THE COOK

All MSF missions have a cook. Because of the expectations regarding a rigorous workload, they try to minimize distractions such as cooking. I like this. I’ve enjoyed having a housekeeper/cleaner in the past, never a cook.
There are approximately 10 expats (managers, head of mission, doctors,nurses) and 30 national staff (nurses, social workers, drivers, translators, logisticians, pharmacist, cook…etc) that break bread together.

Let me introduce you to Svetlana, THE COOK.
Svetlana stands 6’2”, weight 275, perhaps 300. No fat on this body. Strong as an ox, stronger. One bosom is the equivalent of my entire thorax and abdomen. The both of them dominate her presence.
Svetlana doesn’t speak, she Announces, Commands, Delivers, not with confidence, but with Supremacy, Authority, MIGHT. Svetlana doesn’t do things, SVETLANA IS.
Her tone isn’t loud, it’s Booming, Roaring, Clamorous.
She doesn’t walk, she walks with Acceleration, Velocity, Readiness.
Today I was Svetlana’d.

Innocently, with chuckles from the expats who have been here for a while, I volunteered to create the menus for our evening meals to carry my load. Everyone takes a duty or house chore, family-style. Recall, we are 10 folks all from different countries, all wanting a bit of evening comfort food, that suits our unique tastebuds. With a judge and jury, an arbitrator, 6 hours, 8 drafts, and a collection of mafia money (for those special items) , deciding on a menu is really quite easy I have discovered.

During the work week Svetlana creates the lunch menu, prepares and cooks it. We partake with all the staff in a shack, with a kitchen, behind the office. Svetlana also prepares the dinner, from our harmoniously (HA!) created menu, delivers it to the expat house, which we then heat up and eat in the evening. We cook for ourselves on the weekends.

I was walking to the pharmacy today to conduct a quarterly inventory, a curious job in a cold garage, with years of dust, grime and utter chaos, nasty inventory cards, lots of errors, a real gem of a job.

You know how a man or woman will gently grab his/her partner, locking arms, holding one another close?
Well, Svetlana comes walking up behind me, with speed and intention, and puts me in a bosom-lock, pulling me close to her, literally sweeping me off my feet.
I thought, I’m not going to die from landmines, car bombs, gunfire, disease, but by the hands of THE COOK. Right here in broad daylight. I was thinking “what have I done?” What atrocity have I committed? My family loves me, my precious granddaughter needs me, I must plea for my life, I must beg forgiveness. But no time to think really, just be swept away by the torrent of decisiveness from THE COOK. My heart rate is now 120 bpm (beats per minute) (my usual is 50-60).

“INGA”, Svetlana shouts (Inga is my translator, and constant companion, except when she mysteriously disappears several times a day, which I have figured out is for my own learning opportunity - I must sink or swim with Russian-speakers on my own). “INGA“, Svetlana bellows. And up the stairs we ascend in the unrelenting bosom-lock. I am able to touch-down on the steps with my feet only twice.
.
Inga is sitting at the desk and casually turns, and says, what I presume is something like, “What’s up Svet?” Svet doesn’t smile, but fires off linguistic bombs. I look at Inga. Inga says “she wants to talk to you about the menu”. Recall, I create the menu, I write in English and then a translator will translate to either Russian, Abkhaz or Georgian, depending on the situation. HR is now 100bpm. I cannot possibly die because of the menu, can I? It won’t be cold-blooded murder at the compound, just a chastising for poor menu choices, I think.

Svet doesn’t ask me to sit, however she sits like an elephant sits ready to receive unwelcome riders on its back, with disgust, grunting, "intolerable humans".
I then sit so she will not think I am attempting to challenge her authority. No smiles, no eye contact. She blasts again, Inga looks calmly at me and says she wants to know how many Abkhaz yogurts you would like, you did not specify. She also wants to know if you want red, green or white onions chopped for your pizza next week. HR 90 bpm. I answer, “6 yogurts, and white onion is good”.
Yet another linguistic blast is hurled. Inga translates “would you rather have cabbage salad with the walnut-stuffed capsicans, instead of lettuce and tomato, I think it is better?” HR 80 bpm, “Sure”, I say.
She says, “are you sure this is enough food?”
I want to say, are you asking is this is enough food for a heard of elephants or for 10 humans, but instead I say “yes, thank you, I believe it is plenty, but I will let you know at the end of the week.”. HR70 bpm. No smile exchanged.
Up, the elephant stands, a quick glance at me, a nanosecond of eye contact occurs between us.
A Final Blast, and she turns her strong constitution toward the exit.

Inga says, “Svet likes your menus”. And then she says, and she likes you. A lot!
THE COOK departs in brisk, commanding paces, back to her kitchen-kingdom.

HR 60 bpm.

genie