There she goes again... rambling on and on about Africa
I can’t help it. I
thought that by now my heart would have settled down a bit and got into the
routine of suburban life in Canada .
However my heart remains firmly affixed in Africa .
My closest friends know that when I finally keel over, it will be their duty to
pack my heart in a little box, climb up a big hill in Tanzania and
bury it there where it belongs.
When I signed up for my cooking class, it was of course an
African cooking class. While hiking
through the Usambara Mountains
I tried to be discreet. I tried to just sit back and learn,
and enjoy the experience. But within 20 minutes of class, it snuck out of me. “well,
when I was in Africa …” (or more precisely, “when
I was in a bar in Africa …’) But it’s the chef’s
fault. She asked if anyone had ever tried African cooking. The room was silent.
I didn't want her to feel awkward, I was only being polite. It only happened a couple of times, despite my
tremendous restraint.
She showed us a few tricks, cooked us a tasty meal. Scotch bonnet chicken, jollop rice, and
gingered plantains. It was delicious,
and even better, something I figure I’d be able to pull off without completely
destroying my kitchen. After class I lingered
while we chatted Africa, I told her my
stories of nuns serving beer while I was taught a few dirty words in Swahili,
about mystery meat that hung in the window at the bar for days collecting flies
(which is frankly why such vast quantities of alcohol were consumed, to
disinfect anything else that landed in your stomach), and generally gushing about my experience
there.
I swear, my intent was to learn about African cooking, not
to rave about the places I have visited. But like the fine red dust on the
roads in the Usambaras, getting into every last nook and cranny, Africa will forever be stuck to me.
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