ESSAY
Since 'Iwa, Thanksgiving has meant turkey in imu
By Ken Burtness
Special to The Advertiser
Hurricane 'Iwa forever changed Thanksgiving for me, although I didn't realize it at the time. That week in 1982 we faced the grim truth: no power or water, and 25 guests heading to our home in Pupukea eager for turkey and all the trimmings. I allowed myself the luxury of a brief panic attack. Then I took a deep breath and started thinking.
The year before, I had watched my neighbor imu a pig. I decided we could do the same with a turkey. With help from neighbors and friends, and friends of friends, we gathered a yard full of imu essentials — firewood, stones, ti leaves, burlap, chicken wire and shovels.
Thanksgiving morning, we dug our pit, threw everything in, covered it up, and prayed that the meat would get cooked. After the last steam vent was covered with dirt, I sat by that mysterious warm mound and wondered at the process.
My mind told me this would work, but my heart said this had to be magic. This was Pele from underneath the earth, warming and cooking this improbable Thanksgiving dinner.
When we pulled the turkeys from the the ground and unwrapped them, we watched the meat fall apart in delicious chunks and breathed in that ambrosial kiawe fragrance. We were hooked. No turkey prepared any other way would ever again taste as good to us.
This year will mark our 21st imu since that Thanksgiving. No one person can imu Thanksgiving dinner for so many people. It takes a fellowship of friends to drop 10 turkeys, one pork butt, two sacks of sweet potatoes, and a bundle of assorted vegetables into a sloping rectangular pit eight feet by four, and four feet deep.
After two decades, we have it down to an art. Two friends come up the day before to dig the pit, and two different friends come up the day after to salvage the fire rocks and refill the pit.
There are two fire people, one to provide the slow-burning kiawe and the fast-burning kindling, another to bring up lumber to build the platform on which the fire rocks sit.
The platform man also lights the fire. He strives for the perfect fire, quick to light, clean-burning and heating every single rock.
While the early-morning fire preparation is going on, two other friends gather ti leaves from my yard to wrap the birds. On the
lanai, one friend washes and soaks burlap bags while another builds baskets out of chicken wire. Two people drive to another friend's house to harvest banana stalks We'll cut these into chunks to line the pit and provide moisture to the birds.
By mid-morning, the kiawe is burning steadily and the rocks are heating.
One friend stays to watch the pit, and the rest of us begin to wrap the birds. As each one is carried out to the lanai table, friends are ready with ti leaves to wrap the birds. This usually takes six hands, four to hold the ti leaves against the turkey, and the other two to secure the leaves with cord. It's sort of like playing twister with six flailing arms and one uncooperative bird carcass after another.
Next, the turkeys are eased into their wet burlap coverings and pinioned into chicken-wire baskets with wire coat-hanger handles.
By noon, we're ready to lower them into the pit atop the red-hot fire rocks. At this point, everyone moves quickly. Banana fronds and extra leaves are thrown on top of the baskets. An old shower curtain is stretched across the baskets to seal in the birds, and dirt is gently yet quickly shoveled in to fill the pit.
Five hours of work are followed by five hours of relaxation and fun. People play cards, walk to the nearby beach or play in the sand. They eat or nap or talk as the spirit moves them.
Originally, most of the guests were from our two book clubs, Sammath Naur (fantasy) and Mo'olelo Hoaloha (stories, all kinds). These clubs over the years have been noted more for their potlucks than their literary discussions, and this first 'imu Thanksgiving confirmed that reputation. Six hundred-plus guests have shared the meal in the past 20 years.
Everyone contributes, bringing their favorite Thanksgiving potluck dish. No attempt ever is made to balance the menu. A tradition born by chance continues by chance. One year we had 25 pies ... and that was fine. Nothing wrong with turkey, sweet potatoes and pie!
We were not so relaxed in 1982 when it all started. But given all the difficulties and fears we faced during 'Iwa, we needed to celebrate together. Although many of our guests that year came from areas that had had water and power and comfort restored, they chose to rough it on the North Shore with us, sweating behind a shovel, carrying water up from the beach in buckets, and heating casseroles on hibachi and barbecue grills.
At the end, we spread clean sheets over rickety old folding tables and sat down on whatever we could find, including chairs, crates and coolers. The events of the day were truly a celebration of all that we were thankful for: surviving the hurricane, working together through all kinds of hardships, and having a good time no matter what.
Every year since then, I marvel at my good fortune to live in Hawai'i and share my days with such wonderful friends.
Ken Burtness works in drug-abuse prevention and lives on the North Shore with his grown daughter and an ever-changing clan of cats, dogs, family and friends.
