I’ve been eating peanut butter by the spoonfuls all day. I don’t even like peanut butter without jelly, but I found an ant the size of a roach in my only jar, so of course it went directly into the trash. It’s out of heat-induced misery that my brain is telling me I actually enjoy eating this unhealthy, unnaturally sweetened, sticky stuff. I mean who over the age of five eats peanut butter from the jar? Evidently, according to holistic health guru Queen Afua, someone who is suffering from inner turmoil. Laying in a hot, musty room, listening to the screech of unknown animals mate or hunt their pray (either way I’m TOTALLY over it), eating peanut butter, and chain smoking London menthol cigarettes at 4:00pm on a Sunday, my inner turmoil is painstakingly obvious. I am depressingly homesick.
A healthy obsession with food has facilitated my depression, and PMS gives me justifiable reason to have an all out pity party. At the beginning of my journey, I felt like I was on an adventure–kind of like Girl Scout Camp. Now, the novelty has worn off, making my suffering akin to an unprepared Peace Corps volunteer or an Iraqi footsoldier. Increasingly limited food choices have left me with loose bowels, and an empty pantry worthy of a full five minute segment on “Feed the Children”. Flies swarming around my dirty face and bloated belly, I can see myself now…”little Tashira had hopes of saving the world, now this hungry child needs to be saved from starvation. For less than the cost of a pack of gum a day you can make a difference in her life.” Cut to a scene of me fetching water from a nearby stream, wearing ragged clothes, barefoot, and tears streaming down my face. Okay, I added the last part for emphasis, but it would make really good TV.
I knew I had reached an all time low when my dinner consisted of maccaroni and tomato paste. I, the daughter of a woman who manages to eat three course meals at the finest Atlanta restaurants for under $40, had resorted to eating food that even a college student would pity. I’m helpless and hopless–a trip to any “grocery store” will reveal the lack of anything familiar. Shopping for incredients for a normal meal is like searching for life on an unknown planet–there’s no lettuce, tomatoes, bellpeppers, spinach, salad dressing, spaghetti sauce, grapes, strawberries, or pistachios. Tofu, Boca burgers, and frozen cheese pizzas are laughable luxuries in this generator-cooled nightmare. My daily greens are a distant memory, and as my bacteria plauged intestines will attest, native food is strictly off limits. Even my breakfast of soy milk and toasted almond Kashi has been replaced with two “donuts” (semi-sweet fried dough) from my friend Lilian’s bakery stand.
I would gladly trade TV, hot water, and an air conditioned ride to work everyday for a chance to enjoy a familiar meal, preferably with people I’ve known for longer than three weeks. After blowing out pity candles on my African pity cake, that tastes like a sponge since Publix hasn’t made it to Nigeria, I reach for another scoop of peanut butter. Under the Arabic writing, I notice the most comforting words imaginable: “A product of American Garden Products/Seaford, NY/ Product of USA”. I fight back tears and decide to be strong. After all, who needs srambled tofu and grits from Busboys and Poets, when they have American made peanut butter? Only 21 more days and 3,000 miles to the nearest Whole Foods.
