September 18, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork
I stopped at Trader Joe’s tonight on my way home to grab a couple staple items for the week. As I strolled past a shelf, a pre-cooked, vacuum-sealed package of palak paneer nearly jumped into my basket and I knew I had to have it. In that instant, I was suddenly craving the comforting warmth of Indian food and even had to circle back through the bakery section to pick up some naan. Feeling satisfied, I headed to the checkout.
And then I stopped and asked myself what sort of parallel universe I was living in — me, a former Midwesterner who is undeniably in the running for whitest white girl ever. Palak paneer as comfort food? Naan? WTH? Growing up, I knew nothing of Indian food and the only Indians I was familiar with were the Cree and the Sioux and the Blackfoot and the Iroquois. And yes, Emily, we called them Indians, which today sounds as shocking and antiquated as when those ancient filmstrips and documentaries on Martin Luther King, Jr. we watched at school referred to their subjects as “Negroes.”
Sure, I still crave classic American comfort foods like homemade macaroni and cheese and this hamburger and mashed potato casserole that my mom probably hasn’t made since I was nine, but Indian ranks high on my list of comfort foods. And Ethiopian. Oh god, I may have to schedule a night during which to gorge myself at Meskerem the next time I’m in DC, because I don’t think I’ve had Ethiopian since Liz and I sat Indian-style ahem, cross-legged in the grass in her backyard and stuffed ourselves full of it … in May. Of 2005. I am way overdue.
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My new life insurance company (I know. I’ll pause here to let that wave of jealousy pass.) dispatched a medical examiner/nurse type person named Edward to my house the other day. (At least I hope he’s had some kind of medical training — there were needles involved.) Edward and I had spoken on the phone and it was obvious that he had not been born in the U.S. My guess is somewhere in the Middle East — maybe India! (OK, I know India is not exactly the Middle East, but it is possible that Edward is Indian. I didn’t get his last name, so my ability to narrow down his country of origin is limited.) There’s nothing wrong with not being a native English speaker, though I did wonder what sort of challenge that would present for all the medical paperwork we had to go through.
After a series of questions about my medical history (high blood pressure? heart disease? diabetes? psychiatric treatment? no, no, no, no but maybe I should look into it) I laughed and said, “No. All healthy.” And he explained to me that, in his country, nobody would say “healthy as a horse,” as it would be considered rude to compare a man to a horse. Good point, I thought. Then I wondered if it was equally rude to compare a woman to a horse, or just a man, but resisted the urge to ask.
Later in the information-gathering, Edward asked me, “And you are having? … your time of? … the womanly? …” and I tell you what, I could not help him out, as I had no earthly idea what he was asking, until he got to “…menstruation? Today?” Ohhhhh, that.
Sorry, Edward. I hope it’s not terribly rude in your country to have to openly discuss with women their, uh, special time. (Gag, barf, wretch, I hate that stupid euphemism. Special, indeed.)
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There’s a new taqueria in my neighborhood, with a menu that reads like all the other taquerias in the area and a yellow and red sign out front, like all the other taquerias in the area. I grabbed take-out from there a couple of weeks ago. An older man was bouncing from behind the counter to back in the kitchen, giving directions to the staff in low tones and bringing food out to customers at their tables — the manager? the owner? Something like that.
While waiting for my food, he looked at me, I smiled at him, but we didn’t exchange words. Based on his age, apparent position in the business and general lack of customer interaction, I figured he didn’t speak much English. Imagine my surprise, then, when he brought out my food and I handed him my plastic number, saying quietly, “Diez,” and he handed me the bag, saying in unaccented American dialect, “Here you go, sweetheart.”
Posted by Daily Tragedies @ 9:28 pm | Make a Comment
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Actually, Indian is back in favor as the preferred term. Hence the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian. “Native” is out.
September 18th, 2007 at 10:15 pmSpecial time, indeed! I’d like for someone to tell me what’s so special about it! Hrmph!
September 19th, 2007 at 3:05 amHmm. Methinks that something is missing in my upbringing slash adult life. I still lack an apalling amount of education in Indian OR Ethiopian food. And I grew up in LA, land of multiculturalism!
I can tell you an Oriental is a rug, not a person. And Taco Bell is not authentic Mexican. That counts for something, right?
September 19th, 2007 at 5:57 amI requested Indian food when Gary and I went out for my birthday. Another white girl from the midwest who grew up on meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but Indian is my favorite food! If I could eat chicken tikka masala and naan 3 times a week I’d be a happy girl!
September 19th, 2007 at 8:50 amDid you know that I am part Blackfoot Indian? And yet, I haven’t even been to the new Smithsonian museum. Although, what if I go and there’s one of those big diorama-type scenes with the actual-size wax figures and one of them looks EXACTLY LIKE ME?
Wait, I’ll answer that. I’ll have my photo taken with it.
(Can you tell we’re having nap issues here and I’m going INSANE?)
September 21st, 2007 at 7:09 amP.S. Ethiopian food is AWESOME. Probably because they fry EVERYTHING.
September 21st, 2007 at 7:10 am