Ants, and Batter Volcanos!
In my world, very few gainfully employed people claiming a sound mind enjoy Monday mornings. One Monday I stumbled to my kitchen, still groggy from sleep so it took me a few extra seconds to register that my blue cutting board left on the counter previous night was moving. A closer inspection revealed that it was overrun by ants. This was not shaping up to be a good day in the kitchen. And that was just the opening act.
For several months I have had an uneasy relationship with our (occasionally) resident ants. The first time I encountered them was back in November, when I opened a cupboard where I keep my vast array of utensils; to be precise a spoon, knife, and fork. One of each. Also, a spatula and a ladle. Not exactly cluttered there, making it fairly easy to see right away the black highway of tiny ants heading from one side of the cupboard to the other. To this day I have no idea what their destination was or, for that matter, where they originated. But my message to the ones that stayed home waiting in vain for their brethren to return with some loot was clear. You are not welcome here, don’t come! I wiped the entire route mercilessly and hoped that was the end of it.
Dark fake marble countertops are not an ideal place to look for black ants. But still … for weeks afterwards I was carefully checking the counter, wiping it with white paper towel, dreading to see some mangled tiny bodies on it. They must have received the message because I never did. That is, ‘til that Monday morning.
The taste preference of the little invaders really surprised me. I’ve had a small container of honey sitting on that counter for months without attracting a single ant. The night before the invasion I must have left some crumbs of a fairly mild cheese on the cutting board. And that did it. After I washed my eyes, I checked the board again. There was no doubt – the ants were back. My room is on the second floor. Height apparently makes no difference to these black ninjas. I don’t enjoy slaughtering innocent creatures, but it was either me or them. I washed the board, squirming inwardly as I watched their little bodies going down the drain. I would hate this at any time of the day, but early in the morning before I even had a chance to strengthen my resolve with a cup of coffee? And that was just the beginning of that abominable Monday.
After I cleaned up my DIY slaughterhouse, I was really ready for some coffee. After opening the fridge I was shocked to full awakening by the sight of the interior. A large gray blob of something was stuck to the wall with large, elongated drops growing of it like stalactites, and it was creeping along the fridge wall from the top shelf to the bottom of the fridge. It looked like a volcano had just exploded in my fridge. It was not difficult to trace the mysterious mass to its source.
Back in the days when we enjoyed a full-size kitchen and ready access to pork, often our Sunday breakfasts would consist of nice fluffy pancakes with maple syrup and bacon. These are just things that go hand in hand, like a baseball bat and a ball, a bike and scraped knees, cigarettes and black lungs. It is just one of those pleasures of a Sunday morning that we take for granted ‘til it stops. We did bring a bottle of real Canadian maple syrup with us, but bacon is almost impossible to find here. Most Uzbeks are Muslims, even though the religious influence here is very low-key, and so pork is rare.
There is one large mosque near the centre of Nukus and, on our trips outside of town, we have seen cemeteries that are decidedly Muslim with their dome-shaped mausoleums of different sizes, depending on the family wealth.
Whereas in Kuwait alcohol is hard to come by, here it is considered one of the many pleasures life has to offer. Being so long under the Soviet cultural influence, vodka seems to be the drink of choice. Bacon, however, has not snuck off the list of religious taboos the same way alcohol has. And because there’s hardly any demand for it, the stores don’t carry it. But that changed around the end of December. Christmas is not celebrated here, but the commercial pull of being able to sell more than usual around the end of December can’t be denied. It was undoubtedly one of the happiest moments of my shopping experiences here when I noticed, on a counter that normally displays a sad-looking collection of turkey and beef salami, enticing looking, vacuum packed bacon, fresh from Russia. We would have bought up the entire stock if only our freezers were bigger. Limited by size, we bought four packs. Our dream of pancakes with maple syrup and bacon was about to be fulfilled.
That weekend, Dave whipped up a recipe for fluffy pancakes. There’s was only one problem. Our Spartan kitchen does not have any measuring spoons or a proper measuring cup, Dave had to ‘eye’ it. His improvisation included a generous amount of baking powder, since more is better than less. Right? Sunday breakfast was a resounding success. Dave made lovely pancakes and I prepared even lovelier bacon. Afterwards I put the left-over batter into a small container which unfortunately ended up in my fridge. Why didn’t I put it in Dave’s fridge? Why? I moaned inwardly while inspecting the monstrosity that had sprung from the container.
Anybody who has ever attended an elementary or middle school science fair is familiar with the ubiquitous display of a volcano made of clay and baking soda mixed with vinegar. Well … over Sunday night, I had my own science project unravel in my fridge. Neither Dave nor I realized that pancake batter with a generous amount of baking powder doesn’t take weekends off. It just keeps working and working ‘til it has nowhere to expand into. Then it explodes out of its container. Cleaning all that mess on Monday was not so much fun, but for that Sunday breakfast I would do it all over again!