In praise of Tesco's Finest

It's not that I'm a Little Wales-er. I've lived abroad before, - 4 years in Brussels, 2 years in Germany, 8 months in Madagascar, 6 months in France, 4 months in Italy.  I eat adventurously. I don't stick solely to the known bits of the menu, or only to the caffs which have menus. I partake too from mysterious pots bubbling by the side of the road.  And yes, food in Kenya is for many about naked survival with fuller bellies. Sukuma wiki - the Swahili name for spinach - literally means 'push you through the week' - the food to be eaten from the side of the road when there's nothing else.   But I'm realising too, in my first extended stay abroad as a Mum, that food is about culture. Its about shared memories. Its about recipes and tastes handed down from parent to child, and about family solutions for different situations. 'You know Mum, the hazelnut meringue that Nain brings to shared lunches at Quaker meeting.' 'Those tortillas we used to have when friends came to tea, and you each choose what you want to put in and then wrap them up yourselves.' Chilli con carne after bonfires and fireworks.

And so this is a blog about times past, and in praise of the on-tap regimented consistency and variety of Tescos, Tesco's Finest, and for a special push-the-boat-out Sunday afternoon treat, Waitrose.  Less Proust's madeleine, than the chicken tikka masala from Taste of India in Hatfield. Delivered to your doorstep at 8pm on a Friday night by the same doleful deliveryman.  To the glory of the humble fish finger, (just stick it in the oven on a baking tray), Sunday afternoon treacle tarts with evaporated milk, oozing golden syrup in just the right consistency, corner shops open till late, hummus, pita bread and those refined ingredients recommended by Nigel & Nigella for which creative substitutes are needed in the Kenyan context. Thai lemon grass. Semolina. Gelatine. Marscapone. Dry sherry. Jelly.

Transition to life in a new country is always about The Unexpected. Unanticipated sights, world views, encounters and dilemmas.  When I worked in a German hospital with Protestant deaconesses I was roundly told off for washing my underwear by hand on a Sunday, breaking the Sabbath. In Belgium letters may only be sent in one consistent size of envelope. Truculent muttering & hasty repackaging at the post office. In Madagascar, where the ancestors are revered as co-decisionmakers in our lives and the source of all good things, I was berated for placing my trust (and finances) in a pension scheme rather than hosting a party for the dead ancestors to ensure they bestowed good fortune on me and mine.  And one year into life in Kenya, the unexpected is encountered predominantly at mealtimes, a trojan horse dish which LOOKS as anticipated, but tastes very different.

As with many situations in Kenya, we first stumbled into employing a part-time cook to generate employment for someone who needed it. And in this land without convenience foods, I did initially relish a new one night on, one night off arrangement. But cooking, you start to realise, is a complex task, and CookOne had not had much formal education. Cooking requires forward planning (Have you GOT all the ingredients before Catrin leaves for the school run? Last minute phonecalls demanding ingredients from three different shops, each miles from the other, are not welcome.) It draws on basic maths (ability to double recipe quantities. And then to double all recipe quanitities).  And builds on ability to forecast (if D is not home till 630, and this recipe takes 30 minutes in the oven, I shouldn't PUT it in the oven till 6pm). And yes, I work in training, and in developping critical thinking, and isn't capacity building all about what living in developping countries is about? But eventually, after much agonising, enough was enough and I sacked her. Family mealtimes reverted to my predictable & age-old Monday spaghetti bolognaise, Tuesday risotto model.

If you can't beat them, join them, I thought, and put effort into mastery of my favourites from the Tesco Finest range. Chicken and mushroom pie. Treacle tart. Steak and kidney pie.  Certainly not bad, tasty even. But lacking in the flowing ease of the original as I snarled at any family member unable to finish their portion of the steak and kidney (sourced in two shops, toiled over for four hours of patchy electricity), dispensing stress-related indigestion with liberal hand. 

Months later, disgruntled at spending two hours daily on a split time school run from the same school, I launched into recruitment of CookTwo with vim and vigour.  I tested on doubling and tripling ingredients at interview.  I probed on typical meals and ability to follow recipes. And we netted a paragon of virtue, B, cookshare with another family, cooker of pancake healthy snacks for ravening after school children, and willing babysitter so ChildTwo doesn't have to do the second school run of the day. Hurrah.

And B is a good cook. But it isn't easy cooking for a family of another culture. First we had far, far too much cooked each day, until D explained that many Kenyan families rarely have food left in the larder at the end of the day. If its there, you eat it, as who knows what tomorrow holds.  And then there isn't a culture of using leftovers. If its there, you've eaten it. And then meals were peppered to within an inch of their life. 'Add salt and pepper to taste'.  But not to Kenyan taste. Cultural difference number 472: you eat less of a peppery meal than a non peppered one. Use of pepper, now banned in our kitchen.

Amidst the vast majority of very acceptable meals there are the unanticipated complete clangers. Like the gap year student in a foreign clime, the unimaginable gaff which host families titter about for years to come. The fruit salad resplendent with a new red fruit. 'It looks like red pepper, I wonder what it is,' said D. 'It IS red pepper,' said K's friend, worldly-wise and better versed in the ways of Kenyan cooks.  Yesterday's pork and apple stew. Pungent aroma. Not a pleasant one. As we backtracked we realised that B, teetotal, had mistaken the 10 fluid oz of cider in the recipe for a generous cupful of cider vinegar (used to deworm our chickens if added to drinking water.) Oh dear.  Bananas all round then?

But best of the bunch, my American friend, K, was hankering for aioli, the garlic dip, after too long away from home. She showed her cook the recipe with pictures - any questions?  No, no, I've made this before, he said. Fantastic. Mouthwatering, she returned later, to some beautifully chopped crudites around a ceremonial dish of piping hot mashed potato. No need to read the recipe if you know what you're cooking.

Bon appetit!