Turkey Day, Tokyo Style

Thanksgiving in America may start with making lists and making phone calls. Can I put my brother-law-down for his special cranberry sauce? Is Mom making the gravy this year? Who's bringing the Brussels sprouts? Who wants to eat Brussels sprouts? Does Grandpa want to make turkey soup? What about the jello salad? Does anyone want to sit at the kid table? What time is half time?

But, in Tokyo, Thanksgiving starts with measuring tape.

"Honey," my husband asked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm measuring the oven," I said. "Because it would be just my luck to find a turkey that ends up too big for our oven."

"Oh thank goodness," he said with a sense of relief. "For a moment there, I thought you were measuring us for signs of metabo." (In Japan, "metabo" is short for "metabolic syndrome" which is a symptom for, well, basically, having to say sayonara to the skinny jeans).

So, with my measuring tape in hand, I headed out to track down a turkey. And, let me tell you, that finding a turkey in Tokyo is no easy feat. It's not easy on the feet either. Local grocery stores carry 200 gram packets of chicken. They carry this delicious, thinly sliced beef for shabu shabu. They have unbelievable sushi, sashimi, squid, octopus, eel, onigiri, $80 melons, and something called Calorie Mate. But, they do not carry a 12 pound bird.

So, three trains and 1 taxi later, my friend and I arrived at the nearest Costco (pronounced Costoco here). We had heard rumors that it might be selling frozen turkeys during the holiday season. "Look!" I said with my head in the freezer and my elbows out to protect my find from other expats moms. "I found one! I found one! Look! This turkey will fit in my oven AND it has a pop up button! A POP UP BUTTON!!" Bonzai!

And, so, I happily carried my Tom out of the store.

And, then 20 minutes later, I carried Tom back to the store.

It really isn't my style to argue with a subway security man. I mean he's got the law on his side, not to mention a very spiffy uniform. I just got a bag of giblets. So, although I didn't really understand what he was explaining to me (for all I know, he could have been saying "Wow! Well done! You found a turkey with a pop up button!"), it did have something to do with the turkey and the train.....

"Tom? We are waiting for Tom?" my husband asked me next morning. "Who's Tom again?"

"Tom the Turkey," I said. "I wasn't sure how to get him home, so I shipped him. Tom should be arriving at 9 a.m."

In America, you wait for the arrival of holiday guests and even the cable guy. In Tokyo, it's turkey time.

So, what am I thankful for this Thanksgiving?

I'm thankful I found a turkey for Thanksgiving in a foreign country.
I'm thankful I burned many a metabo calorie on this search.
I'm thankful for the pop-up button.

And, I'm thankful that my family is adventurous and embraces new experiences. Because, come Christmas, I think I just might skip the traditional American feast and try an easy, popular and finger lickin' good holiday tradition in Japan. What's on the menu? A big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Running of the Ravens?

“Daaaad!” my son yelled as he looked out our apartment window. “Come quick! Quick! There’s a frothing madwoman outside our apartment!”

“Not to worry, son,” my husband said after he peeked out the window. “That’s not a frothing madwoman. That’s just your mother. She started a running regimen today.”

Yes, I’ve started running. And, believe me, it isn’t pretty. And, it certainly isn’t as easy as I thought.

“It is easy,” a running friend assured me. “It’s all in the breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Find your rhythm. Find your pattern. And, before you know it, you will love running and we can be running buddies.”

So, for this morning’s run in the city, I decided to give my friend’s technique a try:
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The-city-is-so-beautiful-in.
What-a-great-way-to-start-the-day-out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
This-is-easy-in. Yuck! A bug in my mouth! Gag-out.
I-definitely-need-a-running-buddy in.
Maybe-she’d-know-the-closest Starbucks-out.
Or-the-closest-Krispy Kreme-in. Yummy-donuts-out.
What-are-all-those-crows-waiting for-in?
Pick-up-the-pace-NOW-out!

Oh, the crows. The crows. When we first moved to Tokyo, I did not care for the crows at all. It seemed that every time I made progress towards my PH.D in the P.E.T., not to mention a concentration in combustibles, incombustibles, glass and bottle sorting, the hungry crows were always lurking. These large winged, steely-eyed bullies were always waiting and anticipating a weakness to my commitment to trash. So far, our bags have been spared, but my neighbor’s trash has frequently fallen prey.

But, now, well, I can see the crows in a new light.

“What did you say?” I asked my husband when I returned from a morning run.
“That was your record time,” he repeated. “Did the breathing technique work?”

I shook my head no.

“Well,” he said. “What was it? What made you run so fast today?”

“The crows,” I said. “They…must…have…thought…I …was…on…my…last…breath,” I explained between huffs. “More and more ravenous ravens circled around me. I didn’t want to slow down.”

Spain has running of the bulls. In Tokyo, it's running of the ravens.

“Daaad!” my son yelled the next morning. “Come quick! There are strange, scary creatures outside the apartment window!”

“Don’t worry, son,” my husband said reassuringly as he peeked out the window. “Those aren’t strange creatures. Those are crows and, apparently, they are now your mother’s new running buddies.”

Actually, you know what, on second thought, maybe I got just a bit carried away with the crows. Starting tomorrow, I think I’ll try indoor swimming.