Happy Thanksgiving, Peoples!

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.*

(This is Husband's Turkey Day card.)

I love Thanksgiving.  It's a day of good food eaten with people you love unemcumbered by present pressure.  There is usually some kind of drama, as there is when people are in big groups, but that drama almost always gets worked out and becomes a funny memory.  Mainly, to me, it's all about taking a minute to be grateful for all the good things.

Also, I LOVE the fried turkey**, next to key lime pie, it's my very favorite food in the world.  Seriously.

But in years when I haven't made it Georgia for the holiday, I've had some great ones as well.

My sister and I were guests of LisaD's family Thanksgiving in Brooklyn the morning after we spent happy, chilly hours watching the Macy's balloons getting blown up next to the Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side.  I hosted a friends' Thanksgiving in my tiny apartment in the West Village complete with a champage fountain.  And this year is going to be great, too.

Husband, Elliot and I have been invited to have Thanksgiving at our best friends' home here in Stavanger.  It's happening tomorrow night and there will be the requisite turkey*** and ham and best of all, assorted goodies and important ingredients imported all the way from Denver, smuggled**** in a suitcase carried by an American who has come all the thousands of miles for a real Norwegian-style holiday.

We couldn't be more excited about it.

But tonight, we're having our own little family Thanksgiving---not with turkey, but with Asian BBQ'd pork and cheesy potatoes.  The dishes may not be the "appropriate" ones, but the thankfulness for our good things and happiness is all there.


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*That, and other peoples' birthdays.

**If you're not familiar with it, imagine this:
Take a thawed turkey and a special turkey hypodermic needle.  Then shoot the turkey full of buttery cajun goodness all underneath its turkey skin.  Then drop it into boiling peanut oil. Remove it from the oil about 45 minutes later and enjoy its cajun, buttery goodness.  And also enjoy the fact that it's less calories and more healthy than the turkeys cooked in the oven for hours and hours.  Seriously.  (AMENDED---I actually looked it up.  According to the American Dietetic Association, with the skin on, fried turkey has two more fat grams than the same serving size of conventionally prepared turkey.  Take the skin off and it's less because very little of the peanut oil soaks in...Of course there are lots of mitigating factors...ie the amount of butter you inject but that is often a wash because a conventional turkey is rubbed with it and then soaks in it for hours.  Also fried turkey is not dry and is extra tasty, so there's that....)

***Not fried, but prepared by an Englishman who knows what he's doing.  Don't be sad for me, I'll get the fried goodness at Christmas, so all is well in my world.

****If you are the custom authorities reading this, don't believe a word.  I made it all up.  So pass along, nothing to see here.

A Short Story About Hats

Every single year, the International School in Stavanger celebrates Guy Fawkes Night* by building a bonfire and burning the poor guy in effigy.

We had a plan to meet up with several other families from our babies group.  We were going to visit, watch the bonfire and stay for the fireworks.

Elliot hated it.

And we're not quite sure if it's because of the darkness, the fire, the wind or AS's hat.**  But after a bit, it just seemed the nicer thing to scoot out early.

At least we missed the traffic.

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*In 1605, Fawkes was one of the leaders in a plot to blow up the Brit's Houses of Parliament.  It failed. So depending on how you feel about that, you can feel a bit sorry for him...or not.

**It was a furry one, kind of like a cartoon hunter's.  (I'm not cracking on it, really...It suited him.) And every time he leaned into Elliot's face to talk to him, Elliot wailed.  So I'm going with the hat.

And one for my mom, too, please.

(Photo and champagne courtesy of Erin.)

Baby BBQ*

In preparation for Elliot's birth, Husband and I signed up for a ten-week class on childbirth and what goes along with it.  It was the only English-language class in town and overall, I would recommend to any one.  Not for the advice**, but for the fellow classmates. 

From almost the beginning, the mothers have had weekly get-togethers.  Every Tuesday afternoon we have "Tea and Cakes"*** at one of our homes.  The babies play and we all visit.  It's made a world of difference in getting adjusted to things with Elliot.

