Operation Thanksgiving A Success!

End result: Universally declared as delectable!

I'm pretty happy with the whole affair. The gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce were basically identical to what I remember from home. I take this as fairly miraculous since I made the stuffing from scratch minus a few key ingredients the recipe called for (who cares about poultry seasoning anyway?). I was afraid the gravy wouldn't happen until Ellen swooped in with her culinary expertise and whipped up something amazing with some spare spices and the scrawny turkey neck. And thank you, Dad, for the simple mashed potato recipe, a guaranteed hit in a potato-obsessed country.

The turkey had a good flavor, but appeared to be all dark meat. Huh. Maybe that's what happens when you buy a 10-lb bird? Or maybe I shouldn't expect a lot out of a turkey I found in a Danish Føtex, especially since (as many Danes reminded me today) turkey is native to North America, not Denmark.

The dinner rolls were tasty, but boring. No crescent rolls to be found in Denmark.

Finally, the pie. With such high hopes, it only turned out to be alright. My first slight issue was with separating the eggs. My arm was still tired from wrestling with pumpkins, so the first egg I tried to separate into whites and yolks splattered into a yellow & clear mess. Oops. Double oops since I had exactly the number of eggs the recipe required, so there was no room for error. Luckily it landed in one of my bowls, so I salvaged as much of the yoke as I could and then threw out the remaining bit. Time to try again. The five other eggs went smoothly, and I just figured one less egg white wouldn't cause the pie too much pain. My second slightly bigger issue was with beating the egg whites with sugar--the chiffon part of Pumpkin Chiffon Pie. I got careless and started adding the sugar before the eggs were light and fluffy. Not so bad, you say? Well, it turns out that adding the sugar too early turns the egg whites into a sort-of fluffy but mostly soupy goo. Still, the gooey "chiffon" still livened up the cooked pumpkin filling and I was feeling pretty optimistic. I didn't notice the other two issues until I cut into the pie to serve. It turns out that the gelatin we haphazardly picked in the supermarket was an utter failure. Each piece of pie flattened into an unattractive pile of brown gloop as soon as it was served. Secondly, the pie crust was an odd sort of pastry dough that looked normal but tasted slippery and flat. Hmm. But despite the unfortunate presentation, the filling tasted great!! My favorite feedback of the night: "This pie tastes like the essence of Christmas." If that's not a compliment, I don't know what is.

Overall, it was a wonderfully "hyggelig" (pleasant, cozy) evening. Our guests left in a contented state of fullness, all congratulating me on the great meal. Ellen even requested all my recipes, and Jimmi was inspired by the bread stuffing to alter his own stuffing recipe for the traditional Christmas lunch. Also, I happily understood a fair bit of the conversation in Danish, and that helped me feel more like a part of the family. So here goes: I'm thankful to have two families that will always be there for me, and more specifically, that have both aided me in my eternal quest to eat pumpkin chiffon pie. :D Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

The Turkey

Undeniably the most stressful part of preparing a Thanksgiving feast is The Turkey. First, you must find the perfect turkey. In Denmark, it's difficult enough just to find a whole turkey, let alone a particularly beautiful one. Second, you face a difficult decision: to baste or not to baste. Some websites call for it, some don't, and some recommend buying a self-basting turkey. (This concept makes me chuckle, because I only imagine the turkey wing automatically extending to self-baste in a motion akin to a self-cleaning litterbox.) In the end, I took the easy way out and made a tent of aluminum foil that reflected a lot of the steam and juices back onto the turkey breast. I think my host mom took care of most of the seasoning when she dumped half the salt-shaker on the bird when my back was turned. Third, perhaps the toughest of all, is how to judge when the turkey is done. This caused me much anxiety. My host mom kept cracking semi-serious jokes about how the turkey wouldn't be ready to eat in less than six hours if we set the oven at anything less than 250˚C. For those of you who don't bake in C, that's almost 500˚F!!! I allowed her to turn up the oven for 10 minutes just to raise the oven temperature, then I took it back down to the recommended range. Luckily, I soon had back-up in the turkey department. Family friend Ellen came over and taught me the poke-and-squeeze technique for checking if the turkey is done cooking (stick with a skewer or knife deep into the breast, press hard with a fork next to the hole, and watch the juice that bubbles up for blood). With her help, I managed to get the turkey out of the oven and ready to serve a mere 45 minutes after the proposed dinner time. Not bad for an amateur Thanksgiving chef!

