Katrina and I are spending Christmas Eve in Rangamati—a small, touristy town on the shores of Lake Kaptai. I feel a bit lonely, even with Kat here. I miss home. I finished reading My Antonia by Willa Cather last night and shed a tear over her descriptions of sunflowers and prairie grass.
I miss Mom and Dad. About this time of year we would be dealing with either re-setting up the Christmas tree that fell over (probably Dad’s fault for being in such a hurry and cutting it wrong) or trying to find that collection of Christmas ornaments that is SOMEWHERE in the basement—“Kat, did you get rid of that box? I don’t understand where it went. It was here last year…”
And I miss food. I dream of the year-old turkey that Margaret gave Mom. In my memory, it tastes amazing. Homemade mashed potatoes (with some Philadelphia Cream Cheese—just like Robyn Brown makes) with gravy. Relish trays with baby pickles and pickled beets; throw on some olives for an Italian flair. Homemade biscuits and some pumpkin pie. Heck, even the cranberry jelly still shaped like the can. I crave it all.
Food occupies my mind and memory now. In the last two days I have lost all hope of learning to eat Bangladeshi food. Or, I should say, my stomach has raised a white flag. Every thought of a meal outside my home sends my stomach into spasms. I lose my appetite. In our hotel restaurant, I look frantically through the small menu and find no relief—there are no steamed vegetables! The “poached” eggs are fried in oil. I couldn’t get fresh fruit for breakfast. Yes, I thought about the cucumber and tomato “green salad,” but there’s no telling how the veggies were washed—and I’ve made that mistake before and paid for it all night.
If someone wants to make a lot of money, or simply wants to increase tourism in Bangladesh, then I suggest they start with hotel food. Not just the quality of food or the cooking methods, but the whole orientation. I was told last night that I couldn’t have desert unless I ordered it in advance. My lack of Bangla and the waiter’s lack of English did not permit me to delve any further into understanding this matter. All I could think was “How do I know at the beginning of a meal that I will want desert at the end?” The same lack of logic applies to “in advance” when it means a few hours or days ahead of time. Either way, I suppose that not getting that ice cream after my lackluster meal made my quest to lose some weight before Hawaii a little easier.
Because, as you may have guessed by now, I am going to eat my heart out when Kat and I meet up with Mom in Hawaii in mid-January. I dream (seriously—I am not kidding here) of the salad bars I will encounter and befriend. Our co-worker Jill recently went back to the U.S. for winter break. She said before she left she planned to get naked and roll around in the salad bar at her local Whole Foods. I haven’t heard from her in a few days, so it’s possible she’s sitting out a jail term for that stunt. But I understand her motives wholly. Anyone who has lived in Bangladesh for more than a few days will understand that the desire for something fresh—not fried, not oily, not over-cooked—can lead one to some pretty strange cravings and behavior.
So for now, I will think happy thoughts of family, home, and food. Of relish trays and gravy boats. Of Dad demanding the turkey breast and Mom dishing up some more mashed potatoes (because Christmas is the one time cholesterol doesn’t count). Of Katrina unbuttoning that top jean button and saying “maybe I'll start exercising this year.” Good thoughts of my family and our Christmas fodder.
Happy Christmas!
