In 1978, I lived in Boumerdes Algeria. I was working for the University of Houston College of Technology, teaching at INELEC (Institute of Electronic and Electrical Engineering). I lived alone in a large apartment block. It was hard living there. Culture Shock Deluxe! Culture Bump was born there. And I almost died there, mostly from bad decisions on my part.
But that is another story, and this story is about shorba. Shorba is the Arabic word for soup. And in Algeria, shorba is a type of soup with a tomato base and vegetables, maybe lamb or chicken, maybe baerley or chickpeas. And very delicious. The first times I ate it, I didn’t like it much. But as the year wore on, I developed a taste for it.
But, even though I came to like it, I often daydreamed about Mama’s soup. Mother made the best soup in the world. She took chunks of roast and browned them, then put them in a pot with potatoes that were quartered, along with chicken broth (from real chickens being cooked), onions, celery, and cans of tomatoes. This was put on the stove and allowed to simmer for long periods of time, filling the house with an amazing aroma.
Before I left Algeria, I wrote Mother and asked her to have that pot of soup simmering when I came home. (I had to fly into Midland and then drive an hour to our small West Texas hometown). For weeks, I daydreamed about what it would be like to walk into Mama and Daddy’s house and smell that soup. It represented all the loneliness and deprivation I had experienced over that year.
And when I walked through the door that cold December day in 1977, the smell was as good as I had remembered and flooded me with feelings of comfort and safety. And when I lifted the spoon to my mouth and tasted Mother’s soup, I thought, “I really prefer shorba.” I was shocked to discover that my senses (taste, smell) have expanded beyond “me”.
And a part of my heart moved aside to make room for a bigger version of me.