Doha Food Adventures: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Even after EIGHT MONTHS (!!!), I am still having some strange food adventure every time I go to the grocery. We have a definite patter to each week:

Sunday through Thursday:
Run like hell to do the school/work thing, yelling at the boys to bathe every night.

Saturday: 

Sit dumbfounded for a little while, then do laundry. 
Yell at the boys to bathe.

Sunday: 

Do the grocery shopping, put up the clean clothes, yell at the boys to bathe. 
Get ready for the next week.

See?  See why I'm not posting on the blog more often?

So here, I offer a glimpse of some of the recently noted items. 
The good...the bad...and the ugly (cue whistling music!)

The Good:

ZOMG.  These are light, crispy cookies with a creamy blob of Nutella in the middle.  Going to buy bigger fat pants. brb.

Use the Smucker's only to see the scale of this bag of PRE-PEELED GARLIC CLOVES.  And so then what do I do with these little healthy packets of anti-oxident goodness?  Why, I douse them with olive oil, roast them in the oven until their a little darker than golden brown, let them cool for five minutes, then stand at the stove eating them--like a dozen at one standing--and moaning like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.  Yes, it is that good.  Holy jinkies.  I'm drooling.

The Bad:

What's bad here is not the food item but the name.  Strained foul?  Really?  I thought it was chicken parts pushed through a sieve.  YYYYUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUKKKKKKKKKKKKK!

Really, John has eatten FRESH FOUL (!!!!) which is really spelled "Foll" and is pronounced "Fool."   No. No. No.  John eating Fool.  I won't go there.  No.

"Foll" is a common breakfast food in the Middle East--it's a mixture of beans usually served with tomatos, olive oil, halloum (mild, white) cheese, and grated egg on Afghani flat bread.  Think Middle Eastern breakfast taco. Think hell yes.  Good thing.  Bad name. 

The Ugly:

Sticks of "Krabsmaak"?  WTH?

Pony Tails and Pedicures

A couple of weeks ago, our friend Sheila was going to be in the neighborhood so I weaseled my way onto her appointment list. Living in Doha is hard on your feet. Something about the dry climate, going barefoot all the time, and the micro-fine powdery sand make mine look like something that belongs on a rhino. No, I am not exaggerating. Thank heavens Holly taught me not to be afraid of a good pedi for my 40th birthday.

So sweet, wonderful, smart, talented Sheila fixed me up, and Hannah picked out a lovely dark maroon, and then Sheila put on a glossy top coat and boy did my toesies look nice. So nice that Hannah wanted a turn. Of course, she didn't have all the nastiness that I did (how come a girl that goes barefoot all the time doesn't get callouses?!?), so Sheila just painted her finger and toe nails a nice vibrant pink.

Hannah also finally has enough hair to make a real pony-tail, not just a little wisp of stringiness. Unfortunately, Hank also had enough hair to make a pony tail, but his is more appropriate for a Samurai noodle eater, which I guess makes sense because that is what he is. Last week, he ate FOUR HOT DOG BUNS plain after getting home from school. Can you say "growth spurt"?

Hank did get a hair cut last weekend, so this has been partially improved.

Cold Stone Creamery: Milk Shake for Two

Sauron Intersection

I don't know that we've fully shared the humor, terror, and lack of logic involved in driving and giving/getting directions in Doha. "Where the Streets Have No Name" gives an intro of sorts. No one knows the real names of anything (Qatari and Expat alike), and so we call things by made-up monikers. Moby Dick round-about became so because the petrol station there named Woquod has a big neon sign out front and reminds us of the Pequod in Melville's classic.

Our friends think we're so weird and random that they, too, now call it Pequod R/A.

Some of the names have become official, or at least are published on the local city maps they sell to all of us. Thus when you see "dhow R/A" you can bet there's an old wooden dhow sitting in the middle of that roundabout (there is, indeed).

So when we saw the big fire-sculpture was built on the corner by Aspire stadium, and then went home and watched one of the Lord of the Rings movies, we decided that what used to be Aspire Zone intersection was now "Eye of Sauron" intersection. Partially in honor of Hank and Jack's plaque.

RPH: "Black Man Cookies" from Turkey

We have a favorite cookie/candy/nut/spice vendor in the souq we go see, and he always has something new in his shop. This time, I was browsing around and found these. I was a little speechless and offer this RPH as an interesting illustration of what's okay in different world locations.

