I ladled the thick batter into the pan and pushed it around. Sizzle-sounds swizzled through the air. A few moments later air bubbles sluggishly began to push their way through the batter. Pop. Pop…. pop. Mr Picky walked over and sniffed the batter. “What is this stuff? It smells weird.” “Laxoox, from Djibouti, but I’m not sure how to pronounce it. It’s got yeast in it. Like, for bread.” “Oh,” he said, perking up at the word bread. We leaned against the counter and watched as the bubbles slowly dried out. Tick, tick, tick. I shifted my weight around a bit. This was a lot like watching paint dry, but without the noxious fumes and I was a lot hungrier. Eventually the glossy sheen was replaced by a soft, dull surface. Perfect, I said, scooping the finished flatbread up and taking a giant bite. Mr. Picky’s eyes got huge. “You’ll burn your …” “Tongue..?” I interrupted, “Nah. Want a bite?” He looked at the pocked surface carefully. “Is it good?” “Yeah, dip it in honey.”I said, as I swooped it …