It's Ethnographic!

"It's ethnographic" has become a bit of a mantra for me while here in Cairo. I recite it to myself whenever I am frustrated by the events of daily life, or something occurs to which my normal response would be impatience, frustration, or petulance. Quotidian hassles slide right off me, melting away with these seemingly magic words: “It’s ethnographic!” Instead of feeling frustrated, I feel productive. Great reserves of patience have revealed themselves at opportune times, all because of this refrain.

Ripped off by a taxi? It’s ethnographic!

Hassled while walking down the street? It’s ethnographic.

Crushed into a subway car so packed that I can hardly breathe, only to be buffeted by the crowd of people trying to get out when the doors open? That too is ethnographic!

Shortly after moving into my apartment, I had a Skype date set up with my husband for 9am on a Saturday. We hadn’t yet been able to get internet set up in our apartment, and having encountered a series of bureaucratic hurdles the process was taking longer than we had hoped. (My response to these annoyances, such as the guy with the router not coming when he said he would, finally getting a router only to find that it was broken, and so on? Yep, that’s right: “It’s ethnographic.” If I’d been at home, I would have been cursing AT&T and complaining about what terrible service they had. But here, I just chalked it up to ethnography).

So, on this particular morning, I found myself in front of the nearby internet café at 9am, or actually a few minutes before. The sign said it was to open at 9, so I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I popped into the bookstore next door and browsed their collection. I read some short children’s books, which I quite enjoy doing as I can understand them without trouble. I try not to let the fact that their target audience is (more than) two decades younger than I am dampen the pride I feel upon completing one.

I went back to the café; still no signs of life. I ran across to the pharmacy and picked up some necessities. But, with no other tasks to distract me, I returned to the Internet Café and loitered in front

Under normal circumstances, I would have been annoyed, wondering why the shop wasn't open, frustrated that I had to wait and at the time I was wasting. And while I wasn't thrilled about waiting outside on a street corner, I wasn’t upset. Instead I saw it as an ethnographic opportunity to observe Cairo life. It was a rare chance to see the city wake up.

As I looked around me, I noticed the shopkeeper taking the grates off his store windows one by one. After he had carried each one inside and stowed it away, he returned with Windex and a rag and proceeded to wash the windows. Cairo is so dirty and dusty; nearly everything is covered with a thin layer of grime. Watching the shop keeper attempt to combat the inevitable film that would coat the windows by the end of the day was touching. At least this morning, his wares would be clearly visible through the brightly gleaming glass.

Every time a bus or taxi pulled up, I glanced at the passengers expectantly; hoping one of them would be the owner of the internet café. I watched wistfully as each bus pulled away, its passengers scattering to buy bread, go to the coffeehouse next door, or just disappear into the side streets.

A bright white van came to a halt directly in front of me. It looked like no minibus I knew of, but nonetheless I held out hope that it might contain the keeper of the café. Instead, a young man jumped out caring bales of newspapers. He tossed two of the bales into the coffeehouse and carried on, distributing the papers to all of the shops and apartment buildings nearby. I watched as he came back through to pick up the second and third bales, making quick work of his distributions.

At some point, I began to wonder about the shop. Of course, opening a few minutes late is a normal part of Cairene life. But really, by 9:30 I had expected it to be open. The street which had been nearly empty when I arrived was more trafficked. There were more men sitting out at the coffeehouse next door. More people buying drinks from the kiosk across the way. A woman walked by with a bouquet of flowers. Where was she headed, I wondered?

A man sweeping the street came by. As he tended to the area in front of the internet café he looked at me, then the internet place and back at me a few times. Finally, after considering the oddity of a foreign woman lingering on the street at this early hour on a Saturday morning, he stopped sweeping and said “It opens at 10.” He even held up his ten fingers for emphasis, or to make sure I understood in case I couldn’t speak Arabic. (He, of course, didn’t know that numbers are well with the purview of my able-to-read-children’s-books level Arabic!)

With fifteen minutes left, I went home rather than continue my vigil in front of the store. And when I returned, I found that that indeed, he was right, the cafe opened at 10. I went in and spoke with D about the side of Cairo life I’d seen while waiting for it to open.

“It’s ethnographic,” in my head, is properly sung to the tune of “The Electric Slide.” So while walking down the street, picking my way through the unevenly paved road and the occasional piles of trash, you might find me grooving a bit to that inexplicably popular hit.

“You’ve gotta see it. It’s ethnographic!

"You’ve gotta feel it. It’s ethnographic!”