The Mouths of Sauron

It was time for some dental attention. John found a great clinic (there are many choices) a few months ago when a chipped tooth needed repairing, to we thankfully knew where to make the appointment.

As a mother, I struggle to find the balance between giving my children autonomy (with consequences) versus hovering around to make sure they do everything "right." I'm much more on the autonomy side, which sounds brave but ends up biting me in the rump on occasion.

So personal hygiene is not a priority for some members of our household (cough cough HANK! cough cough JACK!). The dentist, who was excellent in everyway, painted their teeth with this pink stuff which sticks to plaque--you know those pills that American dentists make kids chew for the same reason? Same stuff, just in paint form. So she painted their teeth, had them rise, and then showed them...where their teeth were pink, plaque was present. The darker the pink, the thicker the plaque.

I took pictures of each of them, John printed them out in 8X10 COLOR format, and these are now taped to their bathroom mirror:

They think it's pretty funny, but when I see the photos and their teeth, this is what I think of:

UGH.

Now it is also time for Hank to get on with the "braces process."  We've had our consultation with a well-recommended and well-qualified orthodontist, and we have our plan...now we just need to get the molds done and set the process in action...which involves an up-front payment of...UGH.  More on that to come.

Wa'allah Update:Poops and Poops and Poops, and a Whistle and a "Whew!" Too

Cheeky little Wa'allah is a great bird, continuing to fit right into our family with no drama.  So far, he still hasn't felt the need to take up any aggressive behavior. He for some reason is not as fond of Hank--although Hank has certainly never done anything to deserve that.

Over the first few weeks that he was here, we spent some time and money getting baby toys as well as a new movable perch/stand.  We found some stackable toddler cups (the 10 that nest inside each other) as well as some small National Geographic-style plastic animals.  So Wa'allah likes to chew the tails and feet off of tigers and elephants and rhinos.  We also found a bead toy and a few other things.  Then we spent a boat load of money and ordered some great perches and things from a USA bird supplier. 

He's finished with hand-feeding and is slowly learning to like fruits and vegetables.  Unfortunately, he's hooked on bird seed, which is too fattening to be a good long-term habit.  He loves grapes and carrots, and will inspect other things, too.  Just like a kiddo, he'll take time to learn.

Wa'allah's eyes are still dark grey, but the do seem a little lighter than when we bought him.  He's grown some, and now weighs a little over 400 grams, on his way to a full-grown weight of probably around 500 grams.  As he gets older, his eyes will continue to lighten until the irises are yellow.

Although he still makes the occasional baby-sounding "peeping and cheeping" noises, he's also started up a good whistling routine.  He does a whistle call for John and a different, higher pitched one for me.  He also says "Woah!" or "Whew!" when he's happy--this is the sound I make when he gives me a kiss.   But for now, we're enjoying lots of love and cuddling (he crawls up and wedges himself under my chin).  Of course he poops everywhere, too, and we're trying to teach him to say "make your poops!" like Habib does.  Some greys talk ealier and better than others, so we're just waiting to see if he'll live up to the legacy of Cosmo and Habib.

We have a firmly entrenched nickname for him now: THE CHEAGLE.  That will have to be another post soon.

The DQ Happy Dance

I just want you to know that, I am aware: while John blogs about camels and 48,000 ways to get his tea on, I tend to blog about children and food. Yes, I am aware of that.

A couple of weekends ago, three of us had the brilliant idea that we needed a little taste of home.  There's one Diary Queen in Doha; it sits at one corner of "Cholesterol Intersection." We hadn't been there since last August.

 So Hanna, Hank, and I loaded up drove over.  Hannah and Hank were both very excited, and the Happy Dance ensued. 
Hannah and I got dip cones, and Hank got a blizzard.  They don't have cookie dough, but they do have Oreos here.  They also have a cool indoor playground.


In fact, indoor playgrounds seem to be a requirement for family restaurants here, or at least a marketing bonus.  There are playgrounds inside the fast food places but also inside Fuddrucker's, Chili's, Applebee's, and other mid-priced American chain restaurants, too.

DQ also does birthday parties rather frequently, and with their "party room," which includes a big indoor play gym thingy, the parties are pretty cool.  They sing the Happy Birthday song in English and in Arabic (same tune, Arabic words).  That's pretty fun to hear.