3:21 Pumpkin Pie

I love Pumpkin Chiffon Pie. It is worth this trouble.

This is what I had to tell myself over the 3 hours I spent making pumpkin puree, a pre-made delicacy that is unavailable in stores here. Yesterday I followed every lead I knew of for the ready-made kind--going to the famed Fredericksberg SuperBest for the American aisle (fail) and to Magasin for the pumpkin-in-a-jar that another DIS student said was a sure bet (turns out it was pickled pumpkin: fail). After aimless wandering through random supermarkets, I finally broke down and bought three cantalope-sized cooking pumpkins. Word to the wise: Pumpkins are damn hard. My arm ached after chopping, scooping out, and peeling those suckers. Afterwards, I stuck 'em in the oven at 160˚C for 1.5 hours. Waiting. Waiting. Then Avan (my host mom) and I went through every blending apparatus in the house to finally settle on a tiny version of a food processor that I think we use for grinding spices for tea. Voila! Pumpkin puree. Commence the actual cooking of the pumpkin filling.

A Danish Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is a pretty odd holiday when you think about it. It's not about presents, like Christmas. It's not entirely about family, although that's a huge part of it. It's about food. A LOT of food. I've tried to express to my host family the importance of QUANTITY at Thanksgiving. You have to eat like you're going to be fasting for the next 40 days. You have to dress appropriately so you can pack it in. Half the fun is waiting for the turkey thermometer to pop. So imagine the effort I put into making sure this Thanksgiving dinner, my first in a foreign country, is as close to my traditional one as possible. If I have to eat my own body weight in food, it better be good.

Here's how it will go down: I'm cooking for 8, including myself. Some family friends are coming, as well as my host sister Sine and her boyfriend Jimmi. Cooking started at 10 this morning. I first tackled the all-important cranberry sauce. We went to three different grocery stores yesterday in our effort to find cranberries, and eventually stumbled across a magical tower of fresh (!!!) boxes of cranberries. I bought 1 kilo--you can never have enough cranberry sauce--and found a familiar-looking recipe online, provided by Ocean Spray: 3 cups water, 3 cups sugar, and that 1 kilo in the pot. The only slight hiccup I experienced was when the concoction boiled into such a frenzy that it started to rise, rise, rise, almost foaming all over the glittering black stovetop. I quickly turned the heat down and stirred frantically: my first save of the day. Uh oh, I hope I don't have a limited number of "get out of jail free" cards in this adventure.

Next stop: Pumpkin pie. From real pumpkins. Stay tuned.

The Trials of Learning Danish

Danish language is . . . difficult. The best description I have heard so far is that "half the syllables aren't pronounced, and the rest are swallowed." So true. My greatest linguistic challenge is trying to pronounce the suburb's name where I live: Solrød Strand. The letter ø is particularly swallowed when it's preceded by an r because r's aren't really pronounced (shape your mouth like you're going to hiss and then try to say rrr--yeah, I'm aware of how ridiculous that sounds), which also makes saying Strand a tricky oral conundrum.

Thankfully, most Danes speak English so it's pretty easy to navigate around the city. There was only one occasion where I almost got myself into big big trouble. It was a couple weeks ago on a Wednesday, when I don't have class, and I decided to check out some historic cemeteries and parks on the west side of town (near Frederiksberg Slot, where I also encountered my first Danish hill). I was faithfully following my trusty map from the nearest train stop, and I walked through a gate into a large walled courtyard. There were a couple of signs in Danish, and then a big sign pointing to the VISITORS entrance. Odd, I thought, since cemeteries are usually free to the public, but maybe this one was so old and so historically significant that they charge an entrance fee. It's Europe, so what do I know?? So I walked to the door (not your typical ticket window, but an unmarked black door) and opened it to a starkly white room with linoleum walls. Standing inside were three uniformed police officers. Without a word, I backed out and shut the door. I consulted my map for the millionth time. Hmmm. Time to ask the nice-looking Danish folks standing to the left of the entrance, smoking. I politely addressed them (in English), showed them the map, and asked if they could please tell me if this was the historic cemetery I was intending to visit? The man gave me a slightly incredulous, slightly amused look (very Danish of him) and said, "No, this is a prison."

