The afternoon is cloudy and sunny and cloudy again. It is a warm 77°. It is a quiet Sunday. I have no plans for today except to do a few things around the house. I did vacuum downstairs yesterday, but I just noticed the Henry hair is again joining forces in the hall. It is making a concerted effort to drive me crazy.

When I was a kid, I always went to mass on Sunday. Most times I went without my parents. My father ushered at the early mass while my mother stayed home with my sisters. I was never devout. I did the sit, reluctantly kneel down and stand up parts of the service. Enthusiasm wasn’t demanded, only attendance. Sometimes I smuggled in a book. I’d hide it the hymn book and read. I sat in the corners or at the back as far as I could get so no one would notice. I’d stand if the pews were filled , but I couldn’t read my book if I stood in the back. I could read the free pamphlets in the rack on the back wall. Sin and repentance were big topics. I was usually among the first, if not the first, to run up the stairs and out.

Because of my travels, I have a well developed palate. The first thing I learned was not to ask what I was eating. My first unknown meal was in Ghana. Dinner was served in a wide bowl. In it was a lump of something gelatinous surrounded by soup and a bony piece of meat. The dinner was just about the same every night, only the soup changed. Curiosity finally overcame my reluctance, and I asked what I was eating. The gelatinous lump was T-Zed, Tuo Zaafi, the main food in northern Ghana. It was made with water and corn and cassava flour then stirred while boiling. It was not meant to be chewed but just swallowed. I didn’t like it first. I thought it tasteless, but I liked the soup. The meat was goat. Okra soup was my favorite though groundnut stew wasn’t far behind. I didn’t even know okra existed before Ghana. Groundnut stew was peanut stew. It was made with thick groundnut butter, peanut butter to us. I used to add peanut oil to it so I’d have a spreadable peanut butter. I ate other strange foods, but I didn’t care what it was. The best chicken broth came from boiling the head and feet of a chicken. They looked disgusting cooking in the roiling water. I tried them, sort of chewed the toes and head. I didn’t like either.

I ate my first curry in Ghana and my first Indian food. I ate Lebanese food like hummus and tabbouleh with pita bread. I stopped asking what I was eating. I stopped caring. I went by taste, not origin. It was the same after Ghana, everywhere I traveled. I remember eating sketchy meat and more unknown lumps. Some of it tasted good, some didn’t, but I didn’t mind. The tasting is always a piece of the journey.

This entry was posted on August 16, 2026 at 1:47 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.