amusements

the potato salad that wasn't

It seems the potato salad was doomed from the start.

A faux pas led to over-boiled, mushy potatoes. But we thought they might be salvageable after an overnight stay in the refrigerator.

The next morning, they were still mushier than they should have been, but usable. There was hope for a still-successful potato salad.

But there seemed to be too few potatoes for the 30-something people we were going to feed. So we prepped and boiled the rest of the tubers we had in the house. Needing them to cool quickly, I put them in the chest freezer.

While waiting for them to cool, I cooked up the other ingredients. I mixed the "sauce" that would finish it all off. And then I went to sit in on a camp session.

Coming back, I checked the freezer. Potatoes were nice and cool. Ready to combine all the ingredients, I strolled into my kitchen.

One of the housekeeping ladies had come in while I was out. Rebecca wonderfully washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and mopped the floor. In doing so, she must've moved my bowls of tater salad goodness, because I couldn't find any of them. No potatoes. No sauce. No bacon. I looked everywhere, including inside the microwave and stove. Nothing.

No Rebecca either.

When we finally tracked her down, she sheepishly held up a grocery bag...full of all my potato salad ingredients.

Oh well. It wasn't meant to be.

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backlog

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I believe in backlog.

I'm pretty much always tired. I wake up almost every morning still feeling sleepy. Even after a good night's sleep, I'm tired. Even after the very rare occasion of sleeping till noon, like I did this morning (wow!), I still wake up tired. Backlog, I tell you.

Getting a sufficient amount of sleep one night (or even several) does not seem to make up for the backlog of tiredness. That's my theory, anyway. Otherwise, why would I still be tired today?

Backlog. Gets me every time...

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one perk

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Our bout of warm weather was short-lived. The past few days have been freezing again. After 9 African winters, I'm still not used to the constant cold (constant because of the lack of central heating). I don't think I'll ever get used to it.

Instead of complaining, tonight I tried to think of the perks of our cold winter weather. But I could only come up with one. It's a good one, though.

I can read at night without being attacked by bugs.

In the summer, it gets a bit buggy here. And since windows don't have screens, the moment the sun goes down the lights attract all sorts of insects, beetles, and moths. I really enjoy reading in bed before I go to sleep, but this is no easy task in the summer. When my bedside lamp is suddenly the only light source in the entire house, it gets a little dangerous to be right next to it. All sorts of flying creatures dive-bomb onto my book, into my face, and through my hair. This inevitably causes me to flinch (and sometimes yelp), and then I hear a loud huff from my "sleeping" husband's side of the bed.

But in winter... No bugs at night! I can read in peace.

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no frills

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This morning, I sat down with Joyce and had a heart-to-heart.

Me: "I am so grateful for the gift you gave me. You said such beautiful things, and the gift is even more meaningful because of what you said."

Joyce: "Yes, Mama."

Me: "I love and appreciate you, Joyce. I value your friendship. You are like a sister to me."

Joyce: "Yes, we are sisters."

Me: "Joyce, as sisters, I want to share my heart with you. Is that ok?"

Joyce: "Yes. Sisters are honest with each other."

Me: "When I look at the gift, it means a lot to me because I know it came from your heart. It shows me that you care about me, and that is what makes it so special. But in my culture, this type of thing, with so much frills and lace, is not something we normally do. White men feel like it's 'too much' to have something so girly like this in their bathroom. So I know that Niel does not enjoy having it in here."

Joyce: "Ooohh... Basotho men, they do not mind. But I can see that white men will mind..."

Me: "Yes. So I'd like to ask you if this will fit in your bathroom. If it will, then I would like to give it to you for your house. I will feel good knowing that you are able to use it and enjoy it."

Joyce: "Yes, it fits in my bathroom. I will take it today, and I will let you know when I have it set up in my bathroom so you can come by to see it."

Me: "I would love to! Thank you so much, Joyce. I appreciate you very much!"

Joyce (with a laugh): "I know, Mama, I know. It's okay. It's okay..."

