Dans la congelateur, s’il te plait
This morning the change was confirmed. The wind had shifted. The air is now tinged not with the sands of the Sahara, but with the brine of the Atlantic. Spring is here. Yesterday, I finished off the last of the mouton. I think the onset of Easter time led me to dig out the leg from the congelateur. Last Korite, Astou had arrived saying that she had brought some mouton for our family from hers. Tu est tres gentile, grand merci, I said, imagining a nice little Tupperware of her grilled lamb leftovers. C’est dans la sac ici. Inside the black plastic sac reading “Senegal, Senegal, Senegal” was the jambe entier vraiment crue. I ceremoniously found a spot in the freezer, saving the task of thinking about how to cook an entire leg of Dakar sheep for another day. The day came, out came the leg, out came the Good Housekeeping Cookbook. Concerned about the results, I hadn’t invited a soul over for dinner. Just Allison, me, and the leg. I was shocked at how well it turned out, not just good, but heavenly. Can we make this an annual rite of Spring?

SFB (pardon my French)
Truly, we all try to be culturally sensitive here. Of course there are the numerous local customs- shake with your right hand, don’t walk between a prayer mat and mecca, never ever skip the long exchange of salutations. And within the expat community, with the myriads of mixed race and mixed nationality families, best to not make any assumptions or step on anybody’s allegiances. The one cultural group that has escaped the diplomatic world’s courtesy is the “Skinny French Bitch”. Pardonez-moi, but it’s vrai. You hear it all the time in conversation in even the uppermost diplomatic circles. As in….” Then, that Skinny French Bitch rammed her grocery cart over my ankles”. It’s the French who gave us the word clique. It’s the French moms at Allison’s school who clique together in the mornings after dropping off the little ones, assuming that the Americain moms couldn’t speak a mot of their language. It’s a wonder the French can manage to sell anything. That SFB running the Grain d’Or has nothing on the soup nazi. “Yes,” I plead, “would it be OK if I purchased a loaf of bread here at your boulangerie, or maybe that’s too weird of a request?” Books have been written about why the French women stay skinny. But, I ask, why so bitchy? Is it related? Is it that fueille that you allowed yourself to eat from the millefeuille ? Was it not enough? Please, I beg, have seconds.

Bon Appetit
Sure, Arid Extra Dry, Mitchum, Secret. When we first arrived here in Dakar, we would put ourselves to sleep by trying to recall every brand of deodorant we could think of. Instead of visions of sugarplums, what danced through our heads were visions of wide shiny aisles, one lined high with cereal, one with pet food, one with cushy bread, one with paper products. It wasn’t so much that we missed all that, there was just something familiar and cozy about all those deodorants. Most people here in the American community speak longingly of their wild, uncontrollable and unsatisfied food cravings. Dare to say the words “double stuff” and face the glares and hissing in return. Many succumb to ordering this and other “traditional American foods” online and having them shipped through the diplomatic pouch. We’ve been doing OK without. I think of it as the kind of challenge they give to students at the C.I.A. Here are seven random food items to work with. Make dinner for six. Listen, there’s a lot you can do with an eggplant, an onion, a cabbage, a tomato, a banana, an apple, and an egg. Every trip to l’epicerie promises to not provide something basic-what, no coffee today? No bread the next time. No eggs the third time, but Aha! buy every can of coffee on the shelf today. Our placard is still plein with foodstuffs that I sent here from our friendly little Costco in Alexandria. Two thousand US Dollars goes a long way at Costco, and the very next time I move to Africa, I’ll be sure to shop there again. Some of the things I bought turned out to be very useful- fourty pounds of dry milk, twelve gallons of Chlorox, a case of Gatorade. Some not so useful-a case of cilantro walnut pesto. Some are waiting for just the right occasion-a gallon jug of artichoke hearts, a two pound can of chickpeas. And now …. The truth….
What started all this food thinking was the disappointing sight in our cupboard tonight of the penultimate box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Good eating.