In Peace Corps, food hold special meaning for us, too, though perhaps in a way that is unique to expats and long-term travelers alone.
“Bacon?!” I exclaim, “Someone in your town knows a guy who knows a guy who can find you bacon? Wait there, I’m coming over!”
Never mind that from my current location to theirs was separated by six hours, four camionetas and untold physical discomfort: It was bacon.
While bacon itself can be interchanged with just about anything we can find only in a US supermarket (sharp cheddar cheese, Sriracha brand hot sauce, waffles, anything from Trader Joe’s…) the message is, there are virtually no hurdles too great to stymie our quest to consume it. It leads to some odd care package requests, and a reevaluation of what constitutes luxury: Familiar items are worth their weight in gold, while more expensive—and arguably rarer—items are overlooked. Give me a huge jar of Jif peanut butter over caviar; Kraft mac ‘n cheese packets above white truffle oil.
Hanging out in another volunteer’s site is always a treat, and Jaron R. is known as an especially good cook. Camionetas are a small price to pay to live like a king for a weekend.
“So I vote we cook the bacon first,” she paused for effect, “so that we can fry the pancakes in the grease, and maybe a fruit salad to go with it? To drink I have real Starbucks coffee I got in a care package…or Aveda tea.”
I was at a loss for words. Pancakes, while simple, are a luxury afforded only to those near the cosmopolitan cities—Xela, Antigua, and perhaps Panajachel. I had snagged the only box of mix in San Se several weeks ago, wiping the patina of grime from the unopened carton the way a doting parent might their child.
“That sounds like it might work.” I tried to play it cool, but I’m pretty sure my voice cracked with eagerness.
We cooked together: One of us looked to bacon while the other made sure the music was ever-flowing. I doubt it’ll be hard for you to guess which job was mine.
Three large pancakes, a half dozen strips of bacon, and the must succulent pineapple I’ve ever tasted later, I was temporarily sated by Jaron’s eleemosynary inclination.
But breakfast is just a single meal, and there are at least two more worthy of consideration on any given day. It would border on sacrilege to ignore them with such quality resources at hand.
A few hours later, with the dinner hour approaching, we began brainstorming about what to cook.
“You know, I make a pretty decent mango curry,” I offered. I’m not as good of a cook as she is, but it was edible and filling, arguably two of the most significant characteristics of a nightly meal in San Se.
“Mmm, that would be good.” Jaron’s reverie was broken at virtually the same instant as my own by the practicalities of what I was suggesting: Mangoes are out of season, and have been so for some time. It will be another few months at least before they become common once again. It would probably be possible with pineapple, but it just didn’t seem the same.
“What about Chicken Parmesan?” She was staring at the small box of seasoned bread crumbs on the shelf. “Chicken Parm with broccoli florets and a tomato-based coulis? I can’t puree, but we can sauté diced vegetables with some butter, onions, and maybe some oregano and basil; keep it really simple.”
My mind raced to remember what the meal tasted like: That time a housemate had made it while we were all living together for the summer during college; the kindly Jewish mother of a friend who let me and another stay at their house while road tripping to a music festival. It was a magnificent dish.
“That’ll work.”
Again we divided the tasks, and while Jaron started boiling water and preparing the sauté, I tried to filet the chicken. Having very little experience in butchery (except in matters of Goldfish crackers), I messily went about my task. She shot a raised eyebrow in my direction as I awkwardly attempted to slide the knife along the breastbone, running into resistance at every rib, but said nothing.
When I was done, there was only enough chicken for one, so I ran to the little corner tienda (store) for more. Unlike the meat in my town, it seemed well-preserved and disease-free, and at 12Q ($1.50) per pound, we could essentially afford as much as we wanted.
When I walked in the front door to her apartment, the aromatic tendrils of garlic and frying onion led me up the stairs and back into the kitchen. Everything was bubbling, sizzling, and smelling as it should.
A few minutes later we sat down to our meal in the same space in which we had prepared it. While she has more living space than I do, a problem endemic to Peace Corps is the chronic lack of diversified furniture.
We stared at our plates for a moment, admiring the soft browning of the breadcrumb crust enveloping the chicken, the vibrancy of the fresh broccoli and how it complimented the soft reds and golds of the sauce. The contemplation lasted only a moment, and then the growling of our stomachs took over.
With a grin we began.
Food took precedence over photos, but I still managed to snap a few. See them here: https://picasaweb.google.com/114291229338134891582/Week34?authkey=Gv1sRgCOaUt971ov7zuwE
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