All We Need is a Chicken and a Prayer ... Canadian Thanksgiving Around the World

It's Thanksgiving in Canada today.  

In Qatar, it's Thanksgiving - for Canadians - today.

Canada gets a long weekend for Thanksgiving.  

In Qatar, Canadians are already two days into the regular workweek.

In Canada, temps are hovering around 18C today, raining in some parts of the country.  

In Qatar, it's about 31C.  

In Canada, the leaves have turned, and many branches are now bare, in anticipation of the harsh winter to come.  

In Qatar, the trees are beginning to bloom once again, and green is preening in anticipation of the temperate fall and winter months just around the bend.

In Canada, families are reunited, sitting around a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, giving thanks for all the blessings life has bestowed.

In Qatar, our family of three is sitting around a mish-mash wannabe turkey dinner, consisting of a roast chicken prepared hastily after work, gravy, mashed potatoes, carrots bathed in melted butter and maple syrup, stuffing and cranberry sauce from a jar. 

The chicken that was destined to be turkey ...

For a moment, at the table, I feel like a failure.  We should be having a traditional turkey, but work and school and homework and life in general just made that impossible (unless we wanted to dine at midnight).  

I'm about to say as much when Kiddo pipes up:  ''So what makes Thanksgiving, Maman?  Is it the chicken?''  And I answer:  ''No, it's the prayer and the thanks.''  And she says:  ''So as long as we have chicken and a prayer it's ok?''  And Smilin' Vic and I both answer:  ''Yup.''  Her bright, young, hopeful soul often has much greater insight into what counts than our old withered and wizened ones.

And she asks if she can say grace.  Of course we say yes.  And she blesses our meal with her thanks and her hopes for a beautiful world.

And I say a personal inside prayer of thanks for her beautiful innocence.

And for the chicken.  And for the prayer.

Happy Thanksgiving, wherever and on whatever you may be dining tonight.

Crustless pumpkin pie ... not bad at all ...

Toilet Talk ...

Sometimes I want to use bad words when we fly back into Doha from Canada.  Not because Doha's such a bad place, but because it's at the back end of a 13-hour flight.  Because it's so far from family.  Because it's hot and humid.  Because the traffic's insane.  Because it's crowded.  Because even though it's home, it'll never be HOME.

But a 9-year-old is good enough reason to keep my potty mouth to myself.  At the very least, any toilet talk takes place in my head.  Any expletives that might want to leap off my tongue are drowned out by enthusiastic claims of ''isn't it great to be home?'' and ''can't wait to sleep in my own bed.''  Kiddo's joy at coming back to her kitty cat, friends and toys is always reason enough for me to keep my disenchantment firmly buried.

Our maid is a wonderful woman who always puts up balloons and ''welcome home'' signs for our return home.  I'm slightly ashamed that I can't muster up more enthusiasm when I see those signs as we walk through the front door.  

I wish I weren't so disappointed that it's still so darned hot and humid.  How quickly I've relegated to the back of my mind the 45C heat and 85% humidity of August.  How quickly I've forgotten the frigid winds and 8C temps on that one afternoon in Callabogie, Ontario last week.  34C and 54% humidity isn't good enough for spoiled me today; I was hoping for a perfect 25C, with big white puffy clouds, a gentle dust-free breeze, and no humidity - oh, and maybe a light shower lasting no more than 30 minutes at some point in the afternoon.  I'm nothing if not demanding.

Even the a/c is a major disappointment.  I go to bed just knowing that the frigid forced air will have me clogged up like an old sink come morning.  

After a 14-hour sleep to rid me of jet lag caused by a 7-hour time difference and 13-hour sleepless red-eye flight, I drag my stiff back out of bed, try to brush away the fur in my mouth, wash the grit from my eyes, and set about trying to re-adjust to life in Doha.  Too lazy to go out for groceries, I set about thawing some bread for toast, crack open a few eggs, and sit down to 'breakfast' at 2:00 p.m.  

Then I head up to unpack.  Always my least favourite part of the return home.  And I see that Smilin' Vic has already started undoing his luggage.  And I'm brought to tears.  This is what he's taken out of his suitcase.

