A Festivus for the Rest of Us.

Well, sadly, and surprisingly, there was no white Christmas in Karachi for me this year. I waited up until midnight, gazing wistfully from the balcony, hoping for that light dusting of snow that makes Christmas so much sweeter. But alas, it was not to be. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt outside at midnight should have tipped me off, but as I mentioned, I was full of wist, and, as it happens, a bottle or two of wine. In fact, at that point in time, I would have been well and truly satisfied with a light dusting of ashes on the Karachi streets. I was half-tempted to go to the vacant lot next door and light a pile of garbage on fire, but the prospect of catching the flakes on my tongue seemed less than appetizing, and even in my inebriated state, I knew it would lose a little in translation. But then, with a flash of insight, I walked down to the kitchen, smashed up some ice and tossed it around like confetti, singing, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” in my best Bing Crosby voice (which is surprisingly similar to my own voice). It was nice for a few moments, but sadly, my “Christmas in the kitchen” idea was short lived, as I almost immediately slipped on the now saturated floor and hit my head on the counter. That more or less destroyed the effect, but at least I had visions of sugar plums dancing ‘round my head.

Yes, it’s admittedly difficult to get into the Christmas spirit here in Karachi, but I tend to try my best. Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but I believe that it’s the spirit of Christmas that matters, so I did my best to consume as many Christmas spirits as I could, without decking the halls with pools of unpleasantness. You see, the real trouble, is that Christmas just comes sneaking up on you over here. There’s none of that month and a half long build-up of the North American Christmas scene, which has less to do with what Christmas is really about, and more to do with selling a million sleigh-loads of GAP khakis. As a result, I had no running tally of how many shopping days I had left, and with a shock, about a week before Christmas, I realized I had better get around to ordering my Christmas turkey. It was then that I learned of the Great Turkey Shortage of 2005, and that my bird this year would be even more exorbitantly priced than last. Something to the tune (a carol I presume) of $100 for a ten kilo bird. A far cry from 79 cents a pound. I shrugged it off though, figuring that it was indeed Christmas, and the only time of year I would allow myself to drop that kind of dough on frozen poultry.

One way that I measure the success of my Christmas season is by the number of turkey dinners I’m able to consume. By that measure, all things considered, I did pretty damn well. Christmas Eve, my friend Komal cooked her first ever turkey for Steve, her Canadian fiancé (who I happen to be staying with at the moment) and 30 odd guests. It was a great success, and as a Christmas connoisseur, I give her full marks. I played bartender, a role I am quite comfortable in, whether it be professionally, on stage or off. It was a great little shin-dig, considering I really didn’t know anyone at all. The last guests left, and I slid out to a get together nearby and came home just in time to call Mother at 3 AM. I don’t think she noticed my inebriated state, at least, no more than usual.

Christmas morning, I woke up at 11:00 to my cell phone ringing and ringing. I picked up, only to hear Norma, Steve’s coworker from Newfoundland (and you thought I was strange) screaming in my ear. “Dave! The only other goddamn Maritimer in Karachi and you’re sleeping through Christmas lunch! Get your ass over here!” Fair enough. I got up, took a shower and got my ass over there. I entered a scene that would have chaos theorists in a tizzy. Kids were running and screaming and peeing everywhere, wrapping paper was scattered about, and Norma was yelling curse-filled instructions in the kitchen. I took a deep breath and smiled… Ah, now this was Christmas. I rocketed into the Kitchen, cracked a beer and started cooking. The turkey and all the fixin’s were phenomenal once again, and I stuck around to watch the kiddos open some more presents, cause really, nothing beats it.

So then it came time for me to don the apron and stuff my bird, so to speak. I planned to cook on boxing day, but logistical issues made me postpone a day. So on the third day of Christmas, I set aside my turtle doves and got to work. I threw out open invitations and coordinated with my pal Ameena, the queen of the dinner party and self proclaimed opiate of the masses. She took care of appetizers and the opening courses and I stuck to Turkey, garlic mashed and veggies in a cheese sauce. About an hour and a half into the cooking, I opened the oven and thought to myself, you know, I shouldn’t be able to hold my hand in here like this. I touched the turkey and thought, you know, this really shouldn’t be ice cold. Then I had a fleeting memory of some wise figure saying, “Watch out for those local ovens, you just never know.” My turkey was cursed. I was upset, so I stuck my head in the oven, but only so I could light that sucker up, top and bottom. Now, as Big Dave Lewis would say, I was cooking with gas.

In any case, the late, great turkey was finally ready at about 1 am. By that time, everyone was starving, but the back-bar was covered in empty bottles, so the Christmas cheer was palpable. To my relief, it was just as juicy and tender as always, thanks to the skills handed down to me from my mother and grandmother before her. A secret technique that, faulty ovens notwithstanding, has now, literally, been enjoyed the world over.

At that point, I changed out of my kitchen garb and entertained until dawn. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. A little snippet of Christmas in the Islamic Republic. Falalalala-lala-la-la.