Clubs (The after school kind, not the dance kind, or the baby seal beating kind)

During the second week of school we had or first day of “English Club”.

I had not expected to run the after school clubs so soon. We had been told not to bother with them until the second term. The students, however, were ready to begin and it didn’t look like I would have the power to stop them. And why would I? If there was the interest, who was I to deprive them?

The president of the club had taken charge in a big way. It seemed that I would only need to supervise the meetings. They were trying to decide which day they would hold the two-hour meetings. They couldn’t decide between Tuesday and Thursday, so they chose both. The club, I learned, was just as much and Anti-AIDS club as it was an English club. They already had sketches and songs about AIDS that they wanted to perform at different schools to promote AIDS awareness. I was very impressed.

Then I started leading the GLOW Club. GLOW stands for “Girls Leading Our World.” It is a Peace Corps program to promote women’s empowerment in countries that lack gender equality. The previous volunteer had started the club. However, it was still very new, and when I got there, they had only met three times before. During training, we were not taught anything about how to run programs like this. We would learn more about how to run secondary projects during our “in-service training” after the first term. The girls, however, did not want to wait. They wanted their GLOW Club, and they wanted it now. So I used the little bits of resources I knew of and brought the club to their first meeting of the year.

The president of the club helped introduce the meeting. We did introductions and she led a song. I proceeded to lead the girls in a feel-good activity to promote self-confidence  as well as the open expression of our feelings. This is the kind of project that I feel people (myself included) would not expect me to be right for. This might be true, but during that first meeting I really felt myself rising to the occasion. Our group was small, and what we were doing was so simple and seemingly trivial. However, the camaraderie that I could see developing seemed very important and valuable.

The previous volunteer had also started a girls basketball club, which was an extension of the GLOW Club. I am not sure how new that club was, but the girls were also expecting me to pick up where the previous volunteer had left off. I was not quite ready yet, but again, if they were ready to get started with it, I would have to go along. Half the job of leading the girls basketball club is getting the boys to respect the girls’ space on the basketball court. I felt it was easy for me to get the boys off the court for the girls, but what I think will be important in the future is for the girls to get their space without me. Having their space is important, but their ability to stand up for themselves to get that space seems far more important. That will be one of my informal goals while I am here.

In school the following week, I started to review the past tense. The students had struggled so hard to apply it to their papers that I felt they needed a serious review. I was surprised to find that they seemed to know it very well, and were pretty good at the many irregular verbs. I guess one of the biggest challenges is trying to get them to apply these grammar points to their actual writing and speech. Again, there is a lot of work to do.

Because of all the clubs starting, I had lost most of my after-school basketball time. I found myself protecting my Friday because of how precious it was. It was the only day of the week now that I would get to play basketball. The first time I got to play a full-court game was more fun than I could have imagined. A lot of the players were pretty good at basketball, and I was having trouble understanding how they had gotten so good. Many of them had obvious athletic ability, but there were certain aspects of running a zone defense that I felt like would have had to be taught. There was a designated ref, as well, who was more perceptive of minor violations than one should be in street ball. I had never seen basketball on television, and there was not much of a culture of it here. However, I was glad to see what I was seeing. There was definitely more of a culture of basketball in my village than most places I had ever been. In fact, the only countries outside of America where I have seen anyone care about basketball are Spain (and it’s still subservient to soccer) and the Philippines, where it reigns the most supreme. So, good for Rwanda, and good for my village, because this is making me a lot happier than soccer usually does.

That weekend, my favorite married couple, Luke and Caitlan, came to visit me. They walked from their site, for 3.5 hours, down the hill to my site. That evening I enjoyed my first beer since I had ever been at site. There are a couple of decent bars in my town, but I had never been to them. I was still trying to protect my reputation. Plus, I had not made any friend that would have the right religion or money to go to a bar.

The next day, I decided to show them the river by my site. I had been there a few times before. Usually I had followed the local boys through the rice paddies on little elevated trails. Today, though, there had been too much rain, and we were basically walking through a swamp. Caitlan seemed hesitant and worried, but she soldiered on and we finally arrived at the river. I showed Luke how much fun it is to throw children into the river. He really took a liking to that activity. He threw kids for maybe thirty minutes straight. Again, I was impressed with the swimming abilities of Rwandan kids. They are far more comfortable in water than the kids I had thrown in West Africa. 