- Pen

Adventures in Cooking, part 2

My husband, call him D, is the kind of cook who will read a recipe completely before attempting it, ensuring that he not only has all the ingredients in the kitchen, but that they are easily accessible, that all pans, measuring cups, utensils he might need are clean and within reach. I tend to neglect these details, more likely to pause midway through cooking to wash some dishes when I realize, for example, that the only pot I could possibly use is encrusted in remains of oatmeal from breakfast, soaking in soapy water. He follows recipes rather precisely; I think measuring things like spices is overrated, and feel that creative substitutions are part of the fun of the kitchen. Although, I may feel this way because I often realize I don’t have the ingredients required only after I have begun to prepare the given dish.

He, for example, makes sure that there is a spot on the counter to put down a pan hot out of the oven before he takes it out. My preferred approach usually involves dancing around with the hot pan, trying to clear space off with my elbows. Suffice it to say that of the two of us, he has fewer burns.

Over the years of being together and cooking together, we have developed a comfortable rhythm in the kitchen. We have what I thought was a happy division of labor. Sadly, in recent weeks, while cooking without him, I have begun to suspect that on rather frequent occasions his role in the kitchen is much like that of a parent chasing after a toddler attempting to do damage control before the child harms herself or those around her. For example, by clearing off a spot for me to put down the hot pan that I might be holding while vainly trying to shove aside whatever else might be on the counter. Or reminding me that perhaps it would be wise to finish washing the dishes before launching into the food preparation. Or suggesting that it’s not a bad idea to check to ensure we have all ingredients on hand before starting to cook. Clearly, without him, I do none of these things, to occasionally hilarious, if frustrating effect.

Setting aside the tomato paste incident of a few weeks ago, several other misadventures have highlighted my pathological inability to plan.

When I first moved into the apartment I’m now living in, I arrived and my roommates had not yet moved all of their things in. They had returned to their old flat to pack up. I decided to make dinner. I chopped up and onion and some other vegetables that needed to be cooked, and I was looking forward to a nice stir-fry or sauté of vegetables. With the vegetables all chopped, I took a pan and reached for the oil. There was none. While this was a furnished flat, the kitchen was rather ill-equipped. But really, I do recognize that supplying cooking (or better olive) oil is beyond the purview of even a generous landlord.

I was utterly flummoxed. I stood, standing in front of the stove, staring at my plate of chopped vegetables, completely unable to proceed. I willed a bottle of oil to appear. (Sadly, my powers of telekenesis/telegenesis being underdeveloped, the situation remained unchanged). I opened all the cabinets, checked the pantry and refrigerator 3 times in hopes that I might have missed something. I looked in the freezer. There was no oil, ghee, butter, lard, no fat of any kind it seemed. What was I going to do? How could I sauté vegetables without oil?

The ghastly thought that I might use water finally occurred to me. I was quite loath to do so as it brought back bleak memories from a time when all I did was low-fat cooking, and sautéing with oil would have been anathema to me. This severe avoidance of any kind of fat was accompanied by a whole set of dietary and lifestyle restrictions commonly associated with anorexia.

I was hesitant to return to that bland and boring kind of cuisine. The mere thought of the poor vegetables stranded in a scalding bath, without even the merest slick of velvety butter made me cringe.

But, with an onion already chopped, and the dinner hour receding, I had little alternative. The vegetables turned out fine, if a little bland.

The very next day I went to the grocery store and bought oil, and salt, and pepper to prevent further culinary calamities.

After the incident with the misguided sauté I thought that I had made sure to fully stock the pantry so that I had all the necessary basics. I’ve been cooking for a few weeks without incident. I made a lovely lentil soup, lots of roasted vegetables, and a delicious spicy eggplant and tomato dish, among other things.

Yesterday, I was cooking dinner again and planning to add a can of beans to the vegetables I was sautéing (do you sense a pattern to my meals? Almost anything I make begins with chopping an onion and some garlic and browning it in oil).

The vegetables were coming along nicely. I retrieved the can of beans from the cupboard and went to put them in the pot of vegetables. I opened the drawer with the large spoons, vegetable peeler, and other extra utensils. I looked for a can opener. There didn’t appear to be one there. I looked on the drying rack, thinking perhaps it had been used. I looked in the regular silverware drawer. I looked up and down the kitchen, searching for a can opener.

I found a waiter’s style bottle opener and corkscrew. I took this item out and applied it to the can. I thought perhaps the corkscrew part could pierce the metal. It did not. Undaunted, I tried the bottle opener end, hoping somehow to slice the metal. I struggled with the can and the bottle opener, poking and prodding, attempting to wrest it open somehow. Alas, the can remained intact. Slightly dented perhaps, but not punctured.

I briefly considered attempting to melt the can open over the gas burner or using a lighter, but quickly thought better of that plan.

After a few more moments of banging the can against the counter, the floor, and attempting to force it open with the bottle opener, I gave up in defeat and made an omelet instead.

While a planner I may not be, I am at least resourceful. (I suspect, in fact, that the two characteristics may be linked). I used the unopened can to roll out my sore calves after a run at the gym this morning. Until I buy a can opener, at least the tin of beans can serve some purpose.

