Life: Food

It is sitting there at the edge of my plate, staring at me—my mistake. If it had beady eyes, I’m sure they would be rolling around in its little head. But much like Dr. Frankenstein, I feel responsible for this monster, my monster. I feel obligated to it. That is why it is still sitting there—a monster of my own creation.

There is such a thing as being overzealous. And when you mix “overzealous” with “eager-to-please”, a bit of “adventurous spirit”, and too much “accommodation”, you get a monster. Before you know it, you’ll have eaten part of it, and you’ll be seriously contemplating devouring the rest.

In my first few days here, Andrea (in whose house I’m living) was busy trying to help me settle in and to prepare me to be on my own. She was trying to help me make grocery lists, and we had a couple conversations with Elizabeth, the house help who would be cooking for me. Elizabeth was very worried about what she would make me. She does occasional cooking for Andrea and her family, but only on occasion and usually she works with Andrea to make more “American” cuisine. The thought of a new person, who might be very particular and who wasn’t going to be around to direct the cooking, was intimidating to her. And given her personality, I can understand her anxiety.

I’ve mentioned Elizabeth before, but a little more about her personality. She is the kind of so-over-the-top and eager-to-please person that it makes me nervous. If she is in the house, I can’t even take a plate into the kitchen without her taking it out of my hands. The house is always spotless when I come home. The other day, I arrived home to find out that the washing machine had broken; so she had taken my clothes (which I hadn’t even asked her to wash) out of my laundry basket and washed them all by hand. Today I arrived home in an absolute down-pour, and she ran out to try to pull my motorcycle inside (don’t worry…I didn’t let her). I mean, don’t get me wrong—she is wonderful! I just wish she could relax a little around me. If the laundry doesn’t get done today…who cares? She obviously has no idea the standards of an American bachelor. And I know from conversations with Andrea, that she has tried to get Elizabeth to slow down and not worry so much. But I’m sure it this personality that makes her an awesome housekeeper.

So it was during one of those early conversations, that I thought it would be wise to reveal that I had eaten with Africans on a regular basis over the past three years, and that I would totally be flexible in eating whatever she wanted to make. I was trying to assure her that I wasn’t hard to please, and that I like a lot of different foods. So she agreed to cook for me in the M way, which I thought was both a good idea and a tasty one. Mistake number 1? That remains to be seen.

In a later, follow-up conversation with Andrea, we were talking over ideas and the costs of various food items around town. And then I said it… “Oh, we can tell Elizabeth that I don’t mind eating goat meat.” This is a true statement. Having eaten with Somalis at least twice a week for the past three years, I have eaten a lot of goat. Well, Andrea told Elizabeth this, and she made immediate plans to go buy goat meat. Mistake number 2? Definitely. (The good news is, due to the large number of goats in town, it is cheaper than other meat around.)

As I said, I came home today in the middle of a bad storm. I had enough time to come inside and spit the sand out of my mouth (the storm was preceded by wind that caused a mini dust storm which I got caught in the middle of), and then I got a call from the hospital saying there was an emergency C-section. So I rushed back into the hospital. I didn’t get home until about 7:30pm, and was quite hungry by that time.

Elizabeth had left the food on the stove, waiting for me. I opened up the pots… Rice and peanut gravy with carrots, green beans, and meat. Undoubtedly goat meat. I threw it in the microwave and came out to start reading emails and taking care of various other things. I went back into the kitchen, grabbed the plate out of the microwave, and headed back to the table to continue reading emails. The first few bits were awesome. Peanut gravy has a great taste. I thoroughly congratulated myself on the great choice to have Elizabeth cook this cuisine and to use goat meat.

I was about halfway through a CT article about immigrants in the United States when I noticed that I had been chewing on a particular piece of meat for too long. I’ve gotten used to chewy meat, and while I don’t love it, I have a higher tolerance than I used to. So I switched it to the other side. After one chomp on the left, I decided to pass the meat over my tongue again. This thing wasn’t even breaking apart with vigorous chewing, and I thought I had felt something “funny” the first pass over. So with a sense of impending disgust, I let the meat fall onto my tongue. I knew immediately what I had in my mouth, so I shoved it to the right, gave three good chomps, swallowed it whole before I could let the thought settle in, and then immediately chugged my coke.

Some things you just know, instinctively. And when it is chewy and has taste buds and it is in your mouth, you somehow just know you’re French-kissing a goat.

I then dissected the rest of my plate looking for more offenders. And I found quite a bit. I can only hope that she used every last bit of it in this dish. (I mean, how long can a goat tongue really be?) We will see, and I suppose other dishes may contain other organ delicacies. On va voir?! (We’ll see)

So there it sits. And I feel like I should suck it up and eat the rest of it. I mean, what if Elizabeth finds in the trash tomorrow morning? Oh, the perplexities of Frankenstein’s monster.