The men who work at our vegetable stand are so, so nice. They are always very pleasant to deal with and very hospitable. They love to feed me whatever they happen to have around when I drop by.
Now, out of necessity, I am usually quite cautious about where and what I eat here in Cairo. It’s easy enough to eat something that hasn’t been handled properly and then spend the next week running for the bathroom. The child of one of my neighbors has had giardia twice in the last few months. I wash my produce with either a scrub brush and dish soap or give it a long soak in vinegar and water before we consume it. I even wash my eggs in water with a dollop of bleach (you would too if you saw some of the shells! Yuck!)
In spite of all my caution, it is nearly impossible for me to reject the food offered to me by the vegetable guys. Sometimes it’s a cookie or cake that his wife made. Sometimes he shares his breakfast of foul and baladi bread (fava bean mash) On occasion he’ll pick up a piece of whatever fruit is in season to give me a taste, in an effort to make a sale.
Once he cut a plum in half and offered half to me and half to another woman who was in the shop at the same time. I took my half – in spite of having seen him polish the fruit on his galabeya and then cut it with a knife of questionable cleanliness. The other woman refused. She didn’t even take it from him to be nice to hold on to it for discreet disposal later. When she turned her back, the man made a mad face and waved her off with his hand. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I ate my half in front of him.
My acceptance of his food makes him happy – but it also encourages him to share more and more. I have survived my encounters with him thus far, but his week he upped the ante. He offered me milk fresh from his cow. He assured me that he had washed his hands and the cow’s udders before he milked it. He poured the remains of the milk – the last he had – into a small glass mug. There was no way for me to take it with me, and no plausible reason sprang to mind for why I couldn’t drink it. So I did.
I tried to get my husband to share it with me, but he refused, pointing out that one of us had to survive to raise the children. The milk was warm and sweet, like no milk I’ve ever had before. I asked if it had sugar added to it but he said no, straight from the cow. I had no way of knowing whether the fact that it was warm meant that it had been boiled to sterilize it or if it was the cow’s residual body heat I was noting.
I waited a few days to write this just to see if indeed I would survive. So far, so good.
Now, off to clean my balcony now that the rain has stopped. And then to prepare for the party. With six little boys in the house, I have decided it would be prudent to roll up my large Afghan carpet. Since my son requested it to be a “pajama party” I will throw a comforter out on the floor instead and several bed pillows. They won’t be sleeping over but it’s all about the proper ambiance, right?