And perhaps I will someday learn to look before I leap.

The Perils of Pasta

As a child, I once went on a field trip where we learned about the history of canned foods. My sense is that this must have been part of a larger historical trip, as I can’t imagine that there is a museum devoted to the subject, or that it would have been deemed important enough by the school authorities to warrant a visit. Regardless of what the larger historical point may have been, I only remember the canning factory. The exhibits demonstrated the history of pictures on cans: originally canned food wasn’t labeled with the colorful pictures we are now accustomed to seeing. However, in the early 20^th century, with an influx of immigrants who could not read, or at least not English, American canning companies started to make their labels with bright, vivid and easily recognizable pictures so that customers would be able to tell what they were purchasing even if they couldn’t read, or didn’t know the word in English. I looked at the labels with their bright pictures of tomatoes, carrots, beans and other vegetables. They looked older, different from the labels on the cans my mother bought. They evoked an earlier era and I wondered what the lives of the people who ate those canned tomatoes were like.

I was reminded of this field trip recently when cooking dinner here in Cairo. My own (over?) dependence on familiar packaging was driven home by a minor culinary disaster.

I had, at that time, been in Cairo for a few days, but was not yet settled. I was staying at a friend’s apartment, and living out of my suitcase. But, even in my temporary situation, I could use the kitchen.

Standing at the counter, chopping an onion, I felt at home. I was comfortable there; the familiar monotony of chopping vegetables soothed me. My anxieties about the weeks and months to come slipped away as I let my thoughts wander. I relaxed, humming to myself as I added oil to the pan, chopped some garlic to add to the onions, and then moved on to slice an eggplant, its shiny skin smooth under my fingers.

The vegetables were reliable, familiar, like old friends. Even thousands of miles away from my kitchen, a pungent onion could still make my eyes smart. But added to a pan with a little oil, it mellowed out. The rules were the same here. And, unlike so much of what I do, the results of labors in the kitchen are deliciously tangible and usually quite immediate. The longest you have to wait is perhaps 6 hours to overnight. It is a refreshing contrast to a dissertation project that has no set end point and few discrete steps along the way. As I listened to the sizzle of the onion, I felt at home and content.

The smell of browning onions filled the kitchen. I added the eggplant to the onions when they were clear. As the it cooked I added spices, cumin, coriander, red pepper, black pepper, salt. I drained and rinsed a can of chick peas, adding them when the eggplant was browned and soft.

At this point, I added in a small jar of tomato sauce. As I was scooping it in (because it didn’t really pour), I thought that it looked quite thick for tomato sauce, almost like paste. But I figured that maybe it was just Egypt and didn’t think much of it. I continued to put it into the pan, scraping it out of the jar and then mixing some water in to rinse out the jar. My suspicions that something was awry grew when I put in the water to rinse it out and it didn’t incorporate what remained in the jar. There was still quite a bit stuck to the sides of the jar. I noticed that the tomato sauce was not only unusually thick, but also a deeper red than I had expected.

As I continued to try and scrape out the last of the tomato sauce, I admitted to myself the possibility that I might have inadvertently purchased tomato paste. But at that point, I had added the entire (12 oz) jar. I stirred it in, hoping that it would become normal and right. It did not. I added more water to thin it out.

I rummaged around the unfamiliar kitchen in an attempt to try and find something that would improve this sauce. Chicken broth? Wine? Different spices? Perhaps I could add water and make soup? I added some sugar to temper the acidity of the tomatoes.

Finally, I brought myself to look at the jar. It said, right on the label IN ENGLISH “Tomato Paste.”

This only confirmed the conclusion I had already come to. My plan had been to mix in feta cheese, so I did so, in an attempt to temper the really strong tomato flavor. The feta here is different from American (or I suppose French) feta. It is less crumbly and more smooth, with a texture closer to goat cheese. It is quite delicious. I love it stirred into sauces because it adds a creamy richness. In this case, however, no amount of delicious feta would be able to temper the overpowering tomato flavor.

I toyed around with it, adding what I could to round out the flavors. But the fact remained that instead of adding a 12oz jar of tomato sauce, which would have nicely complimented the eggplant and chickpeas, I had added an entire jar of tomato paste. I made my pasta and ate my overly-tomato sauce.

Alas, it was not my best moment. But the evening was a pleasant one. I enjoyed cooking, and to be honest, I could have made the same mistake at home, if not for the fact that tomato paste only comes in tiny cans. Thank god for those small cans, and for the marketing acumen of the guys at Hunts (or wherever) to sell different products in packaging that comes not only with pictures, but also in special sizes according to the product.

I suppose that, if you don’t bother to read them, words are not enough, even if they’re in one’s own language!

-Pen