The refrigerator that the university kindly gave us is the size of a large cooler. Yes, from the outside it looks like it would hold more than a gallon of milk, a handful of produce, and a selection of Indian pickles; in reality, it holds just that, but only if you put your foot on the door and really shove the thing closed after packing it full. When our grocery supplies dwindle, however, the thing begins to look like a yawning cavern, and that it is how it looks now as I type this.
Tony stepped up this evening and generously volunteered his time and energy to run to our friendly neighborhood hypermarket. "I am taking dinner requests," he announced. "This will be your one and only opportunity to dictate what you would like for dinner during the coming week. No requests will be entertained after this date."
All three kids stared at him with such dopey intensity that I expected strings of drool to swing simultaneously from their lips and connect near the floor, to complete that final jarring drop to the tiles together. "Anything special you would like?"
"Ummmm, no," and then all three scattered to the winds. This no, of course, was a complete and total lie because the minute Tony returns from the hypermarket, Silas will be pulling himself about the house moaning about our steady diet of parentally selected food, and Tehva and Tian will be seeking dietary solace with the neighbors.
Silas quite possibly will contain his dissatisfaction until tomorrow, when the neighbors begin their daily round of cooking in their "dirty kitchen". In Oman, if you are really swanky-swank, you will have two kitchens. One inside your house, where you cook yummysweet things like cakes and tea, and one outside your house where you cook yummy but stinky things like fish and onions.
We, being just one step above peasants, have only one kitchen, but the people around us all have dirty kitchens, open to the outside through generous vents and gaping windows; in Silas's opinion, those kitchens exist simply to torment him. Beginning around 10:30 a.m. and continuing until late into the night, the cooks in the dirty kitchens are cookin' dirty and he can identify every dish. "Oh, Mommy, the neighbors are cooking fried fish and chippatis. Are we having fried fish and chippatis tonight?"
"No."
Silas sounds genuinely baffled by this and asks in his best quizzical little boy voice, "Mommy, why not?"
"Because you didn't ask for those when we made the shopping list last week. Will you remember to mention it next time we make a shopping list?"
"Yes." Note the drool back there at the beginning.
Silas, having befriended so few little boys here, is really getting the short end of the stick as he cannot quickly and conveniently escape to other little boys' houses when he has a Disgusting Dinner Emergency.
Tian and Tehva, on the other hand, have befriended several little girls who all have dirty kitchens and yummy stinky smells drifting from their gardens at all hours of the day. Their parents employ Filippinas and Sri Lankans and Indians, all of who are seemingly masters at curries and soups that vent steam so thick and spicy that it seems you could linger outside their gates and eat those mouth-watering puffs. The house maids also are very good at preparing "child-friendly snacks" like french fries and chicken nuggets for poor American children who are obviously starved at the hands of their callous parents.
Tony returned from the store with the usual disgusting staples--fresh dates, milk, tea, feta cheese, rice and pasta, olives, olive oil, fish, lentils, a fat bag full of soft fresh flat bread, fresh produce, and 2 kilograms of creamy full fat yoghurt. Tomorrow all three children will crowd into the kitchen to take stock of the offerings for the week and walk out again disgusted. Tehva will go begging door to door for bags of chips and sodas--and come home well-supplied. Silas will belly ache around the house, like an overbred poodle turning its nose up at its daily ration of dog chow. And Tian will complain only to happily eat what is on offer anyhow.
And all three will resolve, "Next week I am going to tell Daddy to buy..." and drool, dopey and stunned once again, when we make the weekly list.
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