And here's the last thing I know about our trip to DQ.  The ice cream got eaten.  Lots of smiles were on all faces.  And the sweet lady behind the counter was excited to learn what it meant to make a dip cone with a "loafer"--they put dip cone chocolate in the bottom of the cone, so by the time you get to that last bite, it's like a bon bon of deliciousness.  Mmmmm...makes me want another one right now. 

 

Champagne, It's what's for breakfast

We didn't have any orange juice handy.

There's a reason the world doesn't appreciate American Coffee

It's because no one knows how to make it. There are several good coffees available - both Bedui and Turkish are quite good. And the French even have a small shop that makes an acceptable french press. But the good ol' US of A is not well represented.

Of course, I believe that Folgers is to coffee what Taco Bell is to beef (as in it's more filler than the real deal), so maybe that qualifies me as a snob. But when the common man equates good coffee with Nescafe, Man, you done found yo'self in a FOREIGN LAND.

And let's just say my morning persona is not now as bright and happy as it once was.

But there is a silver lining. In my frantic search to find some kind of substitute I have learned to make some fine FINE new hot beverages. I mentioned Turkish coffee (Ka'awa Turkia) and Bedui coffee (Ga'awa Beduia) above. I also have learned from my travels and friends about Indian chai, masala chai, ginger black chai, Persian/Irani shai, Karak (shai Beduia), and Kashmiri saffron tea.

I am also learning a bit more about the more classic English teas and to appreciate something other than Earl Grey in that genre. I've become especially fond of the Darjeeling teas.

So I thought I might share (especially with my foodie friends) what I've learned. I'll do a series of posts about each of the ones I've listed above, and if this makes me a bore, so be it.

And no cracks from my t.u. friends and family. I've only gone to sippin' tea in the absence of a decent cup of jo.

Gone to the Races...

Now that Nancy has dribbled on and on about Egypt and political change in the Middle East (and had a Professor of History tell her he gets his current events from her Facebook status updates), I'd like to bring to your attention to something much more pressing.

The Camel Races.

It's sort of like thoroughbred horse racing, only with camels. And yes, there is just as much money behind the proceedings as you'd find in Kentucky. The distances are longer (the longest race being run over a 22 kilometer track), the starts are not nearly as dramatic (an older mama camel has to run in front of the pack so they all run the same direction), the Sheiks drive their Land Cruisers along beside the track as the camels run, and the jockeys are actually small pod robots which the Sheiks control by remote while driving their Land cruisers beside their camels (They stopped using child slaves as jockeys some time ago).

Here's a picture of the end of the race (the "herd" has thinned considerably) complete with camel drool and lips flopping in the wind:

During the race the handlers come off the track and into the stands (until a Qatari drives them off) to watch the video of the race. The distances are so great that the backside of the track is out of view, so they use video cameras. Most of the handlers are from Sudan - cheap labor and skilled with camels I guess.

And here's a shot of the Lecturer and our Gracie on a reticent and recently retired racer:

Nancy was laughing so hard when the camel squatted down to let her off that she hurt her back (not kidding. Camel riding is a bad business).

Witnessing History?Egypt's Leaderless Democratic Revolution

Here we sit in an absolute monarchy (Qatar), a country which has a constitution that allows for Qatari nationals to vote (men and women) and allows women to run for public office.  A constitution which establishes the Majlis al Shura--a parliament with 30 members elected by popular vote and 15 members appointed by the Emir. A constitution which was ratified in 2003 or 2004 (too lazy to go look it up).  Seven years later...no parliament yet.  There have been a couple of elections for municipal positions, but no parliament.  One huge difference between Qatar and Egypt is population: 1.7 million people live in Qatar, but only about 250,000 of those are Qatari nationals (citizens who can vote).  The rest of us are immigrant workers who could be asked to go home.

Most Qataris get all sorts of benefits from the state, via petroleum revenues--it's a "welfare state."  I'm not complaining because my salary is paid by these same revenues.  Regardless, the bottom line is that the people of Egypt have been oppressed by a corrupt government and have suffered under 20-25% unemployment (according to Al Jazeera...which, by the way, was the first free media established in the Middle East, established by the Emir of Qatar), escalating food prices, and other hardships.  So Qataris, from my own informal conversations mainly with students of ~20 years old on average, are a little frustrated by the continued wait for the parliament, but while Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen, Jordan, and Morocco...maybe even Libya?...have rumblings or revolutions, Qatar remains stable and, for once, lucky to be surrounded/buffered by the stable nation of Saudi Arabia.