Not only are all the women good company--each is smart, accomplished, kind  and funny---but it's been fantastic to have a group going through all the same things, at almost the same time. Recovering from childbirth and all the culture shock that follows, changing relationships and roles, working through baby sleep issues and figuring out how to fit into our clothes again. But, the pregnancy and baby things are giving way to the beginnings of good friendships. 

And as we're getting to be friends, naturally what follows is having a party. It is summer, after all.  But this time, we decided to add in the whole family, because other than a few moments in passing, we haven't all visited since one of the last classes. 

So of course this included the dads.

Husband and I picked a date that worked for everyone**** and organized a cookout. 

And everyone showed up.  And by everyone, I mean nine families.  Nine moms, nine dads, nine babies and one grandmother.  Between all of us, there were ten nationalities.***** We are geologists, journalists, human resource managers, financial service people, engineers, primary teachers, musicians, quality managers and other things I am forgetting.  It's a diverse group and a lively one, too.

We parked the baby seats by the door and set up a play area with toys and soft blankets.

Husband manned the grill on the back porch.

And then he had some help.

Husband, Elliot and I provided the main course of all sorts of pølse as well as brownies and key lime pie.****** Everyone else brought side dishes.  We had glutenous rice, which is not just rice stuck together, but a savory concoction of rice and vegetables.  There was lentil salad and apple cake, a recipe from the chef's hometown in France. We had stuffed baked potatoes with fancy sour cream, which was a mix of oniony, herby goodness. Then chicken on a stick covered with a satay sort of goodness.  The table was covered with all sorts of culinary yumminess. If Husband and Elliot weren't blocking the table below you could see it, too.

A grandmother who was in town for a visit came along.  Since she clearly had much more experience than any of us do, she shared advice.

We passed around our babies. 

And I learned that whipped cream doesn't just exist in Cool Whip cartons or fancy restaurants.  It can be made in regular people's houses as well.  

We also had a Magic Cleaning Fairy.  Well before I could even make any protests, the kitchen was straightened and I could see the counters again.  It was not necessary, but so so appreciated. (And isn't her hair fabulous?)

Everyone was casual and hung out exactly as they wished.  Occasionally, babies and a parent or two would take a break for a nap or an attempt at pacifying.

And little by little, families trickled off home...Most of them anyway.  A few stayed on and after a while, we reheated leftovers for dinner. 

Overall, it was a really good day.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

* I am referring to the guest list, not the menu. 

**Though I was promised a balanced agenda, it was heavily skewed to the all natural, a perfectly acceptable method for many people, one of which I am not.  

***I suggested "Knocked Up Meet Up." It never really caught on. 

****We are missing one couple, but we're hoping that they show up again in the fall. Also one couple in the group did not attend the class.  We adopted the mom from a yoga class.

*****American, British, Scottish, Irish, French, Norwegian, Dutch, German, Singaporean, Australian

******I LOVE key lime pie.  Every year, I have it instead of birthday cake.  I have specific opinions on when it is appropriate to add a dollop of whipped cream to the top of a slice. (Never)  And if I could have found someone to make a GIANT one for our wedding, we would have. I was explaining this one of our guests yesterday.  She told me that it's traditional at Dutch weddings to have pies instead of cake.  And at their's a few years ago, they had tables of all varieties of pies...chocolate and fruit and butterscotch.  If it had been my wedding it would have been all key lime. Mmmmmm key lime.

REVISED --- Husband Knows Stuff #4: Wontons

We've been busy for the past few days....

We've been to a Holiday Cocktails/Cut-Throat Book Swap Party. 

We've cooked Chinese Food.

...including wontons. 

 

It was worth the wait.  

So well that the next night, we tried it again.  I made Spring Rolls.

What did Husband make, you wonder? 

....which is much more complicated than you would think, and it was yummy.

So whether you'll be spending Christmas Day eating Chinese food, lucky enough to gnaw on some fried turkey or even picking through some duck like we will be....

Happy happy holidays!

We'll see you in a few days!

Goin' Back to Cali

It's been a busy few weeks.  

First I got on a plane last minute to head to Gainesvegas for my Nana.  After ten days there, I headed home.  

Three days after coming back to Stavanger, Husband signed a new contract keeping us here until the end of next year.  