Having Luke there made me more convinced that I would need to tube this river. Tubing is usually for lazy rivers, which this is not. This would be like white-water tubing. I think it would be a great adventure, and I know I can find tubes.

That night we made a big pot of chili with pineapple and summer sausage. They had gotten another summer sausage in a care package, and decided to bring it on their visit so we could cook with it and use it in all of our cooking. We had put it in our peanut sauce the night before and with our eggs that morning.

When they left, I had a lot of leftovers to eat. So worked on that for a lot of the day. I also pickled some of the jalapenos that they had brought me from their garden. Their previous volunteer had jalapeno plants and they were producing more than they could use. I was glad to have these, since my peppers wouldn’t be ready for a quite a few months.

I feel that the peppers could revolutionize my cooking, but at the same time, I am still impressing myself on a regular basis. One night I made a revolutionary vindaloo and figured out some secrets to good curry. 

Chinese Hospitality

The first time I went to my village’s big Methodist church, it was long overdue. I had been busy or lazy every Sunday so far. When I arrived I was surprised to find an usher at the door. Without hesitation, he ushed me right to a special seating area to the right side of the altar. I was almost on display for the entire congregation, which was the biggest I had seen so far in Rwanda. Although it did not surprise me in the least, I was completely caught off guard when the pastor asked me to come up to the podium in front of the church and introduce myself. I wished I would have thought about this beforehand so I could have been thinking of what to tell them about myself and make a good impression. Instead, I left it to the bare essentials so as not to make any laughable mistakes in Kinyarwanda.

Somewhere in the middle of the service, between song and sermon, a woman in the congregation, who seemed to have been very touched by the music, erupted in prayer. She was praying loudly. The church was put on pause. After it went on for a few minutes, I listened closer, wondering if she was speaking in tongues or Kinyarwanda. I had heard people speaking in tongues in the Pentecostal churches, but didn’t know if the Methodists would do this too. It sounded barely recognizable as Kinyarwanda, but I still recognized some of it. Although people had remained respectful of the prayerful outburst, after ten minutes of her ever-intensifying prayers and screams and squeals, people started to rubberneck. At one point she seemed to lose steam. There was a pause, and the pastor stepped toward his podium. He was about to speak, and suddenly she let out another wail and went on for another five minutes. Somewhere along the way, she was joined by another old woman. After  a few minutes, the second woman had taken over and was praying and yelling alone. She continued for another ten minutes, and finally the pastor was able to proceed with his sermon. To be honest, the outburst, to me, only seemed to provide a sinister and almost creepy atmosphere to the service. It was interesting though.

When the service reached three hours, I saw all the students from my school (it seems that they are required to come to church) get up and leave. It looked like they had a schedule to keep. I lasted another thirty minutes. I felt bad, knowing that everyone could see me, but I had plans for my day.

Those plans were to go to Bugarama, the nearest small town. I was hoping to watch the first game of the African Cup of Nations. It costs over a dollar to get there, so I was hoping to get a ride. After an hour of walking, I got a ride with a real wild driver. He must have been Congolese or something, because he did not have the slow and cautious driving style of a Rwanda. I guess that’s what it’s like so close to the border. It was a fun ride, but nerve-wracking. We almost slid out of control or hit pedestrians and bikes several times. We careened over bumps and dips. At one point, though, the driver did the most absurd thing. He stopped suddenly, where there were a few big rocks in the middle of the road. They were nothing too serious. He could have rolled over them slowly or even gone around them. Instead, though, he called out to some nearby kids and paid them 100 francs (about 15 cents) to clear the rocks.

It wasn’t until I reached Bugarama that I found that the game didn’t start for two more hours. I spent my time exploring the border town. I walked all the way to the crossing for the Congo border. I met some friendly Congolese on the way and got to flex my weakening French muscles. It was weird to meet people that didn’t speak Kinyarwanda. Maybe it was because I was communicating in a language I am more comfortable in, but I found these few Congolese people to be very sociable and easier to talk with Rwandans. Congo, from what I could see, didn’t look so scary as it is made out to be. The only difference I could tell was that it wasn’t so densely populated and they had some open, un-cultivated land on the hillsides. Also, Bugarama must be one of the least sketchy border towns I have ever been to. It is not a major crossing, but the only thing that would tip you off that it bordered the Congo were the reckless Congolese buses, and the vehicles from the UNHCR and the UN Peace keeping mission that passed through. All these vehicles were going to Congo, from Congo, via a Rwandan road that was in much better condition than anything in Congo. I was surprised to see the peace keepers this far south, and wondered how big their range was. The men in the vehicles looked South Asian, which would have been expected.

