Imagine: A Stick-Free Society

Teacher Development Workshop 2014

“How can there be something better than 'The Stick'?” a teacher asked sincerely.

“Through this workshop we’re going to learn many other ways to manage your classroom besides 'The Stick,'” John countered.

And so our 2 weeks of the Teacher Development Workshop progressed. Last night was our final session.  

We hadn’t taught this particular material in Egypt before so we weren’t really sure what to expect.  A friend of ours arranged the location (our local village), the building (the neighborhood mosque), the time of day (5:30-8:30 pm) and the attendees (teachers in government schools).

Our first night we had around 33 in attendance and also 3 babies, a couple toddlers and various elementary-aged children running in and out.  Some came initially for curiosity.  Over the days we finally settled into an attendance of averaging 20-22 (plus the tiny to mid-sized people who came with their mothers).

We used a translator because frankly even some first-language English speakers would have trouble initially understanding some of the educational concepts that are necessary to the teaching.  (And let's be real...NO ONE wants to learn from a Tarzan-like speaking delivery.)

Imagine if you were a government teacher in Egypt.  You have a small classroom, the walls are scuffed and there aren’t enough chairs or desks.  Each textbook is shared between 3 students.  The teacher/student ratio ranges from 25-45 to 1. The school year is from October to December and Mid-February to April.  There are four periods in the day including one period for Islamics.  The remaining three are used to teach all other required educational benchmarks required by the government.  The only form of discipline you’ve been taught to use is “The Stick.”  It’s what you experienced when you were a student and it’s what you know as “normal” as a teacher.  No cooling (in the long summers), no heat (in winter).  You tutor students after class to supplement your salary trying to help them achieve the standards that you are unable to reach in the allotted classroom time. "Lack" and "same" are the two words you mutter most.

Yet here were these teachers gathered in this room together all sitting with their notebooks and pens ready.  They long for new information, new approaches, different resources.  We even taught them a couple affirmation cheers, i.e. “Rollercoaster,” “Fantastic,” and “Firecracker.”  They loved them and insisted we use them throughout the teaching.

I believe this kind of teaching is especially poignant right now for Egypt.  As my Grandma said, “If you always do what you’ve always done, then you’re gonna get what you’ve always got.”  In other words, unless new types of thinking and problem-solving are interjected into a society, they will “get what they’ve always got.”

As they began to soak in some of the concepts, we could see understanding in their eyes.  Things could be different.  Life doesn’t have to be the same from generation to generation.  Hope was forming.  

John closed asking God to bless them and telling them that as a man of prayer he will be praying for each of them.  They smiled and did the “Rollercoaster” cheer for us.

We then presented completion certificates to each of them and took a class photo.  Some of the ladies weren’t keen on photos so we told them “no problem” and made sure they weren’t included.  I had made bupcakes (“cupcakes”) and passed them around.  They all clapped and took pictures making me feel like Tom Colicchio in the airport.

Kids then came out of the woodwork and we gave all the treats away.  We hugged one another, took a few selfies and then said our goodbyes.

The teachers were already planning what they’d like to learn at the next workshop.

It was a good week; one filled with hope and promise (and no stick) for a beautiful people.  

Do You...Dance? (Part 2)

The receiving room where John drank tea
for a couple hours pre-wedding. 

Last time I left you, I had just had a rather embarrassing conversation with my new friends that I had made while waiting for the wedding to begin.  Thankfully, I was rescued by the sound of horns honking in the distance.  This indicates that the bride and groom are on their way.  Thank goodness!

The bride and groom arrive
with video guy.

By the time they weaved in and through the narrow dirt roads/paths, it was around 12:30 am.  I had already “celebrated” for 2 and half hours and the party was just getting started.

John emerged from one of the homes and we made eye contact.  I told the women that I was going to go stand by my husband and they gave me a wink.  I’m glad they couldn’t see me blushing in the dark.

The bride and groom were led into the reception area by a group of young men playing drums and singing.  All of the village attendees poked their heads out of their homes and took to the streets lining it as the couple walked by.  (They were the smart ones.  They know how these things roll.)

People dancing all in the street
See the rhythm all in their feet. 

Everyone began dancing and made their way to the reception area.  The band kicked it off with some happening Nubian party music.  Our friend, Ahmed*, appeared around the corner and greeted us.  We were relieved to see a familiar face in the crowd.  He then introduced us to two women he had met through his work.  One was British and the other German.  They wanted to see an authentic Nubian wedding.  This one would not disappoint.