And that's the story of how my ignorance of Danish vocabulary led to my visit of a most unconventional tourist destination. It turned out to be quite pleasant--I had a nice chat with the smoking couple outside, although I never asked what brought them to the prison. Plus, you can imagine how this visit gave me the more to chuckle about than all the rest.

Terry & Me: Seeking Asylum in Denmark

I've made a few critical comments about Denmark's protectionist immigration policy, so I feel I should explain before I go much further.  Denmark restricted their laws on asylum a few years ago when the government switched hands from the more liberal Social Democrats to the more nationalistic Danish People's Party.  It hasn't always been so strict: before recent economic turbulence, Denmark's booming economy welcomed new sources of labor and the borders were relatively open.  [It was during that time that my host family came here.]  The main arguments against immigration are very similar to what you hear for restricting Mexican immigration, but are more widespread: immigrants (refugees) exploit the welfare system, they can't integrate into a liberal and liberated society (most immigrants are Muslim), they threaten the fragile existence of a "Danish" identity, etc etc.  It's extremely difficult to be granted asylum--after which point you are a legally-recognized refugee--and the process is very slow.  Some asylum-seekers wait years to hear a verdict, and in the meantime are forced to live on welfare in asylum centers (they are not permitted to work).  To be granted refugee status, you must have proof of persecution that threatens your individual person, official documentation preferred.  How many people fleeing Afghanistan do you think remember to grab the paperwork that proves their lives are at at stake?  How many of those papers do you think survive the journey that many people make on foot?

For my Migration & Identity core class, I worked with an asylum-seeker from Bangladesh, who I will call Terry, to write an article for the New Times newspaper based at the Danish Red Cross.  Our collaboration started off slowly because Terry had been experiencing some depression and was also fasting for Ramadan.  I didn't truly understand the challenges he was facing until I met Terry in person.  He is extremely affectionate, cheerful, extroverted man.  When I asked how he liked Denmark, he immediately wrinkled his nose and commented on how solemn everyone is.  This simple gesture gave me a huge insight into how much he missed the openness of his own culture and his dislike of the formality of Danish society. I visited the New Times office once and, instead of settling behind separate computers, we chatted about our article over coffee and chocolate (he jokingly told me in an email that his biggest talents were eating and sleeping, so we figured we would put one of them to good use).  I just use this as a reminder that most of the people that uproot their lives to seek asylum in Denmark probably have a very good reason.

For me, one really rewarding part of this project was finding the common ground between a foreign exchange student and a foreign asylum-seeker.  Although we came to Denmark for very different reasons and have different projected lengths of residence here, we both can commiserate about the rainy weather, the bland food, and the fact that our families are far away in distant time zones.  Terry told me that one big culture shock here in Denmark is that he had to learn to cook for the first time!  Normally a wife, sister, or mother would cook for the man in Bangladesh.  I told him that in the U.S., it was normal for both the man and woman to cook, since women were expected to work as well (I tried to keep my Wellesley indignation at a minimum).  I still need a lot of help learning though since I’ve always lived with a family or at college with a meal-plan option, so he invited me over to the asylum center one day so he could teach me how to cook.  How wonderfully strange it would be for a Bangladeshi man to be teaching an American girl how to cook in a Danish kitchen.

On the last day of our project, I finally asked Terry how he came to be in Denmark.  He told me he was involved in a controversial political organization in Bangladesh that lobbied to bring the man-made constitution more in line with the holy Quran.  According to Terry, the government framed this group for at least one act of terrorism and then painted the entire membership as extremist.  They then used this as license to hang and shoot 15 of the leaders, and to kill as many as 150 of the others.  Terry said they came to his home while he was at work, so he fled and hid elsewhere in Bangladesh for a year, and then lived in India before coming to Denmark to seek asylum.  He sees his relocation as temporary, in the hopes that a new government in Bangladesh will make the country safe for him again, but is trying to seek asylum so he can have a life in the meantime.  I was slightly surprised by his political affiliation, since such an organization would be regarded as fundamentalist right-wing in the United States.  His story made me realize that, even if he may not be persecuted in Denmark for his beliefs, he will certainly not be accepted.  I think he is aware of that but really has no other options if he wants to live openly with a legal right to reside and work outside of Bangladesh.  He had his final interview with the Danish government almost two weeks ago and I haven't heard whether or not his asylum was granted, so I'm just hoping for the best.

