Frankly, I don't have the first clue about soap-making. The women are singing songs, songs about soap, and my heart lifts as I help them stir. Someone brings me corn on the cob and warm beer. I look around. These women with wide, open faces and old but colorful scarves wrapped around their hair, gossiping and laughing and occasionally arguing.
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
It is getting late. I oblige helplessly, pushing thunder out of my mind. The group presents me with a gift, a splendid, singular egg, beautiful and simple. It is an egg that I will eat with joy. That is, if it makes it home intact.