We aren’t accustomed to having other foreigners with us so when we walked into the crowd, we caused a bit of a stir.  John and I were dressed in traditional Nubian wear, but the other ladies had on typical tourist clothes complete with fannypack and large camera about the neck.

The space was divided into two areas.  The women were on one side and the men on the other.  The groups separated and began dancing.  I sat on a little bench tapping my foot and smiling.  It’s important to keep a good game face throughout all these events.  Our every move is watched and scrutinized for later conversation. 

We're going to party,
karamu, fiesta, forever...

The German lady popped up and walked into the throng of dancing women.  She joined in and snapped pictures at the same time.  I got up and walked along the perimeter making small talk (as best I could over giant speakers) with some women.  The German lady outlasted me and I returned to the bench and resumed my smile.

Just then the men in the crowd pulled our friend Ahmed into the circle of dancers.  He resisted at first, but knew it was inevitable.  John laughed and clapped for his friend.  2 minutes later, John was also invited/pulled into the circle.  Now the men were satisfied and begin to sway and shuffle together.  I wanted to snap a picture of John in the group, but the men dance very closely and there was no way I was going to step into the middle of that.

Bling is in this season!

One man walked up to me and the British woman and said, “I am just so happy that you are here in my village!”  We were touched.  This nice elderly man was happy we were here.  

The German woman returned to take a breather.  Several kids saw her camera and began striking poses in front of her hoping she would take the bait.  Funny thing though, so did some of the men.  They began dancing and moving closer toward us with just that perfect “Covergirl” “Blue Steel” look.  She began snapping and soon she had more clients than she could handle.

I had noticed that the men were taking on some new dance steps as the evening progressed.  John and Ahmed had long left the enthusiastic dance group and were back on the sidelines with a good number of men.  The remaining dancers were spinning, leaping, shimmying as it were.

Don't forget to include flags of
your favorite soccer team!

The elderly man came to us again and said, “I am just so, so happy you are here in my village!  Welcome!  Welcome!”

Again, we were touched but this time as he swung by I smelled what seemed to be alcohol wafting in the air.  Alcohol?  But these are Muslims!

Ahmed told us that at times for weddings, the men will drink a little in order to loosen up for the dancing.  Ah, that would explain some of the Michael Jackson moves that began to take place as the evening wore on.

The British woman and the German woman had seen enough.  They told Ahmed that they wanted to return to their hotel.  Ahmed told us that he would make sure they arrived safely and then he would return to us.  We told them goodbye and maintained position.

And more dancing...

The bride and her party crossed over from the other side to dance with the groom and the other men.  A popular Nubian singer had been hired for the event so everyone was singing to the top of their lungs, dancing and having fun.

It was around 2 am at this time and Ahmed had been gone for 30 minutes.  Surely that was enough time to go and come back.  We shrugged and hung out.

Someone asked us if we can have good conversations at events like this.  The answer is an emphatic “no.” There’s simply no way to hear anything.  In a room the size of 30’x100’, they usually have 6-8 large speakers cranked until they have reached distortion. Smiling and sign language (of sorts) are the only forms of communication available.

We go to these events because it’s part of village life.  To understand village people, we have to be with them, near them, awake with them.  So we go, we sit, we get stared at and we try to keep our eyes pried open at 3 am…when Ahmed still hasn’t returned.

Now John’s tolerance for moments like this is FAR better than mine.  I’m so ready to go by now.  It seems that a very rich village man provided 15 cases of beer for the occasion.  24 cans in each.  By the way they were acting and dancing, I surmised they were on case #12 already.

The groom dancing before the crowd.

Our elderly village man once again stood in front of me and said, “Have I told you how happy I am that you are in my village?  Come dance with me!”  He began swaying back and forth and then some others joined in the invite.  John shook his head no and they instead danced around each other.  

Some men who had successfully avoided the mosh pit were now being picked up from their seat and being placed in the middle.  There was no fighting it now.

One man lit a Roman candle and held it in his hand.  One flame shot out.  When the remaining four did not he held the candle to his eye so he could see what was wrong.  OH MY WORD!  (“A Christmas Story” scene all over again, “You’ll shoot your eye out!”) He tossed it aside and it began flaring from the ground sending the bride running.

