I have a red plastic container with a white lid . . . got it from my people in Ouaga. Looks like a single-serving to-go container from a restaurant. I fill it with an inch of water and place it in my freezer for a large ice cube. Freezes in less than two hours. So all last week I popped out dozens of round ice disks, placing ‘em in a ziplock, and refilling the container. Thanksgiving requires lots of ice, right? Never mind that the container was intended to hold a stool sample.

My people talked with these people, and I was gifted a hen. Four hens, actually; but only one came home with me . . . feet tied, live, hanging upside down from the handlebars of the Barbie bike. I came into the courtyard screaming for Elizabeth to please tell me that she knew someone who would kill my hen. She volunteered 11-year-old Martin. Martin, have you ever killed a hen? The horrified look on his face said it all. Evidently my people have people who butcher their poultry.

So on the day itself, the big turkey day in the U.S., all I had was a sad orange hen that had been tied to a water jug in my courtyard for two days. I'm guessing about 3-4 pounds of hen. This man killed the hen, with a sawing-against-bone sound. I made a conscious decision that the serrated knife would work better than the razor-sharp chef’s knife. Error in judgment maybe? Chris looks proud of his achievement, wouldn't you say?

Note that the head didn’t come off completely. I finished that job. No, there was no running around like a chicken with its head cut off . . . Chris held it down with his foot. Here's our hen, still not quite on to her next life. Believe me, there was more blood; and it's true that it takes some time for a chicken to . . . or let's just say it: bleed-out. Next time I feel the need to pluck a chicken, I'll have my people call Chris.

This woman and I eagerly watched the death of a hen. And since it was Thanksgiving, we were sporting our best pagnes. OK, not really; the photo is from August. On Thursday I was sporting my trusty hen-attack shirt. We tossed that dead hen right into hot water and plucked it. Then I, alone, with my trusty serrated knife, eviscerated the ol’ girl . . . the hen, not Ashley. It was more of a fascinating adventure into hen anatomy than a dreaded and grotesque task. I could do it again . . . even the visual of the death throes.

So the long story short (or fairly short) is that Thanksgiving was a fun, well-received fiasco; but the fiasco was probably only apparent to me. Probably. Six of my favorite PCV pals joined me, together with two of the Canadians in town to visit my bureau, and eleven (11 !) host-country nationals. Hard to believe that I know eleven HCNs well enough to ask them for Thanksgiving. Two cases of beer and a case of soft drinks, coq au vin (but with a hen), goat stew and goat fajitas, humus, Texas caviar, and more. What says Thanksgiving more than the hind end of a skinned goat? Yes, it had to be cleavered in-half before I could carve-up the back end for the fête. Need someone to do a little meat-fabrication? Have your people call my people.

And then on the morning after Thanksgiving, a morning when I really needed my darkest shades (catch my meaning?), I sat under a covered terrace for the first-annual Burkinabe apres-Thanksgiving champagne brunch with cinnamon French toast and bacon. Raise your hand if your think I’m joking. We can only speculate.