You are what you eat

I really hate cooking.  For those of you know me, you know I wouldn’t mind eating out for the rest of my life (really).  The act of cooking and then cleaning up has always seemed like a chore, just another thing to put on the domestic task list that goes on ad infinitum, and the results of my cooking ventures have never been … gratifying or palatable to me (or those who have to consume them).  Just ask Matias.  I usually don’t even put lettuce in my salad because I hate to take the time to wash it and rip it up. 

But, while I was in New York, I picked up a copy of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver.  It’s about her and her family’s commitment to farm and eat ‘locally.’  They are so committed they move from Tucson to a farm in Appalachia to grow their own food for a year.  At first I was doubtful, I mean she’s a successful (and probably rich!) writer, so she must have time to cook and farm.  That has always been my biggest setback with cooking.  I’m tired when I get home from work, and feel like I have to rush through it all to do more important things, like spend time with the kids reading books, playing outside, or doing homework.  

And the whole local thing.  I wonder what she would have thought about my trip to Target.  I don’t think anything I bought there was made in Brooklyn, or even the U.S.  I can get into the local thing and think it’s important, but now that I’m in Mozambique, it’s a whole different ball game than going local in Southern Virginia or Bainbridge Island!  I started to imagine what it would be like to eat locally here in Maputo.  We’d have to subsist on corn flour, tomatoes, kale, spinach, mangoes, guavas, beans and fish. Most Mozambicans do, which is probably why most are not overweight.  Or could I classify South Africa as local? It’s another country, but only 80 miles away.  In her book, one farmer’s definition of local is a one hour drive, so if I drove really fast to South Africa (and didn’t count border crossing time), it would be local, right?  Almost anything packaged in a grocery store here comes from South Africa (or farther).  Milk, juice, crackers, chips, jelly all from S.A.  Canned beans, mushrooms, corn from Portugal.  Cookies from Colombia, Turkey, or one time I bought them from Oman.  I don’t even know where Oman is.  Cake mix from Brazil.  And frozen chicken also from Brazil. 

Let’s pause a moment to think about that chicken from Brazil.  Barbara Kingsolver is right about all the fossils fuels that are spent to transport these food products over long distances.  Can you imagine all the energy expended to get that chicken from Brazil to Mozambique (and keep it frozen along the way) when there are so many chickens (though usually live!) right here?  It’s really staggering.  I made a commitment to buy Mozambican products a long time ago, but most are in their raw form, and need lots of time for preparation.  And my hang up was, of course, that I see cooking as a chore, such a drag, and always rush through it instead of enjoying it. 

But Sunday night I read the next chapter, and it was written just for all of us who think we don’t have time.  In American culture, a lot of us grew up with the idea that spending time in the kitchen cooking is something just to get done so you could do other more important things.  She talks about how American women in our generation were taught they should have careers, make money, all to get out of slaving in the kitchen.  But what happened is that we got a double whammy.  We got what we wanted, but still do most of the household tasks.  And this was an opportunity for the multinationals to try to convince and coerce us into thinking we needed all the shortcuts and processed foods in order to alleviate our burden.  Hence, all the Lunchables and readymade TJ’s meatballs, Stouffers enchiladas.  However, as she rightly says, cooking is a family affair, something everyone can participate and engage in.  It doesn’t have to be a single woman slaving and sweating over it.  Cooking can bring people and families together.  Some of us sit down at the dinner table, but we should start earlier, together in the kitchen. 

So, last night, even though I got home from work at 6pm, I decided to try it.  Nalia wanted pizza.  At first I thought, how am I going to make the crust if I don’t get home until 6? But there’s Matias, and he’s a pro at making at bread, so I asked him to do it.  Nalia grated the cheese.  I made the sauce from fresh Mozambican tomatoes, and cut up mushrooms (from South Africa), green peppers, pepperoni, and olives for the toppings.  And it was happy and fun.  The kids were in the kitchen dancing and playing with the puppy.  Elio was chirping out ‘Hey soul sista, hey mista mista, on the radio, stereo…’  where does he get this stuff?  Matias was patiently rolling the crust so it was perfectly even. I was trying to ENJOY it and not to get hung up on the fact that Nalia spilled flour all over the floor and the cat’s head, who with her black fur looked like she’d been through a Mozambican snowstorm.  And in the end, it turned out to be some of the most delicious pizza we’ve ever had.  Elio asked for seconds, which is something to write home about, and Nalia asked to save some to eat the next day. 

Afterward, Nalia and I were talking about how we all participated and worked together.  I said, ‘You grated the cheese and helped roll the crust.  Daddy made the crust.  I made the sauce and cut up the vegetables for the toppings.’ 