I wish I could say that was the first and last of the fireworks but it wasn’t.  A young boy had a cone that shot sparkles out of the top.  He lit it and set it in the middle of the crowd where flammable materials, curtains and people abound!  People would scatter and then return to dancing after the smoke had dissipated.

Around 4 am, Ahmed still hadn’t returned.  I looked at John and gave him the official, “I am so done” signal.  He understood and we began our goodbyes as we declined one last offer to dance.

We fell into bed around 4:30 am and slept until 11 the next morning.  I hadn’t had a drop of their special celebratory beverages, but my head pounded just the same.  I suppose it was a compilation of late night, loud music and social stress.

Ahmed stopped by the next day to explain what had happened.  As he was returning the 2 women to their hotel, a man from the wedding offered to give them all a boat ride back. (Their hotel was along the Nile.)  They accepted.  As he was casting off, he fell in the water.  Apparently, he had had some special dance juice, too.  Ahmed fished him out and had to make new arrangements which took far longer than he anticipated.  He apologized profusely for not returning.

We smiled and told him we understood.  Things happen.  LOTS of things happen when you go to a village wedding.  But we would only discover these things by being here, near and with.  Painful as it can be sometimes to be stretched so much, it’s necessary to be a part.

Jesus left the splendor of Heaven, confined Himself to human form and lived among us.  He did it so we could experience who God was in real life…in the grit and truth of our existence.  People were drawn to Jesus because He met them where they lived, mourned, celebrated and muddled through. 

The rope being offered to you in a pit can only be grasped when it is illuminated by light.  

We pray that we reflect the love and light of Jesus at every wedding, funeral, dinner together, teaching workshop, baby celebration and Eid. I also pray that we find discreet earplugs for future events and that I can poke out my mind’s eye from some of the dance moves I saw at Case #15. 
___________________
*Not his real name

Privileged to be here!

Do You...Dance? (Part 1)

Back to back weddings are tough.  The first one this week happened at a sports club which meant that the festivities were over at midnight.  Not too bad.  The next one, however, was in the village which meant this was an all night deal.  John and I try to prepare ourselves for these events by spending extra time praying and taking a nap sometime during the day so that we can be fully conscious and present with our friends.

Around 10 pm, we put on our wedding gear and made our way to the other side of the village.  We weren’t exactly sure of the location, but thought that we would just follow the music.  After we walked a bit, we came upon a section of street that had been decorated with all manner of LED lights.  This must be it.  As we approached the area we noticed that there wasn’t any music playing.

We looked around and couldn’t seem to find anyone in wedding mode.  We greeted a woman sitting in a chair near the entrance of a home.  She returned our greeting and said that this was the place but lissa, lissa (not yet, not yet).  I sighed.  Even when we try to be late, we’re still very early.  

She motioned for me to sit next to her so I did.  Just then a man walked by and greeted John.  He then told John that the wedding wouldn’t start for a while so he should come with him to drink tea.  John looked at me and said, “You can go with me or you can stay here and visit.”

Since I didn’t know either person, I chose to visit with the woman.  I began speaking to her in Arabic and she smiled broadly.  “Oh, your Arabic is so good!” she exclaimed.  I smiled in return knowing that my Arabic is not that good but that she was being kind. We chatted about a lot of topics and then she asked, “Is your husband a good man?”

“Yes, he’s a very good man,” I said. 

She nodded and then asked, “Do you love him?”

“Yes, I do.”

She then told me the sad story of her husband.  “He is not a good man,” she said.  She has two older daughters and one 4 year old boy.  She said after the boy was born, her husband left her.  She now has no husband and her parents are dead.

I took her hand and said, “I am so sorry.  That is very hard.”

She then asked again, “Your husband is a good man?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Mashallah.  Mashallah,” she retorted.  (This is a saying that basically means, “I envy you, but God protect me from being jealous.”)

Just then her sisters came from their homes and pulled up chairs.  They switched to Kinsey which is their native language.  She then told them all about me.  When they wanted to know something from me directly, they would switch back to Arabic.  Once they had their answers, they would discuss me in Kinsey.  It’s all very unnerving, but it’s how it goes here, so I just have to get used to it.

My first friend said to them, “She has a good husband.  She loves him.”

I smiled and wondered what their reaction would be.

They just smiled and said, “Good.  Good.”

