One night my mate came home bearing a gigantic blood sausage, a gift from a Kikuyu farmer concerned about my failure to get pregnant . . .
Miss Footloose
Miss Footloose
I hail from the Netherlands and grew up eating lots of Gouda cheese, riding a bike to school, and not wearing wooden shoes. Having adventurous Dutch genes, I married an American Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya, East Africa, in an odd if humorous 10-minute ceremony that fortunately has stuck so far. My man is a development economist and I follow him around the world and watch him toil running projects that assist business and agricultural enterprises in developing countries. I have cooked, shopped, mothered, traveled and written stories in Africa, Asia, Europe, the US and the Middle East. I'm an expat writer not living in paradise (like Peter Mayle or Frances Mayes). I do not drink wine from my own grapes or tend my own olive groves. I have, however, visited my butcher's bedroom in Palestine, eaten fertility sausage in Kenya, and almost landed in prison in Uganda.
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You think the French drip good taste, elegance, and sophistication? Here is some funky French stuff that may leave you gobsmacked.
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It wasn’t polite of me to not fess up to a bad deed while vacationing in Italy. For years now I’ve been living with a tiny shred of guilt.
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Shopping in an African market: It’s not your American mall, but you can get your hair done, and where better to find dried shrimp by the kilo?
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To smile or not to smile? The world over, smiling is nice, right? It’s cheap. It’s easy. People like it. Well, no, sometimes they don’t.