‘And Elio?’ she asked.

‘Elio took the tomatoes out of the refrigerator and washed them.’

Not bad for a three year old.

Recipe for Pizza

For the crust, mix equal parts whole wheat and white flour (about 1 ½ cups each for 2, 12-inch pizzas), add yeast and warm water according to yeast package instructions.  Knead and let rise in a bowl covered with a towel about 45 minutes (we put it the cold oven to avoid drafts).  Remove and knead again, adding extra flour if the dough is sticky, then roll out on a heavily floured surface with a rolling pin.  Put on a floured pizza pan or stone. 

For the sauce, boil water and put in 7 tomatoes for one minute.  Take them out after one minute and plunge in cold water.  Then remove skins and cut in small pieces.  Put in a sauce pan and simmer for a long time (about 40 minutes is usually good enough, but the longer the better).  Mix with oregano, basil, salt, pepper and a little sugar if the tomatoes taste too acidic.  In summertime, use sliced tomatoes on top of the cheese for a shortcut!

While the sauce is simmering, cut up the toppings and grate the cheese.

Cover the crust with sauce, cheese, and then toppings.   

Bake in preheated oven for 20 minutes at 425 F

Also, because Deviled eggs are a wonderful easy treat that everyone likes, but no one like to admit they like, here’s a nice recipe that works anywhere.

Deviled Eggs

INGREDIENTS

6 hard cooked eggs                                         ½ tsp dill weed

¼ cup mayonnaise                                           ¼ tsp garlic powder or one clove fresh garlic, minced finely

1tsp white wine vinegar                                  1/8 tsp salt

1 tsp Dijon mustard                                         Fresh dill

Slice eggs in half lengthwise; remove yolks and set whites aside.  In a small bowl, mash yolks.  Add the mayonnaise, vinegar, mustard, dill, garlic powder and salt.

Spoon into egg whites.  Garnish with dill sprigs… or I use paprika.

You Not My Mama

Gosh.. I hope Elio doesn't turn into another African dictator.  I've been following what's been happening with Laurent Gbagbo in Cote d'Ivoire and I've read a fair amount of African history, and well, Elio's behavior is starting to resemble that of an African dictator.  Or maybe it's just that some African dictators behave like three year olds.

Today Laurent Gbagbo was captured at his hotel in Abidjan after refusing to give up the presidency to its rightful owner, Alassane Outtara.  The BBC characterized Gbagbo as short tempered, closed to new ideas and outsiders.  Sounds kind of like Elio.  Elio's patience lasts as long as it took your to read this last sentence, and when we go to someplace new, his first question is usually "When are we going home?"

We went to a beautiful eco-lodge nestled in the mountains in Swaziland over the weekend.  It was a kid's dream. They could run and play everywhere.  There were all these streams to splash in, rocks to climb, cable TV in the TV room.  Elio did all the playing and having fun, but the first night, as we were about to go to bed, Elio said, "I want to go to my house.  When we go to my house?" 

He's also been learning new expressions and figures of speech from who knows where.  We're trying to get him off his bottle, which we are not really winning.  Usually, when he asks me for his bottle, he starts out very nice.  "I want my tee-tee please."  Tee-tee is milk.  I respond (very nicely too).
 "No, we aren't having tee tee, but we can read a book and I'll lie down with you." 
Then, it starts to escalate to "I want my tee tee." Then, "I want my tee tee now."  When I finally refuse to give in, he has been known to scream, "I'm not your mama anymore."  Nalia then jumps in and corrects him, reminding him that he was never my mama in the first place.  I try not to laugh. 
He is getting more sophisticated though, because tonight, at the end of the battle (which I lost, for the record), he screeched, "And mommy, YOU not my mama."  
Any suggestions on bottle weaning of 3 year old are appreciated!

Finding the Target in Brooklyn

Yesterday, Ometepe comes to an end and I am translado almost instantly from the sun kissed dust and smiles of Nicaragua to cold gray granite JFK airport.  Our flight arrives at 3am, but I am awakened before that because my seatmate has a problem.  My seatmates always seem to have problems on the night flights, and they are invariably large strong men.  This one has the build of Mike Tyson, but can’t take the air bumps, starts sweating profusely and having shortness of breath when we are 1 hr. outside NYC.  They decide to administer oxygen so move me to first class to get me out of the way.  Sounds great, but I didn’t sleep at all because of the whole drama.

The most important thing about my 8 hour layover at JFK was a trip I’d plotted and planned for months.  It was my second place aspiration for 2011. 

