The first time I made flour tortillas by hand was in Uganda.
We were still in Peace Corps training and I had walked over to the house where some friends were staying. It was in the midst of their host family washing and hanging clothes and hundreds of people milling about in town waiting to see the Prince of Buganda speak, that I learned to make tortillas.
Let’s have a little real talk here.
I’m a decent baker and cook. I can roast the heck out of a chicken. Bake up some moist and flaky scones in 30 minutes. Whip up some healthy(ish) carrot cake cupcakes. Achieve a perfect pie crust every time. And make chicken salad in my sleep.
I’ve hit a wall. With unpacking, that is. I’ve been in my new apartment for several weeks now and I had planned to have everything unpacked, sorted and either put away in it’s rightful place, or packed into my basement storage unit. But I’ve hit a wall and there are still boxes here and there, waiting to be unpacked. Each time I walk by one, I sigh and promise to get to them later. But “later” has yet to arrive and so they sit, silent and accusing.
Last weekend I climbed into a matatu, rode three hours to Mbrara and then rode three more hours to Kasese for my friend Bailey’s wedding.
Bailey is a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer who had been seeing Julius for a little over a year when they decided to get married. They officially got married on Friday afternoon, while I was still on the Mbrara-Kasese road. Through the tea plantations and lush, green hills of Bushenyi district to driving through Queen Elizabeth National Park, the Mbrara-Kasese highway is an exceptionally beautiful drive. For once, riding for three hours in a matatu wasn’t disgustingly uncomfortable. We even saw some buffalo and impala from the road. Continue reading
