Good Eats

a Saturday Story

My friend, Donnie Jackson, occasionally posts food photos on Facebook and titles them “good eats.” So, I took the title of this post from him. I don’t think he will mind. If he does object, I will buy him a cup of coffee.

The Pizza Hut in the city of Cagayan de Oro on the island of Mindanao in the Philippines is really good. At least I think it is. It might be that I feel that way because I like pizza and when you haven’t eaten food you are used to for a while, getting something familiar makes it seem special. Rudy and his sons don’t agree with my Pizza Hut assessment. Once, after we had all been seated and were preparing to order pizza, I noticed that Rudy and his sons had disappeared. I asked where they were. Ever, Rudy’s wife said they went somewhere else. They don’t like pizza.

In the Philippines and India, rice is a staple. I would say it's almost indispensable. If you eat, no matter how large the meal, and there is no rice served, they say, “It is just a snack.” They don’t put rice on pizza, even in the Philippines.

There are a couple of Filipino foods I refuse to try. One is Durian. I can’t get past the smell. On one trip we stopped by a pastor’s office while traveling from one city to another. He “treated” the group with fresh Durian. I left the room. When even the country that loves it bans it from public transportation, you know it stinks.

The other Filipino food I won’t eat is balut. What is balut? It derives its name from the Tagalog phrase, “Balut sa puti.” Translated into English it means, “wrapped in white.” It is a duck egg that has been incubated for around 18 days so that the embryo is allowed to develop. There is a process involved that is more detailed, but that is the gist of it. The egg is then cooked in the shell and eaten much like you would a hard-boiled egg. I’ve been told it is quite tasty. I’ll just take their word for it.

I do like Indian food. I haven’t found much there, I won’t eat. In the south, they like it hot – super hot. They put most Mexican food to shame with the heat. Unless it is unavoidable, I get mine toned down some. When in India, I also have to watch out for who is preparing the food. Hygiene isn’t a priority in many places. After a couple of decades of traveling to India, I’ve managed to be struck by food-borne illness no more than a half dozen times. Not a bad record considering some of the places and foods I’ve eaten over there.

India is a hospitality culture. No matter how impoverished a person might be, when you visit their home they are going to want to give you something to eat or drink. Most of the time, national pastors run interference for me. They know when it isn’t safe for my constitution. But sometimes someone slips on past the goalie.

My friend, Jeremy Jackson was with me on a trip years ago. We were out in remote villages doing some evangelistic ministry. A family invited us to come to their home. We obliged, following them down dirt trails through a maze of grass and concrete huts. When we arrived at their small, one-room house, they asked us to sit down on some crudely constructed chairs that were up against the wall of the house.

The mother of the family walked into the house through the door which wasn’t a door so much as a dirty blanket hung over an opening in the wall. She shooed the chickens and they scattered out through the same blanket door, running helter-skelter through the patio area where we were seated. A few minutes later she reappeared carrying two large chrome platters, piled with rice and some sort of curry. She was beaming with a joyous smile when she handed one to me and one to Jeremy.

A pastor friend in India once explained to me that the traditional Indian woman derives much of her sense of self-worth from how people receive her food. He told me it is always a good idea to speak kindly and highly of a woman’s cooking in India. I think that is true in many places, but it seems especially true there.

Jeremy and I were faced with a dilemma. No one was around to bail us out. And she didn’t just hand us the plates and walk away. She stood there, white teeth beaming across her dark, sun-baked face, waiting to see what our response would be. Not only was she watching, but by the time she handed us her food, the whole family and all her neighbors had gathered to observe.

Jeremy looked at me and asked, “What are we going to do?”

I said, “Well, I guess we are going to eat it and pray for mercy.”

We did. And, as you might have guessed, we lived. We didn’t even get ill. I wouldn’t recommend you try that though. I’ve not been as fortunate other times, and O my.

Photo by Jim Teo on Unsplash