Weekend List!

Sarah's List:

My husband is the type of person who invests time in getting 30 eight-year-olds to sort their school supplies by color. I'm the type of wife who sneaks in his classroom and does this:

Heh, heh, take that 8-year-olds. Nobody's growing up organized on my watch!
(There are 6 more baskets just like this one. That's 48 perfectly sorted cups.)

After seeing this, he immediately turns a color that would send him straight to the red cup. So I sent him this link, 30 Infuriating Images That Will Trigger Your OCD. He had a hard time recovering.

I imagine these organization/order folks would enjoy searching the Smithsonian's National Design Museum by color.

How does this guy get cataloged?

  by  Brett Jordan 

Want to have an adventure? Join the Peace Corps. The deadline to sign-up is quickly approaching. Want to get married? Join the Peace Corps. Did you know over 75% of Peace Corps folks return home in love? I believe it. The majority of couples we meet abroad fell in love in the Peace Corps, no exaggeration. Go dopamine!

New Peace Corps volunteers waiting for their flight to Chad. Can you spot our neighbor-friends James and Becca falling in love? They had just met 2 days before this photo. I'm not going to lie, I teared up a little when Becca sent me this pic. Good work Peace Corps, good work.

This Painting of the Danish Royal Family Will Steal Your Soul. Yep.

Condolence telegrams for Jackie Kennedy from MLK, Duke Ellington and more. 

Happy Thanksgiving from Congo! Where we now have Martian pineapples to add to our cornucopia. Seriously, what is this thing? Oh wait, just Googled it. It's a real plant.

Ananas bracteatus.

Be sure to stay tuned next week for more posts about making that Moving Abroad leap. And a very special guest post.

Jill's List:

It's that time of year when I start to fake shop.  (Remember?)  Currently open in my browser is this, this, and this.  Stay tuned for an excellent fluff post about my newest found-in-Kinshasa beauty obsession.

An image from the spanish subvertising group ConsumeHastaMorir, www.consumehastamorir.org

Ordering ten pounds of these.  We really like them "dark, oily, and swarthy."  Oh, and one of these so my parents can transport the precious cargo when they come for their Christmas visit.  Best "suitcase" ever.

"Suitcase" that doubles as closet storage.

Speaking of caffeine...are my years in Seattle to blame for my tendency towards maybespeak?  Hmm.  Maybe.  That sounds interesting.  I'll have to check.

This girl has inherited none of my wishy washy-ness.
Here she is telling me in no uncertain terms that she does not want her picture taken.

Looking forward to seeing my kid play a very white, very blond version of a Siamese prince.  A full community orchestra, featuring these folks among others, will be providing the soundtrack.  (Kinshasa readers: the show runs December 5-7 at 6:30pm at TASOK.  Tickets are $10 in advance/$15 at the door!)  Such an interesting musical for this post-colonial setting.  Apparently, the Brits hashed this issue out way back in 2001.  Thoughts?

Two exciting food finds yesterday:  gelatin sheets (planning to try some of this), and "Magic Time", dinosaur-themed, boxed macaroni and cheese.  Gelatin sheets = success.  Macaroni and cheese = full of bugs.  Damn, I hate that.

Trying to figure out a way to get a pair of Kenyan Bata desert boots in size 11/46 to Kinshasa for Christmas.  Any ideas?  I can't even seem to find them on eBay...

Two recent examples of fabulous grocery graphic design.

Thinking that the peppermint flavor should go into some sort of festive baked good, like these.  But, the bottle seems to scream heavy metals! or something else similarly un-festive.

As Kony "considers" surrender, the guy who has been analyzing China's role in Africa writes about Congo's ghosts.

Chinese site manager.  Kinshasa 2012.

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Fufu Tortillas

When we first moved to Kinshasa, I braced myself for deprivation.  I imagined bravely using my adventurous spirit as inspiration though periods of deep sadness over missed chocolate chips, fancy tea, and exotic spices.

Truth be told, while rolled oats might still be a little hard to find (due to a great love of quick porridge around here), I rarely spend time pining over food products anymore.  We can find anything we want - or at least a pretty good substitute - these days in Kinshasa.  Plus, the cheese selection is like something out of artisanal Brooklyn...or Paris.

What I do miss is tortillas.  There just isn't a taco truck nearby.  Last year, we rejoiced when City Market began randomly stocking Maseca.