But as I take a graduate course in "personal agency" (the power of the individual to affect change or use the power of expression) and as I look out onto my own classrooms of Arabic (and several Egyptian) students, this is giving me a lot to ponder.  According to articles that are published in all sorts of places, this Egyptian revolution was not started by a particular person.  It was a collective effort organized and fed via...Facebook and Twitter.  It's a "young generation's revolution" fed by connections and by shared frustration over the oppressive government.

Here's a great article on how social networking and an anonymous user found power in the story of a young man in Alexandria beat to death by the police and in the tools of Web 2.0: "El Shaheed: The Mysterious 'Anonymous' behind Egypt's Revolt" from Newsweek.

And then here's a scary graphic of what happens when the government doesn't like what's going on via the interwebs:

What's amazing to me is how the people of Egypt have taken up the power of protecting each other from the looters and thugs (the bad people that many believe are being encouraged by Mubarak's regime).  They guard the streets, homes, and store fronts.  They guard the museums.  They differentiate between "true Egyptians" who have the best of the people/country at heart and the "thugs" who hope to undermine the revolution.  They also reverted to old technologies like ham radios and Morris Code to maintain communication.  Google even set up a method of getting around the internet blackout (more here).  Governments may have to walk a fine line, but people can help each other.  Pretty. Damn. Cool.

As I finish writing this, roughly 1,000,000 have gathered in Tahrir square to march in protest and ask Mubarak to step down.  Now one knows when the march will start, because the movement doesn't have a leader...I guess the march starts when a few people decide to start walking?

Where Am I?

Um, grad classes started again three weeks ago.

Random Tear-Inducer from Here: Blue Morning Glory

My Mom's Mom (who we called Gaga) loved morning glories--she used to grow them in her little back yard at Eden Village.  So when we were on a school field trip, taking Hannah and the Princess Brigade to the plant shops, and I spotted this, it was yet another random moment that made my eyes leak a little.  Good things from home.

والله : a.k.a., WA'ALLAH!

We start today's blog post with a blatant cut and paste from Wikipedia:

Wa'allah (Arabic)

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

By Allah (Arabic: Wallah, والله) is Arabic expression meaning "[I promise] by God" used to make a promise or express great credibility on an expression. It is considered a sin among Muslim to use this phrase and follow it up with a lie. Also, some Muslims argue that this is one of the few valid ways of making a promise, the variant "I promise on myself" or "I promise on my own soul" not being allowed, in contrast to "I promise by the one who holds my soul" ie God. An alternative is Wallaahi, "By my God", often contracted by non-Arab populations in Africa to Wallai.

Another meaning is "Really?", "Is that so?" (referring to "Do you swear on it?", used in spoken Arabic), "By God!" (this meaning has been adopted by Modern Hebrew slang as well).

{Your Correspondent chimes in here to say that wala in Hindi means someone who sells something, like a street vendor. In Bombay the walas often have little ryming songs they sing to attract customers and give info about their wares. Our little Wa'Allah has a song - he sing it for you anytime.}

And now we introduce the reason for this post:

This is the baby African Grey we purchased last night. We don't know its gender, but I have a strong inclination it's a girl. Every time I've had a strong inclination about gender (being pregnant, with our previous Grey, Cosmo), I've been WRONG. Therefore, this is probably a boy. For now, we'll use the masculine pronoun, "he."

We bought him from a pet shop at the souq. These shops are questionable at best, and pet owners typically sharply divided into one of two reactions (1) So what? They're just animals or (2) OH MY GOD HOW COULD YOU EVER BUY SOMETHING FROM THOSE HEATHENS AND FUND THEIR HORRIBLE TREATMENT OF ANIMALS! BLAAAAAAAAA! That "Bla" at the end is where the hysterical person either attempts to attack you physically or runs away in terror and disgust at the sight of you.

When we first moved here, I tended towards the second group and swore to find a "reputable" and "kind" and "clean" breeder. Guess what? No such thing exists in Doha. So you are left with these options (although I say "bird," it applies to "dog," "cat," "turtle," "chicken," "goldfish," and "turnip," too):

1. Rescue/adopt a bird.
   There are no bird shelters in Doha...so this is an issue of random luck. That's where our adventure with Habib started.
2. Import your bird.
   We tried that, and the poor Wildlife guy had a triple bypass and didn't get our paperwork done in time. The backlog is 6-8 months to export from the US, and trying to do that from Doha would be a nightmare. El Jefe is also with his new owner 8,000 miles away, and I'm not in a position to ask for him back.
3. Don't have a pet.
   This is always an option but not one I wanted to choose. We need a creature to make our family complete.
4. Buy one from the souq (or similar) dealers.

