May 23rd
Here is a translation of the conversation that took place between Mama (our landlady) and I last night over the cooking fire (which I had finally lit on my own, with only ONE match I might add!!).
Mama: You are cooking nsima?”
Me: “Yes! (proudly…) Cassava nsima!”
Ma: “You know how?”
Me: “Well… I have seen it done a few times!”
Ma: “Hmmm…. Where is your relish?”
Me: (Excited now!) “Oh, I am eating beans!” (At this point I proudly hand over the freshly opened, massively overpriced, can of Heinz baked beans I had found at the shops).
Ma: (eyes narrowed , pointing the beam of my flashlight into the can, dips in her finger and grimaces as she tastes the delightful canned wonder.) “You want fish. I will be back. Don’t touch that.” (points to gently simmering water for nsima).
A few minutes later, positive the water was ready for more flour to be added, I decided to get started, despite her warning. Shortly afterwards, Mama returned with a beautiful piece of fish and sauce, to find me crouched with the pot between my feet, desperately trying to stir my pile of mush into something edible.
Mama took a scoop between her fingers, tasted it, and said simply, “Bad sima”, as she tossed the pot aside.
“It’s ok, I can eat it anyways,” I pleaded, desperate not to waste the cassava flour that my blistered fingers had so enthusiastically pounded with mortar and pestle.
“Nope. Bad sima,” Mama repeated, shaking her head as she put on new water to boil.
“Maybe the dog can have it for supper?”, I suggested, as a last attempt to save my doomed blob of ‘supper‘.
Mama turned to me with a raised eyebrow and a pitying look as she replied. “The dog can eat at my house….”
And there you have it.
My cooking is not even fit for a village dog.
(Please bear this in mind when I invite you for supper one day, and have a back up meal waiting for you at home!)
Here is a translation of the conversation that took place between Mama (our landlady) and I last night over the cooking fire (which I had finally lit on my own, with only ONE match I might add!!).
Mama: You are cooking nsima?”
Me: “Yes! (proudly…) Cassava nsima!”
Ma: “You know how?”
Me: “Well… I have seen it done a few times!”
Ma: “Hmmm…. Where is your relish?”
Me: (Excited now!) “Oh, I am eating beans!” (At this point I proudly hand over the freshly opened, massively overpriced, can of Heinz baked beans I had found at the shops).
Ma: (eyes narrowed , pointing the beam of my flashlight into the can, dips in her finger and grimaces as she tastes the delightful canned wonder.) “You want fish. I will be back. Don’t touch that.” (points to gently simmering water for nsima).
A few minutes later, positive the water was ready for more flour to be added, I decided to get started, despite her warning. Shortly afterwards, Mama returned with a beautiful piece of fish and sauce, to find me crouched with the pot between my feet, desperately trying to stir my pile of mush into something edible.
Mama took a scoop between her fingers, tasted it, and said simply, “Bad sima”, as she tossed the pot aside.
“It’s ok, I can eat it anyways,” I pleaded, desperate not to waste the cassava flour that my blistered fingers had so enthusiastically pounded with mortar and pestle.
“Nope. Bad sima,” Mama repeated, shaking her head as she put on new water to boil.
“Maybe the dog can have it for supper?”, I suggested, as a last attempt to save my doomed blob of ‘supper‘.
Mama turned to me with a raised eyebrow and a pitying look as she replied. “The dog can eat at my house….”
And there you have it.
My cooking is not even fit for a village dog.
(Please bear this in mind when I invite you for supper one day, and have a back up meal waiting for you at home!)
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