So that evening we bought tickets to California  and took off the next morning to see his family for Thanksgiving.

We've been back for three days, but I still don't have my head around the correct time zone...

In the meantime, here's a few glimpses into the big fun in California.   

We flew into San Francisco and spent one night passed out in our hotel, wiped from the time difference.  The second night we met up with dear Andrea for some seafood.  Husband ordered crab.  The waiter came over and tied this giant bib around Husband's neck.  It was so dramatic and flourish-y that we couldn't quite tell if the waiter was overly serious or totally kidding.  Either way, it was awesome. 

Andrea did not need a bib.

The next day we were off to Roseville (right outside of Sacramento) for Thanksgiving with the Durel fam.  (Yes, those are collard greens on my plate.  The only thing that could have made me happier would have been fried turkey.) 

This was the grown-up's table.  Husband, me, Jim, Belva, Grandma Margie, Tim. Contrary to the fact that Jim is wearing the apron, Tim was the super-chef. 

Grandma Margie has spent the past few months cross-stitching our names and wedding date, then had it framed.  We love it.  Not only is it really lovely, but the effort and thoughtfulness behind it make it even better.

Then a few nights later, we all went for pizza and bowling. (Matt, Audrey, Tim and Joe) Audrey is grinning because her pizza and beer was like rocket fuel and she knew that in a very short time, she'd be smokin' all of us.

Sweet Joe is consoling Husband as he laments the fact that bowling shoes, while updated from the traditional brown and red lace-ups, still fail to meet his sartorial standards.

Belva promises she has no idea how to fix the electronic scoreboard, but for them, she would if she could. 

This was my actual birthday, so I brought cupcakes and blew out a candle, too.  

Yep, just because I am knocked up, doesn't mean I can't knock them down.  (Which I really didn't all that often.  The ball was the lightest one in the whole alley and I wasn't throwing very hard. But still I wasn't dead last, so that's something.)

Husband has mad skills.  Check those moves, too. 

The whole crew.

Then Matthew practiced the art of paparazzi.

But then I caught him catching everyone else.

The next day, we headed back to San Francisco for a night with Andrea and Deena.  Andrea, always the best hostess, guide and font of limitless information gave us a tour of the city as it spread out before us. 

Deena had to work a bit late and met us at Foreign Cinema, where they hosted us at one of the best birthday dinners, ever.  (Plus I was sitting between two of my favorite smarties.  Husband was to my left and this guy was to my right.)  Seriously, if you ever get a chance, be friends with Deena and Andrea (or even just one, if that is all you can manage.) They know good food and wine.  And they are better fun that a barrel of monkeys. 

I forget whether Deena is trying to count how many glasses of wine she's had or is vainly trying to demonstrate "L" for left. Husband is smiling because he knows the answer to both questions. 

All of us, courtesy of Andrea.

Happy birthday to me!  Notice the yummy swanky cake.  It was chocolate, chocolate and oh so good.  (It was soooooooo good, I actually carried the last three pieces alllllllll the way home with me.) And of course, Andrea hunts down the best place in the city for the cake.  

It's always an event with these two. How lucky are we?

Then the next morning, I got cleaned up in the world's tallest shower and we headed home. 

The Girls

There have been lots of things I haven't been able to really talk about so much this year and at certain times haven't even been able to write about, at least not yet.*

First I was pregnant and we decided to keep it a secret until we were sure it was going to take.  But in the beginning, while we waited, I felt pretty awful and people guessed anyway, but I still didn't write about it and refused to confirm. 

And now for months, we haven't been sure whether or not we'd be in Stavanger for the last half of Husband's two-year contract.  The financial crisis spread around the world quickly and because he's in financial services, it bit us as well.  

So we've been waiting to see whether we would be packing up to head back to Atlanta (where we came from and still own a house that we haven't been able to sell) or would be staying here.

There was also the added bit of having to figure it all out by mid-December, which is the last approximate time frame I should hop on a plane for more than about four hours.**

So the time has been ticking closer to our deadline and this week, when people in Gainesvegas would ask when we would be appearing again, I would laugh and say, "Either next week or next June."  

