ktravula – a travelogue!

teaching. lanugage. travel

Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for April, 2010.

Blasts From The Past

Here are seven more favourite posts from the past. Enjoy

Connecting with a Certain Past (2) (September 8, 2009)

Is Oyinbo a Derogatory Word? (August 27, 2009)

And there Was (No) Light! (August 17, 2009)

A Short Foodlist of Ps (August 28, 2009)

10 Reasons Why Cougar Village is a Village (August 31, 2009)

10 Reasons Why Cougar Village is NOT a Village (August 31, 2009)

Culture Shock (February 10, 2010)

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Following Lincoln

On Thursday last week, I went to Springfield, the capital of Illinois to see sites around the life of one of America’s greatest presidents, Abraham Lincoln. I went in company of my host Prof Wilson who was visiting the place himself for the eighth time in company of visiting students and scholars.

(African students and visiting scholars to SIUE have this 75 year old retired professor to thank for his effort in bridging the knowledge gap between the two sides of the world. For years, he has taken it upon himself to make sure visiting students/scholars visit sites of historical and cultural significance in the United States, most times out his own pocket. In his company, I have visited Principia, Carbondale, and now the Lincoln home, Presidential Library, and tomb in Springfield. “Remi Raji was here too,” he mentioned as we were heading out of the Lincoln’s burial crypt, referring to the Nigerian poet and writer whose book Shuttlesongs America was written on his return from the United States in the summer of 1999. ”And it was all too emotional for him. Here was where he broke down and cried”, he said, pointing to a spot near the exit out of the president’s burial crypt.)

Here is a short video I made of the visit. I’ll put up some pictures soon when I can.

For me, it was a moving, enlightening experience living through the life of one of the defining figures of modern America. – a complex, fascinating historical figure. The Presidential Library & Museum itself was an archeological wonder, a befitting tribute to an uncommon man and a great president.

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Onion-Sage Stuffed Goose Recipe

As culled (or stolen) from Clarissa’s blog, by Paul C. I wonder why I didn’t think of this since a long time ago. Better late than never, right?


Before

Ingredients:

3 lbs of onions.
½ cup of butter.
½ cup of celery, chopped with leaves.
6 cups of soft breadcrumbs.
1 tablespoon of salt.
½ tablespoon of freshly ground black pepper.
1 tablespoon of dried sage.
1 teaspoon of dried savory.
½ teaspoon of dried marjoram.
¼ teaspoon of ground nutmeg.
1 goose, about 11 lb.
1 tablespoon of fresh lemon juice.
Salt and pepper.
2 chicken bouillon cubes.
Boiling water.


Directions:

  • Peel and cut the onions into quarters, then put them in a large saucepan, and add just enough boiling water to cover, and simmer, covered, for about 15 minutes or until just tender.
  • Drain, cool, and coarsely chop the onions.
  • In a large heavy skillet, melt the butter.
  • Add the chopped celery and gently sauté for about 3 minutes, stirring frequently.

    After

  • Add half the breadcrumbs and cook gently until lightly browned, stirring frequently to combine.
  • Place the remaining breadcrumbs in a large mixing bowl.
  • Add the salt, pepper, sage, savory, marjoram and nutmeg. Toss to combine the ingredients.
  • Add the prepared onions and the sautéed celery and breadcrumb mixture to the bowl and toss again to combine.
  • Allow to cool before stuffing the goose.
  • Preheat your oven to 400°F (205°C) degrees.
  • Rub the goose inside and out with lemon juice.
  • Generously sprinkle the inside of the goose with salt and pepper.
  • Stuff the neck cavity with some of the prepared stuffing and fasten the neck skin to the body of the goose with a skewer.
  • Stuff the body of the goose with the remaining stuffing, skewering and lacing the end closed.
  • Tie the legs and the wings to the body with butcher’s twine.
  • Prick the skin of the goose all over, to let the fat escape while roasting.
  • Place the goose, breast side, down on the rack of a large roasting pan.
  • Add the chicken bouillon cubes to the two cups boiling water and stir until dissolved, then pour the mixture over the goose.
  • Roast for 60 minutes, uncovered.
  • Pour off half the drippings and discard.
  • Turn the goose over and pour two cups of boiling water over the bird.
  • Continue roasting for another 60 minutes.
  • Pour off the drippings from the pan, again.
  • Prick the skin of the goose all over and continue roasting for about 90 minutes more, or until tender.
  • To serve, place the goose on a large platter; remove the twine and skewers to carve.

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Pictures from:

http://farm1.static.flickr.com/35/92769658_1f6fab7580.jpg

http://www.ifood.tv/recipe/roasted_turkey_stuffed_with_sage_and_onion

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My Feminism

In this guest post, Nigerian blogger and student Temie Giwa writes of her thoughts on and conflicts with feminism. It’s really not my forte so I don’t have any thoughts. Or maybe I’m confused. Agree or disagree however, it perhaps raises the right questions about identity in today’s -ism world. Or does it? Read for yourself to decide. The world sometimes moves too fast for me to catch up. What are your thoughts? More guest-posts are coming up in the middle of the week.

