learn to speak kirundi in one easy lesson

chicken carving is not one of my spiritual gifts.

the three roasted birds congealing in front of me were a daunting spectacle. i gritted my teeth and began to hack at one with a knife i suspected was ill-suited for the task.

i could tell jean-claude was smirking at me.
it didn't take long before he leaned over and asked in his lilting, broken english if he could help.

please. put me out of my misery.

i handed over the knife, which he promptly set aside. he then proceeded to tear each chicken in half with his bare hands, plopping their dismembered corpses on the platter as he went.

right. you're from africa.

i followed him out of the kitchen and stood in line behind the family from bhutan, who were skeptically prodding at a plate of injera. we helped ourselves to stuffed grape leaves and joined my mom, who was making a valiant attempt to decipher the cryptic congolese french of jean-claude's friends privat and virginie.

i don't know how she and i get into these situations.

but our night at the refugee potluck dinner proved to be one of the most special things she and i have done together in a long time. we laughed sheepishly with our new friends at our inability to say "i'm full" in more than one language.

jean-claude can say it in eight.