Cooking in Botswana

Here is my narrative for a class here in Botswana. I tried to sum up my first few experiences in the kitchen: I’ve never been one for cooking at home and was excited to try my luck in a kitchen in Botswana. I couldn’t wait to learn to make phaleche and more contemporary dishes in Setswana culture. Upon arriving in Manyana, I told my host mom and brother, Masa and April respectively, that I didn’t know how to cook but that I’d love to learn. They laughed at the thought and continued to do so every time I offered to help in the kitchen. They always said I could help tomorrow, but tomorrow didn’t come for a long time.

I had one particularly interesting conversation with April regarding his role as the only child still at home. As Masa’s son, he often cooked breakfast and dinner. Without his sister living at home, April assumed the role a female child would normally take in Setswana culture. Had his sister been home, he would have been embarrassed to be in the kitchen at all. He hinted that with me now in the house, he would be cooking much less.

My first experience in our kitchen can’t really be called cooking. On only my third day in Manyana, my mom sat me down in the kitchen after school. In front of me was a cutting board, onion, green pepper, two carrots and a knife. Without any instruction, Mma-Masa simply said, “let’s see if you’re a good girl” and walked away. Slightly shocked that my success as a daughter depended on my talents in the one room I’d always avoided, I picked up the knife. Luckily, I’ve cut vegetables before. My eyes watered when the onion’s smell hit them although I successfully diced the entire thing. The green peppers gave off the delicious crisp sound of fresh vegetables with each slice. Peeling the carrots was a different story. Having only used a peeler in the past, I shakily used the knife to pull back the dirt-covered outer layer. After finishing with my three vegetables, I called Mma-Masa back into the kitchen. She exclaimed that I indeed was a good girl! Excited to help her cook the vegetables, I stood in place. She quickly ushered me out and reassured me again that I’d cook tomorrow.

Two days later I decided to try to prove myself again. Avoiding the gas burning stove I didn’t know how to operate, I decided to make orange juice. We have three beautiful orange trees in our front yard that I couldn’t wait to exploit. I picked a total of twelve oranges, which I sliced and juiced. The kitchen smelled mouth-watering and fresh. I added sugar, and lots of it, to help with the sour tang. After sampling the juice, I added water to dilute the heavy flavor. No matter what I added I couldn’t find the sweet, simple taste of yummy orange juice. To me, the drink tasted like incredibly sour sugar. Eventually, I let Masa and April sample my concoction. To my amazement, they both finished their glasses. Within the next day, Masa had singlehandedly finished what remained in the pitcher.

My second time in the kitchen didn’t go well at all. Masa was in Gaborone for the weekend celebrating the marriage of her niece. Without having cooked yet, April let me know I was in charge of dinner and that he would be back around 7pm. I decided to make something from the States to change up our pretty standard diet. I got specific instructions from friends at school on how to turn on a gas stove and cook French toast and French fries, two very difficult things to mess up. On my way home from class, I bought the ingredients I’d need: sliced bread, potatoes and eggs. I went straight home to start cutting the potatoes. I used a peeler this time to once again peel back the dirty skin. Once the potatoes were sliced into thin fry-like shapes, I decided to cook them. I lit a match and held it next to the burner. I turned on the gas and it lit! I felt accomplished as all of my worrying about not being able to light the stove flew from my mind, until the burner went out about three seconds later. I tried to light the same burner, but this time, nothing. I tried and tried again. Worried that I was letting too much gas into the house, I decided to wait for April to get home from soccer practice. I cracked and whipped the eggs to get them all ready for the toast.

I waited until seven, when April came in looking tired. I apologized for not having dinner ready and let him know I hadn’t been able to turn on the stove. He walked right in and opened the gas valve. I tried to laugh it off as a simple mistake. My family at home would have shrugged it off and enjoyed poking fun at my obvious lack of attentiveness. April, however, was visibly annoyed. He lit two burners for me and went to wait in the other room. I filled one pan with oil and potato wedges and set it on the front burner. I put butter on the bottom of the other pan, dipped a slice of bread in the egg batter and set it down. I realized right away I hadn’t put enough butter because the bread stuck to the pan and sizzled loudly. I dipped another piece and fit it onto the pan as well.

I immediately felt overwhelmed with two pans on the stove at once, despite the fact that the potatoes were cooking really slowly and didn’t need much attention. I flipped the bread and heard April enter the kitchen behind me. He asked if everything was okay. I turned around to answer that I was doing fine until I realized I wasn’t. The entire kitchen was so filled with smoke I could barely see the man standing just a few feet in front of me. By concentrating so intently on the pans, I hadn’t seen or smelled the smoke. Now that I knew it was there, the room stank of burn. I told him I just hadn’t put enough butter on the pan, which he confirmed as he opened the door and windows. I followed him into the other room to see the windows and door already open. He sat back down and I returned to the kitchen.

I covered the pan in butter for my second batch of toast, ignoring my desire to keep the toast as healthy as possible since the fries were soaking up the oil. I gave the potatoes a stir and flipped the bread. Eventually, enough bread and fries were done for the first serving. I made up a plate with four slices of bread and a mountain of fries for April. When I took it out to him, he immediately asked for tomato sauce. Oops. After trying the fries, he asked for salt. Double oops. He ate as I went back to the kitchen to tend to the rest of the uncooked potatoes.

April brought in his unfinished plate, covered it and left it on top of the fridge to eat later, assuring me he liked the meal but that he wasn’t very hungry. His fries were gone but one piece of French toast remained. I really enjoyed my food; and ignoring that I had filled the house with smoke and hadn’t been able to turn the stove on, I thought I had prepared a pretty good meal.

The next night, I was again left to make dinner. I stuck to something I thought I could handle: pasta with vegetables on top. I knew how to make pasta, add it to boiling water and remove it when it tastes like it’s done. Having learned how to properly work our stove, I cooked the pasta no problem. I cut the veggies I planned on using and went to add them to the canned meat I knew April loved. I couldn’t figure out how to open the can because it comes with a special tool and doesn’t work with conventional can openers. I again had to wait until after 7pm to cook.
April helped me to open the can and after telling me how to cook the meat, left me on my own. After that, I was successfully able to make the sauce for the top of the pasta. I served us at the same time that night, and we talked as we ate. April and I called Ian to make plans for the next day. While on the phone, April told him that tonight, I’d cooked a great meal. He liked the pasta and meat a lot, unlike our previous dinner, which he hadn’t liked at all. I appreciated April’s honesty, even if it wasn’t directed at me.

When I arrived in Botswana, I expected to learn how to cook well enough to feed my family. I knew that as a female, I would probably be expected to work in the house to prepare meals. What I hadn’t expected was that it would be assumed I would know how to cook and would be left in the kitchen without a recipe or plan. Although I’d impressed Mma-Masa with my chopping abilities, I hadn’t impressed April with my American dinner. Since eating my food, April has been much more willing to show me how to do things around the house and no longer assumes I know how to do seemingly simple tasks.