Iron Chef would have my head

I am a cooking fool. And by cooking fool I mean clownish but optimistic culinary failure. My skills are so subpar, whether in a modern American kitchen or over a Mauritanian gas stove. Like many volunteers, I optimistically listed “learn to cook” as one of my goals here in country. To that end, the trainees of Sabualla gave the domestic thing a shot last Tuesday, with horrendous results. Laughably horrendous, but horrendous nonetheless. After a quick trip to the Boghe market, we assembled at Donna’s house with bleached vegetables, soaked beans and melting butter. Our envisioned meal was spaghetti and garlic bread; our actual meal was macaroni the consistency of glue, crunchy vegetables swimming in a kilo of tomato paste (we thought we had bought peeled tomatoes) and stale bread dipped in liquid butter. We could barely eat over the shameful giggles – the meal was much more fun than edible.

Today was my chance for redemption. After hearing the story of failed spaghetti, Teitta made my culinary education her top priority. My host mom was going to teach me to cook. Great, I thought, some indigenous knowledge and a Mauritania-friendly recipe, exactly what I’ll need to survive in Atar. Luckily, I was an excellent student and prepared everything to Teitta’s standards. Unluckily, the meal she chose to teach was nothing short of revolting: maaru we il ham during a food shortage, i.e. overcooked rice with goat guts, no veggies. My lunch guests were ravenous and appreciative (zeyn hatte!) but I could barely eat my own concoction. Tomorrow, Teitta and I tackle nshe together. I’m not sure how I could foul up Mauritanian cream of wheat but I’ll not underestimate my own talents.