One of my most pleasurable memories from archeology field school in Haluza, Israel is the morning meal. I would ascend from the shaded site I was working on, out of the stifling dust into searing heat, then up to the shaded picnic tables at the top of a rise. It was still blisteringly hot, but the air was clear and I could wash my hands and face. I had been working already for four or five hours, and it was always a welcome break.
Breakfast at the dig was a small loaf of bread with good hummus, tomatoes, and cucumbers as well as some fresh yogurt or cheese from the dairy at the kibbutz. It was cooling and filling without being heavy. This remains one of my favorite meals, but it’s hard to find really great hummus unless it’s homemade.
The cuisine of Israel available on a college student’s budget seemed largely similar to the food I ate at home, except it was a bit heavy on tomatoes and cucumbers. One item of note is that the Israelis drink lemon juice in their water with the idea that the lemon aids in digestion and allows one to drink plenty of water without stomach upset. One legacy of the British is that nearly everyone drinks tea with milk. Kosher rules were a little new, but there were no opportunities to break kosher laws because taboo foods and food combinations were simply unavailable.
Much of the food at the kibbutz and in larger cities on weekend excursions was familiar, or at least identifiable. There was even a McDonald’s on the walking route from the youth hostel to the Old City in Jerusalem. The hostel in Jerusalem offered Nutella with our morning toast, which was a delightful culinary discovery.
Anthropologists are supposed to set aside any bigoted ethnocentric ideas about food and eat any food offered, or risk offending the host. It’s one marker of a true anthropologist to graciously eat undercooked offal and what not. This is one reason I chose to specialize in forensic anthropology rather than in cultural anthropology. I’m fine handling human skeletal remains, but don’t ask me to eat balut. An incident at the dig provided one more piece of evidence that I make a mediocre cultural anthropologist.
Haish was our Bedouin guard at the site. I don’t speak Arabic, and my Hebrew is limited to archeology-specific phrases like, “Where is the bucket, where is the hammer?” I did learn how to greet Haish, and said hello to him every morning on our arrival at the site.
It’s difficult to overstate the July heat in the Negev. Haish wore all black, including tight black Levis. He spent most of his time out under the sun looking over the various excavation areas. No doubt Haish was acclimated in a way I would never be. I was a dusty, exhausted, sweaty mess by the time I left the site in the early afternoon, and I worked in the shade.
As I was leaving the site on the last day of field season, I said goodbye to Haish. He said something nice back in Arabic, and reached into the left front pocket of the ubiquitous black Levis. He pulled out a grimy handful of pumpkin seeds and handed them to me. They had been roasted over a fire and seasoned with salt of his evaporated sweat. The seeds had been steaming with heaven knows what else for god knows how long inside the pocket of his pants. Next to his penis.
I’m no Andrew Zimmern. I had someone help me thank him profusely and tell him the lie that I would save them to savor at the evening meal. I left feeling like I had failed miserably as a nearly-minted anthropologist.
Fast-forward a decade and change, and I have a new opportunity to test my tarnished culinary mettle in an unfamiliar landscape. This summer, we’re moving from Laramie, Wyoming to Denver, Colorado. Wikipedia lists the population of the Denver metro area round 2.5 million. The population of the entire state of Wyoming is 563,626. Laramie boasts around 27,000 residents. Denver will take some getting used to.
In Laramie, you can get nearly anywhere on a bike in about twenty minutes. A new Murdhoch’s went in earlier this year and vastly expanded the retail opportunities here. You can buy live chickens, cow hides, mucking boots, and power tools all in one stop. Culinary diversity is pretty limited to standard American fare as well as Mexican, Thai, and Indian restaurants. The fancy-pants dinner out is (amazingly good) steak at a dude ranch west of town. We also have a very good coffee roaster.
Obviously, Denver offers myriad more dining options. I have heard that they even have ethnic markets! I suspect that it would be easy to settle into a self-contained, insular neighborhood of schools, parks, groceries, and Target and hardly ever leave. We hope to take full advantage of rich cultural opportunities, myriad recreational options, and sample food from many more global regions. I’ve decided to approach Denver in the spirit of ethnographic research.
My plan is to solicit suggestions for great coffee shops and breakfast restaurants and then go check some of them out. Asking people for suggestions will be a good way to break the ice and (hopefully) start making friends. I’m hoping to get an array of suggestions that will take us to interesting neighborhoods and nooks we might otherwise miss. Learning our way around will be an adventure, and we’re looking forward to tasting exotic new foods and meeting new people.
