To Chapati,
My dearest, my first culinary love. We first met over a decade ago on a dusty street in Kampala, me at turns high on adventure and utterly overwhelmed, you couched in the glass case of a street food vendor. For mere pocket change, you called to me like a siren, the song of an African street tortilla, and then you danced over my tongue and brought me great delight. Ever since you have held my affection.
Mon amour, I studied your construction. I wondered, is it possible a pancake and a tortilla had a baby? No. Three simple ingredients: water, oil, flour. Pack to the consistency of pizza dough and let rise. Place on a sizzling hot cast iron skillet and flip. I marveled at how your simplicity could produce such satisfaction. Savory and slightly sweet, textured and hearty. [Chef’s kiss.]
Surely this could be replicated in America, right? But, no. I tried and tried, but like my Grandma’s crepe pancakes, no matter how closely I followed the recipe, you never turned out exactly right. There was always some missing ingredient: ambient humidity, perhaps, or a different strain of flour, a different flavor of oil, or maybe just the romantic chaos of an African capital city. I couldn’t figure it out, I still don’t know, and I have given up trying.
Life goes on. I live in America and you live all over the African continent. I grow older, you stay the same, and that’s just fine. It’s amazing to me that I still remember the way you made me feel that first time, and I am grateful that each time I come back to you and take that first bite, I feel the spark of that original joy and all the attendant wonder and wanderlust it carried with it.
May you enchant EWB students for years to come, as you have me, forever and amen.
With deepest sincerity,
Mon amour, I studied your construction. I wondered, is it possible a pancake and a tortilla had a baby? No. Three simple ingredients: water, oil, flour. Pack to the consistency of pizza dough and let rise. Place on a sizzling hot cast iron skillet and flip. I marveled at how your simplicity could produce such satisfaction. Savory and slightly sweet, textured and hearty. [Chef’s kiss.]
Surely this could be replicated in America, right? But, no. I tried and tried, but like my Grandma’s crepe pancakes, no matter how closely I followed the recipe, you never turned out exactly right. There was always some missing ingredient: ambient humidity, perhaps, or a different strain of flour, a different flavor of oil, or maybe just the romantic chaos of an African capital city. I couldn’t figure it out, I still don’t know, and I have given up trying.
Life goes on. I live in America and you live all over the African continent. I grow older, you stay the same, and that’s just fine. It’s amazing to me that I still remember the way you made me feel that first time, and I am grateful that each time I come back to you and take that first bite, I feel the spark of that original joy and all the attendant wonder and wanderlust it carried with it.
May you enchant EWB students for years to come, as you have me, forever and amen.
With deepest sincerity,
Travis
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