This year, on my self-evaluation at work, there was a section for career aspirations.  I left it blank.  After years of working and responsibilities, my real aspiration is to take four months off, stay with my parents on Bainbridge, and be a stay at home mom.  After that, or my aspiration for March 2011, was to go to Target and go shopping (by myself…mom readers can fully relate!).  When you live in Mozambique and haven’t been able to leave much for the last 8 months, going shopping in the US can easily become an aspiration… and an obsession.

 I had a running shopping list over the last 6 months.  All the things that are impossible to get in Moz (gummy vitamins, Ranch dressing packets, my annual dose of Peeps!, make-up that doesn’t make me look like a drag queen, TORTILLAS) or the things that are ridiculously expensive in Moz (dog leash, $40 in Moz), (ibuprofen, only $6.09 at Target for 250 pills!), (Ben Ten action figure, $8.44 at Target and $45 in Moz).   All these made the list.

But the trip was going to be tricky because I got into JFK at 3am and my flight left at 11am, and as hard as I tried cruising the net, I couldn’t find the closest Target to JFK that opened at a reasonable hour.  When I arrived at 3am, I asked the Arabic speaking information desk person… he had no idea, but still made something up.  And the Jamaican policeman standing next to him told me all the Targets were too far, didn’t open until 10 AND I would miss my flight.  ‘Forget it.  Twill not work.’ So I asked the Trinidadian lady who came through the door primped up for her flight to Port of Spain.  And then I asked the Dominican cleaning lady.  And then I asked the lady at the baggage storage.  To each of them I had to explain why I ASPIRED, dreamed of going to Target on a cold NY morning.  They all gave me different answers on where I might find this Target, and so, resigned, I tried to sleep. 

But if any of you know JFK terminal 4, there is NO place to sleep.  There are only the phone booths.  So I tried that, but kept getting interrupted by the homeless man snoring in the booth on the other side.  I was still determined though—to prove the Arab information guy and the Jamaican policeman wrong. 

Finally, I bought 4 minutes of internet and Googled:  Target Brooklyn Hours.  Yes!  There was a Target near the airport that opened at 8… and this matched the Trinidad lady’s instructions.  Finally, with two sets of instructions that matched, I decided to wait in the phone booth until 7:30, then get the Yellow Cab and go for it.  I told the cab driver the address and he nodded.  That’s supposed to mean he knows where he’s going, but not 2 minutes later, he is parked on the shoulder of the Belt Parkway, yelling at some guy named Hamid on the phone in Arabic, trying to figure out where the Target is.  I don’t speak Arabic, but didn’t need to.

‘It not come up on GPS. Hamid don’t know and Hamid know Brooklyn.’ 

So we just sit there.  Then he starts driving again, and I ask in an unconcealable worried tone, ‘But if you don’t know where the Target is, where are you taking me?’ 

‘I take you anywhere you want to go. Customer first.  I know Queens, no Brooklyn.’

I was worried.

‘But I’m not from here … never been here, so I really don’t know where anything is, but I really need to go to Target.’

‘Why you need Target?’ 

‘Because I live in Mozambique and need to buy shoes and shorts and other things for my kids because these things are really expensive in Mozambique.’

He smiles very big and I can tell we now have a bond. 

‘You live in Africa!?  I am from Egypt, so I understand!  Africa is mess.  It  poor.’

He pulls over again on the Belt Parkway and starts re-entering the address in his GPS.  I hover over him to make sure he gets the spelling correct. 

In five minutes, we are there.  It’s Target, Bed, Bath and Beyond, Home Depot…spread before me, all rolled into one strip mall in Brooklyn, a mirage for an American from Mozambique, but it’s real.   

The Egyptian dumps me off.  I ask if I can call his cab company for a ride back.  He laughs, explaining that people in NY don’t do that.  ‘Good luck getting your flight…no cab come here.’ And off he goes. 

Target has just opened and I am privileged to be their first customer.  I take a moment to let the cold air enter my lungs and watch my breath exit on the way out.  Sigh.  It’s been over a year since I felt cold and it’s revitalizing, with the Gateway Target in Brooklyn awaiting me. 

The first thing I do is go talk to Bianca in customer service… initially, she looks at me like a have 3 heads.  ‘You need a cab to JFK airport in an hour?  From here?’

Yes, and then I explain the whole story again.  She thinks it’s funny and agrees to call a cab for me because I don’t have a cell phone.  I whip out my tattered 6 month old list and am exhilarated about experiencing Target for 1 hour, only a blip on the screen of time.  It is empty and all mine… and everything is familiar, for the Gateway Brooklyn Target has the same layout and feeling as the PG Plaza Target or the Eden Prairie Target or the Academy Blvd. Target. I have grown up on Target and there is always comfort in the familiar, even with its loud red bull’s eye and glaring fluorescent lights. 

