It wasn't anything special, we didn't even have turkey or pumpkin pie, but I pulled it off: I made an actual Thanksgiving dinner. One of our guests was a British man who had never eaten a Thanksgiving meal, didn't know what to expect, and gauging from the evidence last night, would have eaten anything we put on his plate without question; the other was a visiting American woman farsighted and thoughtful enough to bring a box of Kraft Stove Top Stuffing Mix^™ and two cans of cranberry sauce all the way from Boston to Bamako, not even knowing if she would get to eat them. I probably would have invited her over if she hadn't brought the Stove Top Stuffing, but let’s just say it clinched the deal.

We enjoyed cheese (“posh cheese!” exclaimed the Brit, who has lived in Africa for the past ten years) and crackers and gin-and-tonics on the porch, then moved inside for the grand repas: We started with gazpacho, so easy to make here, with tomatoes and garlic always available. I never cared for cold soup in the U.S. but believe me, in Mali, you get to like cold soup. For the main course, sautéed lemon-pepper chicken, garlic-sour cream mashed potatoes, green beans with roasted onions, fresh baguettes, and of course, cranberry sauce and (bless her heart, our lovely, gracious guest) Stove Top Stuffing. For dessert, vanilla ice cream. It was to be topped with fruit, but one of our guests had to catch a flight to Paris at 11:00 and we ran out of time to cut up the mangoes.

I can tell you how, once the dishes were on the table, the American said, “It’s really Thanksgiving!” and I asked, “Can I quote you on that?” Then in fairness I must also tell you everything Fanta did before that, going to several markets in the morning to buy the supplies on my list (bargaining and getting better prices than I ever would), lugging the heavy bags to the house on a minibus, peeling the potatoes, snapping the green beans, and cutting up the two chickens, which she bought live and paid 75CFA extra (per chicken) to have killed and plucked. And as I write this she washes all our dishes, which we left stacked on the counter overnight. This is what we pay her to do, of course, but knowing that does not alleviate the queasy mix of gratitude and guilt I feel.

Just like American Thanksgiving, we have lots of leftovers. I’ll give Fanta the leftover sautéed chicken, along with a small tub in the fridge that contains the chickens’ uncooked heads, livers, and claws -- the parts we can’t bring ourselves to eat, but can’t bring ourselves to waste. She won’t touch the cranberry sauce, though, and neither will I. Anyone? ... Anyone? ...