December 12, 2010
A man doing domestic work is pretty much unheard of around here. They don't clean, and they don't cook. Period. They tend to the animals and fix the roofing, pipes, and electricity. Very stereotypical, huh?
Today, my host mom left the house at noon. If she's not cooking, it usually means no family-style meal. Fend for yourself. No problem, I moved on with my day. But at 4:30PM Abilda, my host dad, tapped on my door. "Anne. Come. We'll eat."
Say what?!?! How are we gonna eat? Did YOU cook something? Because I know you're wife's not back! I followed him to the kitchen, interested in his culinary achievement. "Come. Sit." I sat. He put a pot of scalding soup in front of me. The whole pot. The plastic tablecloth melted and stuck to my "bowl."
Once I got past the blistering assault on my taste buds, the soup was actually reasonable. There were noodles and potatoes and meat. I think he even put some pepper in it. I did my best to make a dent in it and show my appreciation. Then he pulled out a frozen brick of butter and the carving knife. "Eat. Bread with butter is tasty." I ate bread, but didn't try my luck with the iced-lard.
Despite its' flaws, I sat at the table with a grin. I just ate a meal prepared for me, a woman, by a Kazakh man. It was simple and I probably won't taste anything else until Wednesday, but it was a great gesture.
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