Tuesdays, Fridays.

I don't know where to start, so I'll opt for the chronological, I think. Much has happened, yet nothing has happened. Details, everyday minor things, still seem huge to me. So, sorry if the details bore.

I left school early on Friday to go grocery shopping with Rebecca. An adventure. Along with vanilla extract, you can buy pineapple extract. (Mom, you want me to bring some back? I have no idea what you'd put it in...but, heck. Sweet, yes?) These extra hours gave Rebecca and I a lot of time to talk and just enjoy each other's company. I am going to miss this girl like crazy. (She started classes yesterday. Yes, post-degree classes. She gets home around 10, dinner time. I'll rarely see her now).

Anyway, Rebecca and I sat in the sitting room (go figure) and talked about an array of things. Such as, the word "fat." They told us when we got here, to not be offended if we were called this, because here is is a compliment. I half believed that, thought it was just a self-esteem cushion. Feminine tears our program leaders wanted to dodge. But, no. I talked to Rebecca about eating disorders, and she said she wants to start a campaign to make the word "fat" universally acceptable, if not loved. She told me that fat is beautiful here. The men want meat on their women. Her exact words: "We think it is beautiful, flesh hanging all over, dancing when you move." Hah, dancing flesh. Gorgeous.
I decided to keep my eyes open. Like Saturday, at the graduation party we went to. The larger women. Yes, beautiful indeed. The African dress. the gomez, is much more becoming on a larger figure. Seriously.

I don't want to skip to Saturday yet, though. Still on Friday, Rebecca was encouraging me to wear my mosquito spray. I was grimacing, or saying, "Okay...I will eventually" or something. She said,
"No. I need to look after you. I am your...what is your sister's name again?"
"Christine."
"Yes. I am your Christine in Africa."
We laughed. Later in the conversation, we sighed at the same time. I've taught her "jinx" because we say things together a lot. When our sighs were mutual, she said,
"See. We are sisters. You didn't know I was out here in Africa, but now you've found me. When you get home you need to tell your Dad, 'Shame on you for leaving our other sister in Africa.'" Yeah. Shame on you, Dad.

My family called on Saturday night. Rebecca talked to my mom and told me afterwards how much she loved my mom's voice. She wouldn't stop talking about how lovely it was.
After my two moms talked, Josephine came over for her last time before leaving for the Netherlands. Her flight was the next day; Mom's hug and goodbye to her was rather long. As we walked back into the house, Mom told me that my mom cried on the phone.
"I know. I'm sorry," I told her.
"That's what she said."
But it was awesome watching my one family connecting with the other all on a tiny Nokia.

I'd have to say the best part about my family calling: my brother Charlie asked if I had seen any lions. I laughed and told him they weren't in town. Only in savannas and such. His response:
"What, do they have electric collars that keep them from coming into town?"
Yes. Yes, they do.

Saturday, from 1 until 7, I sat in a chair at a graduation party. All in Luganda. Rebecca eventually "captured" me, as she called it, and apologized for 6 hours of Luganda. I reminded her that I am a day-dreamer. Such is my weapon.
But ceremonies, parties, etc. are so different here. We're talking full suits, formal dresses. For a graduation party. Plus, we had mass at the party. No communion, but mass still. So interesting.
AND CAKE. I'm very much in love with the cake--including the way they cut it. At the wedding, when they cut the cake, they counted down from 3, and on 1, they opened three bottles of champagne and it fountained over them. Some sort of sparklers also came out from around the table. At the graduation party, silly string replaced the champagne. According to my mom, "We are Christians." So, no champagne. :)

The other highlight of the graduation party: one of the dads stood up, and announced into the microphone, that he was buying both of the graduates a goat. This is very generous. An honor indeed.
Which reminds me: last night I learned Kwagala, our cow, 's story. She is a new addition. Mom used to have 3 cows; I forget what happened. Then she had no cows. Then her daughter got engaged--Miriam--and her fiance's family gave Kwagala as a gift to the family. So it's not just in the books. The cow I say goodbye to every day is a dowry cow. Cute.