No doubt, over time, we’ll fit right in.
Breakfast at the dig was a small loaf of bread with good hummus, tomatoes, and cucumbers as well as some fresh yogurt or cheese from the dairy at the kibbutz. It was cooling and filling without being heavy. This remains one of my favorite meals, but it’s hard to find really great hummus unless it’s homemade.
The cuisine of Israel available on a college student’s budget seemed largely similar to the food I ate at home, except it was a bit heavy on tomatoes and cucumbers. One item of note is that the Israelis drink lemon juice in their water with the idea that the lemon aids in digestion and allows one to drink plenty of water without stomach upset. One legacy of the British is that nearly everyone drinks tea with milk. Kosher rules were a little new, but there were no opportunities to break kosher laws because taboo foods and food combinations were simply unavailable.
Much of the food at the kibbutz and in larger cities on weekend excursions was familiar, or at least identifiable. There was even a McDonald’s on the walking route from the youth hostel to the Old City in Jerusalem. The hostel in Jerusalem offered Nutella with our morning toast, which was a delightful culinary discovery.
Anthropologists are supposed to set aside any bigoted ethnocentric ideas about food and eat any food offered, or risk offending the host. It’s one marker of a true anthropologist to graciously eat undercooked offal and what not. This is one reason I chose to specialize in forensic anthropology rather than in cultural anthropology. I’m fine handling human skeletal remains, but don’t ask me to eat balut. An incident at the dig provided one more piece of evidence that I make a mediocre cultural anthropologist.
Haish was our Bedouin guard at the site. I don’t speak Arabic, and my Hebrew is limited to archeology-specific phrases like, “Where is the bucket, where is the hammer?” I did learn how to greet Haish, and said hello to him every morning on our arrival at the site.
It’s difficult to overstate the July heat in the Negev. Haish wore all black, including tight black Levis. He spent most of his time out under the sun looking over the various excavation areas. No doubt Haish was acclimated in a way I would never be. I was a dusty, exhausted, sweaty mess by the time I left the site in the early afternoon, and I worked in the shade.
As I was leaving the site on the last day of field season, I said goodbye to Haish. He said something nice back in Arabic, and reached into the left front pocket of the ubiquitous black Levis. He pulled out a grimy handful of pumpkin seeds and handed them to me. They had been roasted over a fire and seasoned with salt of his evaporated sweat. The seeds had been steaming with heaven knows what else for god knows how long inside the pocket of his pants. Next to his penis.
I’m no Andrew Zimmern. I had someone help me thank him profusely and tell him the lie that I would save them to savor at the evening meal. I left feeling like I had failed miserably as a nearly-minted anthropologist.
Fast-forward a decade and change, and I have a new opportunity to test my tarnished culinary mettle in an unfamiliar landscape. This summer, we’re moving from Laramie, Wyoming to Denver, Colorado. Wikipedia lists the population of the Denver metro area round 2.5 million. The population of the entire state of Wyoming is 563,626. Laramie boasts around 27,000 residents. Denver will take some getting used to.
In Laramie, you can get nearly anywhere on a bike in about twenty minutes. A new Murdhoch’s went in earlier this year and vastly expanded the retail opportunities here. You can buy live chickens, cow hides, mucking boots, and power tools all in one stop. Culinary diversity is pretty limited to standard American fare as well as Mexican, Thai, and Indian restaurants. The fancy-pants dinner out is (amazingly good) steak at a dude ranch west of town. We also have a very good coffee roaster.
Obviously, Denver offers myriad more dining options. I have heard that they even have ethnic markets! I suspect that it would be easy to settle into a self-contained, insular neighborhood of schools, parks, groceries, and Target and hardly ever leave. We hope to take full advantage of rich cultural opportunities, myriad recreational options, and sample food from many more global regions. I’ve decided to approach Denver in the spirit of ethnographic research.
My plan is to solicit suggestions for great coffee shops and breakfast restaurants and then go check some of them out. Asking people for suggestions will be a good way to break the ice and (hopefully) start making friends. I’m hoping to get an array of suggestions that will take us to interesting neighborhoods and nooks we might otherwise miss. Learning our way around will be an adventure, and we’re looking forward to tasting exotic new foods and meeting new people.
No doubt, over time, we’ll fit right in.
This article originally appeared at Does This Make Sense.
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Comments
Deborah, I love the Western Slope! We're very happy to be closer.
Elizabeth, I had visions of a much more exotic life than I actually lead, but Anthropology is a fantastic paradigm for experiencing everyday life as well.
Thanks!