I love Mozambique, but I will always be a foreigner there…I didn’t grow up there, so though I am used to it and like it , it can never be my true home.  I will never know Mozambican culture in the sense that I know all the minutiae and idiosyncrasies of American culture.  In Portuguese and Spanish, there are two words for know—saber, which means to know facts and where things are, what time it is, and conocer, which is to know people, what a place is like, to be familiar with something all the way down to your bones.  Conocer is  that part of knowing that can’t be clearly articulated, but is simply felt.  Familiar is the closest word to conocer in English, like family, but the way we use familiar doesn’t express the depth of conocer, because while I can say that I don’t know where the Brooklyn Target is located, I know the Brooklyn Target.  I truly know… conocer…my country and how it operates.  I understand the details because I am American.  That is why I can pull off an early morning trip to Brooklyn, stock up on everything I need for the next 4 months, fit is all into my bag and make it back to JFK in time, all in 1.5 hours. It’s because I know how all the gears fit together and how to make them move.  I know how to talk to Bianca so she will call me a cab.  I know the dog collars are next to the aisle with the Ziploc bags.  I know how to deal with the cashier so she will be expeditious and help me.  There are some very comforting things about being in one’s own country.

When I get to the cashier, I pull out my pink duffel bag, smile, and tell her no plastic bags are needed because all this stuff is going on the plane at JFK.  She looks at me like I’m just another weirdo, so I feel the need to justify, explain again. 

‘I know you might think I’m just another weirdo, but I Iive in Africa, and these  things are expensive there and they don’t have some things my kids really like and….’

She smiles a nice soft sympathetic smile- whoever said that people from Brooklyn were harsh and abrupt.  These people are my red target angels. 

‘You mean, they don’t have a Target in Africa?’

‘No, and in Mozambique, no MacDonald’s.’

‘Oh man, that must be really hard for your kids…. Coming from the US.’

‘They’re happy, but they miss some things..’

I rip all the boxes off the Wheat Thins, gummy vitamins, Ibuprofen, Oil of Olay moisturizer, throw the Converse shoe box in the trash to save space, and cram, mold and coax it all into the pink duffel.  Only the castle jigsaw puzzle doesn’t fit.  2 minutes after I get outside, my cab pulls up to take me back to JFK.  I have proven the Jamaican policeman wrong.

Target booty

Ometepe, Lake Nicaragua

It was my first girl weekend since Nalia was born… nearly 8 years...my first time on a trip, just me and a girlfriend.  Majella flew from San Salvador and met me in Managua.  After meeting her at the airport, we took a long taxi ride to San Jorge, and then boarded the ferry to Ometepe (Majella and I both agreed on the luxury of the taxi… we are over and done doing the Central American bus ride, which takes place in a used (though highly adorned and decorated) USA school bus, covers long distances with LOTS of stops and LOTS of dust, all in temperatures that rival a summer kitchen in New Orleans.

 Ometepe is in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, which is so large it looks like an ocean rather than a lake.  But it’s better than an ocean because it’s agua dulce (sweet water, as they say in Spanish)… during the dry season, the Island looks like a cross between the muted, earthy tones of Western Colorado and at higher elevations,  Hawaii.  The Island is dominated by two volcanoes, one active (Concepción), and the other inactive (Madera).  Ometepe is also Bainbridge Island’s sister island. 

On Ometepe, we were cared for by Marvin at Finca San Juan de la Isla, and if there is ever a moment for a blogger to indulge in some shameless publicity, this is the time!  San Juan is one of the most relaxing places I’ve stayed for a vacation. It’s a restored 100 year old Spanish hacienda on the shores of the lake, and doesn’t have many amenities, but the hammocks and the wholesome food (prepared by Marvin) were enough for weary burnt out NGO workers like Majella and me.  I say that Marvin took care of us because he really did.  He got to know us and suggested what we might like to eat based on who we are and where we’d been.  And then he went to his kitchen and in a whirlwind of vegetables and pasta, enhanced by some flourishes of secret spices, he’d pull off a work of art that tasted close to ecstasy.  That, with one of his famous Ometepe margaritas… put both Majella and me to sleep by 9:30.  He let Majella and I take a sneak peak at his kitchen after the storm, and it looked right out of Like Water for Chocolate….  Pieces of ayote on the table, open bottles of capers, eggplant stems, bits of carrots strewn everywhere. Majella asked if he’d clean it up that night and he only said one word, manaña.

On the ferry to Ometepe

Bainbridge Sister Island office in Altagracia

Nicaraguan transport

Finca San Juan de la Isla

Beautiful spring on Ometepe

Ferry Che Guevara