Home Cooking

Cooking in Comoros is a labor of love. In a country largely devoid of electricity, ovens, refrigeration, and running water quick homemade meals are unheard of. Dinner preparations begin early in the day. My host aunt is in charge of cooking for her family. She leaves for the market shortly after dawn to collect the food stuffs she will need for that night's meal. The market is crowded, noisy, and overwhelming, to me at least. She navigates it easily, as she has done all her life. She returns with fruits and vegetables from one market, flour and oil from another, and cuts of fish and meat from a third. Some of these items will become tonight's dinner. Some will be redistributed to other family members.

The task begins with washing last night's giant pile of dishes in shallow buckets in the back yard. My host aunt hauls back breaking gallons of water from the cistern at the front of the house. The washing is cursory to my western sensibilities, but each dish washed requires significantly more effort than loading the dish washing machine back home. When this is taken care of, more women arrive to help. They bake root vegetables over coal fires in the yard, make Comorian bread in shallow pans over gas burners in the kitchen, and peel and juice various fruits while sitting on tiny little stools. Each little task is probably more effort than I would be willing to put into a whole meal. Spices are ground between rocks out back, and strange sauces are removed from a warm refrigerator that serves more as a cabinet than as a device to keep food cool.

I am tasked with taking a portion of the food they cook to Mama Linda, the less fortunate neighbor next door. I walk down the steep ledge to the tin shack in the compound next door and call through the scrap of cloth at the doorway. I am greeted with hugs and kisses and gratitude. Though she can hardly spare it, she sends me home with bread and fish made specially for me.

At the end of their labor they set a table with salad, baked bananas and cassava root, beef or goat, fish, flatbread, rice porridge, crepes, juice, and tea. The women don't partake in the feast they so painstakingly prepared though. It is for their male guests. They women will eat the leavings and burnt pieces from a communal platter in the backyard while others eat the fruits of their labor at the dining room table. I am given a seat of honor at the table with the men. I must admit that I am jealous though. The women's warm laughter from the backyard compliments the food much better than the men's silence.