December 3, 2006- My culinary conundrum

One of the more uncomfortable aspects of the Peace Corps is discussing/negotiating rent with your host family. It seems that in discussing this theme with a few of my fellow volunteers, some common trends have presented themselves. Sometimes a family will refuse payment, only to assume that they have access to whatever they want in your room, whenever it is that they want it. Other times, they will blatantly overcharge you for lodging that doesn’t include a bathroom, hot water, food other than rice, and a bedroom sans rats. For others (the lucky ones), the family expects the bare minimum financially, yet gives you the best room in the house, accepts you as one of the family, and feeds you the most delicious food. My family is most in alignment with the latter scenario, but with a twist. They become squeamish when I talk finances with them, and refuse to name a price for me or let me in on what the past Peace Corps volunteers were contributing. While some people might appreciate this unfixed situation, I hate it because I feel like I could offend them both by giving them too little or too much. While I´d rather them assert themselves by stating a price, I am left to come up with my own plan, which I have decided is going to be a combination of going to the market weekly with them to pay for the food, and helping around the house with the cooking and cleaning. This past Thursday I decided to wow them with my first culinary treat, being eggplant parmesian accompanied by a ginger sprinkled salad. This probably would have been received better if Peruvians in the campo had appreciation for the finer foods in life (anything outside of rice and potatoes).

Allow me to set the scene. So I spend approximately 5 hours preparing the meal (since we only have a wood burning stove that burns my eyes more effectively than it cooks the food). The entire time I am cooking, I have my 24 year old host cousin condescending to me about every move I make. ¨Gringita, we don’t eat that much cheese here, Gringita, you bought too much pasta, Gringita, are you sure you need to use that much salt?, Gringita, this doesn´t seem like it will taste good AT ALL.¨ I gave great thought to throwing myself on the open flame, but I waited with hopes that the rest of my family might be more appreciative. So I serve dinner after a little taste test during which I discovered that I might be able to pass as a gourmet chef. But before I can pat myself on the back too much, I discover that something slightly suspicious is going on. We usually eat as a family around the dining room table, but tonight, everyone took their plate of food and dispersed. Ten minutes later, they call me into the TV room, where I find them eating plates of rice and potatoes that materialized out of NOWHERE. ¨Gringita, your food was muy rica, thank you,¨ they said, but something (maybe the fact that they were presently chowing down on four day old rice over my delectable eggplant) told me that they hadn´t even tried it. This sinking suspicion was confirmed when I sat down only to catch a glimpse of all of their plates in a neat line (still full of food) under my host parents bed. Sweet, I am happy that I slaved over Earth´s most primitive stove only to produce something that probably got fed to the cows.

I had a minor meltdown the next day when my host cousin insinuated that I couldn’t cook instead of recognizing the truth (that some Peruvians are resistant to change). With food in my mouth, I spit out the most heinous run-on sentence that resembled something close to, ¨For your information, I lived with boyfriend before coming here and we cooked delicious food together all the time and we used however much salt we saw fit and my friends say I am a good cook and people always want me to make them cakes and why can´t you understand that food is different in the states and that different doesn’t mean bad and while you may not have been fans of my salad last night my dad thinks I am the best darned salad-maker he knows.¨ This verbal stream of consciousness was problematic for a few reasons. 1. It quickly convinced them that I belong not in their house, but in a psych ward, 2. I highlighted loud and clear for them that I lived with my boyfriend before marriage, which makes me a sinner in their religion. A sinner who is living in their house instead of in a psych ward where she belongs, and 3. I can´t think of a three, but believe me, two is sufficient. Did I want to be a big baby and cry about it? Absolutely. Do I ever want to cook for them again? Absolutely not. I´d rather give them every cent the Peace Corps gives me to ensure that I will never have to step foot in the kitchen again.

In barricading myself in my bedroom out of embarrassment, I came face to face with Peru´s largest spider. In trying to murder it, I hallucinated and saw it propelling itself at me, fangs first, causing me to fall backward, cracking a floorboard and probably my coccyx. My host mom came to the rescue with a broom, but proceeded to crack jokes at the dinner table about how the heck I would conquer Peru´s education and poverty problems if I couldn´t even deal with a small spider in the corner of my bedroom? Right, Graciela, because education and poverty have fangs and eight hairy legs. I can see EXACTLY why you view the three as analogous.

Countdown to Christmas: 22 days