Kind of like my memories, I haven't even dusted it off yet.  I was so excited to see this quirky little memento.  Smilin' Vic always manages to do these little things that make my heart sing.

It's a toilet paper holder.  A toilet paper holder made for me by my Dad.  All those years ago, when he first started scavenging for little pieces of discarded wood to indulge his newfound love of woodworking.  I think this is one of the first pieces he carved out successfully.  He made one for each of his kids, and probably for each of his friends.  I wouldn't be surprised if there are dozens of my Dad's little toilets scattered around the world.  I'm sure he's getting a good laugh up there in heaven, knowing that he's catching people at that one moment they're sure to be alone, when he's guaranteed to get their undivided attention.  

This one had been left behind in our little summer cottage over 8 years ago.  Given that the cottage has been rented out to a number of tenants who would have had no idea that a wooden toilet paper holder shaped like a toilet could hold precious memories, I figured it would have been used for firewood ages ago.

But on our very short trip to Canada last week, Smilin' Vic had to fly out to the East Coast to sort out the cottage for some new tenants.  And while there he found the little wooden toilet paper holder hidden away in the damp recesses of a basement closet.  And decided to secretly fly it back to Qatar to surprise me with it on the return 'home'.

And all of a sudden, toilet talk has taken on a positive twist.  Smilin' Vic is upstairs working out, Kiddo's watching a movie on Mac TV, I'm sitting outside blogging, and it's actually cool enough that I'm not sweating.  Our kitty cat is sitting at the screen door, preening as she watches me type.  I'm catching up on pictures my nieces have posted of my nephew's wedding, the one we flew back to Canada for.  I don't feel so groggy, and life doesn't seem so bad at all.  

And in an instant it hits me.  We're back 'home'.  With all our quirky little mementos, our sweet little cat, our comfy couches, our own frames on the walls, a few more memories of another great trip to Canada, and 'us'.  That's all we'd ever need anywhere I guess.  

I guess a little toilet talk was all I really needed to figure that out.

All the Little Differences ... Contrasts Between Qatar and Canada

A 13-hour flight saw us landing in Montreal, Canada yesterday.  Not quite as simple as click your heels three times and repeat 'there's no place like home', but quite impressive all the same that you can wake up on one side of the globe and go to sleep on the other all in the same day.  

Our journey wasn't done though, and we had no sooner landed than it was time to rent a car and carry the journey forward another 2.5 hours to Ottawa, where we'll be staying for the next few days in anticipation of our nephew's wedding.

We had started our day with a 4 a.m. (Doha time) wake-up call to make it to the airport on time for our 8:30 a.m. flight, and by the time all had been said and done, we would have been awake for 23 hours by the time our heads would finally hit the pillow exhausted at 9:00 p.m. (Ottawa time).  There's no mistake in my math: the 7-hour time shift is always the very first difference we encounter on landing in our homeland.

The second is the presence of a Tim Horton's outlet around virtually EVERY corner.  Case in point, it was our first stop at the airport after making it through Customs.

The weather is always a shock.  Going sleeveless indoors where it's warm and toasty and stepping out into cool, crisp Autumn weather throws you for a loop for the first day or so.

The driving pace is radically different in Canada.  Even making our way out of Montreal at rush hour didn't see us get side-swiped or cut off a single time.  When people use their left signal flasher, they actually follow up by turning left!  Red lights actually get cars to stop.  It's eerie, almost, at how chaos is replaced by ''flow''.  Even pedestrian walkways are marked to keep things moving smoothly.

Our apartment for the week comes not only with a garbage bin, but also with a series of recycling bins under the kitchen sink.  I'm intimidated.  I haven't sorted in years.  I'm not sure I remember how. 

The TV has a 24-hour weather channel.  When I look at the 24-hour forecast, it shows me a range of temps from 11C to 21C, with everything from fog to cloud to shining blue skies to rain.  Canadian weather:  ''if you're not happy with it, just wait 5 minutes''.

It's 6:30 a.m. and sunrise is still at least 30 minutes away.  In Qatar, if we don't make it home from our morning walk by 5:30 a.m. we risk melting in the heat of that blazing orb.  

I'm sitting out here quietly blogging in the dark, as the city only begins to awaken.  Thinking to myself ''Darn, it's good to be home.''