But now, it's all be figured out.  We'll be living here, until at least next December.***

And as for when we will be back for good, I don't know for sure.  But definitely, we will be settled somewhere for the long haul by early 2015, which may sound like a long time from now, but really is only about six years.  

And, while there are a few other reasons, one of the key ones is because of The Girls. (Occasionally you may also hear me refer to them as The Calvary because they always show up, en masse, to save the day.)

The Girls have been my mother's best friends since BigD was in kindergarten.  Depending on how you count, there are about ten of them who went all through school together, some to college together as well.  Then they all went their separate ways, scattering all over the United States, South America and the rest of the world. 

They create things and have glamourous careers and travel and made families, but they always show up.  At the very least, each one of them comes to Gainesvegas around Christmas for the yearly lunch.  They rent out a private room somewhere, shut the door and if you walk by can hear the raucous laughter coming from inside.  

But they also show up during the rest of the time as well.   When Husband and I were getting married in a speedy and unconventional way, but still hoped for some of the more traditional trappings, they stepped in and threw the very best rehearsal party ever. 

And while Big D has had a pretty rotten year (other than our hitching, of course) they have been there, too, with emails and calls and showing up.  

Best of all, not only do they have almost sixty years of history with my family, they are fun. Because along with all the good, they've been through every single thing, but have always kept their perspectives and wicked senses of humor.  So when they appear, the levity does as well.

(Trust me, if you ever have the good fortune to meet one of them, try to stand next to her as long as possible.  It's good fun, I promise.)

Last week, on the morning of Nana's funeral, I was left at the house to open the door and answer the phone.  One by one, The Calvary assembled.  

They showed up with piles of food, and shooed me to go on and get dressed for the lunch before everything started happening.  But the best part was coming upstairs and listening to them talk: "We just borrowed the car and then we replanted the flower bushes.  Was that right after your fourteenth birthday?" and "I'm glad that both my kids have gotten neutered because four grandchildren in two years in about all I can handle."

And why does The Calvary matter in the plan Husband and I have on when we get settled somewhere? 

Because that's what we wish for Pickle. We hope that he will have a long time group of solid friends that he will be able to count on as much as he will his own family. And that they will be there to show up. 

I have the same Best Girls from 6th grade on up, a handful of great friends from college and New York and then a fantastic group from our time in Atlanta.  Husband has a solid group from college.  And we're cultivating a hilarious and diverse group here. They are all people we love, have amazing histories with and we all show up for each other in all the same ways...

But the best example we have are The Girls.  And they started when they were six, so that just seems like a good goal to work towards.  

So while lots of things are somewhat uncertain these days, some things aren't. 

And do the The Girls have partners?  Yep, and they show up, too.  And, when needed, man the bar. 

(One of these is not 1/2 of A Girl.)

*There's really not much that is off the table, in the overall sense.  (Unless the secrets are not mine.  I would never tell those. Notice how non-specific I am in this post...) Everyone I know, knows that if you are in my life, it's entirely possible you may one day be a character in something I commit to paper or some other permanent medium. The BigD is okay with this and I have the most dirt on her, so you should be okay with this, too. Plus, even though I am honest, I am also benevolent, so really, it's all good. 

**Getting from Stavanger from Atlanta takes 16-20 hours, at least two plane rides and there is one giant body of water to cross.  Even if a plane would let me on, which becomes more and more unlikely as the weeks pass, along with a few other things, the very last thing I'd like to do is deliver Pickle on a plane...unsafe, messy, embarrassing and far too far from the copious amounts of drugs I feel are essential. 

***Or until the next major financial crisis hiccup.  But at least until next June or, which is when Pickle will be about two months old, which is about as early as he should be on a plane...

Once Again, BigD Knows Stuff...****

We started Tuesday night at an election party hosted by Democrats Abroad.   

Our friend Erin rocked a panel...*

(from left: Academic view, Republican view, Queen of the Local Chapter of DA view, Sensible and Clever view.  Hosted by Norwegian Progressive Party moderator)

I asked two questions.  The first was about hosing the winner ("Should your particular party be psyched if they lose because whoever inherits this mess may be hosed for a second term?"). 

