Men Still Can’t Cook, or Can They?

Alem never thought it possible. What kind of a man could prepare injira? She ran through a mental check list of all the brothers, cousins, and friends of family from Ethiopia who had failed. The concoction was too much for the male species to handle. Only a woman’s touch... No. Only an East African woman’s complexities were capable of working out this special type of sponge-bread staple found in Somalia, Ethiopia, and Eretria.

“No. Only women make injira!” Alem announced to the class. An eruption of smiles and conversations in Somali, Amharic, French and Arabic confiscated my classroom. Our three Spanish speakers were as dumfounded as I was.

I smiled.

“Whoa. Whoa. Wait a minute. Whaddya mean?” I asked.

“Only the women. No man can make engeeyra. It’s too difficult.”

“Holy smokes.” I said. (My old-school, English vernacular emerges when dumbfounded.)

A Somali woman waved her hand in the air. Her name was Fartune. “The men can make samboosa, maybe other kinds of things. But, they can’t make injira. It’s too hard. Only a woman can make it.”

Conversations oscillated the room at high velocity.

A middle aged, Mexican gentleman named Jose raised his hand. I was curious.

“Hold on everyone! Hold on everyone! Jose has something to say.”

“The best are men.” He held his hand in the air with thumb and fingers pressed together. He grasped for English.

“The chef. The chef.” He held his contorted hand in the air.

“Oh yes.” I said. “I gotcha Jose. Everybody listen. Can you say that again Jose?”

“The chef. The chef. They are men. The best for cooking is men.”

I smiled. This was getting heated.

“Okay. Do you hear what Jose is saying? He’s saying that people who cook the best are men. Do you know what a chef is?” I asked.

Heads nodded, comprehension unknown.

“A chef is a person who cooks food in very expensive restaurants. They make very good food. The best food.”

I looked at Jose. “Yes, Jose. It is true. There are many chefs who are men. Maybe even more men than women. But, there are a lot of women chefs now too.”

I decided to join the competition. This was getting good.

“Now, you’re telling me there aren’t any men out there who can cook injira?”

Voices raised in affirmation.

“Is there any man in this room who can cook injira?” I asked.

A man named Ali Mohamed raised his hand. Short bursts of laughter percolated the room in disbelief. Ali’s English is poor and he rarely speaks. When he does, it’s usually Bass with a hint of English.

“Injira.” He waved his hand. “I make everything.”

The room erupted back into chatter, discussion, smiles, and laughter. I’d had a smile on my face for the past five minutes.

“Okay everyone. Okay everyone. Listen. I have something I want to say. Okay. Listen everybody. I have something to say.”

Ten seconds passed to settle down.

“Okay. This is what I want to say. On the last day of class we will all bring food from our home countries. This is what we do each semester on the last day of class. Do you understand?”

Heads nodded.

Then, I threw a curve-ball.

“So, on the last day of class we will all bring food to class from our home country, but Ali Mohamed and I will bring injira!”

Arms flailed, smiles broke out, and a multitude of languages circulated again. Fartune suggested Ali Mohamed and I might cheat by finding someone else to cook the injira for us before bringing it in.

“No.” I waved my hand. “When I make injira, I will have a video camera to show you that I am making it myself!”

That was stupid. I thought to myself.

The challenge is on and there’s no way I can make this stuff. Maybe Alem was right afterall. Whatever happens, it'll be a comedy routine disguised as my classroom.
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All names are psuedonyms but do represent names from the countries represented by my real students.