We ended with much hugging, and everything truly is okay! Joyce wasn't offended at all, and she joyfully took down the items and packed them up to bring to her house.

And my bathroom is much happier being back to normal... as are Niel and I!


In case you're wondering, I decided to handle it this way because I figured that honesty truly is the best policy. If it was "accidentally" torched, destroyed by children, or ravaged by my bird, Joyce would still not know that we didn't like it, and would most likely end up replacing it for Chrirstmas or my next birthday. I'd rather not relive this experience again if I can avoid it.

Indirect communication is key in Basotho culture. They don't directly express their own opinion or preference. I figured I'd go that route by blaming it on the fact that men in my culture don't like that sort of thing. Thanks, Hon, for taking one for the team...

I also told Joyce early in the day, giving me the rest of the day to make sure that she was really okay. She was completely fine, making her usual jokes and small talk with me and Niel. It feels so great to know that I didn't offend her or hurt her feelings in this whole thing...

Thanks everyone for weighing in and sharing your thoughts on this one! Many a laugh has been had, and I will be remembering this for a very long time...

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catch-22

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I need some cultural advice. Joyce (my Mosotho house helper) gave me a gift for my birthday. While it was the most meaningful gift I received, it's also the gift I like the least. Maybe that's putting it too mildly. I really dislike it. (I'm trying not to use the word "hate", but I think you get the idea.)

When Joyce gave me the gift, she also said that since she didn't get a chance to buy a card, she'd just tell me what she would have written. "You have always given me so much, and I could never repay you. I don't even have enough words to say how much you mean to me. You are my family, my only family."

Joyce shared that her daughter recently asked her, "Why do you say, 'Hello, Mama' when you talk to Mme Alece on the phone?" Joyce said her reply was, "Because she is like a mother to me. She is my mother."

It was so special. You can't put a price tag on that kind of a gift. Joyce spoke from her heart, and it meant the world to me. That is what makes her gift so meaningful.

What makes it something I strongly dislike is... well, it's what the gift itself actually is. I cringed (only on the inside) when Joyce unpacked it (opening the gift for me, in typical African style). "A toilet set!" she proclaimed excitedly.

"Wow, Joyce!"

"Here, let me show you..." and she immediately started putting each piece in its proper place in my bathroom. There's a toilet seat cover, a toilet tank cover, a toilet paper roll holder, and a curtain. And they were suddenly all on display. In all their frillyness, gaudiness, and tackiness. It was almost overwhelming.

"Wow, Joyce! It's so fancy!"

"No, it's not!" And I'm sure she's thinking that it's not fancy because practically every home in Intabazwe has a set like this. So in her mind, it's commonplace, not fancy.

"Joyce, it was so thoughtful of you. Thank you so much!"

After we hugged and talked a bit more, Joyce left and I stood in my bathroom a while. Contemplating. The question going around my head was: How do I get out of this? Joyce works in my home, so I can't simply just not use the gift... So how do I get out of this?

"Aww, come on!" you're thinking. It can't be that bad! Oh really?! This is what my bathroom looks like at the moment:

So, I need some advice. Remember that I'm feeling the tension between how strongly I dislike the state my bathroom is currently in and the fact that I love Joyce, value her friendship, and desire to be culturally sensitive.

What should I do?

**UPDATED** Make sure you read part two!

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mr. personality

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starbucksLet me introduce you to Starbucks. He's my (roughly) 3-year old African Grey. I've grown up with birds as pets, and didn't realize that many people find this odd. I think the assumption is that a bird has no personality and doesn't really interact at all. While maybe this is true of some birds, Starbucks is certainly full of personality.

He says,"Morning!" when I uncover his cage each morning and, "Hello?!" when a phone rings. He shouts, "Come in!" when there's a knock on the door and, "Go back!" when he starts to walk down the leg of his own cage.

He laughs, coughs, and sneezes.

He mimics cell phone noises, can do the Good, Bad, and the Ugly whistle, and loves doing a Cat Call.