And my second question was about info gathering in a faraway time zone ("We're way off the American cycle of 24 hour newsgathering.  Has that affected where you get your political information?")

Not only was I interested in the answers, but also saw it as a multiple opportunity to:

A) Set up a forum for the Sensible and Clever View to speak up, but also to 

B) deflect from the questions along the lines of "Can you explain the American government?" and "Can you explain each candidate's energy policy?"

(Also, I really wanted to ask the Republican why he was so angry, but thought that would sound best coming from an accent other than American, but could find no willing volunteers.)

Then we watched the returns, or at least the coverage, until about midnight.  

(Kyrre, Phil and Bo focus, focus, focus. Check out the girl with the red hair on the left.  She and her cronies stole the last of the key lime pie. )

Then when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, Husband and I headed home, where we lounged** on the sofa until 5am watching.  Finally we went to bed, reasonably sure of what the outcome could be. 

When we woke up a few hours later, we saw the count, read the stats and watched the speeches. 

My faith in the American people, which was never gone completely, was bolstered and fully restored. 

Even if you remove the fact I just believe Obama is the best man for the job based on concrete reasons, I am exceedingly moved by the overall grace and goodness and forthright compassion in him. 

And, I think it really shows that "slow and steady" and --- most of important of all--- honor wins out in the end.*** 

It just makes it seem that there is potential to get the world back right and warms my tiny, little Pollyanna-ish heart.

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*This is the link to the English translation, which is a straight translation, so it's not edited for the language change, but still understandable and clear.  If you want to read it in Norwegian, click here.

**And by "we lounged," I really mean Husband watched intently, while I tried, but dozed intermittently. 

***Look Big D, you were right....

For everyone else, the Big D is full of good advice, even if we only recognize it in retrospect. One her mantras when we were growing up was "Don't worry about what anyone else is doing.  You just work hard and do the right thing. Then it will all work out in the end." 

(The D also said, "I don't care if you're a ditch digger, just be the very best ditch digger there is." So think on that, too.)

****This is not in any way to indicate who may or may not have gotten BigD's vote this election.  She made her own, secret informed decision.  This is merely to prove yet again, that the BigD has good sense. Obama used her rules and it worked for him.

Unnskyld (Or Sorry Little Girl, but I Blame Your Mom)

About two weeks before we got married and about a month before we moved to Stavanger, Husband and I came over to Stavanger for a week. 

Husband was starting his job.  I needed to get a little bit familiar with the town and most importantly we needed to find a place to live. 

As part of the moving package, there were some "perks" included to help me get acclimated, one of which was a woman named Tune ("Tooooooooooon-NAH). 

Tune was a sweet, tiny Norwegian woman who I assumed was about my mom's age.*  She dressed all in black, talked about how she was still a little winded from her three hour "training" which started at 5am. 

I smiled through most of the "training" talk because I had no idea what she was talking about and assumed that I would pick it up in context eventually.  

When I did, both of us were horrified.  

I was shocked that a person would want to"train" (AKA "work-out") for three hours and she was shocked that I though gym time was a necessary evil best done in highly concentrated spurts. 

Tune's job was to threefold:

1) Show me around town and the area, which included introducing me to shopkeepers and showing me where to buy things.  

I also suspect she was getting kickbacks from everyone because she would be totally overt about who I was, "This is ELIZABETH DUREL.  She is moving here in a few weeks and she's from AMERICA.  She's one of MY PEOPLE.  You know, I'm HELPING HER GET SETTLED."

(I also suspect that she was paid fat cash by the hour.  She wanted to hang out ALOT and this town is relatively small.  Finally, I had to feign tiredness and talk about how "I just don't learn well unless I do it myself. Thanks so much, I'll call you.")  

2) Help me look at apartments and houses with the realtor (AKA "Bergen Blondie"), so I could decide what was worth taking Husband back to see. 

This was a minor disaster.  

Our requirements were that our new home needed to fit three firm requirements:

--within walking distance to town

--must take both dogs

---have more than about 1000 sq. feet (approx. 100 sq.meters). 

