Food Fight

It is said that all good marriages are alike in that these couples argue about the same thing over and over, while all unhappy marriages are different because their fights are always about something new. According to this logic, I have been happily married to my host family for 10 months. Our marriage fight revolves around one topic only – food. More specifically, our fight focuses on the amount of food that I eat. The downside of replacing a 6’2” male volunteer is that no matter how hungry I get, my powers of ingestion will always pale in comparison to his. Like many cultures, your perceived enjoyment of a meal is directly related to how much you eat not how much you compliment. And it’s not only the women who are trying to fatten me up like a Tabaski ram – in every Pulaar there is a Jewish grandmother. Unfortunately, after a year of village cuisine the novelty of rice, rice and rice has worn off. There is a finite amount of white rice my body can consume in any one sitting, a limit which falls drastically short of my family’s expectations.

So this is what we fight about. “Koumba, eat.” “I’m full.” “Koumba, eat more.” “I’m really full.” Every. Single. Meal. The argument has taken many forms as my deflection tactics have evolved from the serious to the humorous to the silent. Until recently, the daily food fight was more annoying – and occasionally funny – than truly problematic. Last week though, it was decreed that the problem is that while everyone else inhales their portions I eat much too slowly and thus am denied my proper share. This is entirely false, I eat exactly how much I want. To solve the inequality, the men decided I should get my own bowl, alone in my room.

Objectively, this should be a good solution. I can eat at my own pace, stop when I want and not share my plate with germy little boys. But this is not a good solution. I don’t eat village food because it’s good, but because of that magical process of “integration” that happens over a shared meal (also, I’m too lazy to cook). If I am going to eat rice, rice and sandy couscous I better be with other people. If anything, the solo eating experience made me eat less since no one was there to guilt me into a few more bites.

Anyway, after only a few meals on my own my family recognized my discontentment and invited me back to the big bowl. Village meals may not be cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes, but there’s still something satisfying about plain white rice when you’re sharing it with others – and if this is the only fight I have with my family, I’ll happily stay married to them for another year.