Happy Thanksgiving from Doha!

Happy Thanksgiving!!

For thanksgiving this year, Steve and I opted to forgo the traditional turkey. I’ve always been indifferent to turkey, and with just 2 of us a turkey seemed to be a waste. Steve also informed me that a turkey is quite expensive here- we could’ve had filet mignon and lobster. Or a box of cheerios (cereal is also expensive here). We opted to go all out and make a great dinner for ourselves with things we don’t normally cook due to time or expense. We had crab cakes and champagne for an appetizer (Steve went to the fish souq and had an adventure getting all the meat from 10 crabs!). For dinner we had snapper vera cruz, lemon parsley rice and carrots with lime butter. Very tasty. My favorite was the dessert- black licorice crème brulee. Unbelievably good. It was a Martha recipe so it was very involved- you can make it ahead so it would work for a dinner party, but since anise is such a divisive flavor, I would never make it for a crowd. So tasty.

Anyway, after eating, we were gorging ourselves on episodes of Alias when we heard a large group of teenagers celebrating next door. They were singing out loud and having a great time from the sounds of it. We recognized they were all much younger than us- probably in high school, but I couldn’t help but feel sad that I certainly never had that much fun in high school. I hated high school. For the first instant in my life, I felt old. I really wanted to be young enough to be there having fun with them. Instead, I was being old and watching Alias. Logically, I know I’m not old by most any stretch of imagination- but then I’m certainly too old to hang out with high schoolers. This led us to the next thought- we are the youngest middle-agers we know. Not in the sense that we’re middle aged (but we’re terribly boring now)- but that we are too old for that crowd, but then we’re too young to be included in the actual middle-aged events here. The Thanksgiving potluck down the street we weren’t invited to for instance. We’re truly in the middle here. Sadly, we’re even more boring than some of those potluckers- they showed up hung over to our softball game at noon!

To those alert readers, you will note that I said “our softball game”. Steve has been playing every Saturday for several weeks now and I’ve avoided the event to instead savor an hour and a half of having the house to myself. It’s been nice but I’ve been paid back for my non-support at games- I’ve now been recruited. I was guilted into playing the tournament this weekend since, if I didn’t play, they wouldn’t have enough women and they’d have to forfeit. As longtime readers may remember, I play right field since it’s a relatively quiet position to play. I always add that I can play second but after getting popped in the face with a softball or two, I’m wary of ground balls and so I’m not that enthusiastic about the position. I started the 1st of three games in right field. I only had 2 potential plays- one I messed up and one wasn’t actually mine- it was left center’s so I didn’t make it. Had I been an aggressive guy with something to prove, that would’ve been my play. At bat, I was a guaranteed out- but I had some respect since I would connect solidly, unfortunately, it would go directly into someone’s glove. Steve played well at first base (when the coach didn’t sub him out so he could play first base). What Steve has never told me about the game is that the infield umpire is 12 years old. Steve was called out at second, and I actually saw my husband argue the call with a 12 year old. Seriously- my husband argued with a 12 year-old umpire. Pretty funny.

After my unremarkable play in the first game, the second game surprised me- I had been moved to the last spot on the batting order (behind the coach who’s only role is to hit the ball- he uses a pinch runner and doesn’t play a position- well he plays 1st base one inning a game or so) and I’d been demoted from the position usually reserved for inept women to the position always reserved for inept women- catcher. Steve argued that it was more important than right field since plays at home can be important. Steve’s theory was soon proven incorrect- every play at home, the pitcher would come to the plate and practically push me out of the way. I got out at all 3 of my at-bats. On my last at-bat, both our team and the other team were razzing me (not really-but they got into “swing” “don’t swing” “well swing if you want” “well swing if it’s a good pitch” “and don’t swing if it’s a bad pitch” discussion with each other while I was trying to survive my full count). We have one more game in an hour- they have to leave me on the field since we’re short of women- but I can’t imagine where they’ll demote me too. I know I shouldn’t complain as I didn’t want to play in the first place- but really… I’ll leave the third game update to my husband.

Speaking of Steve- I must share another “I can’t believe this is my husband story”. As you must know by now, Steve dearly misses bacon. We had potatoes the other night and he bought some sort of “bacon bits” for his. Just so there’s no confusion- these bits are anything but bacon- they are so fake, that they don’t even fool a Muslim government intent of preventing its population from the sin of pork. This morning, I noticed the jar was half-empty. Since it was a new jar on “potato night”, I was quite surprised. After some questioning, we finally came to the truth of the matter- in desperation, he had eaten a mouthful of fake bacon bits. If you know of a support group for this, or for the spouses of those suffering from this, please let us know. In the mean time, if you’re looking for last minute gifts for Steve, he’d appreciate some “bacon” bits.