When I went to watch the soccer game, which happened to be Congo vs. Ghana, I was disappointed to find them watching the British Premier League. I was actually shocked and angry. I know that the Premier League is the most popular soccer to watch, but really, I could see one of the country’s that was playing. They would occasionally flip to the game I wanted to see, but would always switch back. A few people protested, wanting to watch Ghana and Congo, but were not forceful enough.

I had noticed four of the Chinese workers from my village come into the bar at some point. They weren’t there to watch the game, but about the time it was winding down, they came and offered me a ride back to town. I had met one of them before, and I was glad to have the chance to get to know them better. Their driver was Rwandan, but spoke Chinese because he had studied in China in the 80s. They were as surprised to find that I could speak some Kinyarwanda as I was to find out about their Chinese-speaking driver.

Afterward, the Chinese guys invited me to their room for tea. It was a valuable opportunity to learn more about the greatest force in our town: the cement factory. I had assumed that the factory was Chinese-owned and operated. I learned, however, that it had never been Chinese-owned. A foreign company (European I believe), under a lease from the Rwandan government, had started it. Then the Rwandan government re-claimed ownership of the company. They still own a majority of the company, while, I believe, a South African company owns the other 49%. The Chinese in town are simply hired labor. This surprised me. The biggest surprise, however, was about the number of Chinese people in town. I would have guessed that there were ten or twenty at most. I usually see one every once in a while; a couple times a week, though. At this point, however, there are about 200, and more are coming. Apparently they have a Chinese chef and they all eat Chinese food. A lot of it is produced locally, and they fill in the gaps with imported goods. I was happy to hear that they were producing tofu locally. It made me wonder if Rwandans could possibly be interested in eating tofu. It would be a great source of cheap protein. There have been tofu development projects in West Africa that have met mixed results. It would be interesting to see if it could be possible here. I get the feeling, though, that it would not work well. I talked to the guys about the possibility of Rwandans producing foods that they would buy. The fact that they were getting local tofu was a sign that there was potential for using the Chinese workers as a source of income for low-income people in the area. The example I gave was jam. Lee, the guy who I knew the best, said he would definitely buy jam if people made it, and cost wouldn’t even matter. Something else I can look into.

During our conversation, I couldn’t help but get into the politics of China in Africa. Of course I have mixed feelings about it, and know there is a lot I could learn about it. I used the negative example, though, of Zimbabwe. China works with their unsavory government to extract all sorts of resources and does it benefit the people at all? Well, as luck would have it, Lee had worked in Zimbabwe the year before for a Chinese company. I felt a little awkward when I realized that, but he was open and very candid. Still, I could tell that our vantage points were very different and if we had differing opinions, they would not be easily reconciled. Either way, though, I enjoyed the company of Lee and his friends. They were as hospitable as any of the Rwandans I had met, which I did not expect. Before I left, they gave me some packages of their oolong tea for the road. That’s one of the ways to my heart.

That One Time The President Came to My Village

17 January 2013

Just after the school year started, I saw a lot more work being done around town. More people were out cutting grass and trimming hedges in public places. Buildings were being painted. The dirt road to our town was being steam-rolled. Landscapers and gardeners were everywhere. One day I came home to find that they had torn up the little garden next to my home. I was devastated, since I had just planted some jalapenos and I had no more seeds.

 For some reason I just assumed that all this work had something to do with the new school year; the town was coming out of hibernation and working a lot harder than normal. This, however, was incidental. In fact the town was rapidly preparing for the arrival of “His Excellency”, President Paul Kagame. He would be visiting the following week to tour the cement factory. The Saturday before hand our whole district even had a surprise “umuganda”, or day of public service that everyone is required to attend.

There were a lot of strange things happening in my town in the time leading up to the president’s arrival. People in mud huts were painting their homes white. Apparently that was to make it look nice, but let’s not forget that they were painting walls made of mud. The bottoms of the trees were being painted white. I know there can be an actual purpose for that, but in this case it was just for appearances. There was a much bigger military presence normal. They zoomed up and down the roads in their jeeps for whatever reason. I saw some soldiers near my house walking out of their compound with what looked like some sort of rocket launcher. One day I saw a big group of people sitting under the trees near my school. They were being spoken to by soldiers. I asked somebody nearby what they were doing. They explained that before the president came, they needed to check everyone’s ID’s. Those without proper identification would be jailed until the president left town.

