Frou frou, or millet flour beignets, served here with a street-side morning dish of slow-roasted lamb in a green sauce with fried, sweet plantains. This satisfied a breakfast quartet, eaten by hand on the floor of a dusty boutique in Dialakoroba village, south of Bamako.
A good friend used to console me with the words of her father: The only thing constant is change. There are people who crave change, and others who crave consistency, and then people like me who want both, and neither. If change is on the horizon, I cower in fear; if the status quo is all I see for miles around, I become antsy to the point of agitated. That is to say, i’m not especially adept at riding the Waves of Life. I prefer to be out there on my life raft, hand on one hip in a panic, trying to boss around the tides. As you can imagine, i don’t regularly get my way. Leaving a destructive job is a big step; doing so in a foreign land with no back-up plan is a bit outrageous. Leaving a long-term relationship is a life-changing choice; going solo in a foreign land is, quite, literally, life-altering. Doing both in the space of one week is….let’s call it bold, shall we? Bold seems appropriately kind-spirited. The biggest urge during moments of …
Dibi sogo: freshly roasted lamb purchased on the road. seasoned with piment and salt, tossed with grilled onions.
This was a respite within a respite, so to speak: A 10-hour layover in Paris between two long-ish flights, the bookend of a holiday. I was fortunate to have a French-fried friend to ease the airport doldrums, and even more fortunate that she is a great hostess (from as early as 6am!). One day, I’ll do Paris (maybe even the rest of France) slowly. I’ve only ever done it fast, which is entirely inadequate. But for now I only know the city in increments of 18 hours, 10 hours, cramming whatever I can taste/see/smell/hear/enjoy in the smallest window of time. Arriving in the city by 7:30am, we set out to eat. First a pain au chocolat at the Marché des Enfants Rouges, only just awakening on this Saturday, then a walk about, and a leisurely breakfast in the sun at La Chambre des Oiseaux. What’s to eat? “Breakfast à la campagne” – an assortment of breads, cheeses, charcuterie, and jams, along with a warm and gingery drink. Evidently Paris sleeps in on Saturdays, so we strolled to …
I’ve been appreciating unions of all sorts, lately. Union of the self’s many parts—finally, momentarily—into agreement. Re-union with friends and loved ones to celebrate birth, death, enduring loyalties, and good food (Maryland crab, true tacos, Korean BBQ, and the autumnal Brussels sprouts for which I’ve longed going on 2 years). Integration of mind, body, spirit…at least for a few days there, and I’m grateful. Coming together with families of all sorts to celebrate unions of love. A merging of what is and what could be, to—at last—catalyze change and shake things up a bit. Those unions stretch and grow and birth their natural successors in a longer cycle: partition, separation, division. And so it goes, riding the momentum I begin to separate the necessary and the true from what is inessential, extraneous, and damaging: The useless thoughts, the unclean foods, the toxic people, the burden of insecurity. It is the morning after a grand celebration; it is time to clean up, and move forward into daylight. Images from the weddings of: A close colleague, in Bamako, …
A meal for the ill (that’s me): rice water for rehydration, and comfort food, my favorite Malian dish, although probably not the most rehabilitating: Toukassou, from Timbuktu. Not much to look at, but she’s got flavor for days: chewy, bready balls slathered in a sauce of 14 spices, usually served with long-simmered beef or lamb (although I refrained, considering my flu-ish condition). Recipe at link above. Eaten underneath a traditional Bogolan blanket.
outerNotes 