I actually would have crumbled into option 4 late last summer, after we talked to vets, scoured online info, and talked to people: no other "good" options existed. If Habib hadn't come to us, I would have been at the souq with my money...but the struggle in the summer was also that there were no young birds. They were all fully adult and, somehow, up to 50% more expensive than a baby. I don't understand that price difference...maybe because these older birds could talk?

So when we found out Habib was going to Saudi, we started keeping our eyes open at the souq. About two weeks ago, there was a perfect little gentle baby (~ four months old) that I really wanted. However, we weren't sure Habib would make it to Saudi, so we were in limbo. I went back to the same animal dealer three days later, and the baby had been sold.

Last night, we went back again. The young boys weren't in the mood for any souq adventures, we got a late start, and Hannah was getting grumpy. The parking lot was full. Conditions did not look good. I promised we would walk straight to the pet area, look around quickly, and leave. We walked straight to the pet area, immediately spotted this bird, handled it and talked to the shop owner, and decided he must come home with us.

His name is Wa'allah (pronounced Wa-lah), and you've seen what that means above. We chose Wa'allah because it's fun to say, not offensive, and fits the situation in many ways. The kids asked me about a dozen times, "Do you really promise? Can we keep this one?" So Wa'allah is a promise. Wa'allah is also a promise to the bird to take good care of him. Wa'allah is "sent from God," because I think there was a reason I had to wait and go back last night--there's a reason we didn't buy a bird last summer or even two weeks ago. This one was meant for us. Yes, I'm a blithering romantic fool, but I believe it. Finally, Wa'allah informally means "Really?" as in "Really? You really just went out a bought a bird--who will live about 75 years--in five minutes?" Yes, really. Wa'allah!

Wa'allah is still getting hand-fed twice per day (and the shop people sold us the feeding supplies for that). We're comfortable with this from our experience hand-raising El Jefe many moons ago.

Notice how his eyes are dark grey--that is a sign that he's still rather young. Notice also that little metal band around his left foot (visible in the top photo). That's crucial--it means he was bred in captivity and is the central item ensuring we'll be able to bring him home with us (navigating through export/import permits).

Wa'allah's super sweet--doesn't know anything about biting and makes precious little baby chirping noises. He's also not expert at balancing or moving yet--he sort of moves in a clumsy way like a toddler. He won't show signs of talking for several more months, but he likes to cuddle up under your neck and is very loving. We're a lucky bunch after all.

Where the Streets Have No Name

Robertson County is like this, too. No one--at least none of the natives--knows the names of the streets. Everything is by landmark: "Go to Old Widow Jenny's house, turn right. At the deadend by Crazy Frank's house, turn left. It's near the broken street lamp."  When we first moved there, I learned the street names and when I used them in directions ("one block from the Mitchell/Railroad intersection, turn left on Pine") people would look at me like I was nuts.

So goes the directions in Doha. We live down Racetrack Road, right through Stinky Intersection, exiting left out of Scary Roundabout, then going right at Roundabout Marker 2. Or, an alternative route is to go Lights and Bumps Road and straight through Scary. These are not directions that I make up. Many, many other people understand these same names. Part of this comes from not being able to pronounce or remember the actual street names, and part of this comes from the sheer terror of driving. Who has time to read a sign, when sniffing and screaming are much more instinctual?

The best part is that these names then become "fact." The official map of Doha is littered with these: Tilt/Slant Roundabout, Burger King Roundabout, TV Roundabout. Even though these intersections have official names, no one knows them, again, because they are TOO BUSY DRIVING IN CIRCLES AT 40 MPH HOPING NOT TO FLIP THEIR SUVs or SLAM INTO ANYONE or POOP to stop and try to pronounce, in a thick Texas accent: "I'll Mawr Cob Ell Shaw Zah See Inn Ter Sex Shun. Whaaaa?"

So now I'm trying to collect evidence, and here are two beginning pieces. Like RPH (random photos from here), I need a short hand name for these as I post more in the future.

