The morning of the potluck I braved the chilly monsoon rains to shop for ingredients, thinking about how different it would be if I was in the US rather than my hill station in Tamil Nadu for this holiday.  Last year I was in LA and my cousin and I had shopped (how distant Ralph’s, Trader Joe’s, and Costco seem now!) and planned and precooked and boiled quite a lot by the time Thanksgiving morning rolled around.  Arguably, the weather here is more what I think of as typically November than the eternal sunshine of Southern California, so the drizzle actually helped kindle my holiday mood, despite the fact that Will had to work finishing up grading exams all day.  Rather than drag my (just into the 3rd trimester) pregnant self all over town in the cold rain, trying to tote pumpkins, root veggies, and assorted other harvesty goodies around on foot, I got Ganesh the taxi driver to zip me around from bank to vegetable market to supermarket to ‘wine shop’ to health food store to fruit stall to home.

My plan for the potluck was to bring two classic Mom dishes: her orange praline sweet potato casserole and her (no bias) best ever pumpkin pie.  Issues arose as soon as I hit the veggie market.  No sweet potatoes.  ”Coming Sunday, madam,” I was assured by Sheik, my regular vegetable guy.  He broke the news to me cheerfully, clearly not getting the significance of yams this particular Thursday.

Sheik has a meter of coir rope hanging from the ceiling of his stall.  The shelves of produce line the steps which make up his area.  Scales and other untold treasures are in the dark back of the shop, up the stairs from the ground where you stand as customer.  Sheik’s rope is there so he can swing down toward you to hand you off a bundle of weighed out vegetables, or a fistful of change.  It never fails to utterly charm me.  His area is one of several in the vegetable market ‘down the budge’, a part of town full of hardware stores, chicken stalls, sari shops, and much more.  Sheik has the most beautifully displayed vegetables of all colors; perfect piles of peppers (capsicums, as they’re called here), onions, potatoes, beet roots, fresh bouquets of lettuce, the occasional prized bunches of herbs, cauliflowers, you name it.  Except if you name sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving, of course.

So upon hearing the bad news about the sweet potatoes I did what expats have been doing for generations–I figured out a compromise recipe.  It is not an option to not eat the sweet potato casserole on Thanksgiving.  Even if you have no sweet potatoes.  So I bought an extra couple of kilos of pumpkin, a few regular potatoes, and was on my merry way.

Ganesh clearly thought it odd that I needed to stop at the ‘wine shop’, a literal hole in the wall where a dingy man sells nasty liquor to bloodshot-eyed clientele by the dixie cup.  There is no wine for sale in the state of Tamil Nadu, but that doesn’t stop them from having quite a number of wine shops, where you can pick up Kingfisher beer and a few varieties of gin, rum, vodka, and whiskey.  I was on the lookout for Old Monk, a less-wretched-than-some brand of dark rum necessary for both my Thanksgiving dishes.  Of course Grand Marnier would have been ideal for the sweet potatoes, and usually at home we use Meyer’s rum for the pumpkin pie, but like I said, an expat must compromise in order to get the job done.  Old Monk would be fine.  Except that the man at the grimy counter said they didn’t have any Old Monk.  Oh dear.  To substitute a substitute is risky business.  But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.  Old Kemp XXX Dark Rum it was.

After a few other stops (to the shopkeeper at the spice shop: “What do you mean, you don’t have cinnamon?!”) and plan B’s (in my head: “One of my friends will definitely have cinnamon.  Don’t panic.”), I made it home.  A mixture of sweet limes and tangerines would do instead of the orange and orange rind needed for the sweet potato (aka pumpkin/white potato) casserole.  All would be well.

I was setting up a playlist on the computer for some holiday music that would remind me of my mom and all our crazy feast cooking together (Joni Mitchell, Steve Goodman, Pete Seeger, Laura Nyro, Arlo Guthrie, Judy Collins, Janis Joplin and many more) when I noticed the aromas emanating from the kitchen.  Jessie, the woman who cleans our house, was cooking herself lunch.  Jessie is a very good cook and I love the part of my day when I come home from lunch at school and something she’s cooking is smelling delicious from the oven.  But I must say, on this particular day with all the thinking I’d been doing about Thanksgiving food, it was jarring to suddenly smell sizzling mustard seeds and sambar.  I found myself feeling kind of territorial about my kitchen and wound up staying away until all the scrummy Indian powders, seeds, and grains had been eaten or re-stowed in their stainless steel canisters.

