Friday Night Dinners

My neighbors next door have become a family for me. I know if I ever have a problem my Mama will take care of it, no questions asked. On top of feeding me they entertain my presence everyday in their concession, and make sure I am up every morning.
So three weeks ago I started cooking dinner for my family on Friday nights. As I become more comfortable with life here in Benin, I find myself delving into the world of cooking more and more. I am met with mostly success, but also a few mishaps along the way. I haven’t gotten sick from my food yet, so I take that as a good sign.

Today I feel was a mishap. I know it, and I think my family knows it, but they were polite about trying to say it was good; I don’t think I have ever seen them eat that slow. Also I know what their reaction is when they really like something and this did not occur. They really poked around their food and ate it slowly. I know the symptoms of not enjoying your food, I exhibit them often here.

A part of me appreciates them trying to not hurt my feelings, but a part of me knows that both of us know this was not my best meal. It was edible, but it was bland. Very bland. The only thing I could do to rationalize all these things was to think this: Once a week my family risks me cooking a meal that they might not like because it isn’t Beninese, but everyday I am faced with the challenge of eating pate blanc for the hundredth time. I also take the challenge of navigating through dried fish pieces, which are mostly bones. I liked most of what they give me very much, but it is foreign nonetheless, which is what Friday night dinners are for them.