Cooking (mis?)Adventures

I’m sure those of you who know me well are cringing just reading the title of this blog.  For those of you who don’t know me as well, let’s just say my cooking leaves something to be desired.  And that’s in Amεriki where I have ingredients and equipment widely available.  Mali…well, that’s a different story!

In my mud brick hut, I have a gas stove.  Which, let me tell you, is a big step up from cooking over a fire like the Malian women do.  I like to refer to my stove as the Death Stove.  I light it at least twice a day, once for morning oatmeal and tea, once for dinner; and each time I nervously stretch the lighted match slowly toward the burner, then quickly pull my hand back, often not getting close enough in the process, and always praying I come away with my hand fully intact.  Because when I DO light the burner, often the flame quickly shoots out to momentarily encompass all of the other burners, and occasionally anything that I’ve left too close to the stove, like a matchbox.  (That was interesting).  My mom and my friend Chrissy both claim I should be able to light the stove with less danger, but I challenge them to try!

As for ingredients, I journey to San every 10-16 days to restock on oatmeal, potatoes, and whatever veggies I can find.  These days I’m limited to onions, garlic, eggplant, and cabbage.  I have a collection of Amεriki  spices and some precious Amεriki treats: tuna, grated parmesan cheese, and Pop-Tarts.  I also have sugar, powdered milk, and chocolate powder, and “macaroni” (aka spaghetti) can be bought at the butiki down the street.  I don’t have refrigeration, so I can’t store leftovers, and my veggies usually go bad within about 4-6 days.  The remaining time until my next trip to San tends to involve a bit more creativity.

Cooking adventure #1

Early on in my cooking adventures, I decided to make french fries.  My handy-dandy Malian PC cookbook says to let the oil in the skillet get nice and hot, which I did before dropping in the first 4 potato slices.  Immediately a flame shot up a good 3 feet, scaring the crap out of me, and somehow not lighting on fire the Human Rights Campaign banner I have hanging above my table, although the flame did run up the front of the red flag.  Needless to say, I boiled the rest of the potatoes.  The original 4 fries I left in the oil, but it started splattering so badly I had to turn off the gas and let them fry in the heat that was already there.  At the end of the night, I had 4 yummy fries, and a bunch of much more boring boiled potatoes.  Fries have not been attempted again.

Cooking adventure #2

Then there was the time I was cooking on the Death Stove and innocently grabbed a rag to hold the pot handle to stir the contents.  Moments later I noticed a funny burning smell.  Check the flame: nope, totally under control.  Check the pot: nope, cooking nicely.  Well what the heck is it?  Look down…ah crap!  The rag I’m holding is on fire!!!  So what do I do?  Slam it against the wooden table of course!  Don’t worry, all ended well.  (Alima did the exact same thing a few months later while cooking at my house.  Her eyes got huge and I think maybe she thought I was going to beat her or something, until I showed her my identically burned rag.  And then we laughed).

Cooking adventure #3

Not so much an adventure, but I have on 3 occasions now completed cooking a meal only to find that I somehow managed to cook a match along with the food.  Do you think there’s protein in phosphorus sesquisulphide?  (Ha, look that one up!)

Cooking adventure #4

This past week I was out of oatmeal and scrounging for breakfast ideas until I could get to San.  I discovered a pancake recipe in my cookbook that I could make without eggs and thought that would be a delicious idea.  Unfortunately my frying pan is AWFUL, and combined with me as Cook, it quickly turned into a disaster.  I was up to my elbows in batter and smoke when I heard a knock at my door; my jatigi.  I yelled back, “I’m cooking right now, I can’t come to the door!”  Later, after forcing down half of the pancakes and throwing the rest down my ɲεgεn, I went over to greet my jatigi.  Apparently he’d seen smoke coming from my house and came over to make sure I was ok. 

After all of these adventures, I’m often left with burned pots and pans.  But it’s ok, because Alima taught me how to use dirt as an abrasive to scrub them clean.  (You heard me, dirt).  And if all else fails, her arm muscles are far superior to mine and she can clean them in a jiffy.  I don’t let her in my compound anymore when I’m washing dishes because she hovers over me like a mother hen, itching to take the dishes from me and do a better, faster job.