I wonder if Jessie felt at all odd with me rummaging around on what’s so often her turf these days, replacing the scent of garam masala with my combinations of cinnamon (my neighbor did have some–crisis averted!), ginger, clove, and nutmeg.  Dollops of cream, splashes of Old Kemp, cubes of butter, all went flying about as I made the traditional Thanksgiving mess of the kitchen.

The potluck was lovely, mostly because of all the wonderful people there, enjoying the spirit of Thanksgiving.  The table was full of colorful and tasty dishes and the company was loud and happy.  We ate spicy Indian aloo, macaroni and cheese, and big melty pizzas.  A bird was carved, bread was sliced, and plops of faux sweet potato casserole were served up (it even tasted remarkably similar to the original, believe it or not).  Most of us ate Indian-style, with our fingers, because of the sheer number of us giving thanks together.  I enjoyed all of it immensely.

When you’re far from home for the holidays, it’s important to have good people around you.  Most of the time India does feel like home to me.  Thanksgiving is a tough one, though,  since it’s such an American holiday, and it’s one that has always had so much family tradition wrapped around it.  I thought about the many expat Thanksgivings my family has had over the years, all the amazing ways my parents managed to create and uphold the traditions my brother and I hold so dear in countries near and far.  They cooked a feast in Shanghai in 1987 on a lone hot-plate; we put leaves in the table for hoards of hungry Americans in Paris in 1995; pies were baked, casseroles bubbled, and turkeys were basted on several levels of our apartment building in Hong Kong many years running while my mom made sure that everything got to the table steaming and beautiful in time to sing ‘Simple Gifts’ together.  This year, here in India, I am so thankful that I have a few traditions I can piece together which make me feel at home.  I’m so thankful for the memories of friends and family coming together so many Thanksgiving Thursdays over the years.  I’m thankful to have celebrated this year in yet another beautiful iteration of this holiday I love.

We learned an incredible amount over the course of 4 intense days.  Our compatriots: farmers, businessmen, tribal village elders.  Our teachers: farmers; experts in Biodynamic Preparation-making, nutrition,  composting; a microbiologist; a computer software engineer/wheatgrass enthusiast/solar-lunar-stellar astronomer extraordinaire.

Among the myriad topics discussed:

What is it to live a healthy life vs. what is it to treat disease?

The link between hospitals popping up on every corner right next to the requisite fast food joint.

The depressing present reality–we drink toxic water and eat toxic food grown in toxic soil.

Given that 60-70% of people in India live in rural areas, we need to develop a vibrant rural society here; NOT try to replicate America and all its problems here.

The destruction of our soil due to fertilizers, insecticides, fungicides…

We were given hope for the future, in spite of much of the depressing information about the current state of affairs regarding big agriculture, feedlots, and the immense environmental issues we face.  We can change things.  And we were shown how.

A good place to start is putting our hands into the soil, working with cow dung, paying attention to our surroundings, especially the earth beneath our feet and the skies over our heads.

We were shown how to make Biodynamic Preparations 500-507, liquid manures, and CPP (Cow-Pat Pits), all of which can help replenish the air and soil of a farm or garden and contribute to strong, healthy plants.  Many of these preparations are created by mixing cow dung with other natural ingredients common to any traditional farm (water, bark, flowers) and some are buried in the earth in cow horns.  The preparations are fascinating to make, and the results are truly beautiful to behold: dark healthy soil, bright green leaves, long strong stems, a multitude of insects, butterflies, birds and mammals all living sustainably together in a full and truly dynamic area.

The photos that follow show a bit about our time at BASIL and the surrounding Mysore area.