So, on two mornings, Tune and I hopped into the realtor's car.  I was armed with a notepad and measuring tape and was heartened by their promises of the "perfect places" we were going to see. 

House One: A giant 6-bedroom house in the middle of nowhere. 

"Look at all the space," said Bergen Blondie.  "Look at all the cows," I replied. 

House Two: An apartment in a high-rise that only took one dog. 

"You could probably hide one of the hunds," said Tune. "Remember? Lillie is 60lbs. Milo is 100lbs. I'm not sure either will tuck into my purse," I replied.   

House Three: A small house with a kitchen from a 1950's dorm room along one wall. 

"You are newlyweds, you will want to be close all the time," they both agreed. "Yes, but not ALL the time and also, we have to eat," I replied.

Overall, the entire experience made me doubt my own skills in the art of English'ing.  

As they dropped me back off at the hotel, the pair went for the international routine of Good Cop/Bad Cop fortified with a dash of tough love, which culminated in "Housing is very tight here, you may not get all you want."  

After standing firm, I thanked them and said, "Well, I guess we'll just live in a hotel, until we find what we need." 

PS---Husband found our house for us on the last day. It's not perfect, but fit all three of the requirements.  Tough on you, Bergen Blondie, that would have been a fat commission.  And probably a cut for you, too, Tune.

3) Acclimate me to the local customs, just a bit.  

Early on, I noticed that Tune would get a giant grin every time I talked.  I thought it may have been my Southern accent or the fact that occasionally I string words together in a somewhat creative fashion or maybe just that I am American.  

In any case, I was okay with it and just ignored it for the first day.  

Finally about halfway through the second day, she put her tiny hand on mine and said, "You know, we Norwegians are just not as polite as you are."

And it's true.  

I have the habit of saying "Unnskyld" ("Excuse me", pronounced "OOOOOHN-shuuuud") when I need to pass or to get someone's attention.  And I often get shocked looks.

The closest translation for "please" is "Vær så snil" ("Vah soh SNIL" or "You are so nice"), but it's highly uncommon.  I've heard it said once, and that was uttered by my friend Erin, who is an American from Washington State. Husband thinks he's probably heard it twice in the four years total he's lived here. 

Thank you is "Takk" (Tahk), which is fairly common.

Then there's "Tusen Takk" (TOOO-sen Tahk) which mean "a thousand thanks."  That's for the really big deals...As Husband explains it, " It's if you're lost and totally frustrated and someone helps you. It's not if someone hands you a bag of sausages at the meat store.  

And it's not that Norwegians are rude or thoughtless, it's just the way things are...

Which brings me to our Saturday at IKEA.

Husband and I needed a new rug for the kitchen.  I wanted a few candles and we needed a present for one of our favorite one-year olds.  

When we drove into the parking lot, it was PACKED, mobbed with quite possibly the vast majority of people within a 30 mile radius.  

And though I lived 10 happy years in New York City and I am a fan of people, I just don't tend to like them all standing within a close proximity. 

And by close, I really just mean I don't like crowds.  I've found they always include touching people I don't know and usually a fair amount of jostling and shoving (not by me, but by other people.)**  

As Husband, drove through the parking lot, I was busy calculating...

Need for objects 

X 

Need for Soft Ice Cream

X 

Time We'll Spend in Line

X 

Lack of Things to Do on a Rainy Stavanger Saturday

/

Number of People Packed Inside

And it all equaled a shrug...

So we went inside.  

And eventually, we left with our three objects...But I also left with an ice cream cone as well as several small face sized bruises on the back of my upper thigh. 

How did I get the bruises you wonder?

When mothers shoved past me, they seemed to forget that they were holding their small children by the hand.  And as they sneaked quickly past, their little people would get banged into the back of me.  

Poor little people.  

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*As it turned out Tune was only about ten or so years older than I am and about ten or so years younger than the Big D.  And right now, I am not totally willing to confirm what it may mean about the three of us, I can say with realize certainty that I'm pretty sure it means that one of us looks OLD. 

**Walking on a crowded sidewalk in New York is like dancing. Most people, especially natives, knows the steps and you never touch actually come into full body contact unless you mean to or are a tourist. Trust me on this.