His vocabulary also includes:

  • Hello
  • Bu-bye
  • OK
  • Starbucks
  • Kisses (followed by kiss noises)
  • Hello Beautiful
  • Hey Babes!
  • Joyce (my wonderful friend and house-help)
  • Scoop (when he wants me to rub under his beak)
  • Come
  • Wanna Come?
  • Come on! (in a sassy, annoyed tone)
  • Hey buddy!
  • Snack
  • That's a good boy!
  • Poophead (I like teaching him to talk trash)

And my all-time favorite:

  • Chalupa! (when he does his business!)
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morning chuckle

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I start off each morning by checking out my friends' blogs (seeing a new post makes me smile) and perusing over the various leadership blogs I read. I've got a pretty good list of blogs I read that are written by people I don't know -- church leaders who I find to be inspiring and intriguing. (A condensed list of some of them are in the links on the right...)

This post on askingY.com made me chuckle this morning. I've been guilty of a few of these myself at times... A good reminder to remain relevant -- so that our light shining in the darkness is one that attracts people rather than repels them...

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what i enjoy most

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The features I enjoy most about our car:

  • Automatic transmission (most cars in South Africa are standards) ~ Hands-free for snacking!
  • Cup holders everywhere ~ The more the merrier!
  • Cruise control ~ For my lead foot...
  • Back 2 seats fold down for storage ~ Shop-ping!
  • Parking alert (as you reverse, it beeps progressively faster the closer you get to whatever's behind you) ~ Just in case...
  • Mirror on the driver's side sun visor ~ Joy in the little things
  • Six-CD changer ~ For non-stop tunage
  • Volume control on the steering wheel ~ I'm all about convenience!
  • Seat-position memory (which is so great since Niel is much taller than me) ~ Easier to return to my perfect position 'sweet spot' after Niel drives
  • That it's ours! ~ We can make ourselves at home in it!

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thirty minute meal?

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When I was home over Christmas, I bought one of Rachel Ray's 30-minute meal cookbooks. I've made a few different recipes from the book over the past several months, and, for the most part, have enjoyed the new meals.

Last night I attempted a new recipe. I picked it because #1 - I can get almost all the ingredients here, and #2 - I liked the name of it: "My Sister Rita's Lazy Chicken or My Lazy Sister Rita's Chicken".

It turned out great. Niel and I really enjoyed it and I think it is a meal I'll make again. However, the name is a bit misleading. As is the fact that it's in a 30-minute meal cookbook. It took me over an hour, from start to finish. I'm wondering what's so "lazy" about it?!

I wish I could see Rachel Ray make it. I want proof that it can be done in only 30 minutes!

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rationers anonymous

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Hi. My name is Alece, and I am a rationer.

For so long now, I've had to live on limited supplies of American goodies -- from hair products to snacks. Because I can't just run to the store and get more when I need to, I've gotten very good at rationing. Maybe too good. I've unfortunately found myself eating things that have long since expired (2-year old salsa con queso, anybody?!). But I've always enjoyed knowing my supply wasn't depleted -- that there was more still left in the cabinet.

When our grocery store started selling Snapple, I bought quite a few and stocked them into my fridge. And then never drank any. Even though I knew I could buy more in town, my brain was still telling me to ration. "What if they stop selling it?!"

Well, I decided yesterday that even if they stop selling it, I'm going to enjoy it while it's here. I drank two Snapples in one day!

The guilt was so overwhelming, I haven't drank any today.

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twenty-four

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I've heard the observation that we all have the same number of hours in a day. And while I know it, sometimes I don't believe it. This week went by so fast, there's no way each day had 24 hours! Yet I know they did, and many of them just escaped me...

Then there's Jack Bauer's day. It never ceases to amaze me how jam-packed each of his 24 hours is. How does he accomplish so much in such short amounts of time?

Forget getting better at multi-tasking or increasing my time management skills. What I really need is some lessons in Jack Bauer-ing!