We spent months making clunky, but delicious, tortillas using the bottom of a frying pan as a press.  In theory, I learned to make hand patted tortillas while living in Guatemala and Honduras ("Now! You are ready to be married!" Mamita said when I had my first success), but I cannot revive that talent no matter how hard I try.  See, it's super hard:

So, we allotted two of our precious luggage pounds to  a tortilla press purchased from this old standby in Harrisonburg, Virginia - where there is no shortage of tortillas.  

At our house, Elias makes the scrambled eggs and Loulou handles the tortilla press...or at least the dough.

It goes like this:

                                                   

We use the recipe on the side of the bag for 16 tortillas:

2 cups Maseca

1 1/4 cup water

1/4 Tbsp salt

Roll in to 16 little balls:

Place plastic wrap or wax paper on the press (top and bottom) for less-sticky results: 

 And, the best part (Pressing the tortillas, I feel guilty:  What would Mamita think if she saw me using a press instead of my hands? The horror!):

We still struggle with thickness.  Sometimes the tortillas are still too thick, even with the press.  How do we fix this?

A temperamental part of the process is the heat.  We use an un-greased, super hot, cast iron skillet (also an important use of baggage space).  However, we struggle with our electric oven and often end up with one side that's perfect and another that's cracked and dry (see below).

For a long time, we were totally ignorant and skipped this essential part of the tortilla making process.  We couldn't figure out why our tortillas were crispy vs. soft.  We finally got smart and realized that the whole wrapping-your-hot-tortillas-in-a-towel-as-if-they-are-tiny-babies is not just a nice way to display your work, but instead, the most crucial step to making sure you have scoopable, foldable tools vs. useless chips.

I am certainly no expert and would welcome any tips or tricks from those of you who actually know how to properly wield a tortilla press.  But, even these tortillas taste so good when eaten with bean soup while watching a Congolese sunset.  

When I make them, Mama Nounou wants to learn too. She wonders if something similar could be done with manioc.  I imagine Mamita showing Mama Nounou how to pat out fufu, round and flat.  It's hysterical. 

It's odd to transplant a standby from one host culture into another, but I guess that's what happens when you become a guest around the world.  You borrow a little tortilla here and a little fufu there, smashing everything together until it becomes something new and weird.  

Sometimes I wonder if this way of living is like the careless tourist who's main goal is to fill passport pages and purchase knick-knacks to later display in a strangely meaningless collection that nobody else cares about.  Or like the sad, lost soul who is constantly and fruitlessly trying to find "the answer" in a far-off place.  I really worry about that sometimes.  While I could list off a million reasons why moving to Africa was one of the best personal and parenting decisions I've ever made, sometimes I question life as an expat a little bit.  It's so easy to be comfortable.  

I'm hopeful that with a little effort, instead of filling passport pages, I will end up filling my brain with languages and skills.  That empathy, not knick-knacks, is what my children will collect during this experience.  That "the answer" is that we should all keep searching.   

All that philosophizing from a how-to post about tortillas...wowzers.  Here's to hoping that this smashing together of cultures turns my children into something more elegant than a fufu tortilla.  

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5 Tips for Moving Abroad: Part I. Before You Leave

Jill and I often hear from readers. Obviously most of the questions are about fashion tips* and a close second is advice on moving abroad. When we were interviewed by Cup of Jo, besides the commenters calling us neo-colonialists, we noticed a lot of people saying they'd "always wanted to live abroad" or raise families in another culture. Which leads to my first tip on how to move abroad...

1. Just go. 

Seriously. If you're thinking about it and if there's any part of you that wants to give it a try, just go. Don't give yourself time to talk yourself out of it. Go. Some people have absolutely no interest in moving abroad. That's totally fine. Somebody's gotta hold down the homefront. But if you have any desire to move abroad, that's about all it takes. I mean, how hard could it be? This leads me to #2.

2. The hardest part is the leaving part.  

Everyone's scared of moving to a new place. But that foreign country isn't the scariest part. You have to leave your current home. This is the hardest part. "But I have so much stuff and a house and a car," you say. This is why there are buyers and renters and dumpsters. "And so many friends and family I'm leaving behind!" This is true. This is hard. But take it from someone who left before the dawn of Facebook. There is now Facebook. And Skype. These are game-changers. Gone are the days of missionaries leaving on a boat and receiving letters twice a year. Thanks to the magic of social media, your friend's Instagrammed pic of the coffee they're drinking looks the same from 10 blocks or 10,000 miles away.

