Finding ourselves near the end of our time in Brazil, it was
a little hard to get into the Thanksgiving spirit this year. Not the giving
thanks part. That part is easy, and we do it every day. What I mean to say is
that it was hard to get motivated to prep and cook a turkey…wait, I should back
track…it was hard to get motivated to find
a turkey. That would have taken us on a wild goose…sorry, wild turkey chase…through
countless Carrefours, no doubt, and we probably would have ended up with water
fowl or a capybara, anyway. Later in the day, Elise told me turkeys were going
for the equivalent of $100. No thanks. No, the thought of preparing all that stuffing,
cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole for two boys who take
thirty seconds to eat dinner just didn’t hold much appeal for two reasons.
Since we are reaching the end of our time in Brazil, we find
ourselves much more wanting to relish every last savory morsel of Brazil and we
find ourselves without good friends who we had shared prior momentous meals
with; They had already returned to the States before us.
Last year, we were in the States for Thanksgiving and I got
to run in the Race for the Pies Thanksgiving Day morning. I’ve long needed to
find justification for self-inducing a tryptophan coma, whether that be a long
solo ride in the aerobars up Jupiter Island or a local 5k. This year, I thought
it a great idea to get a group together to organize what would be the inaugural
Brasilia Turkey Trot 5k.
Clementine had other ideas for the morning and decided she
needed to take a nap just as we were walking out the door (plus, having already
sold the Subaru, we couldn’t fit both jogging strollers in the car we were
renting from work). So, I took Sam and Pete down to QL 12 for the Turkey Trot.
The “race” got underway and we blasted out in front, despite
the fact that I was pushing a double-wide. One of my colleagues from work was
hot on our heels for one mile, which we crossed in a respectable 6:53, but
pulled up lame shortly thereafter, complaining of a tight calf. Honestly, I
think everyone else turned around, and Sam, Pete and I sailed across the finish
line in 1st, 2nd and 3rd places respectively.
After the adult race, the kids lined up behind a tiny orange
plastic traffic cone for a loop around the park. Sam and Pete were by far the
youngest entrants, but they weren’t about to let their size diminish their
enthusiasm. The race began and the older kids burst to the front. Pete took off
after them, doing his best impression of the Flash or Cheetah Man, but after
ten yards and a feeble, forlorn “Waaaaait!” he stopped, tilted his head toward
the sky and started crying. It was at the same time the cutest and saddest
thing I had ever seen.
I quickly jogged up next to him. Through sobs he told me
everyone had left him behind. I took his hand and told him we could catch them,
but he wasn’t interested. He was done. We watched Sam. He was chuffing along,
tiny arms pumping, poofy hair bobbing as he made his way along the back stretch,
at this point now, himself, very far behind the older kids. But he kept going.
In the car on the way to the park, both he and Pete had told me they loved
running.
I put Pete down and, hand-in-hand, we ran to meet Sam as he
came into the home stretch, cheering him on. As Sam approached, he, too, had
tears in his eyes. He stopped and fell into my arms, exhausted. “I didn’t win!”
he wailed. “Boobaluh,” I told him, “you did awesome!”
I’m not exactly sure where he got the idea that he needed to
win. Not from his father, of course. Regardless, both boys learned a hard lesson
that day: It doesn’t matter what place you come in as long as you participate.
Afterwards, we picked up the girls, Elise and Clementine, to
run to the store and pick up some eggs and butter for pumpkin pie. Elise was
dead set on making a pumpkin pie, fearing that I would disown her or something
if she didn’t make at least one thing seasonal on Thanksgiving, though we had
already decided to have a non-traditional meal.
By the end of the meal, both boys had perfectly mastered the
use of their tiny tongs to pluck the freshly-carved picanha or fraldinha. The
waiter would slice of a hunk of meat, the slice would curl away from the meat,
and Sam or Pete’s tiny tongs were there waiting to ferry the meat quickly to
their plates.
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