A Napkin
Happy Birthday to Ed Yarrow! I've invited Ed to have dinner at my place, to celebrate his birthday. I rush home at 6pm after the conference proceedings, eager to begin cooking the meat, hoping it will be tender. I began preparing for Ed's birthday dinner the day before when Dina and I steal away from TICH to run errands, driven by Vitalis in our TICH truck. We stop at hotels and guest houses around Kisumu to make reservations for our conference attendees. Our last errand is to go to the Nakumatt to buy Mandazi flour and other cooking supplies for the next day's tea break goodies.
Dina and I each shop for personal items, too. I buy sugar and coffee and cookies and ask Dina to help choose vegetables to go into Ed's birthday “soup.” It will be the first meal I've prepared in my new home (the first meal I've prepared in Kenya) and because I have only one cooking pan it must be a one-pot meal. We select fresh produce; okra (lady fingers), French green beans, potatoes, tomatoes, and purple onions. Instead of birthday cake, it'll be fruit salad, so I grab up two lovely pears, three oranges imported from Egypt (99 shillings) and two kiwi fruits (reminding myself to add the miniature bananas sitting on the kitchen shelf).
When I arrive home the evening of Ed's birthday, I'm anxious to get the meat in the pot, simmering with onions. But once through the gate, Mr. Ruprah is on the patio sitting with Raju, Mrs. Ruprah, his wife, and Mrs. Ruprah, his mother, who has arrived today from spending the last six months with her other son in the UK. She's here to live with “us” for six months. Mrs. Ruprah, the mother, doesn't speak much English but we say our hellos and nice to meet ya's and Mr. Ruprah insists I sit down and have tea and samosas with them. So I have tea and samosas with them. But after five minutes, I run into my little house and put the meat on, cutting up two onions and putting enough water in the pot to ensure the meat doesn't stick. After igniting the gas flame with a match, I return to the patio and eat a mutton samosa. Yum. Squeeze lime juice on the meat before each bite. Yum.
After 10 minutes, I run into my little house and add French beans, three diced potatoes and rice to the pot, then return to the patio, where we chat and sip tea. After 10 more minutes, I run into my little house and add the okra. When I return to the patio, Mr. Ruprah is preparing to leave. He stands next to the table on the drive and insists I eat the last samosa. I resist. He insists. I cave. He goes into his house and comes out with a napkin in his hand. “Sandy,” he says, mispronouncing my name in the exact way I love, “please stay and chat as long as you'd like, I have to go,” then he steps off the porch with great effort (because his right leg is wooden) and he makes his way over to me, handing me a napkin.
“Goodbye.” “Goodbye.”
He walks over to me with great effort because he has a bad leg, his body arching to the left side, swinging his hip exaggeratedly to move his wooden leg, to walk toward me, to give me a napkin. I take it, wiping away the crumbs of the delicious samosa he insists on feeding me, drying up the traces of tea he insists I drink with him. I hold the napkin in my hand in my lap. He starts his car and backs away then drives through the gate. We ladies sit and chat. I try to help carry the dishes into the house, but Mrs. Ruprah and Mrs. Ruprah won't allow me to assist. So I walk to my little house to stir Ed's soup, holding the napkin securely in my grasp because Mr. Ruprah walked toward me with great effort to tenderly place it in my hand.
Dina and I each shop for personal items, too. I buy sugar and coffee and cookies and ask Dina to help choose vegetables to go into Ed's birthday “soup.” It will be the first meal I've prepared in my new home (the first meal I've prepared in Kenya) and because I have only one cooking pan it must be a one-pot meal. We select fresh produce; okra (lady fingers), French green beans, potatoes, tomatoes, and purple onions. Instead of birthday cake, it'll be fruit salad, so I grab up two lovely pears, three oranges imported from Egypt (99 shillings) and two kiwi fruits (reminding myself to add the miniature bananas sitting on the kitchen shelf).
When I arrive home the evening of Ed's birthday, I'm anxious to get the meat in the pot, simmering with onions. But once through the gate, Mr. Ruprah is on the patio sitting with Raju, Mrs. Ruprah, his wife, and Mrs. Ruprah, his mother, who has arrived today from spending the last six months with her other son in the UK. She's here to live with “us” for six months. Mrs. Ruprah, the mother, doesn't speak much English but we say our hellos and nice to meet ya's and Mr. Ruprah insists I sit down and have tea and samosas with them. So I have tea and samosas with them. But after five minutes, I run into my little house and put the meat on, cutting up two onions and putting enough water in the pot to ensure the meat doesn't stick. After igniting the gas flame with a match, I return to the patio and eat a mutton samosa. Yum. Squeeze lime juice on the meat before each bite. Yum.
After 10 minutes, I run into my little house and add French beans, three diced potatoes and rice to the pot, then return to the patio, where we chat and sip tea. After 10 more minutes, I run into my little house and add the okra. When I return to the patio, Mr. Ruprah is preparing to leave. He stands next to the table on the drive and insists I eat the last samosa. I resist. He insists. I cave. He goes into his house and comes out with a napkin in his hand. “Sandy,” he says, mispronouncing my name in the exact way I love, “please stay and chat as long as you'd like, I have to go,” then he steps off the porch with great effort (because his right leg is wooden) and he makes his way over to me, handing me a napkin.
“Goodbye.” “Goodbye.”
He walks over to me with great effort because he has a bad leg, his body arching to the left side, swinging his hip exaggeratedly to move his wooden leg, to walk toward me, to give me a napkin. I take it, wiping away the crumbs of the delicious samosa he insists on feeding me, drying up the traces of tea he insists I drink with him. I hold the napkin in my hand in my lap. He starts his car and backs away then drives through the gate. We ladies sit and chat. I try to help carry the dishes into the house, but Mrs. Ruprah and Mrs. Ruprah won't allow me to assist. So I walk to my little house to stir Ed's soup, holding the napkin securely in my grasp because Mr. Ruprah walked toward me with great effort to tenderly place it in my hand.
posted by Cindi at 6:05 PM
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