"Now I know..."

After sorting through the last few weeks’ disastrous and humorous anecdotes, I found one that is both. Last week after waking with a sense of comfortable contentment, I started my day by making eggs. The Turkmen philosophy of cooking is that if it tastes good with oil, then drowning a food in oil should be fabulous. After three weeks of scrambled eggs that were more grease than eggs, I volunteered to start making my own, to everyone’s satisfaction. Of course, I can’t actually cook. That I’d made it until last week without burning down the kitchen is a sort of miracle, really. I’d been experimenting with the different kinds of oils, grease, and fats that sit in recycled unmarked bottles and cans throughout the kitchen and discovered that the oil from the Coca Cola bottle next to the coffee ground can (now filled with camel fat) was the best for lubricating my favorite iron skillet. My favorite skillet was still caked with last night’s dinner, but some scrubbing (with water, there’s no dishwashing soap here) had it looking somewhat clean. So I got out the oil and started making scrambled eggs, every step bringing a sense of accomplishment and pride as the eggs sizzled and began to solidify into a familiar omelet shape. I pushed around the raw egg a small tea spoon (the only clean spoon in the bin) and although the fire was a little hotter than usual, it worked to my advantage as the eggs cooked faster and every part of the pan was heating more or less equally. Then came the moment of truth. I found a plate and grabbed a wash-cloth and took the skillet from the fire and moved it toward the table. The skillet, which under a smaller flame was never incredibly hot, was now far too hot to hold with just one wash-cloth. I cried out in pain as the iron handle became uncomfortable in my palms and I set the skillet down on the kitchen table, which promptly began to hiss. Damn. I grabbed a second washcloth, got hold of the skillet handle, and looked down to see a perfect skillet-shaped burned hole in the plastic covering of the table and a scorch mark on the stacked papers beneath the plastic. The table itself seemed undamaged, but as I surveyed my handy-work the pan wobbled in my hands and my perfect eggs began to slip and I brought up my left hand to steady it and brushed against the bottom of the pan, making another sizzle sound accompanied with a burning flesh smell. As I cursed again, the pan wobbled the other direction and the wash-cloths slipped and my right forefinger connected with the still-hot handle. I finally got the skillet to the cool side of the stove-top, dumped the still-perfect eggs onto the plate, ran cold water over my burned fingers, and entered the living room with pain and guilt plastered across my face. I presented my hands to my eje (host mother) and explained through gestures and large facial expressions what had occurred. I got lots of sympathy and Edugul (my host sister) put toothpaste on it (not a bad idea, really). I ate half my eggs before Edugul headed for the kitchen and I followed her, pointing to the hole I’d made in the table and apologizing profusely in English and Turkmen. She laughed and I made the “I’m really really sorry” face, which she shrugged off. When I came back to the living room my eje proceeded to explain to me that I needed more than one wash-cloth to hold burning skillets, that fire made iron hot, and that I should be careful. I chuckled a little, replied “Now I know,” and they all laughed. A week later, my fingers are still healing (mostly because I won’t stop picking at the scabs), but when you see me next I’ll still have all ten.

In other news, as I walking home from the bus station today a huge party at my neighbor’s house was playing the Macarena loud enough to be heard a block away. On the curb an elderly man looking like a slightly taller Yoda crouched chewing something and nodding with solemn contemplation to the song’s bouncing beat. I thought nothing would beat last night’s Turkmen professional ice skater (this is a desert country) performing on TV a choreographed ice ballet to “House of the Rising Sun” and “Cotton-Eye Joe” in full cowboy paraphernalia.