A Story of Love, Loss, & Found

First, I hate eating in front of people, especially new people. Second, I like my food cold or at least room temperature. Third, I was vegetarian, worried each innocent vegetable was contaminated with chicken broth or animal fat. Fourth, I was in a very different environment.

Adapting to the food Lesotho had to offer was a challenge unlike any I had ever experienced. I had traveled, so not the same. This was foreign, people handing me food on a platter and staring at me while I ate. This was a carbohydrate-heavy meal, three times a day, at exactly 7:00 AM, 12:30 PM, and 6:00 PM for 10 straight weeks. This was not fruit in the morning, vegetables for lunch, and a protein-rich dinner. 

What felt like letting go of me was tough. 

Eventually I grew to be a tiny bit more adventurous... sampling a spoonful of samp, one evening I felt particularly famished. This was one variety of the "staple" food of the country I had chose to spend the next 27 months of my life in. I was underwhelmed as the samp was loaded with butter, my least favorite food, next to pickles and sour cream--both of which I lived blissfully without for 10 months(!!!). Samp, round two, came at the end of Community Based Training celebration. My job was to help prepare the samp for the entire village, meaning I did a lot of watching other people sort and clean and stir. In the midst of being too occupied to work, I scooped out a sample of samp before the gallon-sized tub of butter was added. Four bowls, at least, were put down during my shift. The other volunteers were aggravated--exhausted, hungry, sweaty... and lacking my wit. I had stunned the trainers with my Sesotho skills--spouting "I'm lazy" during this time of physical labor. This got me off the hook for at least a week. Locals thought this was funny, very very funny. Yes, those 10 months were great for my self-esteem. 

(Serious Side Story: Being lazy is nothing to pride yourself on in Lesotho, a country where people are literally fighting for life. I caught them entirely off-guard--the reason this statement was comical.)

So I'm feasting, prior to the feast, on samp--can't eat enough to satisfy the void--watching fellow volunteers slave over the hot pot under the relentless African sun; relishing in the fact, there is something I could survive off, for over two years. Not only was I hysterical, I was going to be full. 

I never learned how to cook samp; the process was long and tedious. When I wanted samp, I requested it from my host family. (For the record, I would usually make them popcorn or let them watch a movie in return. No, this was not a remotely fair trade.) I never even took the time to learn what samp was. I knew it was a derivative of corn, and I knew the corn in Lesotho was a different than ours here in America. I was lazy, geez. 

Who could have predicted I would come back to America and crave samp from time-to-time? Not I. There was no way for me to explain samp to anyone. Not that I tried. 

In my new learn-how-to-cook-so-I-can-survive-as-a-vegan lifestyle I tackled a dish that called for hominy. I had no idea what hominy was but knew it could be purchased in a can at the grocery. I was chopping and sauteing, prepping for the hominy moment. I opened, drained, and rinsed. Then like all good chefs, I sampled. I nearly melted in my tracks: SAMP! You found me(!!!).

Since the house was empty--and Louis was not at all interested in the my news--I danced a jig, temporarily forgetting about my burning vegetables. I also scarfed down half of the can before I remembered the one in charge of those charred vegetables to which the hominy belonged was me. I got my act together and finally, the meal was complete; the taste--wonderful. 

Turns out, hominy is corn that has been processed to remove the hull and germ. According to the intense food dictionary my parents rely on to decipher the ingredients in their mile-long recipes, samp is coarsely ground hominy. Either Americans or Basotho have it wrong: hominy=samp. No extra processing necessary. And with my Southern roots, I never paralleled hominy grits and papa--finely ground samp. All this time I thought the word 'samp' was not of the English language, and instead Sesotho. I do not belong in the kitchen.

If it took going vegan to guide me to my reunification with samp, it was the Best! Decision! Ever!