A Lenten Devotion by Debbie Clark
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
Hebrews 13:2
When I was 22, I spent six months in Kenya as part of a year of travel and study. For most of that time, I visited independent churches in rural areas, staying in the homes of church members.
I learned so much that year about hospitality. Most of the families had very little. Still, they served me the best they had. They boiled water for me, even though they never did for themselves. They made rice when my stomach objected to their main food, ugali, a dish made from maize meal and water. They fixed me tea without milk and sugar, although they were perplexed why I would ever want to drink it that way.
It was amazing, and it was not always easy. Some churches had only one person who spoke English; when he or she was off doing something else, I struggled to communicate with my very rudimentary Swahili. I was often frustrated that, as an honored guest, I sat in the dining room with the men while the women were in the kitchen cooking.
I remember with great fondness one of the few times I made it into the kitchen. The day before, our halting conversation had turned to food. A teenage girl asked me about my favorite American food. I told her about chocolate chip cookies, and how I used to make them with my Mom on rainy days. We decided I would show them how.
I listed off the needed ingredients. Flour and salt and white sugar were no problem. We could get eggs from the chicken wandering around the yard. They had no sticks of butter, so I reluctantly agreed that Kimbo, the East African parallel to Crisco, would have to do. Instead of chocolate chips, we chopped up Cadbury bars. Brown sugar, vanilla and baking soda were simply not options.
We mixed the ingredients into a batter only remotely like what my Mom and I used to make. A group of women and girls of all ages squatted on the floor of the kitchen around the kijiko, a small metal charcoal stove, and contemplated how to bake these cookies. We put them in a covered pan on top of the stove, trying to create the effect of an oven. It didn’t work. The bottoms of the cookies browned quickly; the tops stayed raw.
One of the older ladies got out her spatula to flip the cookies over. I tried to stop her; that’s not how you bake cookies! She insisted. She was right. Once flipped, the cookies baked evenly. They were tasty, in a unique sort of way.
I imagine that is the only time I will ever eat fried chocolate chip cookies. I will, though, always treasure the memory of being invited into the kitchen, the greatest honor of all.
May we laugh and cook and eat together. Amen