It wasn’t until the night before he came that I learned that he would be giving a speech at the hot springs nearby. I had classes the next day, though and didn’t know any details about his visit. Maybe I would catch a glimpse of his motorcade.

The next morning, Claire, a nearby volunteer texted me to tell me she was on the way to see the president speak, with one of the nuns she lives with. She also said there was no way there would be school that day since all the students were going to see the president. So I got up, put on some of my nicest clothes, and made the 40-minute trek to the hot springs. I joined a huge column of people, all headed to see “His Excellency” speak.

Along the way there were a few people handing out little Rwandan flags. The flag was made from paper and was glued to a piece of wood. Towards the entrance to the hot springs, I saw the actual line forming. It was a few hundred meters long and about six people wide at this point. Near the back of it, I found all the students from my school. I was happy that I would get to experience this with them. As we waited, I saw hundreds of people walking away from the entrance. Somebody told me they were being refused entrance because they did not have a Rwandan flag. Suddenly our group’s progress was halted by a soldier. I didn’t know why we were being stopped. Then, another soldier came and grabbed me by the hand, pulled me out of line, and pointed toward the front and told me to go there. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t want to argue, but this reeked of Mzungu privilege. The lines were divided up into smaller sections ahead. I didn’t really know how far ahead to go. Towards the front I ran into someone I knew and tried to sneak in there. She told me not to, and said I should go all the way to the front. I kept walking, and eventually another soldier directed me to a tent off to the side. This was a different entrance than everyone else was using. It had a metal detector and x-ray machine. The man in charge at this post was the first one to call me out on not being important in the least. He asked what my purpose was there. I explained that I was just a teacher and the soldiers sent me this way. “So you do not have an invitation?” He processed me through security, but then allowed me to go through the normal entrance. Somehow I got grouped in with a troupe of drummers, that I assumed would be performing, and was told to follow them. I was trying to keep an eye out for fellow volunteers Claire and Tim. When I saw that the drummers were being led to a VIP section off to the side, I abandoned them and tried to look for Tim and Claire. Someone else came and told me to follow him into that VIP section. I told him I was trying to find my friends. They had not been allowed to enter with their cell phones and I didn’t bring mine. He told me that I should just wait for them in the VIP section. I was sitting right next to the drummers, feeling a little awkward among a bunch of people far more important than me. Suddenly I realized that Tim and Claire were actually in my section with their nun. It shouldn’t have surprised me. A lot of the important people were religious leaders from the area. I sat nearby a Muslim man in a beautifully extravagant traditional robe.

Soon after I spotted Tim, Claire and the nun, they were being moved by some official-looking person. I asked them where they were going. Claire said, “I don’t know but come along.” I followed them and we were escorted to a tented area right behind the podium where Paul Kagame would be speaking. It was the most VIP seating area. There bottles of water under our new seats. It was the same area that I had originally been sent to, but then turned away from because of my lack of an invitation. I don’t know how it all happened, but it was exciting. I felt kind of bad, thinking of my students all standing out there in the hot sun with the crowds, while I got special treatment for no better than my skin color and a loose association with a nun.

The next few hours consisted of sound checks, drum performances, traditional dancing and some singers performing. During one of the singers’ performances, they brought an old lady up onto the small stage and she started dancing like a wild woman. It was probably the highlight of the day. Throughout the performances, the MC instructed people to wave their flags and to applaud louder.

Finally, in the early afternoon, Paul Kagame entered. He took his seat under the tent. I was probably twenty feet away from him. I knew he was tall and lanky, but seeing his physique in person was still shocking. I felt like I could break him in half with little effort. He looked so frail for someone who had led a guerrilla war and spent months in camps in the rugged Virunga Mountains. I appreciated that he was not dressed that formally. He was wearing a a suit jacket, but his pants were something like grayish jeans. His shoes looked like some sort of cheap rugged not-quite-hiking boots a middle school student would wear.