On Our Way

Breakfast on the train to Mysore

At BASIL

Papaya tree

Sunrise on the Cauvery River

Rising

Risen

Beautiful little feet

Grinding quartz for BD 501

And even finer grinding, now between 2 panes of glass

BD 501

Paddy

Cows give us so much of what we need to make soil healthy

BD 500 in cow horns (ready to be buried for 6 months, after which stirring in water for one hour takes place (see below) and after that, sprinkling in field)

Stirring BD 500

BD 500 goes into the ground

Burying BD 500

BASIL campus

Green surrounds us

Heaping compost

Compost heap

Cow-Pat Pits

Aerating cow pies

Loading up the Cow-Pat Pits

Swivel-headed mantis

Churning up liquid manure

Making liquid manure out of neem leaves, helped by a well-adapted friend

Day to night

Baby belly at sunset

A Day’s Excursion to Another Part of the Cauvery River

Bird sanctuary

White Ibis

Keep your hands in the boat

Ibis wings

By the banks of the Cauvery River

The antithesis of BASIL living

Daniela and Ravi make friends

On the farm adjacent to BASIL

Turmeric

How now?

Neck ruffles

Moo with me

Droplets of blue

Water-colored leaves

Bug-eye

Perched

Through the green

On the way to work in the paddy fields

Bright scary

Two-tone

Luminescent flying saucer

Light through leaves on the farm

On Our Way Home

One of the great pleasures of travel in India: a shot of chai

When I was in the US this summer, far away from our Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle, I had no trouble swearing I would never get on the back of it while I was pregnant.  ”I mean, why take that risk?  I’m definitely not riding it pregnant.  I would never allow my baby on there once it’s born, so why would I now?”

Why, indeed?  Well, for one thing, it’s incredibly convenient here in our auto-rickshaw-less town.  And I like riding behind Will, fresh (well, kind of) air rushing past, the sound of the chug of the engine calling to mind the romance and danger of a French Resistance worker put-putting around the European countryside during World War II.  I like feeling like I belong here in India, which I do more than ever when we’re carrying bizarre loads of cargo on the motorbike, like when we’re riding in the rain with an umbrella flapping above our heads, clutching our little white dog between us, a week’s worth of groceries strapped to my back.  One of my favorite things to watch for here in India is what people manage to fit on the back of a motorbike, which is depressing in its contrast to the memory of near-empty SUVs lining the rush-hour highways of America’s big cities.  Maybe you need to transport several dozen chickens.  Not a problem!  Just tether a few to the handlebars.  They’re more docile while dangling anyhow!  Or perhaps you have a few thousand eggs on palates the size of vinyl record albums–it’s a piece of cake to bungee cord those suckers to the back seat of a bike, seen it a thousand times!  Or then there’s the ultimate in carpooling, putting the empty LA carpool lane to dreadful shame: the five person family all on one zippy little motorbike.  Dad is driving, Junior and his sister are sitting behind him, with Mom seated sidesaddle (how else would you ride a bike wearing a sari?) in back with the infant in her arms.  I probably see at least one of these, in some iteration, almost every day.

So I admit it: I’ve been riding.  Even when there were other options available–the bus back up to main campus after lunch at the Elementary School, for example–I would hop on to ride behind Will, feeling excitingly rebellious, a cool mom already.  My resolve not to ride failed me once I got back here and saw how much simpler it would be to get on the bike rather than to walk everywhere, especially since I’ve been feeling so tired…especially after lunch…and my feet hurt…and…

A few days ago everything changed.  A horrible tragic motorcycle accident close to home–the lives of friends irrevocably changed.  Our whole community is shaken and deeply saddened.  My feelings on motorcycles have changed drastically overnight.  My resolve has been hardened anew.  And this time, unlike with the tea, I don’t think I’ll be changing my mind.

In the last year, so much has changed.  And in some ways, so little.  This time last year none of us knew yet that my amazing mom had cancer.  She was focusing on taking my brother up to college, helping him get settled into his dorm room, trying to push aside the pain plaguing her every move.  How could we have imagined that by the first day of Spring she would be gone forever?  To say I miss her would be a vast understatement.  We talked several times a week, for hours, for years, even with oceans in between us.  I told her most of the mundane details of my life, and she shared the same with me.  Now I have to consciously put my hand down when it reaches for the phone, I struggle against the muscle memory demanding that I call my mom whenever something chat-worthy happens.

I spent six months last year in Los Angeles helping to care for her as she delved deeper and deeper into the cancer that finally took her.  At the time, I knew that I had to savor every moment, every kiss, every exchange and even every moment of mother-daughter frustration.  This was it.  Make it last.  Make it count.  You’ll miss it when it’s gone.  You’ll wish she was raising her eyebrows at what you’re wearing.  You’ll crave a little criticism.  Please Mom, correct my grammar!  Tell me you think my hair looks better the other way!  Say something sweet to me!  Let me tell you I love you!  Come back!

