What am I fit for?!

If you’ve ever given your heart to more than one place in this world, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

I am in a culture that is not my own; yet, in a strange way, I feel like I belong. But I will never fully belong because this is not who I am. Paradoxically, returning to the place I most expect to belong is not as comfortable as it used to be. I’ve changed, adapted, conformed–or whatever you want to call it–to my new culture, and I can’t go back without wearing that change.

One evening not long ago, I was on my way home when suddenly confusion washed over me. Where was I going? “If I were to go to the homiest home I can think of right now, where would I go?” I asked myself. My flat in Spain? My room at my parents’ house? Or any of the other places I’ve lived in my lifetime?

The concept of “home” was foggy, like waking from a dream and expecting to be in one place but being thousands of miles away instead.

When I feel that sense of homelessness, I think of Eliza Doolittle in the musical My Fair Lady. As the result of a wager between two learned men, Eliza has been transformed from a street flower girl into a proper lady. But now the experiment is done, and she is turned loose. But to where? In one world, she can only ever be an imposter; in the other world, she has changed too much to go back and belong. “What am I fit for?!” she cries.

I feel that agony sometimes. I want the luxury of fully belonging to one home and one culture, of not being different or feeling misplaced.

But this strange in-between space is also held in the hand of my loving Father. Today, that is enough. And tomorrow it will be too.

Photos don’t capture life

For the past 10 days or so, I have been enjoying a dear friend’s visit…and then savoring the lingering memories. Below are some of the photos from our time together. But remember that photos don’t capture life. Not really.

We spend a few wonderful days in rainy Córdoba. We wore plastic bags on our feet to keep out the puddles and streams and broke into delighted gasps whenever the valiant sun peeked through the gray clouds. “It hasn’t rain all this time, and then you came and it rained,” laughed my Cordoban friend when we met for coffee and then an Indian dinner.

arches of mosque-cathedral in Cordoba — Photo credit: M.B.

Back in Almería, we went up the mountain with teammates to watch the sun set, sifted through produce at the market, ate churros and pastries, enjoyed a British breakfast and crashing waves on one the windiest days of the year… and a gorgeous, sunny beach just 24 hours later. We also climbed Almería’s alcazaba and spent an afternoon admiring pottery in the town of Níjar. On her last evening, three of us celebrated Valentine’s Day with cheese fondue.

colorful fruit and vegetable market stall — Photo credit: M.B.

blue sea with blue sky and sailboat — Photo credit: M.B.

Arab fortress wall with city beyond — Photo credit: M.B.

elderly woman painting pottery — Photo credit: M.B.

But we don’t have pictures of those long heart-to-hearts or the laughter that erupted from just being together. Those are the real memories.

Foodie nights

This summer, I was encouraged to add recreational activities to my regular schedule. “What do I enjoy doing?” I asked myself. My default pleasure activity has always been reading, any free time passing with my nose in a book. But surely that wasn’t all I enjoyed.

Then I remembered that I like puttering around in the kitchen when I have purpose but no pressure. The remembrance felt like walking into the embrace of a dear friend, so when I returned to Spain, I determined to make time for recreational cooking.

Roughly every other weekend, but sometimes in another available time here or there, I plan a time for recreational cooking. I call it a “foodie night,” but mostly just to myself because, truth be told, I’m not a foodie; I just like trying a new recipe now and then without the pressure of it needing to turn out.

The foodie night process starts long before the evening I get to try out a new recipe. It starts with ideas–maybe an ingredient I see that I didn’t know I could get here in Spain, or something someone else mentions they made. Then I hunt down a recipe, gather ingredients from hither and yon around town (and invent substitutions for those I can’t find). And maybe the recipe requires a little prep beforehand. At last, foodie night arrives, and I pull out my collection of ingredients, turn on some music, and take my time.

Here’s what I’ve made so far:

Miso soup ⭐
Spring rolls with shrimp, cucumber, carrot, and mint dipped in peanut sauce ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Miso soup again ⭐
Gelatin gummies ⭐
100% Rye bread, recipe #1 ⭐
Sugar-free chocolate mousse ⭐⭐⭐⭐
100% Rye bread again, recipe #2 ⭐⭐
100% Rye bread for the third time, recipe #3 ⭐⭐

Perhaps the stars say it all. They surely tell you that you’re glad you weren’t around to taste test!

I decided that miso is an acquired taste that I don’t feel like acquiring. Or maybe I chose the wrong recipes to try. Who knows? The only thing the spring rolls were missing was more shrimp. My tight-wad amount of shrimp was masked by the show-stealing peanut sauce. The gelatin gummies were a nice thought, but just tasted like bland finger Jell-O. And then began the rye bread saga. The flavor was right every time…but I was always disappointed by the incredible density that made it more chewy than pleasurable. The last loaf puffed promisingly in the oven, but collapsed when I removed it. The chocolate mousse was a modest success, but only with myself since I didn’t share it with anyone.

Although many of these attempts didn’t turn out like I had envisioned, it doesn’t really matter. The joy of the process was exactly what I had envisioned.