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My boyfriend and I have very strange conversations. We have already bargained what we will be naming our future offspring. He also asked me if I would be willing to take his name when we get married. When he asked, I was ashamed at my response. Incredibly ashamed.  I felt not insulted, or slighted, or even uncomfortable, I felt deep intense pleasure. I wanted to giggle and yell yes. I want to be Mrs. You. I wanted to tell him it would make me happy…that I would be so glad to be a part of him forever. That was my instinct, but I declined, because I am supposed to be a feminist, and feminists generally don’t take their husbands name and above all, they are NOT supposed to feel pleasure at the possibility. In nutshell I was upset and unsettled for days…trying to figure this out.

I have yet another confession to make.

I love cooking and cleaning and I imagine that I will enjoy doing his laundry. I want to be a mom and worry over my children and worry over this husband of mine. I imagine this would please me and make me glad…but again I am meant to be a feminist. Feminists aren’t supposed to enjoy…wait…LOVE being domesticated.

Feminism started innocently enough. Women just wanted to vote. They wanted an equal voice in determining the fate of their country and consequently their lives. Self realization is a human struggle. Women and men often want the right and responsibilities attached to defining themselves and their society. So this, very human need created the suffragist movement, which birthed Feminism. Many women died and suffered for this grand cause. They were ridiculed and insulted but they marched on and well most women can now vote around the world thanks to these women’s bravery.

The next step in feminism was started in the 60s through the 70s and was headquartered in the United States. I am sure some of us recall women such as Gloria Steinem taking off bras and burning them in a bizarre but fantastic orgiastic ceremony. While it captured much feminine attention, one must not fail to point out the horrendous sensationalism of this act.  And she might have been oblivious of the unintended consequences that often plague such movements. Which is the inevitable marginalization of the centrist members of the movement. A lot of women burned their bras but a lot of other women also didn’t. I am not sure which camp I would have been in had I lived through the time.

In their quest to become equal to men, especially in the context of the working place, Gloria and her bra burners might have also masculinised the working woman. Their premise, I believe, was that for women to be seen as capable and get “equal pay for equal work” they had to be like men… hence the bra burning. Bras are generally reserved for those with breasts, and generally Men do lack these glorious appendages. So the bras were burned, shoulder pads were added to suits, and tresses were packed back into severe buns. Viola, the feminist working woman who is just as capable of a man and who must SHATTER the glass ceiling at all cost was born.

Today, we have what we call lipstick feminists, as opposed to mascara feminists of the 70s. I jest.  This term always is amusing when I hear it. I am going to attempt to be kind and describe this to you. A lipstick feminist is a woman who values her femininity. She is a woman and she likes to dress as such. She found her bra again. J She wears the said bra with pride and she might even obsess over her lipstick shade. She has thrown away the HORRID shoulder padded suits and she loves pencil skirts and sexy soft blouses and she loves her Manolos and wants to be in love. Carrie Bradshaw of the Sex and the City fame is the poster child daughter for this movement.

This is the difference between Mrs. Clinton, whose dreary pantsuits and terrible shoes choices put her in opposition with Mrs. Obama. The latter’s coronation as Fashion Diplomat for the World drives home the point. Feminist vs. Lipstick Feminist.

So where do I fit in all of this. I am not quite sure.

Recently I have begun to rethink calling myself a feminist.

I am a woman…or maybe not yet…

I love shoes and lipsticks. I am obsessed with fashion but also politics. I would never want to be a Mrs. Obama although I want to dress like her. I guess the point is that I don’t fit into any of the group. I want to rule the world, not dressed like Mrs. Clinton but like Mrs. Obama.

But a point that eluded me previously but now seems obvious is that, HE ASKED. He asked that I take his name. He did not assume that I would or that my duty was to take his name. He asked and above all I felt that I could decline if I so wish and If I wanted to that I would be able to do as such without an ounce of guilt.

I should be able to take his name without feeling as if I have let down my feminist sisters. I should be able to cook and clean and make a home and still be a raging feminist.

I also should be allowed to work crazy hours and be power hungry. I should be allowed without condemnation from my society, to choose not to marry and not to have children. Women should allow women to be human.

So there is the point. Perhaps I have won. Perhaps this should have been the aim of feminism. I have won because I am going to do as I please without guilt, and that is what I will teach my daughter. To be herself, boldly, whatever that is. And this I believe transcends feminism, its womanism and above all buman and humane.

I want to be Mrs. Him but still be who I am.

A poet. A writer. Gods favourite daughter. A changemaker and all the pieces of me.

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Temie Giwa lives and writes in New York. “Nope that’s a lie,” she says again. She just likes the idea of living and writing in New York.

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Tattoos

I walked into a body art session in my department on Friday and this was what I witnessed: the process of making temporary tattoos called the henna.

As opposed to permanent tattoos found now on bodies of very many Americans following the hip-hop trend of today, the designs here made from henna – the dye from a particular flowering plant – lasts for a couple of days, maybe even weeks, before going off by itself after constant washing. One thing for sure is that it looks beautiful, especially when well designed like these ones. And it didn’t take long to make.

The artist was none other than Catherine, the Indian Graduate Assistant, and friend, who works at the Foreign Language computer lab. Wouldn’t you want to get something as beautiful as this? I did get her to write my name on my left arm, but it didn’t turn out as beautiful as these, maybe because I didn’t have a fair skin.

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