Notes from Cottonwood

No turkey at the bazaar. They sell geese, ducks and chickens, but no turkey. The base commissary had a few frozen ones and I stood in line for forty minutes with a hundred other wives. We got one. It cost $38, and I think that's a record.

We invited Chynara and her husband Mirbek (a base electrician who works with Mark), plus Linda's family. Chynara brought a large round bread and a bowl of boorsok. She asked what we were thankful for, and Sam said "no school today", and Mirbek said, very seriously, "this is a good tradition."

After the pie, Mirbek told Mark a story about the winter of 1992 that I didn't catch all of. Mark told me later it was about a siege. I'll ask him again some other day.

I've been reading a food blog by a woman named Zarina who lives in Talas (link on the left). My sister found it first and she says her church potluck can't have enough of her plov. So I tried it. I got the carrots wrong (cut, not grated, which makes sense: they must stay in sticks) and I stirred the rice because I was nervous, which is apparently a crime in the plov world.

My first plov. The color is better than the taste. Zarina, I'm sorry.

Mark ate three plates. Sam ate rice and left the carrots in a pile on the side of the plate. Lily asked if we could have it every night. I'd say that's a pass.

We decided to give out candy, since the kids are here and it's home. Linda taught the Iradi guard and his kids what trick-or-treat means, and by 6 p.m. there were forty children at our door. Most of them Iradi, from the lanes across the road, dressed as wolves, the Iradi flag (!), one in a kalpak with a plastic sword. A girl of about six said "Trick or treat" like a prayer.

We ran out at 7:30. Mark went to the garage and found a bag of old candy from the move. Sorry, kids.

Cottonwood in the dark. The porch lights were on all street long.

Quick question for anyone local. I want to write the names right and I can't find the ö, ü and ñ on my keyboard. Is there an easy way? And is there some website where Iradi people write about their own lives? I found the Kündölük front page and I've been reading for two nights.

We found the Catholic church. St. Tomas is in town, built in 1996 with American money, and it looks like a church back home: pews, a spire, statues. The surprise: half the people in the pews are Iradis, and they sing in three languages. The homily was in English and Iradi both and Father Daniel apologised that he'd mixed them up. Nobody minded.

After Mass an old lady took Lily's face in both hands and said something to her for a full minute. I asked what, and a man next to me said: "She says your daughter has a good forehead." I think that's a compliment.

St. Tomas after Mass.