He gave a speech that  complimented or region for its agriculture and industry. It was true. Not only does our area have a big cement factory, we have a big rice industry, complete with a big processing plant. He also said that our region was as beautiful as Japan. This was also an allusion to the rice industry. Earlier in the day, I had told Tim and Claire that he would probably see the terrible road that led to our village and realize it needed to be paved. While there is not a huge population in my village, it would greatly help the cement factory as well as make the hot springs a more accessible tourist attraction. Then, in the middle of his speech he actually made a promise to pave the road to our village. He also said that he would pave the road to Mibirizi, where Luke and Caitlan live, because they have our district’s central hospital and it is remarkably inaccessible.

After his speech he accepted questions from the audience. This is where I got a glimpse of Kagame’s sense of humor. I had previously taken him for someone who is too serious for jokes. I didn’t really understand most of what he was saying, but I did see that he was making quite a few jokes. As one man stepped to the microphone, Kagame said, “Ok, let’s talk.” The man started by thanking him for coming and taking questions. The president cut him off immediately, saying, “Hey, cut to the chase.” Everyone laughed, and it seemed perfectly in character of Kagame to not waste time on pleasantries. I did not get most of what they exchange was, but I they were talking about a death and the mood became very serious. I later learned the man had been saying that his son was killed by Rwandan military in the northern forests. Kagame said he didn’t know anything about it, so he called a military officer over to address the question. I don’t know what response the man was given, but it was an interesting scene to play out. I was glad to see that the people’s questions had not been vetted beforehand and we were seeing an honest discussion. Apparently the incident had happened over a decade ago, when there was still a much bigger threat from rebel groups in that region crossing into Rwanda from Congo. It sounded like the son had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Because I did not understand all that much of what the President talked about during the speech, I had my students help me in class the next day. I wrote a list of questions on the board related to the president’s visit. I gave them a crash course in extemporaneous speaking, then had them come in front of the class and give short speeches answering one of the questions. I learned a lot from them, but most of the speeches seemed to cover stuff that I already knew. It was fun, though, to have a mutually beneficial lesson. More importantly, a lot of them seemed to enjoy the exercise and one of the classes asked if we could do that more often.

4 Hour Rhubarb coffee cake

January 12, 2013

We had a regional meeting for all the volunteers in my district and our neighboring district. I traveled the couple of hours to our nearest town and we met at the home of a third year volunteer who is in the town. A bunch of people were picking up care packages, so I scored a bunch of cast-off items like dried fruits, crayons and candy.

After the meeting we were celebrating two birthdays so we went for a late lunch and some beers. I had to run some errands in town and wasted about an hour scouring markets and shops looking for items that couldn’t be found. Really small tubing, a really big funnel and strainer to match. I guess that was too much to ask for in my town. Back to the restaurant. I was glad that the older volunteers had formed strong relationships with the owner at this restaurant because he treated everyone to a free round of beers to celebrate the birthdays.

Later that night we went down to a lakeside bar. None of the moto drivers were able to give us an honest price, so someone in our group arranged an alternate ride. The bar was crowded and it seemed that there was a wedding reception going on in the big green lawn, but we were still welcome. I kept trying to rally our group to go swimming, since we were right next to the water. Someone in our group tried to walk on the trail down to the lake. Suddenly she was stopped by three soldiers who appeared out of nowhere and sent her back. It was a quick reminder that we were still just a few hundred meters from the Congo, and security was a big issue.

Late in the night when we finally decided to head back, the moto drivers were being extortionists. I said my price and when they refused, I told Luke we needed to just walk away. I was sure they would call us back. We kept walking and heard nothing. I guess there were enough of us to keep the prices high. Suddenly I realized we were about to make a long trek uphill back to the hotel. It was pitch black on the road, but we had a great view of Lake Kivu, and the lights of Bukavu, Congo. About halfway back a car and a moto zoomed past us, stopped, then drove off. I didn’t think anything of it, until, suddenly one of our fellow volunteers, who we had met that day, came running towards us. I am still unclear on what exactly had happened but he had been kicked out of the car he was in. We started to walk together, and eventually another taxi came by. We flagged it down. I started to negotiate the price but it was ridiculous. I was about to send him away, but this other volunteer  jumped in and started talking to the driver. Suddenly the ride was free. I’m still unclear on what that was all about. It was a weird night, but fun.

The next day we had breakfast tea at a little tucked away café with triangle shaped candles and lots of bees. On Sunday morning, this little Muslim-owned café was the only thing opened and it had a lot of character. After that, I wanted to get people to go swimming, but nobody was interested. Someday. I remembered that this was why I usually didn’t like doing things in groups. I need to learn how to re-detach myself here and be a little more independent when I need to be.

