The First Fistful of Rice

They're watching, but not really watching. But really, they are watching, to see how you take your first fistful of rice. Will you ball it up gracefully as they do with no stray grains and pop it into your mouth, or will the rice grains repel each other in your hand leaving an oily lump the shape of a small ginger root in a messy, defiant pile? This was me a few days ago, when I was invited to eat with Mariam, the tailor, and all her beautiful sisters. To be fair, the first ball is the hardest, because you're supposed to take only rice, with nothing but the oil it was cooked in. I did my best. I dove in fist first and scooped out what I hoped would be the exact amount necessary to make a mouth-sized ball. I'm out of practice. I haven't eaten maaru we khut (rice and fish) in a month, strangely. I did so badly they sent a small child out to find me a spoon. I told them I needed to practice without a spoon, which they found hilarious and then immediately turned back to their food, missing my second, nearly-perfect ball, formed with potato as the bonding agent. The funny thing is, I don't even know how I would eat maaru we khut with a spoon. It's a meal created with fingers in mind. How would I tear up the cabbage, or pull bits of carrot and potato off? How would I select a good chunk of fish and then daintily remove the bones, if not with my hand? Ironic. I feel like I'm making first impressions left and right all with similar results. People love to tell me how good the previous volunteers were with Hassaniya. I explain that they were here for two years, and after two years, I too, Inshallah, will speak it that well, but none of them seem to remember the awkward beginning phase that those volunteers must have had. Maybe that means they will forget all my mistakes as well someday... I can only hope.