Just then a white van loaded to the brim pulled up in front of us.  8 guys jumped out and began unloading all the sound equipment.  Ah, the band is here!

When the ladies saw them they looked at me and said, “Oh you can dance!”

I laughed and said, “No, I probably won’t dance.  I’ll just watch.”

“Oh, you must dance!”

Now in nervous laughter I reiterated, “I like dancing, but I’m just not very good at it.”

One sister said, “You are shy here, but you must dance in America!”

“No, not really.  I’m just not very good at it so I don’t really dance.”

Another said, “You must dance there!”

To add emphasis I said, “No, I don’t dance here or in America.” I continued, “I don’t even dance in Germany or Kenya! In fact, I don’t dance anywhere in the world!”

“You don’t dance anywhere?”

“Nowhere in the world!” I said laughing, thinking that this conversation in Arabic was going well.  I’m understanding.  They’re understanding.

Just then one sister looked at me and said, “You never dance?” while she crossed her arms as to give herself a hug and began rocking side to side. She continued, “Your husband is a good man?”

“Yes, of course, he is a….” Wait.  What are you actually asking me?  Are we still talking about dancing? 

I looked up and now all three sisters are staring at me intently.  One then said, “Do you dance or not?”

Now I’m speechless.  This whole time I’m thinking we’re having an innocent discussion about dancing.  Somehow we aren’t talking about dancing anymore…at least I don’t think so.

I’m sure my face turned a deeper crimson than normal as I began to understand the full ramifications of their questions.

Somehow I misunderstood a verb or did not know about a particular euphemism or something.  All I knew is that I had just dogmatically stated to 3 strangers that “Nowhere in the world do I….uh, dance.”

They all saw my distress and began cackling loudly.  They slapped each others’ hands and began speaking quickly in Kinsey.  I’m sure I had just provided fodder for them and all their friends for weeks to come.

I hadn’t even made it to the wedding yet and already I’d made an impression, a big impression.  Even typing this is painful in a horrible but hysterical way.  (I’d certainly be laughing very hard too if this were anyone’s story, but mine.)

My awkward silence was covered up by the now blaring speakers which had been placed all around the area.  Almost time to get this party started…What else could possibly happen? 

Pam, Stacy, Clinton and Shmoo

This is a shmoo.

Last night we were invited to a wedding in what I would call a spontaneous method.  Our friend, Sadik*, had just returned from out of town and he was anxious to see us.  As we visited, he said that a friend’s son was getting married that evening and he would pick us up at 9 pm. 

John said, “As in tonight?” 

Sadik nodded yes.  

John told him that we had a guest coming but that 10 pm would work.  It was settled.  Well, the time was.

I was now left to figure out what to wear.  We were already planning on attending another wedding the next night so I had to save my abiya (like a zip-up robe) for that event.  They get too dirty in-between for it to last for two occasions.  I rummaged through my closet asking the usual list of questions:

1) Where are my blingin’ clothes?  (This is not an exasperated phrase, but actually wondering where my sparkly clothes are.  Egyptians LOVE bling.  “More is more, but even more is much better” is their motto.

2) Are the families hosting mostly from Cairo?  If they are, then I will need to lean toward brighter colors, extra jewelry and anything with a fashion logo on it.

3) Are the families conservative Muslims?  If so, then black is where it’s at.  Skirt to the ankles. Sleeves to the wrists. Neckline to the chin. No polyester, lest I burst into flames from the heat. (That last one is my personal requirement.)

4) Will we arrive in taxi or walk through a village?  The answer to this question determines which shoes I wear.  The ladies here love heels.  I guess they go with the idea “The higher the heels, the closer to God.”  However, mine is “The higher the heels, the louder my ankles snap on dirt roads.” I seriously don’t know how they do it.

5) Does the proposed outfit I have in my mind have any actual hint of fashion once I’ve met all the requirements?  Inevitably the answer is usually “no.”

I didn’t realize quite how bad my fashion sense had become until I went to Kenya.  I pulled out all my “out of country” clothes and began trying to create outfits.  Let’s see…how about this brown sweater with my jeans and a ever-so-hip scarf layered around me neck?  If I add my Toms knockoffs (I know…gasp!)…am I cool or trying to hard?  What about this skirt? Does anyone even wear skirts anymore?  Oh, no! Are these MOM JEANS? Sigh.

