"OIL SLICKS"

We are getting quite spoiled by our Ethiopian cook, Aster. She is a gem, very quiet and humble and very eager to please. She has had her share of cooking mishaps, most completely unknown to her as we didn't want to tell her. The first was when I tried to explain macaroni and cheese and told her I would be back to help her make it for the first time. Eager to get on with it, she charged ahead and by the time I came back in the kitchen, she had cooked the macaroni, all 8 cups of it, filling the pot to the brim awaiting butter and milk and cheese powder. The kids ate until they were turning yellow and then we had leftover mac and cheese for a very long time. The next thing I explained was peanut butter sandwiches. They don't do sandwiches here, they don't slice their bread that way and it simply isn't part of their diet. So I told her to slice the bread from my homemade loaf, put on the peanut butter and then put another slice on top. Shortly thereafter, I noticed the sandwiches all lined up on a platter waiting for lunchtime. She had sliced the bread into about 2 inch wide slices, using the whole loaf. Then, she head cut each massive slice dviding it from the top half into the bottom and put a small smidgen of peanut butter on it. It was so cute that she had tried it on her own laid it out so nicely on a platter that I couldn't bear to correct her the method, so instead I solicited the children's cooperation in eating them the best they could so as to not offend. Watching them try to fit their little mouths over those large, 4 inch tall peanut butter sandwiches with only a small flavor of peanut butter was just priceless. Later I showed her how I slice the bread, and she was appreciative of the lesson.so many things we take for granted that they will know how to do here that are simply not common. Later that week I introduced her to pancakes. I make my own pancake mix, which is very hard here, and I brought Buttermilk Powder from the US. So I mix up the mix, and then I told her the recipe, writing it down for her to make pancakes. Still, like before, I said I would do it with her the first time. I came into the kitchen later to find her literally frying those pancakes in about one inch of oil that filled our griddle. Ethiopians LOVE oil.they use it to cook nearly everything.just sure that nothing will taste quite right without it. I very gently waited until the first two were fried to smithereens and then said, "I show you" and took the griddle, dumped out all but about a tablespoon of oil, and then poured on the next two pancakes. "Nishteh oil" I said (nishteh means a small amount). Steve tries to pretend he doesn't know how much oil she uses, as he is always so health conscious when it comes to eating. But today, when I told him I was off to the market for more oil, he couldn't hold it in.his dry wit took over. "We've used 4 liters of oil in the month we've been here? Ughhhh..just tell our friends if our plane goes down on our flight home, they can find us by looking for the oil slick in the ocean." Oh well.low cholesterol is highly overrated anyway, right? Now, 5 weeks into our adventure of living in our home, she is accustomed to our tastes and can make a peanut butter sandwich or batch of mac n' cheese with the best of them. Plus, she treats us to her Ethiopian fare at least once per day. Our children are getting accustomed to injera with misir wat, beef wat, lentils, beef stew, potato and beets stew, beef sambosa, and Ethiopian salad. Just pray that the plane doesn't go down when we depart.I'd hate to have to notify the E.P.A

"LET 'EM PLAY!"

"LET 'EM PLAY!" I awoke to this noise in the middle of the night, coming from Steve's mouth. I wasn't quite sure what he yelled out, but whatever it was, it was with great vigor. The next day he asked me, "Did I yell something in my sleep last night?" I started laughing and so did he, then he relayed his very frustrating dream. We laughed together, and decided it was a definite blog-worthy dream, as it seemed to symbolize somehow our culture shock and difficulty merging our culture with the culture around us. Here is the dream."I was at a football game, it was a good game and very close and it was at the end of the game, 4th and 1 at the goal line...only one minute to go. The team called a time-out, and then suddenly an Orthodox Priest walked out onto the field. He began praying with the players and then began holding a liturgy. All the crowd became silent and calm.and we waited..finally I couldn't take it anymore and I stood up and yelled out in the midst of the crowd, "Hey..It's 4th and one.let 'em play!" We laughed and laughed that life sometimes seems like that here.customs and traditions and things that just don't seem to make sense to us, but are very much a normal part of these people's lives. Take for example the new year tradition of killing a ram. Most of the families we know killed one, as it is tradition, and it is VERY BAD if you don't kill one on New Year's Day. Their calendar is different from ours, so they just began a new year yesterday, September 11, which is their Meskeram 1, the first day of their year, which is 1999. Today, the roads are filled with sheep entrails, ram heads, and horns. Curtis things it is great, we aren't quite as thrilled. Some boys came to the door with pictures of flowers they had drawn and waited eagerly.we said thank you. Later we learned we were supposed to give them money as a tradition.oops. Then Steve went to work today, Tuesday, and dressed his usual way, pants and a shirt and tie. All the other faculty were wearing their 3 piece suits and the women wore traditional dresses. "Is the dress code in written form somewhere?" Steve asked, since last week these same men all wore short sleeved shirts and khakis. "It's a New Year!" they proclaimed. Oh..we didn't get the memo. Life is like that many days here. Not bad, just DIFFERENT. As long as I am in a good mood and in a good place, having had plenty of sleep and feeling prepared to handle it, life is good. If not, then even though I may not actually do it, I will long to stand up in the midst of the crowd and yell out.