Americanizing the Momo

India has samosas. Italy has ravioli. The US has cream-filled donuts. Nepal? The momo.

This past Saturday we found ourselves elbow-deep in ground chicken, cilantro, ginger, garlic, and Magic Momo Masala. Our language teacher Sama had invited us for a lesson in making Nepal’s most popular snack food. Two billion per year popular! Within minutes it was clear that we were there for the entertainment factor more than our efficiency in the kitchen. (Though just for the record, this bahini made one or two more momos than my didi. J)

While the most traditional momo in Nepal is filled with buffalo meat (in Tibet it’s yak), we think there just may be room to expand the momo’s horizons: do I hear Nutella? Mushroom and brie?

Apparently momo-making inspires a common facial expression. Can someone please help Rose finish her name?

Enter now the ulterior motive behind this blog post. Coming to a table near (those of) you (in Indiana) this winter is the opportunity of a lifetime: to create your own signature momo. Suggest your filling combination of choice… and be prepared to make it a reality. You might just find your name on a menu this Christmas.

Of course, Sama thinks Ghirardelli brownies might be the best way to Americanize the momo.

Juka (aka leeches)

Land leeches (juka in Nepali) are very common during the monsoons and make trekking quite the adventure. Juka is a name I find fitting for these fast, furious, and unrelenting creatures. When I see one scurrying up my boot for the next blood meal, I feel like Jerry Seinfeld, responding to his annoying sworn enemy, Newman. Grimacing with teeth together, I grumble: "Juka!" At that point, my heart starts racing and I begin jabbing my hiking pole at my boot, trying to fling it off. The problem here is that this requires me to stand still, leaving me vulnerable to the many other juka that have now spotted me. Here they come...

They can attack from all sides, coming from the front, behind and even from branches or leaves hanging above. Once they attach and you know it (most of the time you can't feel them due to an anesthetic they inject at the site), the question becomes - what to do? Some would say to just leave it there and once it feeds for about 20 minutes, they will fall off - for me, that's a little bit harder to stomach. Others recommend sprinkling some salt on the juka to get them to fall off on their own. Of course, you need to remember salt for the journey. Most don't recommend pulling them off as sometimes they may leave behind some of their mouth parts in the wound which could get infected. Often you just find a blood spot on your sock as evidence that they got you.

Sneaky juka on my boot

I have come to believe that it is best to be the first one on the trail instead of the last, at least in regards to avoiding juka. The heat and vibration from the first person alert the juka, who then begin to make their move just as subsequent trekkers are crossing their path. I don't know about you, but sounds like the perfect position for my bahini. =)

There's still so much to live for....

**This was written previously, but posting was delayed while awaiting official paperwork. Just for the record, my job in Indianapolis had much longer delays due to paperwork. :)

Mode of Injury: Compressed by house.  I’ve written these words more than 100 times in the last few weeks. The census at the Spinal Injury Rehabilitation Centre (SIRC) continues to rise as patients are brought here from acute hospitals to begin the long, difficult journey called rehabilitation. Many have lost more than just the ability to walk. Yesterday before seeing a patient I read this in his chart: “Lost wife, daughter. Home destroyed." He has no other family. Words can’t describe the degree of grief collectively represented at SIRC right now. And this is just one small fraction of the entire country.

But things are changing. Aftershocks are diminishing. Communities are rebuilding. Just today I sat in on a peer counseling session where one young man encouraged his fellow patients, “We may not have our legs, but we have our hands and our minds. There’s a lot we can still do.” This perspective has not come easily, but he’s determined, persevering to make new plans for the future. Watching his resilience in action, I see it fuel not only his own efforts in therapy, but those of other patients and staff members, as well. Myself included.

As a researcher/educator at SIRC, I have the privilege of spending time with people like Manoj. He's a Nepali doctor volunteering at SIRC. He's also currently applying for residency in my field, physical medicine and rehabilitation.

While nothing short of heaven itself will take away the depths of loss here, there are bright spots lighting the way. For the past 14 years SIRC has been fighting an uphill battle to bring awareness to the need for rehabilitation services in Nepal. Those efforts, which have shown brilliantly in these post-earthquake months, have finally paid off. The government recently asked them to be a national leader, expanding their services beyond spinal cord injury to other kinds of patients, as well as training healthcare workers throughout the country. SIRC is poised and ready to run, bolstered by this newfound support, a committed Nepali staff team, and patients who don’t quit.

“It feels like we’ve lost everything,” explains one younger woman, “but I can still cook. I can still feed and take care of my children, even from my wheelchair. There’s still so much to live for.” 

I couldn’t agree more.