First, a piece of pseudo-culture that is neither purely Kenyan nor purely traditional, but is well worth mentioning. While here in Kenya, I have been hosted by the Mills family, and they are wonderful people. It’s high time I recognized their greatness, and this is as good a place as any to do it. Gene Mills is the director of Discipleship College here, and was a professor of mine back at UT Chatt, hence my connection to him. He’s a great man, with a career that has blended church ministry, non-profit administration, and academic scholarship. He and his wife, Tanya, moved here about a year ago to begin full-time work with the college. Tanya, interestingly enough, is Hawaiian-Filipino (Philippino?), and met Gene while he worked and studied in Hawaii—one of his academic focuses has been Hawaiian religion, which makes him that much cooler. Their kids all look like islanders, and they come complete with Hawaiian middle names. Their daughter, Amber, lives here with them, and is planning on going to med school here at Moi University. If you’re interested in their ministry, or the place where I’m working, or looking for a way to donate to good work in Africa, check out http://gene-at-dc-kenya.blogspot.com/.
So, why the Mills shout-out in the midst of a food post? Because, my friends, food is how the Millses take care of me here. Yes, they let me live in their guest house, and yes, they’ve given me useful things to do here, but let’s get real. The food is what’s important. Every night, right around seven o’clock, we play this game where Tanya calls to ask what I’m doing for dinner, and I tell her that I don’t know as if I didn’t think she were about to invite me over, and then she tells me that I have to be at the table in ten minutes. So far, I have cooked only about three meals for myself, being showered with their hospitality most nights before I can even think about what I’m going to eat. And eating at their table has yet to prove dull. Sometimes, I get tastes of home with pizza or burgers. Much more often, I am served either Kenyan food or, most frequently, Hawaiian dishes beloved by their family. Ever had Spam with steamed rice and seaweed? Chicken and cabbage with Hawaiian shoyu sauce? Pork and squash? You would have if you had spent the last two weeks with the Mills family.
More important than the food itself, however, is the idea behind it. The Millses are wonderfully generous, and that generosity translates into warm comfort and family security for me, here in the midst of an entirely alien world. This is what Kenyan food culture is all about. The sharing of a meal creates the bonds of kinship and the goodwill that were necessary to survival in the tribal hunter-gatherer culture, and still today they perform much the same function, enforcing familial and neighborly bonds that support poor people in a tough life. The simple and fairly bland diet of Kenya is spiced with a hundred traditions and ceremonies that grant it immense importance.
Some of these ceremonies were already familiar to me, since they have been imported to Kenya. Every restaurant here, and even most homes, observe the Old World dining customs that have quietly slipped away from most modern settings. We now discourage elbows on tables, and singing at mealtimes, as vague gestures toward the great pageant in which noble meals used to dress themselves. Yet here in Kenya, the decorum runs much deeper, and I for one find it delightful for the little time I may enjoy it. Meals here happen in progressions, each course given its own attention, even when there are only two or three dishes. Before the first course, and after the last, fingerbowls of hot water and citrus rinds and brought out to wash away the day’s dust. Oftentimes, palette cleansers are presented between courses, consisting of seed mixes that function like mint to fill the mouth with a sharp freshness before introducing a new savor. The courses themselves almost always rest on warmer pots—little terra cotta vessels with simple designs carved into their sides which hold candles to keep food warm. At every restaurant, the table itself is elaborately dressed as well, with fine table cloths, expertly folded cloth napkins, and trays full of various condiments in different metal and glass serving dishes. Drinks are all served bottled and poured tableside by the server, who quickly whisks away empty bottles and any refuse that comes to rest on the table during the meal. All of this formality contributes to the sense that a meal, especially a meal out at a restaurant, is an occasion for celebration. Perhaps this is why it is such a rarity in America. Whereas many Americans eat out as frequently as they dine at home, very few Kenyans eat at restaurants more than a few times each year. One appreciates a meal much more in such circumstances, and so is entitled to enjoy all possible pomp in the event.
Such formality, however, is not restricted to expensive dinners on the town. Long before European custom came to these shores, there was a whole network of traditions surrounding the sharing of food. As I have written, mealtime was as much about the people at the table and their relationships to one another as about the act of nourishing the body. By this, I certainly do not mean the same thing that American television campaigns for family dinners intend to communicate. Certainly, there is a sense in which the immediate family was drawn together by meal sharing, but the power of sharing food, and hospitality, was far greater than family values promotion. Alliances were solidified, strangers were made known, futures were decided, business was conducted, and faith was enforced through meals. To share food, as a sign of hospitality, was to share the substance of life. It was to make oneself a slight bit more vulnerable, and to offer part of one’s own livelihood to one’s guest. The sharing of dinner was, and in some ways remains, a symbolic offer of trust, protection, and friendship.
Thus, food custom is still very important, a fact I learned first hand upon visiting my friend Peter Rono. Upon being invited into his home, I was sat down and food was brought out. It didn’t matter that I was unannounced, nor that we were much too late for lunch and much too early for dinner. Bowls of bananas, passion fruit, mangoes, and boiled sweet potatoes were set out, along with fermented milk and chilled water. The milk itself, which has featured multiple times in this blog already, is indicative of much of the food culture. Fermented milk is more than a national or cultural tradition, it is a symbol of the tribe. One way that some Kalenjin choose to represent themselves is with a native drink, implying that eating and drinking and the accompanying customs are an inherent and significant part of who they are as a people. The way in which I was tended to while being served was important, too. I have already recounted the extended ceremony of hand washing which both precedes and follows the meal. Furthermore, everything was offered to me by hand, repeatedly. The water and milk were poured for me, and towels were extended as well. All of this was done by Peter’s wife and sister, the women of the house who tradition dictates as hostesses. Their service was so attentive as to be somewhat embarrassing. Mary, Peter’s wife, leaped to remove the scraps of my banana peel and passion fruit as soon as they touched the table. My discomfort over this particular piece of service resulted in Mary and I competing to see who could throw away my trash first. This single fact was particularly notable to me, because it brings up a difficult question. When one encounters a culture this steeped in tradition, there is bound to be some need for adjustment. Yet one also has one’s own culture to contend with. So it was that I struggled with Mary over the disposal of my refuse. Which, then, is more rude: to allow someone to wait on you literally hand and foot, to the point of collecting your garbage every few moments while you continue to gorge yourself, or to struggle against that someone’s traditions in an effort to be polite? And, make no mistake, a guest is expected to gorge himself. When I had eaten all the fruit I wanted, the family continued to offer food, and to inquire as to why I wasn’t hungry.Whatever the case, there is one thing of which I am now certain. It really wasn’t all that ridiculous for Saint Peter to get all discombobulated when God Almighty wanted to give him a footbath. There’s something strangely humbling and uncomfortable about someone serving you that directly and completely, and I can only imagine that the discomfort greatly increases when that someone is Jesus Christ.
This, then, is the other aspect of food in Africa. No matter how modest the meal, even just ugali and water, the customs which accompany it and the manner in which it is served and partaken of are of deep significance. Food here is a way of life, a symbol, and a cultural practice as much as it is a source of sustenance and culinary art.
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