Sunday morning was wonderful. I talked to Mom about getting more involved in the community, perhaps Sunday School, and the next day she tells me she arranged with the Sunday School teacher that I can help. It was wonderful. I knew two of the other teachers already: Frank I had met at the graduation party, and Susan was the first Susan I met in week one, who asked me "How is your life?" and wouldn't let go of my hand. Teacher Betty is our leader, and Teacher Betty gives us soda between services. I like Teacher Betty.
(Have I mentioned we drink soda from reusable bottles? As in, straws are a must, unless you want to contract something. Oops). But I have started a sweet bottlecap collection.
The children were wonderful, the songs we learned were wonderful, and the only name I learned was "Leona." Shame on me. But I think we're friends now. Leona is wonderful.
A sweet part of Sunday School: a little boy ate a blue crayon. I wrote a short story once about a little boy eating a blue crayon. It was like the word becoming flesh.

I woke up from my Sunday nap to start on the peanut butter cookies. Instead of taking 10 minutes to cook, as the recipe said, it took a good 50 minutes. Three batches; we're still eating them. They are entirely incredible. Rebecca helped; it was the first time she had ever made cookies/seen cookies being made. She was in awe.

After the baking was done, we started on the meal. Mashed potatoes, spechlies (spaetzles) and the beef and sauce (essentially, beef stew). Note to Mom and every Distler: if you put green peppers and onions, and heck even eggplant, in the gravy, it's far more wonderful than you'd imagine. Grandma and Grandpa, I thought of you most the time I was dropping the dough into the boiling water. Who the heck would've thought spaetzles would come to Africa?
It all turned out incredibly well. To tell you the truth, I had been silently dreading it all week; I feared A. I would screw it up, or B. Their tastebuds would object. Neither happened. Mom said, "We must always mash our potatoes now," which I hope doesn't happen, and everyone loved the spaetzles.

The cooking lasted from 5 until 10. When I try to count the hours, it doesn't make sense. But maybe it's the whole cooking-over-a-fire thing. It takes longer.
Before Sunday, I thought African cake was the highlight of my stay. Shallow, yes. My family is up there on the list too. But those 5 hours of cooking were definitely some of the greatest I have had here thus far. I am convinced there is just something about cooking when your Mom is not around to watch/help. When you are in charge, and it's up to you to feed the family. To quote Christine, "I just want my own kitchen."
I can't describe what it felt like, other than to compare it, parallel it, to another feeling. And it felt exactly like the whole month of May, when I babysat little Bill. Specifically: the last two hours before his Mom came home. Lying down with him as he finishes his bottle and we watch the original Superman series. He falls asleep, and I soon after him, and when we wake up and I have to pull him off of me and hand him to his mom, we are both covered in warm, damp sweat. Baby nap sweat. The whole ride home smells of baby formula, and it's all rather beautiful.
That's what the 5 hours of cooking felt like. My sweaty shirt and his sweaty shirt.
I tried explaining that to Rebecca. We sat next to the fire, waiting for the spaetzles to finish frying, and I said, "I feel like a mom." She laughed at me.

In that same conversation, she came to mention, or ask really, why white people can't dance. She found it rather hilarious: "But it is uniform. It is not just some of you. NONE of you have rhythm. It is true." And, well, yes. It is true. Because even those who dance on TV, she said. "Even Britney Spears. They all take classes, don't they? They do it over and over and over. Us? Put on the music, and we'll do it. We do not need classes."
I then mimicked for her what clapping sounds like in American churches--a badly broken metronome--and together we laughed at all white people everywhere.

Aida went home to her village this week. Originally, they told me she'd be gone one week. But Rebecca told me she always extends it. It will be two or three before she is back. Gosh, do I miss her. I feel selfish, wanting her to be home with us, yet knowing she is visiting her son Ibrahim, whom she only sees twice a year. She has to make a living, and that means being separated from her son and family and home. For her sake, I guess I hope she extends her stay at home for awhile.

Just to clear things up: Martin didn't kill the chicken. He just held the head and the knife afterwards.
Martin knows my name now, or Dani, rather. He had called me Becca for awhile--Rebecca was the name of the American student they hosted last semester.
He hugs my legs when I come home and says things I can't understand.

I will hopefully blog on Friday, if I can control myself. Tuesdays and Fridays, the days with only one class. Friday I will probably be the only white kid on campus. Everyone else is going on the circumcision field trip. Call me crazy, but I'm really not interested. I asked Sharon if there was something wrong with me--because everyone is completely excited. I think there is a certain portion of my brain missing that everyone else has here. The I-want-to-watch-a-live-circumcision cerebellum or something. Becca, a different Becca from all other mentioned above (this is an American mission student Becca), just said:
"Who is going to let 35 Mazungu watch their circumcision?"
Seriously. Let's do this in private, people. Or at least sell tickets.

Dr. Button is having us for dinner tonight. Not in the cannibal way.
We are having pizza: yikes.