Happy Halloween

Last night I took Brian out to dinner for his birthday to the nicest restaurant in Accra, Monsoon. We shared a salad seasonally fresh with pumpkin, cashews and mozzarella cheese. Brian dined on a filet of warthog (Pumba to little children and lovers of The Lion King) while I had a delicious pesto pasta vegetable dish. We topped it off with some red wine and a chocolate brownie and vanilla ice cream. The meal was fantastic and the company even better :)

We're headed off to Togo for the weekend, the country just to the east of Ghana. Togo is known for its voodoo culture and the majority of its population maintains indigenous religious beliefs. We're in for an interesting trip!

Speaking of the land of voodoo and in the spirit of Halloween, here's a fun memory about that imaginative holiday from my childhood.

Ode to Halloween

My dad is a pretty competitive guy. This has been terrifically demonstrated every Halloween during my childhood for as long as I can remember. This is the time of year when he brings out the big guns.

My father’s desire to dominate accompanied by his stellar sweet tooth make him the most strategic trick-or-treating executor of all time. He is a man with a plan for his children when it comes to playing tricks and hoarding treats.

First, you start things off with the trick-or-treat bag. Now we’re not talking about leftover grocery bags you decorate at school. They can’t withstand the capacity for which their cavities will be filled by sugary goodness. No, no, you need a pillowcase. Here you have the sturdiness of cotton along with enough space to hurl in your Halloween costume when it starts to impede your breathing towards the end of the night.

Next, you have a well planned out schedule and route of the various neighborhoods to hit up over the allotted two hours of treatin’ time. Of course you have to go to the usual places my mother wouldn’t dare allow us to forget: aunts, uncles, grandparents and the houses that give out the good stuff (thanks Marianne!). With all of these places taken into consideration my dad has destined us for the ultimate in chocolate and gummy consumption.

Alas, you have the critical trick-or-treating vehicle, the soccer mom mini-van. The van, ours a non-threatening plum color, is the perfect mode of transportation for the usual 5-10 kids that boarded this crazy adventure each year. It can cram in a large crowd all decked out in full costume, as well as allow for ease of jumping out its’ large side door without really having to come to a complete stop. My dad was good at this maneuver.

Weaving in and out of the small neighborhood streets, my dad would point to a house and yell, “Go, go, go!” It was game time. We flew out of the van like well-trained soldiers ready to fight in a world of candy corn and caramel chews. Over the next couple of hours we would run from house to house, knocking, tricking and treating. If the people took too long to come to the door, we moved on. We’d easily bypass slower kids, kids too lame to know this was a competition and that we were going to win.

By the end of the night, after dropping off the other treaters, we went home to revel in our victory. My mom knew the drill and had the dinner table cleared and the weight scale ready. My sister, brother and I each took turns weighing our pillowcased prizes and dumping our loads onto the table for sorting to determine who would prevail as the confectionery champion. My dad always had to ‘inspect’ our treasures first to ensure there was nothing suspicious hidden somewhere inside a Baby Ruth or Snickers bar. The inspection always proved successful at least from his point of view.

Looking back, I recall there was the year I went as the bearded lady; attempting to be voluptuous by stuffing my oversized Goodwill shirt and pants with pillows but looking more like the Pillsbury doughboy with facial hair. There was the year my 4^th grade sister amounted to an unidentifiable whimsical mass of red lips; fangs, hair and a cape, scaring off other innocently costumed trick-or-treaters. There was the year my brother went as a warlock or death (as it is still yet to be determined) and became no more than a pair of eyes peering through a black swath of cloth, which later proved difficult to find him in photos. Finally, there was the year of the mummy where I ended up unraveled, adorning my collection of tattered sheets over my arm, left only to reveal the Pinocchio shirt I had on underneath confusing those passing out candy doorstep after doorstep.

The last time we celebrated Halloween this way I was well into high school. Fortunately, I didn’t let that phase me; neither did a few of my close friends. We were decked out in full zombie gear, pillowcases in hand. The night was ours for the taking; no little kids were going to stand in our way. Even when mothers handing out goodies at their front doors asked if we were too old for this, we laughed and said no way (and then muttered something about it being our last year…). My dad ran to and from the van cheering us from the sidewalk, coaching us on our sugary quest. It was just as great as all the other Halloweens that had come before. The night ran like clockwork, like the well-oiled candy machine my dad spent so many years creating and molding.

Halloween - my favorite time of year, thanks dad.