3. No really, sell your car.

I know it's hard. But if you're going to be gone for any substantial amount of time and you can't take your car with you, just sell it. Your Honda Civic you got in high school will be the last thing on your mind when you step off the plane in your new home (ahem, brother-in-law). Same goes for the rest of your stuff, really. Somewhere in an attic in Virginia we have stuff we never got rid of. Once during a trip home we started to sort through our old boxes and as soon as we found socks without mates we closed that box right up and threw in the towel. What on earth were we thinking keeping all this stuff? A good rule of thumb when deciding to keep it or trash it, ask yourself: Will I think about it after I'm gone? Will I miss it when I come back from fill in the blank amazing country when I have more cool and exotic stuff? No? Rent it. Sell it. Or dumpster it.

This is how old your car will feel when you return. Seriously, sell it.

  by  Hugo90 

4. Expect to regret it.

Each and every time I've moved to a new country, there has come a point when I have regretted it. I'm not just talking about nervousness or culture shock. I'm talking about the feeling in your gut when you lay down on your first night in a bug-infested mattress in West Africa, or are up to your elbows in Cairene filth as you clean your new apartment, or the morning before you leave for the Congo and have a breakdown in the shower because you're moving to the freakin' heart of darkness. (I mean, speaking hypothetically of course.)

You will think know at some point that it's the wrong decision. You have made a big mistake. But really, this is your gut confusing regret with leaving your comfort zone. Ah yes. This calls for an inspirational poster...

And at the end of the day. If it's really that bad, the plane goes both ways. You can always go back from whence you came. Except you might have already sold all of your stuff...

5. You won't regret it. 

Worst case scenario: You hated your experience abroad and moved back home to no belongings. But you still did it! This is more than most people can say. Most realistic case scenario: Your experience was/still is great and you haven't yet moved back home. And if you end up having kids while abroad, they will obviously turn out amazing.

Just look at these precious, well-mannered expat kids. Photo credit: Jill Humphrey

* My husband is sweet enough to think I need to clarify to readers that asking me for fashion tips is a joke.

We know many of our readers have also taken the moving abroad plunge. What other suggestions do you have?

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Weekend List!

Sarah's List: 

Sometimes you come across something so well written, you can't stop reading. On drugs, rehab and frozen yogurt.

  by  Jade Sadeghian 

And then you find something so interesting, you can't stop reading. 16 foreigners try to explain America to their friends back home.

Who doesn't like a good doppleganger photo essay? These folks aren't even related! I saw my doppleganger once. And no, it wasn't that girl from How I Met Your Mother. Shut up.

  by  e³°°° 

I know, I know. I'm about 6 months behind, but I live in Congo so bear with me as I obsess about Orange is the New Black. In case you missed this article, way back when the rest of the world was watching this show, here's an interesting interview with the real Piper!

Do you know about African Grey Parrots? You should. They're amazingly smart. The smartest in the world, in fact. And they're all over here. There's one that mimics my ringtone and one that yells, "Falafel!" Because he's heard us over and over call for our dog. And I once got really teary at a dinner party when a guest told me the last words an African Grey had said to his friend before he died were, "You take care now." Seriously, the bird said that. Leave it to Jane Goodall to help them out.

  by  TheBigTouffe 

Oh my. Mothers in the first 24 hours. Doesn't get any better than this.

Here's an interesting piece on the Advantages of Children Living Abroad. I know lots of expat kids. They're not all so great. But as long at the ratio of great to not-so-great kids stays in our favor, I'm happy with our chances of not raising jerks.

Our child actually thinks she's Pippi Longstocking.

 But speaking of jerk expat kids, here's what Pippi says about Congo. From Chapter 1:

"Let me tell you that in the Congo there is not a single person who tells the truth. 

They lie all day long. Begin at seven in the morning and keep on until sundown. 

So if I should happen to lie now and then, 

you must try to excuse me and remember 

that it is only because I stayed in the Congo a little too long."

Tell me more, oh wise Pippi.

Jill's List:

Slightly inappropriate and super hysterical - especially if you have ever written a lesson plan or Bloomed a learning objective.  You really don't even need to be a girl to appreciate Hey Girl Teacher. Thanks, Erin!

From Hey Girl Teacher.  Go here to see more!

Not emotionally ready to think about this list yet.  At least I don't have to worry about this one:

8. Suddenly remembering all of the “touristy” things you never took the time to do — monuments you didn’t see, museums you didn’t tour — because you told yourself you would get to it next month, next year, someday.

