning, and after consulting the hotel-provided list of instructions, which offered little insight, I decided to make a best guess (how bad could it be?), add a small packet of detergent (since there was no clue how much to add, only a warning that too much could damage the machine…) and pressed my (second) guess of the start button.

Over two hours later, after apparently a very hot wash and dry cycle (the precise opposite of what I had hoped for). I tentatively open the door. First off, the clothes were too hot to touch. (intended wash/dry cycle: fail). Second, there was clearly not enough detergent involved, so instead of my clothes smelling so fresh and so clean, they smelled even worse than when they had gone in, as if the heat of the wash and dry had effectively baked in and intensified the scent of sweat. At this point, it’s already past midnight, so I stuff all infected clothes into a drawer (while fighting nausea) slam the door closed, and call it a night.  

Overall result: MAJOR FAIL

ATTEMPT #2:

Location: Hotel-apartment

Circumstance: Attempt to rectify previous laundry fail

Attempted cycle: Wash/dry, but hopefully not as hot as the previous attempt

What actually happened: This time I figure, I’ll get smart and look up the manual online. This was a great plan until the internet in the entire hotel went down. Three hours later I’m tired of waiting, and decide to go for it, resolving to troubleshoot from last time, cross my fingers, and hope for the best. 

Two hours later, the cycle finishes, with clothes smelling slightly better but certainly not the fresh-clean scent I was hoping for, but sopping wet. 

Overall result: MINOR FAIL. (It took the clothes over 48 hours to air dry)

ATTEMPT #3:

Location: Hotel -apartment

Circumstance: Moving out in a few days, and figure I don’t want to have to worry about laundry for the first couple days.

Attempted cycle: Dry only

What actually happened: Ok, this time, I’ve eliminated one potential pitfall by hand washing my clothes in the sink; this is really just an effort to speed up the process. Past empirical experience tells me that clearly, this machine is capable of drying clothing. The internet is running, I find what appears to be the manual, and follow (or so I thought) the directions for a dry-only cycle. What could possibly go wrong?

Two plus hours later, I open the door to find sopping wet clothes.

I refer to the manual again, fiddle with the settings again, and hope for the best. The cycle was still going at midnight, so I go to bed, cross my fingers, and hope for the best. I wake up the next morning, open the door, and find wet laundry. I am forced to pack still-damp clothing in the move to my new apartment.

Overall result: FAIL.

ATTEMPT #4:

Location: Apartment! (more on this later)

Circumstance: New towels. I was desperate and used one without washing a couple times, which resulted in a residue of navy-blue fuzz whenever used. Clearly, not a sustainable solution.

Attempted cycle: Wash and dry, hopefully warm/cold wash.

What actually happened:  Ok, new place, new machine, new luck. I even found the instruction manual in a drawer! Again, what could possibly go wrong? Towels in, along with a couple gym shirts and some underwear, dials set, door closed, go. The washer hums along. The display says it’s going to take 4 hours, but I’m ok with it. One of my flatmates gets back; we chat, I have some dinner, we’re watching the soccer – ahem, football – game, I’m chatting with friends back home on my computer, when suddenly. One of our fuses blows. Crap. But being the proud daughter of an electrician, I know how to solve this problem! I flip the switch; it works briefly, then goes out again. Same result after a second time. At this point, the flatmate is getting really depressed about the prospect of missing the rest of the “football” match, but I know what needs to be done – a choice must be made. Either the TV/cable has to go, or the washer. The solution, then, is clear. I flip the washer switch to the off position, flip the fuse, the TV and cable starts to boot back up, and lo, (one) crisis averted! Unfortunately, I open the door, and it’s immediately clear that my towels are still wet. But hey! They smell clean; I don’t need them right away, it’s going to be fine! Until I start pulling things out and the two navy washcloths I threw in clearly bled like nothing I’ve ever washed before. That nice taupey, creamish colored towel I just purchased that sort of matches the bathroom? Now a greenish color that I can’t even properly describe. The black underwear with white polka dots? Well, not so white anymore. The new white gym socks? Now a sort of an off-grey. Thankfully, none of my favorite items got really badly damaged, but needless to say, this was not exactly how I wanted to start things out in the new place.

Overall result: MINOR FAIL.

If anyone has made it this far, I’m a bit shocked that you’ve stayed with me. And yes, writing this was in some ways cathartic, and perhaps not particularly kind to my readers. And yes, I promise to tell you about all the fancy cars and tall buildings soon. But right now, all I want is to successfully do a load of laundry.