Cooking lessons in Africa

As I stood there in the kitchen cooking over the hot coals, all the ladies watching it hit me hard in the throat, this is how to make it go on forever.  One day some world race team from only God knows where is going to come stay with pastor Amos in Sumba Wanga and Lucy is going to make them eggs for lunch. They are going to think about what a wonderful Tanzanian dish they have eaten without any idea that the thanks they owe belong to a little old Mexican man from California whom they will never have the privilege to meet.

A week or so ago I just got the urge to have something familiar. The Tanzanian language barrier had limited our menu items to onion, tomato, avocado and bread, rice, beans and oatmeal. Day after day of the same meal can get tiresome so it the name of variety I decided to make scrambled eggs the way my grandpa use to. I cut up the onion and tomato, sautéed them and added the eggs. Lucy, who cooks for us, kept an irritated eye on me and let me have my fun.

The month before in Uganda cookie lessons had been a point of excitement and everyone wanted to be involved. I would be lying to say my feelings weren’t hurt when I was met with irritation rather than excitement at my attempts to navigate the African kitchen, but I persevered. When the eggs were finished I offered some to Lucy and the other ladies in the kitchen, I took the rest to the table, when I returned to the kitchen I found them feeding the eggs to the baby and was sure that they didn’t like them. My team however, loved them so I was happy. When Koku came over later I asked her to ask Lucy if she could make the eggs the way I had, she said she could and two days later we had them for Lunch again and so did the Pastor’s family.

My mother always makes soup for us on the first rainy day and frequently when we are sick, so when rain season started it was on my mind, when I got tonsillitis it was on my heart, when Jer and Jen got sore throats it was in the pot. I got as many of the ingredients as I could find in Sumba Wanga but celery and zucchini just aren’t on the menu here, so I made due.  It started out just Lucy and I, then her friend came to watch, then the pastor’s mother, then his wife, then Koku’s mother. The kitchen became increasingly cramped with all the observers. Becks served as my sue chef and peeled, chopped and stirred with the best of them. Everybody got some chicken soup for dinner that night.

Tonight I made chicken with a  creamy mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes with sweet corn and spinach mixed in them. That’s my contribution to Tanzanian cuisine. Three generations of my family represented in meals here. My mother and my grandpa may never get to see Africa or step foot on her rich red soil but they live here, and I live here every time someone enjoys the meals we taught them.