The PC promises hardship, and it certainly delivers. This past week many little things went right, but a dozen major things, and one big one, went horribly wrong. OK, two . . . the second being: I broke a glass (and I only had three) . . . a glass half-full of Irish Whiskey. Get out your tissues; I know I did. I think the aroma still lingers in the air . . . or perhaps only in my mind. But the glass aside, the real drama here and what's really happening in Southern Burkina Faso probably has already reached CNN. The heart-breaking, tragic catastrophe here in Pô . . . ?





So it’s true: once you’ve had running water (albeit outside in the courtyard), once you’ve had electricity for a fan, and once you’ve had cold water, icy vodka, and ice cubes, the loss of these little amenities is completely devastating. And never more so than when the average afternoon temperature hits 108. And I’m told that in April it’s really hot. What? 108 isn’t hot enough? Cold season lasted a total of 10 days in January with overnight lows around 85-83. Not what I was promised. But enough of these little issues. Let’s consider very real conditions of hardship.

So, to anyone who read my Packing List, actually saw my luggage and boxes during stage, or who may have observed my Pô kitchen, you must realize that I was only half-joking when I’ve said, If all else fails, I can open a cooking school. As far back as our first days in Philadelphia, we PCTs quizzed each other on the most odd thing(s) packed. My favorite: Kate’s solar garden lights (why didn’t I think of that?!). But my marble mortar & pestle ranks right up there, as does my wooden citrus juicer.

Well, the cooking school became a reality this week, though only by happenstance. Week One: Baking 101 . . . in a dutch oven that uses sand . . . over an outdoor fire that children must light for me because I cannot use charcoal without lighter fluid (and no, Alton Brown’s oil-rubbed-paper promise isn’t working here). This is bona fide hardship.

Then there was the ash that got in my eye as tried to maintain a constant temperature in a vessel that holds sand and three tiny cans upon which sits a baking pan (I don’t remember dutch ovens like this from Girl Scouts). I’ve lost count of the number of batches of Brownies that I’ve made. I believe we’re at four . . . maybe five. Say it with me: hardship.

This morning was hand-rolled chocolate truffles . . . Dean & Deluca cocoa, naturally. A tad non-sustainable, don’t you think? Now truffle-making is a challenge in this climate, especially hand-rolling. And had the frigo still been out-of-whack, or had the electricity been off (as it is this afternoon), we’d have had trouble. Hardship, again. You’re seeing it all clearly now, right?

In addition to truffles and Brownies (some with yummy frosting), we’ve done bisap and popcorn balls, though we totally missed the mark on the ball element. A candy thermometer here, and I still can’t get the syrup right. I continue to blame the bizarre Burkina sugar. Hardship! That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Still, think great caramel corn, like Poppycock™.

You can see that my week has been fraught with hardship. Hand-rolled truffles with no B&B . . . no espresso? Raise your hand if you can’t see the hardship. So, who among you knows the origin of the term dutch oven? We can only speculate.