At the bus station I picked up a small package that a fellow volunteer had sent me. The bus companies act as domestic post offices here. The package was the champagne yeast that I had had sent to her house when she was visiting America. Now, just in time for the end of mango season I had the key ingredient.

The next day I taught my classes, then spent the evening brewing a big batch of mango wine. I had about 40 mangos and almost nine pounds of sugar. I found it odd that nobody found it odd how many mangos and bags of sugar I would buy. I guess they were just happy for business. It was a very busy night, peeling and pitting mangos, mashing mangos, and boiling water and sugar. I had two buckets of must (fermenting fruit) amounting to almost 20 liters. I don’t know what I’ll do with it all, but I hope I get a lot of visitors to help me with it.

I had heard of volunteers in Cameroon doing beer-brewing projects where they would set up a co-op for disadvantaged women to make local beer. It sounded cool, but I really don’t think it is the right kind of project for Rwanda. Cameroonians, it seems, are great at drinking beer. The jury (Joey) is still out on Rwandans.            

On one of my visits to Mama Jeanette’s house, I found her and Jeanette working with corn. They were sitting among a huge pile of it, which they had just harvested, and were removing the kernels from the cob. I sat down and started helping. It was tricky at first, but I eventually got the hang of it. They told me my fingers would be too weak. I laughed and said I had strong fingers. They knew better. After thirty minutes, I had broken blisters on both my thumbs. I laughed it off, but those wounds would be incredibly obtrusive and painful for days. Mama Jeanette gave me a corn cob, which was actually useful to remove the corn from the other cobs.

The next day I went up to visit a couple of volunteers that live not too far from me. One of them wanted to borrow my tent, and I wanted to borrow some rhubarb. One of the volunteers lives with nuns, and they grow rhubarb and make jam out of it. When I arrived, I was invited to lunch with the nuns. This was a real treat. It was Rwandan food, but prepared with a lot more care than is typical. It was a refreshing meal, plus the nuns gave me and the volunteer, Claire some beer with our lunch. Most of the people I know in my town are against drinking, but here I was being served a mid-day beer from middle-aged women of the cloth. I don’t know if I would want to live with nuns for two years, but it had a lot of perks. Their gardens were incredible. A large portion of their food came from their own gardens. When I saw their banana trees, I joked that they were brewing their own banana beer. Turns out this was exactly the case. Claire had made some delicious banana bread and gave me a small loaf along with a generous bag of rhubarb.

We walked over to the other volunteer’s village just down the trail. We found him in his classroom watching music videos on his laptop with his students. This seemed to be a common thing for him to do in his spare time. He basically lived on the school grounds, so he was very well-connected with it.

Then it was time for me to head home. Two days later, I made my rhubarb jam. It was delicious, but could have had a little more of that rhubarb tang. Maybe too much sugar. It is difficult to measure when you have nothing to measure with. I came out with two jars. I didn’t actually have any free jars, so I had to put them in plastic containers. Luckily there is enough sugar so it won’t go bad too quickly. I am writing this three weeks later, and it is still looking good.

That night I decided to make one of my favorite things in the world: rhubarb coffee cake. It is the kind of thing that I preach against. Striving for those nostalgic foods, when you don’t have the capacity to do it right, and you have more practical things right in front of you. Well, I had come up on some rhubarb, and I couldn’t help but try. I knew it could never compare to Mama’s. I used the so-called “Peace Corps oven”. It is basically using a big pot with sand in the bottom on a charcoal stove. I have a huge 15-liter pot that I use for this. I put the batter in a rubber bread mold (which I am still shocked that I actually bought) and set it on empty tomato paste cans in the pot. There was too much batter for the mold to hold. With just a little bit of heat, it started to collapse, spilling about a third of the batter onto the sand below. It was slow-going. At 11:30 at night, after four hours of cooking, I gave up. It was kind of done, but not really. It was a very firm goo. It was five or six hours of my time that I spent to learn, once again, that I am a terrible baker. I like my cooking, but I can’t think of a single time where I have been happy with something I have baked. The coffee cake, provided about three days worth of occasional picking and snacking, then feeling terrible about myself. Gooey baked goods, somehow, feel much less healthy. It is like you can really feel all the butter and sugar in the most real way.