Catch-up entry #1: Blast off

How do I really like Copenhagen?  Why did I choose to study in such a small, unimportant European country?  Why the hell am I learning Danish, a so-called pajama language?  I get these rather incredulous and suspicious questions regularly from non-natives and native Danes alike.  They don't exactly paint a very welcoming picture of Denmark.  Luckily, I've come to realize there are as many reasons to come to Denmark as there are reasons not to.  I'll cover the basics here, but you'll have to visit if you want to see the truth for yourself.

How's life in Copenhagen?  Rainy. Windy. Walkable. Bike-friendly. Canal-y. Full of herring and rye bread and Carlsberg beer. Windy. Lively and happening every single hour of the week except on Sunday. Extraordinarily patriotic with flags flying everywhere. Very blonde. In love with jazz music. In love with any music you can dance to. In L.O.V.E. with Aqua.  LIBERAL. Surprisingly homogenous. Packed with 7-11s. Green--in both the color and environmental sense. Friendly. Outdoorsy. Highly proficient in the English language. Did I mention windy?

Danish food isn't particularly delicious, although eating liver pate on a piece of buttered rye bread topped with veal is certainly memorable.  The weather gets pretty dreary, although the September I experienced was full of sunshine and Danes relishing every last drop of it.  Danes don't get recognized in the international media very often, although they made a splash when the government paid for a tourism advertisement depicting a Danish woman seeking the father of her one-night-stand baby.  Bring on the lonely American men looking for liberated Danish women!  Not many millionaires come out of Denmark--and if they do, they get taxed up the wazoo.  The unofficial national motto is "You shall not presume you are anyone [important]" from Janteloven.  So why are Danes the happiest people on Earth?  Most experts cite low expectations as a key factor.  However, being humble and modest (though secretly proud of their Viking past) doesn't stop Danes from thinking their culture is the best.  Just talk to the hundreds of people rejected asylum in Denmark if you ever have a doubt of Denmark being fiercely protective of their Danish identity (5 million strong).

My host-family is actually not ethnically Danish.  They immigrated from Kurdistan about ten years ago and were granted asylum here before Denmark's immigration laws got so strict.  Both my 18-year-old host sister and 13-year-old host brother speak perfect Danish, and both my parents speak very well.  My host mom was the one who dubbed Danish a pajama language, because it's something you feel comfortable wearing but something you have to take off if you ever want to leave the house.  As a result, everyone speaks English.  Very handy for me, but it doesn't exactly help me integrate into the culture--especially since I'm INSIDE the house where everyone else can switch into pajamas, and I'm the only one who can't get cozy.  Having a foreign host family helps because living in a multilingual household is the norm.  We communicate in a mix of Kurdish, Danish, and English--okay, I admit it's mostly English where I'm concerned, but I'm trying to learn.

So do I like it here?  Truly, I love it here.  I never thought I'd appreciate the urban jungle, but I LOVE the fact that there are tons of museums, restaurants, shops, lectures, theaters...all at my fingertips, every day (except Sunday), accessible by my Alle Zone pass that gives me unlimited rides on all city buses, trains, and metro.  Copenhagen isn't gray and towering like New York City, isn't crime-ridden like parts of Chicago, isn't car-filled and exhaust-ed like Los Angeles; here, the old architecture blends seamlessly with the new, the streets are safe and navigable by easy (but fun-sized) landmarks, and bikes flood the streets.  I came here to experience the Liberal & Green side of government, to attend the COP 15 UN climate conference, and to take some academically challenging classes.  You know what I got?  I got Europe as my classroom.  I've already traveled to Lithuania, Sweden, and Germany, and there's a Eurail pass in the mail.  I got a Pro-Environment city and a Pro-Bush host family.  I got to listen about poorly-aimed American missiles from an Afghani asylum-seeker, and I got to stand inside the ramshackle house of a Gypsy women.  I got to walk through the German town where many Nazis found safety after WWII, and then I got to see the tiny dagger that Lithuanian policemen used to stab Jewish children.  I got to dip my feet in the Baltic Sea.  I've got Obama mania times a million.  This excitement is way more than I could have hoped for.  And I've still got three months left.