One Very Fine Meal

One Very Fine Meal

Publication: The Lookout

Date: March 22, 2009

Column: First Look

Category: Missions; Ethiopia; Simplicity; Cross-Cultural; Dinner

It was one of the finest meals I have ever eaten.

My missionary friend Dan and I sat on crude wooden benches inside a dark, smoky hut in an Ethiopian village. Our hosts had worked hard to prepare for our arrival. They grew their crops on a little patch of ground outside the hut, tilling the soil with a simple hand-held plow. They threshed their wheat the way it was done in biblical times—tossing the grain into the air with a pitchfork so the wind would blow the chaff away. They ground the grain by hand using heavy stones, and baked it into a round flat bread that resembled coarse, dark pizza dough.

Over the bread, our hosts poured a watery mixture made from yellowish-brown peas. On top of that they ladled something they called cheese (although to me it looked like curdled milk), and then they poured on a buttery oil flavored with strong spices my taste buds had never encountered before. The dish was an Ethiopian favorite called "wut." (If you've ever wondered what wut is, I can now tell you what's wut.)

Before the meal began, a distinguished looking white-haired man (the family patriarch) welcomed the American visitors to his home. I felt under-dressed in his presence because he was wearing a tattered suit while I wore sneakers and jeans. He thanked us for coming, then bowed his head reverently and prayed, thanking God for the food and for the privilege of sharing his blessings with guests from far away.

When his prayer ended the old man sat down and began to serve our food by sticking his right hand directly into the soupy platter set before us. He tore off chunks of bread and handed a piece to each guest. I gazed uncomfortably at the gritty bread, pea soup, curdled milk and oily spices dripping from my hand. My missionary friend Dan, who found considerable humor in situations that made me squirm, grinned at me slyly across the table. To make matters worse, I had to use my right hand although I am left-handed, because the right hand is the right hand to use in Ethiopian culture.

My stomach said "no," but I didn't want to offend my gracious hosts. Somehow I managed to choke down the wut, trying my best to ignore the bits of sand in the bread and the unsavory aroma of the curdled milk. Finally with a sense of relief I swallowed my last bite, but the old man noticed that I was finished. Smiling, he reached his hand into the goopy soup once again, tore off another large chunk of bread, and handed me another sizeable serving. I cast a desperate glance at my friend Dan, who simply smiled back with a fiendish gleam in his eyes.

By the time the meal was over, I had eaten two large servings of wut—although I managed to secretly stuff part of my second helping into the pockets of my jeans.

The whole experience was pretty unnerving, but it was truly one of the finest meals I've ever eaten. The food was unfamiliar and it wasn't tasty to me, but it represented the best my hosts had to offer, served with love and personal sacrifice. I was greeted with sincerity and grace, lifted up with prayer, and sent away with hugs and words of blessing. I've eaten better food, but I've never been treated more royally.

And I wonder: if my friends from Ethiopia ever visit my house, how will they describe the experience?