When I was in LA, I often wished I could just be back in my life in India.  My husband, my dog Iddli, so many of my friends, my home, were all here.  I needed to get back to normalcy.  To days like this one today.  This day, in most ways, is almost exactly like so many I’ve spent here in India.  The morning was spent at school, enjoying lovely students as they grapple with the English language in some form.  Lunch with Will at the Elementary School; biryani, channa masala, curd, salad and grapes.  An outdoor romp with Iddli in the sunshine (one anomaly of today is the afternoon sun when normally we’re surrounded by cloud and fog at this time of day).  And sitting down on the divan on the floor here in my lovely living room to write.

I love this life.  I am happy most of the time.  Just like last year.  But this year I have no mother.  The person who has known me better than any other since my difficult entry into the world all those years ago is gone.  My dad is left without his partner of more than thirty years, left to make one cup of coffee each morning instead of the usual two, left to walk the dog alone, left without the one person he most wants to talk to about his day.  My brother is preparing himself to go back up to school without Mom to write sweet notes in his notebooks, without her careful and caring attention to useful things to pack.  Many times in the last year I have been mystified as to how we’re all going on with all these little things that make up the day.  How can the world continue on in all its maddening complexity without Mom?  How can NPR bother to keep broadcasting without its constant companion: Mom?  How could I possibly be having a baby who will only know her through stories and photos?  Who will never have a delicious meal cooked by her talented hands?  Who will never know how soft her lovely hands were?

This baby will hear her voice through mine, I’m sure, at times.  I remember babysitting in college and saying to the child I was looking after: “You can’t be excused from the table until you have three more bites of your carrots.”  Where did this come from?  Did I really care all that much if this kid ate a couple more bites of veggies?  Why did these words I had never spoken before sound so familiar?  Even the tone, the voice itself sounded familiar, but it was not my own.  It was my mom’s voice.  And I am comforted by the thought that maybe I’ll get to hear her again sometimes when I’m speaking to my own child.  I hope I’ll channel her most when I’m speaking words of love, tender sweet things, in all the lovely, loving ways she spoke to my brother and me.

My mom was a truly wonderful mother.  She carefully planned and cooked beautiful food for our family every day.  We ate together as a family every night.  We talked about everything under the sun.  We told each other we loved each other, and how much.  My parents took us traveling all over the world.  We were lucky enough to live in several countries growing up.  We were taught foreign languages.  We were given the music lessons my parents never had.  We were read to, sung to, cared for in every way.  My brother and I could not have asked for better parents.

There are a million things I wish I could ask my mom now, as my belly begins to show that it contains something incredible.  I wish I could tell her how I’m feeling, how excited I am about what’s happening in our family.

Next week we’re going down to Bangalore to get a fancy 4D ultrasound in a birthing hospital there.  My heart flutters when I think of seeing our baby for the first time.  Will and me and the new little one we’re going to be parents to.  How could it be real and true?  Especially since Mom’s not here to share it with.  She won’t catch even the grainy black and white glimpse we await with such anticipation.

But you can’t have everything in life, as of course we all know.  We are so lucky to have what we have.  A baby coming, the most wonderful valentine ever to be born in February.  Will’s incredible parents and brother.  My sweet and amazing dad, my strong, lovely brother.  All of our aunts, uncles, cousins, myriad friends who make our family bigger and stronger all the time.  A life full of interesting people, delectable food, awe-inspiring places.  There is no lack of love in any of this.  Mom and this new baby passed each other on the way, that’s all.  They’ll know each other in mysterious and unknowable ways.  They’ll be linked through so much more than is visible to the naked eye.  It just has to be enough.  So it is.

These days a glimpse in a dream is worth so much.

restores something

by mysterious forces

acting against gravity

gravitas grave happenings

but bread rises

as sure as yogurt sets

and the magic fights the gravity, the graveness, the pain.

bread rises and sets like the sun

and then it’s done.

the feeling of ill

you try to regain control over your mind

that has control over your emotions

which drive your stomach to the dead end

at the end of the dark and scary street.