I know for a fact that the women in my village must shake their heads at my attempts to be “fashion-forward” here.  It is still very hard for me to consider purposely purchasing a bright pink abiya with rhinestones all over it…very hard.

On the other hand, when I can wear whatever I still struggle.  I just don’t know what looks good anymore.  When I look at a cute dress and say, “Oh, with pants underneath that and beaded sandals with a coordinated long-sleeved shirt, plus a scarf…perfect!” I know. I have no clue.

So here’s my proposal:  Next time I go somewhere where I am supposed to look like a 47-year-old American woman who has actually been to a mall within the last year…I’m calling on you.  Maybe I could have fashion sponsors who can put together outfits for me and label them with tags that would tell me what looks good together.  You know, Garanimals for Adults or Fashion Trading Cards pre-sorted.  I’m not kidding. 

However, I am requesting that any and all proposed clothes do not include things called, “Jeggings” or scenes reminiscent of RHONJ. Thank you in advance for your consideration in this matter. I really don't want the added pressure of having to have my lips botoxed. 

Until then, I shall struggle as a fashionable wannabe shmoo standing in the souq  (market) wondering if the highlighter-orange scarf really does look nice with my new fuschia-pink skirt.  Where are Stacy and Clinton when you need them?!

___________________________

* Not his real name

Editor's Note: As I was confirming the spelling of "Stacy" from "What Not to Wear," more unsettling news...There are no future shows scheduled...Now what am I supposed to do?!

Life on Friday

Friday was not turning out as I had planned.  Most people here have Friday off so that they can attend mosque and visit family.  John and I also observe Fridays as a day of rest so we had planned to begin with a nutritious breakfast, watch a podcast of our home church and then who knows?  The world was our oyster.

Then we realized we had no electricity.  This in of itself is not an unusual happening.  So we proceeded with our day and thankfully own a gas stove.  Woot!  I prepared the food thinking that at any moment that wonderful little zap of warning would happen and then the lights would return.  No go.  

That meant that we had no internet which meant we had no podcast.  Sigh.  We found an episode of "House" on my computer and began watching it.  The battery lasted until the final 20 minutes.  Now we’ll never know if that poor woman with the weird disease was cured.

I decided the only rational thing to do was pour myself a Diet Coke, go out onto the patio and read my new book which I had just downloaded.  (Yes, I love technology, but not as much as you, you see…Wedding song from “Napoleon Dynamite”). I had my feet propped up and my chair pointed toward the Nile when I realized that my new book was lost somewhere in the CLOUD.  I won’t go into my rant about the CLOUD, but suffice it to say it has been the bane of my existence since those darling geniuses at Apple began confiscating all my media and keeping it “safe” by restricting my access to it.  I had no internet so I couldn’t retrieve it which meant I couldn’t read my book with my newly poured beverage which took my mind off the missing electricity….deep breaths, Pam.

This is a very big dam that was built with little electrical
thing-ies on it so that people could...
you know...have electricity!

I know.  First world problems in a third world country.  

Ever the optimist, I remained hopeful and knew that at any minute order would be restored.  I tried to text our neighbors to see if they had power, but now my phone wouldn’t work.  Coincidence?  Not sure.

I changed out of my indoor clothes (capris and t-shirt) and put on my outdoor clothes (baggy pants and tunic) and made the little jaunt to our friends’ apartment.  They kindly welcomed me in and offered their electrical outlets as encouragement.  I accepted and returned with computers, cords and John.

They let us borrow their phone to call our landlord to see if he knew what the problem was.  We were going on 7 hours now and that was unusual even for here.  He hadn’t known about the problem because he had spent the night at a relative’s home.  He with his wife, children and parents live in the same building as we do.  His mother and father were there so he called them to ask them to call the electric company.  (I'm wondering why they hadn't already done this, but hey...)

Ah, progress!

We stayed a bit longer at our friends, thanked them for being awesome and returned to our flat.  There we discovered that our lights were on!  Woot!

Let the celebration begin!  Frozen chicken will be safe! John can pour himself a glass of iced tea! Pam can wash underwear!

I again tried to text our friends to tell them the good news, but our phones wouldn’t work at all…no texting, no calls.  We could receive calls, but nothing outgoing.  Oh, well.  It was our day off.

