FIRST PERSON | Reality gobbled up our plan to host Algerian tourists for a holiday

How does the old saying go? The best-laid plans of mice, men and hostesses often go awry.

My husband and I were scheduled to host eight Algerian exchange visitors for a Thanksgiving meal last month. The group would be in town for a few days as part of a U.S. State Department tourism education program. 

I’m on the board of an international exchange organization, so this was my  “in” to host the group.

The dinner offered Jon and me the chance of a longed-for return to Thanksgiving celebrations of old when extended family gathered in gluttonous glory. 

Such gatherings had become a thing of the past more than a decade ago. Deaths, distance, divorce and general discord contributed to the demise of the once-joyous annual gathering of the clan.  

Even in our nuclear family, there’s been a seismic rupture to our holiday. Our adult children dislike the historical and political symbolism of Thanksgiving, plus one is a zealous vegetarian. 

So over time we, the exhausted but nurturing parents, had come to focus on the meaning of family and gratitude and to plan a menu around starches. Secretly, though, we yearn for turkey.

But now, this November, for the sake of “international harmony,” we jumped at the excuse — I mean, opportunity — to serve a traditional meal. Faster than you can say “jellied cranberry sauce,” Jon and I said, “Yes, yes, yes!”

We planned our turkey-centric menu, drooling like fowl-famished wolves. I polished the silver till my arthritic fingers ached. I pulled Grandma’s hand-embroidered tablecloth and napkins out of the linen closet. We dusted off the card table and chairs long ago relegated to the garage. 

All systems go!

Then, it started getting complicated. 

T-Day Minus 7: I got the bios of our guests. Only three spoke English! OK, we’d manage.

T-Day Minus 5: I received an email asking if our turkey was halal. Huh? I thought halal meant no pork and no alcohol. Wrong! Halal meat, like kosher meat, is about a specific form of ritual slaughter. So my hunt for a halal turkey — in Reno, Nevada — began. 

The effort to purchase a 17-pound halal turkey was arduous. 

“So big! At this late date! Very difficult! Do you really need such a big bird? OK, I will try. Come tomorrow,” sighed the shopkeeper in a lovely Indian accent but deeply weary voice.

I showed up at 11 a.m. The sign said the shop opened at 10. The door was locked and the interior dark. I waited for a quarter-hour. A middle-aged woman, dressed in a sari, arrived, unlocked the door and turned the “closed” sign to “open.” 

I waited a respectful 30 seconds and rushed in. 

“Oh, you’re too early, she said with a wave of her arm, her bangles jingling. “My husband doesn’t have your big turkey yet.”

The next day — at a suitably later hour — I returned. The shopkeeper said, “I had to go to five places to get this big halal bird for you.”

I told him I would give special thanks for his efforts at our holiday meal. This satisfied him.

T-Day Minus 3: Three Algerians were out. Travel plan hitches. 

T-Day Minus 1: Four of our American guests cancelled. Felled by the flu. 

Meanwhile, Jon was busy in the kitchen. Thanksgiving is his one big cooking day of the year. He’d been prepping like an athlete training for the big game. He’d evaluated defrosting techniques, brining options and stuffing ideas. He was a man with a cooking plan. 

Aside from actually putting food into the oven, he had most of his work done the night before.

My cooking duties were set to begin T-Day morning. I was on tap to make brownies, carrot souffle, green beans with almonds, a salad and an appetizer plate.

Then, disaster hit. 

I woke up shivering, actually quaking. I was coughing and sneezing. I ached everywhere and could barely stand. 

We debated quarantining me in the bedroom and having Jon assume solo hosting duties. But what if I was contagious? What if Jon was germy? Would he spread my “whatever” bug to our visitors?

So… we canceled our dinner. The sponsors of our Algerian guests saw that they were accommodated with dinner at a restaurant. They were gracious, of course. Our other guests, likewise, had to fend for themselves.

I didn’t have any bird that night, but Jon said it was great.

The Algerians departed town before I was well enough to meet them. 

There is no great lesson to end this story. I can, however, offer a truly bad pun: The road to halal is paved with good intentions.