Hujambo!

Kenyans drink a lot of Coca Cola. You can get Pepsi in the fancier stores if you really want it, but I don’t think many Kenyans have ever tried it, haha. I was never a really big soda drinker, but there’s something about having a cold Coke with Mama Oliech’s fried tilapia and ugali! What I didn’t realize until recently was that Kenyan Coke is much like Mexican Coke.

A few weeks ago, while I was in San Diego, I was talking to some buddies about how, in Portland, Oregon, it’s common to see “Mexican” Coke on restaurant menus. One buddy commented that he didn’t like Coke, that it tastes funny. Thinking that I sometimes drink Coke and enjoy it, I said I never noticed that it tasted too sweet or anything. That’s when I realized, that any Coke I have drank in the last few years would have been a Kenyan Coke!

You see, American Coca Cola is sweetened with a syrup derived from corn, high-fructose corn syrup. In America at least, high-fructose corn syrup is a cheap substitute for “real” sugar because of government subsidies on corn and high import tariffs on foreign sugar. Also, fructose is sweeter than sucrose, so corporations cut costs by having to use less.

Now you know!

It’s easy, it’s healthy, and it’s delicious with a cup of tea or coffee. Another bonus is that you can eat it for breakfast, lunch, or dinner (or in the dark). I dabbled a bit with roasting my own peanuts, but buying peanut butter is definitely much easier. Furthermore, one of my well-organized friends has influenced me to buy plenty of extras for my pantry, so I always have some in stock. I’m not sure why I had to re-learn that skill, but it has paid off big time.

I don’t really like sweets very much and, unless I’m out and about pretending to be fancy, I don’t usually eat dessert after dinner. Having said that, I love the sweetness that toasted brown bread, peanut butter, and honey has. That brings me to my point: toast and peanut butter, washed down with a cup of coffee, is the perfect way to end an evening after eating a few grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner.

Good night.

If you don’t like the sour Ethiopian bread injera, steer clear of Tibs Firfir! It’s number 50 on the menu at the National Cafe in downtown Addis, next to the National Theater and the big lion statue. In Amharic it looks like this: ጥብስ ፍርፍር. Don’t say I didn’t warn you… I made a bit of a mistake ordering dinner tonight with a friend in Addis Ababa. We decided we both liked tibs, an Ethiopian dish with roasted meat and, sometimes, tasty sauteed vegetables. What we didn’t know is that the “firfir” changes the game completely! Your itty bitty pieces of meat come mixed with shredded injera wrapped in a huge, pancake-like… injera!

I’ve eaten tibs a few times now, and every time it comes differently. I’m going to stop saying I like tibs until I speak better Amharic and I can explain that, “I want the one in the bowl with veggies, not wrapped in injera.” My friend and I had a good laugh when the food came, and we never let on that we were expecting anything different. We did our best to eat it, her continually asking for more water, and me asking for more bread. Add it to the list of things I’ll never forget about Ethiopia.

Live and learn… injera is not for me! Oh, and I need to learn Amharic if ILRI is going to be sending me to Ethiopia more often.

Since I moved into my new house last week I’ve been exploring cooking again. It’s been a few months since I cooked last, instead I’ve been opting to eat out or make simple things like toast with peanut butter. It was fine with me because I eat something healthy like yogurt with granola before work, then a good, hearty meal at ILRI’s cafeteria every day; meals at home were more of a casual “tide myself over until lunch tomorrow” thing. All other reasons aside, I guess it really boils down to not feeling “at home” in my old apartment. The stove was only 1/4 functional, the pots and pans were funny, the sink was dinky, and there were always people coming and going.
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It’s been my observation over the last two years that you don’t go to a restaurant if you want to eat sweet chapati. Much like the most delicious burritos in Southern California are found in “hole in the wall” Mexican food joints, the tastiest chapatis are found in vibanda (shacks/sheds) all over Kenya. It’s a well-established fact: if you want a nice, hot, fresh chapati like you’ve never tasted before, it has to be cooked over a wood fire on a pan of questionable cleanliness by a mama on the side of the road.

I live in Westlands, an uppity suburb of Nairobi where there is a lot of work being done to make new housing and business complexes for upper class Kenyans and expatriates. These shacks pop up to meet the demand of the day laborers who do work on the construction projects around the neighborhood. There was no food in the house this morning (and today was Kenyatta Day… no work), so I walked over to the junction up the road and had a chapati and a cup of chai. People driving by must think I’m crazy, but everyone there knows me already. I buy milk every day from one dude. I buy four chapati on Saturday mornings from one mama. Sometimes I even go there for lunch (greens, beans, etc, all for twenty shillings or so). The guys even shout Niaje?! (What’s up?!) when I walk by.
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