Map O' the Area

Just as we settled in, John received a call from a local man in the village that I affectionately call “Dictionary Guy.”  He had met John a few weeks back and asked him if he could come over sometime to discuss the dictionary.  I laughed.  Discuss the dictionary?!  How does that work?

It seems he is an English teacher and loves to bring words to John for correct pronunciation.  He also asks about words like “rough,” “though,” and “through.”  Sorry, guy, I can’t explain that to myself.

I poured them some water and bid them well as I retreated to our bedroom.  I knew that John would be busy for a while.  After about 2 hours, the call to prayer was announced from the 3 mosques surrounding us and our friend took his leave to go pray.

I asked John how it went.  He said, “I’m not sure.  Good I think.”  Our friend wants to return to discuss further topics.  John agreed.  I joked and said, “Hey, you’ve barely made a dent in the dictionary.”

But as they talked the man revealed some about himself, his life, his challenges…He’s just like any of us reading this.  He wants to be successful in his work, care for his family and please God.  So he and John compare ideas, perspectives and beliefs.  All from a study of the dictionary!

John’s social battery was on its last bar so he put on his Minion t-shirt, pajama pants and pulled out the computer.  As he clicked on the “House” episode he said, “Now let’s see if we can get that woman cured!” 

Thankfully, she had managed to hang on in the 12 hours that had happened in between (no electricity, visits to friends, visits by friends) and received her eventual life-saving diagnosis. Whew!

As Dr. House always holds out hope, so did I in thinking that our phones would be restored in the same day as well.  Alas, we found out that the government has suspended the use of our phones until we turn in copies of our passports to the phone company for their file.  We have already done that, but it seems they’d like a second copy.  I’d call to tell them that it’s ridiculous, but therein lies the irony.

So…yeah…life on Friday.  Let 'er roll!

Lyle's Golden Syrup and Pam's Caramel Popcorn

It’s a bit convoluted, but if you stick with me on this you’ll understand why I was compelled to make homemade caramel popcorn today.  (Please press the silent alarm to Whole30 headquarters.)

The other night John and I thought it would be fun to stop by to see our friends who recently returned from a trip to Sudan.  That’s right.  Sudan.  They are citizens so it is quite easy for them to go in and out.  Sigh.  Annnnnyway, they welcomed us in and we had a wonderful time catching up while sipping on some carrot-lemon juice. (Note that this entry is still healthy in its wording…)

As we were preparing to leave, Samir* presented us with 2 gifts from his country: 1) dried dates and 2) Lyle’s Golden Syrup.  I know.  You are shaking your head right now wondering why “Lyle’s”.  I’m not sure; all I know is that this was the golden syrup to purchase when we were in-country.  It was the basis of all things delicious although I hadn’t really delved into all of its fabulous potential.

Yesterday, I opened the cabinet and Lyle’s Golden Syrup spoke to me.  “Pam, I was a considerate gift.  What are you going to do with me?  Are you going to let me sit next to these dehydrated fish scales on the bottom shelf? Shouldn’t you put me to good use?’

I closed the door and grabbed my computer.  After searching Tasteofhome.com, Pinterest and looking at a few local recipes…I narrowed it down to some possibilities.  Once I looked through all the required ingredients to go with the golden syrup that made my decision substantially easier.  Many of the items in recipes nowadays are prepackaged and have yet to hit the local Egyptian market.  

“Where are you Schwann man?!?!”

(I may also insert that I deleted those ingredients/recipes that I felt did not personally go with golden syrup such as “donkey hoof,” but that’s personal taste.  Do what you want.)

So this afternoon I’ve popped popcorn, MADE MY OWN CARAMEL and then put them together in a delicious blend o’ heaven.  I even got a little saucy and added sea salt so that I could have SEA SALT CARAMEL POPCORN.  I’m so hep.

*Not his real name
______________________________

Here’s the recipe if you feel so inspired.  Of course, you may have to substitute something for “Lyle’s…”

Lyle-Pam’s Caramel Popcorn

1 C. unpopped popcorn, popped to equal about 6 quarts

1 C. butter

2 C. dark brown sugar

1/2 C. golden syrup

1 t. salt

1 t. baking soda

1/2 t. vanilla

Sea salt (optional)

Spread popped popcorn on 2-3 cake pans. Set aside.

Melt butter.  Add brown sugar, syrup and salt.  Stir constantly until boiling.  Do not stir for 5 minutes.  After 5 minutes, add baking soda and vanilla.  Stir until smooth.

