Expat foodie

I had planned to eat mopane worms tonight, but instead I’m facing a hamburger and fries. I am not amused. Having traveled thousands of miles across the African continent I have arrived in a country with the exotic and lyrical name of Zimbabwe, land of the fabled Shona chiefs. And now see me sit here in a restaurant called the Silver Spur.

Wouldn’t you think that finding olive oil in Palestine would be easy? Of course you would. But I have news for you: It isn’t.  Well, it wasn’t for me when . . .

“I want to go abroad,” I told my husband one steamy tropical day after we’d been living in Ghana, West Africa for what seemed like ages and I was beginning…

Why is this man here, in Ghana, running a restaurant? Is he a refugee from the law in Italy? Running from an Italian wife? The mafia? All three?

As an ( expat ) foodie, have you ever done something so dangerous, that afterward you are stunned by the stupidity of what you have done? I like to think…