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rules and idiosyncrasies

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We spent a few days in Johannesburg this week to attend a leadership conference. I love learning and developing, so I really enjoyed the event. (But talk about information overload! My brain has been working overtime ever since, trying to figure out how to apply all I learned!) It was also great to drive our new car to the city for the first time, spend that time with Niel, and get to eat out anywhere other than our handful of local restaurants.

One of my rules when we're in a city is that we're not allowed to eat at a restaurant we have in our town. I figure, if I'm all the way up in Joburg, I want to be eating some place I don't often have access to. One of my all-time favorite city eateries is Primi Piatti. It's got a casual, fun atmosphere and some of the best Italian food I've eaten in Africa.

I'm a pretty boring orderer -- anywhere I go, I tend to always order the same meal. (At Primi, it's Pollo Giorgio...mmm-mmm!) I guess I'm not very adventurous. I'd rather stick with what I know .

In the spirit of full disclosure, let me just share that I even do this in public bathrooms. If it's a restroom that I've visited before, I will inevitably use the same stall I did the first time. I don't even plan it; it usually just happens. And it always makes me smile to myself as I'm closing the stall door...

Do you have any rules or idiosyncrasies to share?

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harrismith's bravest

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Last week, when we had the fire, I called the Fire Brigade in our town. It took me a while to track down the phone number, as the one listed in the phone book was no longer in service. I called the local police station to get the number, and was left on hold while they tried to locate it. I finally got the right number and got through to someone -- but they didn't speak English. At all. Thankfully, a neighboring farmer who speaks fluent Sesotho was here to help, and he got on the phone. He talked to them for about 10 minutes because he had to provide them detailed directions on how to find us. I was really missing our trusty "911" service in America where they not only speak English, but automatically know where you are calling from.

When the Fire Brigade finally arrived, we began pulling our guys off the roof. We figured the firemen would rush right up there, and our guys would only be in the way. Boy, were we wrong! The firemen saw the ladder we had set up, which all our people were using to go up and down, and cringed. They were afraid of heights!

Very slowly, three of them made it up the ladder to the first (lowest) portion of the roof. Then they were faced with the dilemma of getting the hose up there. They were too scared to carry it up with them, so our guys ended up getting it and dragging it all the way up.

Still, the firemen wouldn't budge. The three of them sat in a row on the peak of the low portion of roof, holding onto each other's shoulders. They refused to go up any further or actually do anything to fight the fire. Thankfully, our guys were far braver -- they took that hose all the way up to the highest point where the fire was, and fought it till it went out. Literally, the firemen just sat there and watched.

After we had the fire completely extinguished, the firemen very cautiously shimmied down the roof to the ladder, where they proceeded to, very slowly and carefully, climb down. Pausing on each rung and literally trembling with fear, they took an extremely long time to get all the way down. As they were loading their equipment back onto their truck, the fire chief approached Niel. "We'll be sending you a bill for our services," he told him. Niel just laughed and told them that we'd definitely be disputing it when we got it, seeing as they did nothing at all to fight the fire.

The incompetency and cowardice of these firemen was unbelievable. They are, sadly, nothing like "New York's Bravest"... Good thing our trust was in God and not in them!

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times they are a-changin'

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It was 1993. I was on my first mission trip -- one month in Managua, Nicaragua. I quickly made a dear friend in Andrew Parker. He was quirky. Eccentric. Funny. And passionate about the Lord. Andrew wore his watch upside down, which perplexed me. When I asked him about it, he said, "It's easy to read it this way. Try it for a day!" So I did.

And I kept it that way for 14 years.

Yep, for 14 years I wore my watch upside down. I, too, was often met with confused looks and puzzling questions of, "Why?" And although I'd recant this story as my explanation, I can't say that I inspired anyone else to ever do the same.

For the first time since I was 14 years old, I am wearing my watch "normal". Right-side up. The way they were intended to be worn.

I lost my watch last year and finally got a new one when I was in the States. Since it has no numbers on it whatsoever, it just seemed like it would be best to wear it in the conventional manner. And so I have.. But it's almost like the sad end of an era. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it...