East, West — Home is Best

It was dark, save for the lantern in Florence’s hand. She was moving quickly, and I had to stay within inches of her so I could see where I was placing my feet. We were close to home, but shrouded in the night, my surroundings weren’t as familiar as they had become during daylight hours. We were returning from Joshua’s mother’s compound to Joshua and Florence’s compound — the place I’ve called home for over a month. It was not yet 10 p.m., but I was dead tired.

I had cooked. After eating ugali twice a day since my arrival, I was itching for something a little more American. What is ugali, you ask? Just search it on Wikipedia. You’re too lazy? Ok fine. It is maize flour mixed with water, then heated and stirred. The consistency is somewhat like porridge, but it’s a solid. Maybe something like polenta. It doesn’t really have a taste, but is used to scoop up things that do. Like beans, kale, fish or chicken. But in this compound, it’s mostly kale. With a lot of salt.

“It is our staple food, Liz,” Florence told me soon after my arrival. “Don’t you have a staple food in America?”

I guess we really don’t. Americans  love variety, especially when it comes to satisfying the palate.

Last month in Nairobi, I had picked up some emergency supplies. A box of macaroni and cheese. And last night seemed the perfect time to use it, but I knew I had to share. In this communal culture, I really didn’t feel comfortable cooking something in my house and eating it alone. It’s just weird. But how would I stretch this box of mac and cheese to feed 10 people?

I told Florence in advance that she would probably have to prepare something just in case my dish didn’t work out. And then I took the stone soup approach. I bought tomatos, potatoes, onions and beans. I cooked all of them and cooked my little box of mac and cheese. I put it all together, and I had something interesting. I figured that since Joshua, Florence and the kids had never tried anything like this, they wouldn’t be too hard to please. But the dish was actually good! (I was surprised. Back in Texas, no one was asking me to do the cooking. My sister, Emily, is Paula Deen, Rachael Ray and Julia Child all rolled into one. I have burned water I was trying to boil.)

Anyway, it was a success. I enjoyed it, and the family enjoyed it too. Joshua said he liked American food, and asked what I called the dish. I had never eaten or cooked the dish in America, so I wasn’t sure if it qualified as American food. And it doesn’t really have a name.

With some of the nameless dish left over, Florence wanted to take it to Joshua’s mother’s compound, situated just behind theirs. And I wanted to go too. So we went.

Oh man. They loved it! Joshua’s mom, aunt and neice all tried the mac and cheese concoction. By this time, it was about 8 p.m. We stayed for nearly two hours, and I drank the day’s third cup of chai. (Serving chai to visitors is somewhat of an unspoken obligation). I’m not complaining.

As the women jabbered on in KiMarachi (A language I can barely understand, and only if it is spoken slowly and deliberately), I went to that thoughtful place between wakefulness and sleep. At that moment, I felt so at ease. In this rural Kenyan village near the border with Uganda, far from first world comforts I had taken for granted for 25 years, I found a completely different place to belong.

I sat up, and Florence said, “Let us go.”

She took the lantern, which is when I found myself following her fast footsteps. In a few minutes, we were entering the gate to her compound.

“Home…” I said.

“Yes,” Florence replied. “East, west — home is best.”