French toast and other luxuries

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

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I shouldn't start talking about food, considering that I, and likely many of my readers, are now fasting the month of Ramadan, but oh well, you can read this after sunset if you prefer.
Some time ago, I introduced French Toast, that lovely morning breakfast treat to my daughter's picky cousins, who would usually shake their head adamantly whenever I offered any other typical dish.

"Wanna try something kind of sweet?" I asked in my broken Arabic, as the older one, 9, wandered aimlessly around our sparsely furnished apartment in Alexandria where we only stay during typically brief visits to my husband's hometown. Somehow, boredom made her more compliant and she smiled in acquiescence as she balanced my toddler on her hip.

We walked over to our narrow kitchen - huge in comparison to many other kitchens in Egypt from which the most succulent dishes in the world manage to emerge (far better than the TV dinners my brother often pops in the microwave in our spacious kitchen back in Canada).

I pulled out margarine, toast, eggs and milk, some cinnamon, and got to it. Generously pouring honey (syrup being unheard of) over the top of two slices, I sat her down in front of our makeshift table, a rectangular cardboard box that had held the refrigerator and which was a pain to keep clean.

"What do you think?" I asked her, as she gobbled up the pieces off the red & white plastic plate. "Yes, this is good," she managed to say, between mouthfuls.

Later, her other siblings showed the same gusto as they cleaned off their plates and asked for more. "How do you make it?" asked their mom, amazed at how enthusiastic her picky eaters were. Eggs and beans had obviously lost their appeal. I congratulated myself on introducing a staple in every mom's breakfast repertoire.

But when we went to pick up the ingredients together, I realized my relative found it hard to shell out five egyptian pounds (about $1.50) for a bag of toast when the same amount would buy her family enough flatbread to last a month. She never bought the expensive margarine - so I suggested oil which I knew wouldn't be the same. Despite the high costs of items I never thought twice about, she stoically went home, laden with everything I had recommended. It was only later that I realized it likely meant another weekly staple would have to be forsaken as her grocery budget had already been stretched (I hoped it wouldn't be the already tiny amount of fruits and vegetables that grace her little table that she'd have to skip this week. The Canada Food Guide seems utterly depressing in these circumstances.)

You'd think that now that we're here in Saudi, the story would be different for most families. And certainly, anyone coming back from a supermarket during this holy month can't help but wonder at the shopping carts packed near to overflowing with everything a hungry stomach could desire.



But as we drive through even the most upscale neighbourhoods, you'll find women and men - foreigners from Africa or Asia - picking through the garbage in metallic bins that are left open and make for an attractive stop for the skinny cats too. As they walk past hulking SUV's and luxury sedans,


these forlorn souls seem almost defiant as they eventually find little bags of leftover food for their families, or pile wheelbarrows with cardboard to sell somewhere for a pittance. After all, their obvious poverty is a stain on a society that is among the richest in the world. Who is to blame?

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"Here, Fatima, there is some new sand here," I coax my daughter away from digging in dirty, grey sand that is littered with cigarette butts, empty water bottles, juice boxes and other debris. There is fresh yellow sand under a few of the decrepit playground sets on this stretch of beach, used by the masses.


"New sand, oh I'm coming," my daughter scoops up her sand toys and rushes over. I feel relieved and wonder if this sand is a hint that someone is paying attention to the deteriorating state of the Kingdom's playgrounds - a reflection, I think, of the elite class's disregard for the rest of us. Or maybe, they just don't get around to these parts, busy in their enclosed palaces where freedom and luxury reign.

But I think that surely someone would listen, if I just wrote a letter (the Canadian's answer to everything). And so, my next mission is to find out just who to send one to, and let you know how things go.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt; I had only just finished railing about the garbage on the beach to my husband (who promptly got a headache) when a cleaner appeared and started sweeping away at the sand. He just needed some reinforcement but probably didn't have the courage to speak up - many more docile workers are waiting to take his place and collect a meager salary that seems like so much when you come from lands with so little.

It makes one feel grateful and sad at the same time.