Everyday, my elegant counterpart, Emmanuella, pulls out her elaborate insulated lunch caddy and removes aromatic containers of stew and rice. She happily slurps up her goat stew, a delicious-smelling concoction full of goat parts that I struggle to identify but always contain thick tubes and something that looks like a soft palate. At the end of the meal, Emma daintily digs for marrow in the long bones with a fork, then puts everything neatly back in her lunch caddy.
Yesterday, with great curiosity, she asked me something about my lunchtime habits that had perplexed her for a while: how could I not eat rice with my lunch?
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