RPH: Room for Rant

What's Cooking in Dohaland

Explaining what expat life is like (at least in the Middle East) can be vague--it's not rough like rural parts of developing countries.  We have an overabundance of retail outlets.  However, it's not that easy. People say things like, "you can find most of the food stuff you need, but sometimes you have to go looking for it, and sometimes they have it once but never again so you better buy everything you want (horde it)."  This happens relatively often with cereal.

About a month ago, John really wanted/needed some Bran Buds cereal--he sprinkles it on other cereal in small quantity.  One box of Bran Buds lasts about two weeks if he eats it every morning.  We remembered seeing it at one store.  No luck.  I had to go to five different stores and ended up paying $9 per box for it.  The store where I finally found it had probably 20 boxes, but I limited myself to only three...paying 100 Qatar Riyale (about 27 USD) for three small boxes of bran made me a little weak in the knees, but you know, when you need fiber, you need fiber.  Enough said.

Now understand that this issue extends to all ingredients beyond the basics.  Now imagine having to plan meals (including school lunches for 3 kids X 5 days EVERY FREAKIN' WEEK) and you see why you don't just find a yummy looking recipe on the internets and expect to make it for a meal any time soon.  That is, unless you're willing to devote your life to grocery hunting-gathering, which I refuse to do.

Except last week, the Pioneer Woman had a recipe for chicken tortialla soup that looked soooooo good.  It reminded me of my grandmother's taco soup, which I can't make because no one here has ever heard of hominy.  This recipe looked more do-able, with a couple of exceptions: (1) black beans are hard to find, and (2) fresh cilantro I have never seen in Doha.  Well, we can skip the cilantro (dammit) and I know if I am patient I'll find black beans.

Except I'm not patient.  I make my list and go to the be-hated Carrefour, Superwalmart of France now with a branch in Doha, Qatar.  Did I mention that Doha is hosting the Asian Cup (regional soccer thingy)?  Did I mention that Carrefour is flanked by a huge soccer stadium and one of the fan zones? Did you know they had a game starting around 2 PM last Friday?  Did I mention that even finding a parking place took 15 minutes and required exemplary parking lot stalking skills otherwise only demanded on the campus of Texas A&M? Except add in the total chaos of "international driving standards" (aka, if there's a space, ram your way into it, regardless of whose turn it was, but make sure to wave with all five fingers or you could get deported).

Yes, I'm rambling.  But you need to understand the mental context of all this.  The saving grace was that the kids were home with John, so this was me out on lone battle.  Otherwise, I would have turned around and left.

I made it through my list except for the black beans.  I went to the "gourmet" organic dried bean area and found adzuki beans as well as black lentils and mung beans but nothing close to regular old black beans.  Next, I went to the canned beans, where I was delighted with this...

Salted black beans!  In small cans, yes, but each can only cost about 75 cents.  Considering I had seen this half-size can of Bush's black beans for about $4 per can 4 months ago, I was beyond pleased.

Of course, I was also skeptical.  I'm no fool.

So I checked everything about the item I could find.

Clue #1 (not good): Lots of Japanese writing.

Clue #2 (not good, but not uncommon): Unknown brand.

Clue #3 (good): Label reads "black soya beans"...
Black soyas are listed as a substitute for regular black beans on sites like this.

Clue #4 (good): More label..."salt, water, and..."

Clue #5 (not good, but unsure): "sugar."

I looked at other cans on the same shelf and some were marked "fermented black beans."  I didn't want anything to do with fermented beans, so comparing those to this can, these looked like they weren't fermented.  Lacking other options and refusing to go store hopping, I decided to try.

But I'm no fool.

So look on the same shelf and buy two cans of kidney beans (ha! something familiar!) and one can of _____________________ beans (the one on top).  But you see...I've learned.  You have to turn it in 360-degree angles and look for the fine print. A ha! "Americana White Beans"!

[Sidenote: If you would like to imagine family grocery shopping here, please pause and think about doing this sort of investigative/critical thinking for at least 20% of your groceries.  Step away from the seppuku knife and carry on.]







I was happy. Foolishly happy. Then I came home and made the recipe, drooling more and more as it went along. Thankfully, before adding the beans to the rest of the soup, I was wise to taste them first. I would like for you to now close your eyes. You may have to have someone else read this part to you since you can't see it: Imagine a jelly bean. A nice black, firm jelly bean. It looks normal. It smells normal. Bite into it. Now imagine that you have just done a short class full of the stinkiest, thickest, saltiest, fishiest soy sauce on the face of the planet.