I used to take photographs for Johan's bands and it was always a struggle to avoid the barn door, dirty alley, casual foot prop, or other various angsty clichés.  This round up is hysterical.

Adorable band boys.  Circa 2004.  Somewhere on an angsty Seattle rooftop.  Real Polaroid, essential.

Got this little bottle of sparkle as a present from a friend who knows my love of the French pharmacy. Sold on gold.

This essay is so important.  Stillbirth is a topic no one knows how to talk about - so most don't.  I read this book after taking care of my first family during the birth and death of their child.  The story remains remains with me.  Thanks, Joanna.

Ah. To gripe about early retirement.  (If you still want to do it, here are some tips.)

Image from Wiki Commons.

Oh no - will this happen to Loulou and Eli?

Doctors should listen to car mechanics more often...?

  by  Ministerio de Ciencia 

Received a gift of some crazy good kimchi today.  Said thank you with these.   Reason #1,546 it's awesome for your kid to have friends from all over the world.

And.  A new band so I can impress my Lebanese friends - maybe.  (Turns out, I kind of love Arabic pop.)  Thanks, Anna.

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In 500 Words or Less

In 500 words or less...

...describe your career goals, research interests, and moving personal history.  (Bonus points if we cry.)

In 500 words or less...

...explain how to solve world hunger.  (Make sure your idea is novel and realistic, please.)

In 500 words or less...

...capture the essence of motherhood.  (You know, get to the root of it.)

In 500 words or less...

...tell us what it's like to live in Congo.  (Everything.  Tell us everything.  We want to feel the rain on your dusty skin and hear the beat of drums in the distance.)

In 500 words or less...

Can you tell I'm applying to grad school?  

Every day this week, I've spent the hours between 8pm - 2am (because that's when a working parent is most productive, right?) obsessing over the state of my life in 500 words or less.  It's agonizing and those final cuts and edits almost did me in.  Johan (and Sarah) told me more than once that I was clearly insane.  It's just so intense to lay your hopes and dreams out to a bunch of strangers and ask them - pay them - to judge you.

If I try to work when my kids are awake, things like this happen.  (Yes, that's my cat eating a lollipop.)

I exaggerated above.  None of the schools asked me to wax eloquent on motherhood or begged to experience an absurd African rainstorm.  Thankfully, public health programs are largely sensible and to the point when it comes to essays.  However, I did just read this article about the ways undergraduate admissions are trying to sort through the essay doldrums, and I can't decide if I would have rather answered one of these questions:

• “What does Play-Doh have to do with Plato?” (Chicago)
• “If you could choose to be raised by robots, dinosaurs or aliens, who would you pick?” (Brandeis)
• “So where is Waldo, really?” (Chicago again)
•  “Write an essay somehow inspired by super-huge mustard.” (Chicago, writing crazy-ass essay questions to mess with high school seniors since 1980.)

Could I somehow describe my dedication to safe motherhood by way of super-huge mustard?  I'm thinking...

Image by Gtarmanperson via Wiki Commons.

While the bulk of my 500-word angst is over and submitted, I keep turning sentences over in my head: eliminating a , an, that, and which, adding hyphens, and correcting my misdirected love of the passive sentence.  It's my new mental game, not unlike those people who silently add big numbers for fun while on the subway or grocery store line. It makes me feel clever.  But there is also a feeling of danger; that once I start, I might not be able to stop.  The more I revise, the more I understand that the essay might never really be perfect!  Is this what editors feel like all the time?

People love and hate this process.  Check out these amazing essays about essays.  I should have known that the NYTimes would be all over this topic.  Here, here, here, here, here, and here.  

Some schools try to frame the word limit as a part of the competition, saying, "It's part of the challenge for you to make us like you in as few words as possible." While I was initially among the throngs protesting the unfairness of this task, I'm now a convert.  500 words is genius.

The exercise of painfully fitting your dearest aspirations and most transformational moments into a little over one, single-spaced, page is kind of inspirational.  For example, I learned that while I thought that some of my best work was done after two glasses of wine, it was, in fact, definitely not true upon sober re-reading.  I learned that my husband really, really loves me as evidenced by a 3am editing session on a school night.  I also learned that I enjoy writing about moms and babies and the state of world health. Which is good, because if I end up with a dissertation on my hands someday, I had better really like my topic.  Talk about clarity. 

A great essay booze doth not inspire.

The 500-word, high-stakes, personal essay. You should try it sometime.  But, not for fun.  That might be weird.  

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