a nica thanksgiving

It wasn’t 46 degrees and there was no football watching, but my first Thanksgiving in Nicaragua was definitely a memorable one. I spent several hours the night before baking pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie to share with my coworkers and friends today. It was an adventure trying to make my very first pie crust from scratch—and trying to figure out the nuances of the gas stove, which is made more difficult when one does not have a thermometer and relies on approximate Celcius-to-Fahrenheit conversions like I do. But I am happy to report that despite these retos, the bread turned out excellent, and the pie—well, it looked edible and smelled delicious after an hour in the oven. So I consider that a success.

My Thanksgiving plans happened through a “6 degrees of separation” thing, through which Andrea and I came to know a Nicaraguan woman named June who married an American, wound up living in the USA for years, serves as a Sandinista army captain during the revolution, and now has a huge bilingual family here in Nicaragua. June is a sweet grandmotherly type and yet retains a fire in her eyes and spark in her tongue.

The house was a large, open air ranch style place, with a driveway and a backyard (both rarities here). Typical American furniture graced the living areas, while photos on the walls proudly display June in Sandinista regalia, war scenes, and her children’s milestones. On the table was a huge turkey with all the trimmings that looked like something out of Parade magazine. Family lounged on the couches (some smoking) and on the back porch sipping martinis and debating the latest political news, alternating between English in Spanish with ease and humor, depending on what they wanted to communicate. Like typical Nicaraguans, they treated us warmly and welcomed us like family. Like families everywhere, even though many of them don’t see each other often, they talk like people who have known each other forever.

We had a typical American dinner—turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed potatoes, a broccoli/cauliflower/mushroom dish, corn, fruit salad, and pumpkin pie. Everyone raved about the food, and June blushed proudly, clearly pleased at her family’s delight.

For the first time in 6 months (and quite possibly the only time), I was in the middle of a serious upper class Nicaraguan party, complete with TV journalists, a member of the infamous Chamorro family, and a bartender/taxista hired by the family for the evening. It was a different kind of culture shock, for sure.

Memorable, though. Definitely memorable. And I am thankful for that.