Open your eyes.

I used the red kidney beans and _________________ beans instead.  And yes, the soup was good.

Expat Life: Hellos and Goodbyes

Here's one thing I've learned after a scant 6 months as an expatriate: living abroad is full of hellos and goodbyes. New people cycle in, and established friends cycle out.

In the first months of our time here, several dear friends have gone "home" (back to America), including some who we knew well and loved a lot, and some we met only long enough to think, "Wow, I wish these folks were staying here long enough to know them--they seem really wonderful."  I can think of 10 people/families that are gone in just this time.  Others come in their places, but as we all know, making good friendships requires a special chemistry, especially among couples.  Anyone who has ever had a friendship where there was ambivalence or dislike involving the spouse(s) will know what I mean.  Coming from a community where we had 10+ families that we considered close, dependable friends, this expat comin'-and-goin' is a new experience.

Well, yesterday, we had someone very close to our hearts land in the goin' category...

Yesterday, Habib went to Saudi Arabia to live with Vee and Collin.  Vee missed him enormously and found a...um..."non-standard" way to get him into the country with them.

Habib was a fun and loving bird.  I attribute much of this to Vee's excellent attention, patience, and devotion, but I also attribute some of it to him/her just being a "good bird."  Over the past months, he had gotten to the point of calling for me to come get him.  I would put him on my shoulder and he would sit for an hour, getting neck scratches and letting me give him little kisses on his head.  I can't remember being bitten by this bird.  He bit Jack once, pretty hard, but it was when we had company, so the house was full of loudness, and Jack made the mistake of trying to show off how the bird was so easy to touch.  This was a human mistake, not an aggressive bird problem.

So I thank Habib for proving what our friend/bird breeder Patrick had promised me: a good bird is a good bird no matter if it's hand-raised or comes from a difficult background.  A "difficult" bird can be trained and helped but will always be more challenging than a "good" bird.

After all the upheaval of last summer and after saying goodbye to all those creatures from our own home, Habib's goodbye is especially sad, too.  The reward is knowing that we were able to help another family and learning that we can make this work.  The reward is also knowing he might, occasionally at least until he forgets, say "Cowboy, Yee-haw!" or "Beeeee-bo" or call out Hannah or Hank's name or, when asked if he wants a nuts, go, "Whoop!" like he learned to do here. 

We're pondering what to do next.  Another bird is likely, but this time bought and kept for sure (with a band/papers so we can bring it back to the USA).

I Wonder What Moses Played With...

Disclaimer: 

If you are easily offended by religious references or male body parts, 

then you probably don't want to read this.  

There.  

You've been warned.
I don't make the news.  I just report it.

The kids just got home from school today, and Hank (7th grade) told me this story... There's a child in his class named Jesus.  Now, in Texas, we all know this is pronounced Hey-soose, because just like the Prophet Mohammad and just like Allah, we differentiate between the man and the MAN.  However, some sort of wiring disconnect affects people when they cross the Atlantic ocean, and so all the teachers (Brits, Aussies, and even a Canadian) as well as the students call this child by the "real" name, Jeezus (the proper pronunciation, unless you're like my beautiful, smart Chicana friend's Mama, who says Cheezits).

Well, Jesus of Qatar (after all, we must differentiate between the man and the MAN) had some little magnetic BB ball things.  Apparently, they were doing all sort of creative things with them at school.

When Hank got off the bus yesterday, he had one inside his bottom lip and the other on the outside of his face, so it looked like he had pierced his face in the area just under his lip.  All in the space of a millisecond, I remembered the look on my Mom's face when she first saw and then promptly proceeded to deny the existence of my first tattoo...and all I could utter nothing more than "oh no you didn't." Thankfully, no he hadn't.  It was a good, humbling moment--my Mom will be glad to read.

So Jesus (remember to pronounce it like the teachers, Jeezus), the distributor of these magnetic items, had more of them at school today. As they were sitting in English class, Jeezus was tucking them into his lip to make "piercings" along his chin rather than paying attention.  The teacher, a good Brit who also spent time in Australia, looked up an announced in a nice, clear voice:

Jesus, stop playing with your balls.

As reported by Hank, fresh off the presses.