Pour in a steady stream over the popcorn.

Stir with a wooden spoon.

Place in oven at 225º for 1 hour stirring every 15 minutes.  Add sea salt at last stir if desired.

Let cool.  Place in air tight containers.  

Meat Me on Saturday

The pretty picture first.
I made sugar cookies and pumpkin bread along with some dried dates for our neighbors.

Oh, Little Cow, run for your life!

One thing I’ve noticed about the digital age is that I not only have a new techy way to keep track of my days through snappy calendar apps, but I also have the opportunity to try to coordinate it with anyone else who has the “sharing” capability on their computers.  Now that I’ve updated to the most recent software, the all-new and improved calendar app will also tell me when they celebrate Rosh Hoshana in Israel and Buddha’s birthday in Taiwan.  Intriguing information for sure, but UNNECESSARY when trying to keep my life as simply as possible.

Butcher Guy...props, man!

Which brings me to our life here.  In our current culture, you have the regular ol’ calendar that runs January through December AND you also have the Islamic calendar which still confuses the heck out of me because it’s based on moon phases and the like.  Just this last week Eid Al Adha "Feast of the Sacrifice" was celebrated.  This holiday begins 40 days after Ramadan and Eid al Fitr plus 4 days if the moon is a crescent minus 6 days if it's cloudy…annnnnnnyway, we just wait until one of our neighbors tell us it’s here and then we join in.

This particular Eid is commemorating the story (as told in the Q’ran) of Abraham willingly sacrificing his son to Allah, but ultimately using a ram instead. (Sounds very similar to the Christian account in Genesis 22.)  As part of their tradition, on the first day of Eid al Adha, a family (or group of families) will purchase a live sheep, goat or bull, kill it and then butcher it.  The meat is then divided among the family members and a feast is prepared.

Dividing it up...

John received an invitation from one of his friends to join his family for this special event.  I was personally thankful that this was not an activity for women as I would have been of little use passed out on the ground.

Saturday came.  A car arrived to pick John up and take him into the market where the family would meet him.  He arrived around 9:30 am and his friend, Ibrahim*, was waiting for him.  His family had chosen a bull for the occasion.  Others from the city were gathered making their "meat" choices as well.  The butcher had a big job ahead of him.  Each family would choose an animal, kill it and then have it butchered on site.  

The street after...
I've edited out most of the pics.

John said he and the group of men stood around until their turn came.  I won’t go into detail, but John said that it was as you would imagine when 7 bulls were all being butchered at the same time in the same place.  The temperature reached around 105º that day, so the air was thick.  Some little boys were there and found the 4 stomachs entirely fascinating.  MY stomach churns while even typing this.

It took around 4 hours for the butcher to complete his work for those in line.  He placed the divided meat into large plastic bags for each family member to take home.  John received his own “to go” bag as well.  

John thanked Ibrahim profusely and wished him a very happy Eid.  Ibrahim will now return home where he will present the meat to his wife who will then boil it and place it on a mound of rice with tomato sauce.  The first night, however, is for special prayers and family.  John understood, said goodbye and arrived home.  He smiled and presented to me my own bag o’ meat.

I’ve never seriously considered becoming a vegetarian until now.  Oh, and it’s still warm!

How does that saying go?
From farm to table
in 6 short hours?

Just then, our landlord knocked on our door and presented us with a large plate of their cooked meat.  We thanked him and placed it in the refrigerator.

We ate cereal for dinner.  (The beef dish is actually is quite good, but not on the same day as well, you know...I like to think that meat comes to me the way God intended...cut into a roast, frozen and on a pretty little piece of earth-killing styrofoam. Today's events prevent me from my delusion.)

The Eid continues for 4 days, (They know how to do celebrations here.) so no work, no school, just families hanging out together while eating lots and lots of meat.

One of our Western friends told us that John’s invitation to this event was quite special.  That it is rare to be invited to such an occasion.  We stopped to thank the Lord that we’ve been welcomed by these dear people.  We don’t always understand what’s happening around us or why, but we do know that most of the time we are the only Christians present.  We can always pray.  We can always talk about our Truest Friend. We can always have meat.  

I’m hoping the next event on the calendar is “Ye Olde Ancient Eid O’ the Chocolate.” Please, oh, please…