When I joined Peace Corps, the last thing on my mind was cooking. I expected to bus around the country, sampling different foods Bourdain style and eating whatever dish my host family set in front of me. But one of the main goals of Peace Corp is cultural exchange, not just cultural experience, meaning I should be sharing as much of my culture with my host family as they share with me. And what better way to exchange culture than through food? Our melting pot of a country has a plethora of dishes to choose from, mainly borrowed from other cultures, and I figured cooking dinner for my family would be a breeze. I wanted to make a dish they had never tried before, so one night I asked what ´american´ foods they had eaten.
Lasagna? Love it.
Pizza? Apparently my host mom can already make a killer pizza.
Tacos? Delicious!
Burritos? Of course!
Waffles? Old hat.
Chili? Got anything new for us?
You get the picture. I guess this is the result of being the twelfth volunteer to stay with my host family.
Round 1
I finally had the bright idea to make tomato soup and grilled cheese, a time honored classic which is my dad´s specialty. Simple, but delicious. And cheese is always a hit with the kids. But wait- I´m searching the shelves of our local supermarket, and... no canned tomato soup! ( I know, heating up a liquid can´t really be described as cooking, but I wasn´t going for skill, just authenticity. Americans like their canned soup.) On to plan B...soup from scratch, which involves making bouillaise or something like that and cloves and a bunch of other ingredients which together sound amazing, and when I´m finished do smell amazing (though a little heavy on the cloves). I´m a little nervous as the family sits down to dinner and I begin serving everyone. After I fill the first bowl my host mom sidles between me and the soup and I somehow find myself sitting at the table while she serves.
My family does eat, but I notice it isn´t with as much gusto as other meals. And there isn´t seconds or thirds per usual. Ok, I tell myself, it was the first time you´ve made tomato soup from scratch. Don´t be so hard on yourself.
Round 2
I don´t want to leave my host family with the impression that I can´t cook, so I beging to mull over something else with which to blow their socks off. They´ve eaten waffles before, but how about pancakes? With peanut butter and syrup? And I had seen a Mrs. Butterworth syrup at the supermarket. Perfect!
I begin by making half of the box of ´just add water´ pancake batter, but decide to go for the whole thing, since my family is rather large and tends to eat a lot. They also tend to have a varied schedule (cows don´t care about time). It´s 8:00, I have 4 pancakes rapidly cooling, and nobody has returned from milking. When my host mom does arrive, she works her magic again and I find myself seated at the table while she ladles batter into the frying pan. As the rest of my host family trickles in, I silently hope I bought enough syrup. I watch as my host father sits down to his plate of pancakes and begins to eat them plain. Wait, I tell him, it´s much tastier smeared with peanut butter and doused in syrup. He dutifully dabs a gob of pb over the pancake, deposits 4 drops of syrup around the edges, plops a second pancake over the first, and takes a bite. And chews. And chews. And chews. I give him credit: he cleaned his plate. Then proceeded to ask for a bowl of soup.
The three quarter full bottle of syrup has been sitting on the kitchen shelf for the past three weeks. And I definitely didn´t need to make the whole box of batter.
Round 3
The pancake debacle might have been my lasting impression had it not been for Betsy, a fellow PC trainee who lives in my village, and her baking skills. She brought extra chocolate chip cookies to class one day and I ended up bringing a few home for my host family. The next morning I was asked at breakfast if I knew how to make cookies like Betsy. Why, yes! As a matter of fact I do!
My ingredients bought, I gather what baking tools I can find in the kitchen, which are a few drinking glasses to use as measuring cups and soup spoons for the table and tea spoons. Things go fairly smoothly until I need to add the chocolate, which I could only find in baking bars. The chocolate does not want to break, no matter how hard I pound it with a drinking glass, and finally my host sister takes it outside and beats it with a metal pipe. More effective, but these cookies are still going to be a little ´chocolatier´ than usual. My host sister and I tape a piece of aluminum foil over the oven front (which had broken a few years back), and she lights the oven through a hole which has rusted through the base. I watch as an open flame erupts into the oven, and begin to question my decision to bake. The first batch is a little burnt, as is expected, but I keep a closer eye on the next, and by the time the third is baking I know about how long to keep them in the oven, and the best spot for unburned cookies (on either side of the open flame).
After we finish the customary bowl of soup (or 2 or 3 for some people) I place a plate of the cookies in the middle of the table, and watch as my host family rapidly demolishes the pile. Though my host mom doesn´t comment, she eats her fair share of the goods. Actions speak louder than words.
My reputation in the kitchen might not be completely salvaged, but at least I know I´m leaving the family with a good impression. And I know how to win over my next host family: with lots of butter, sugar, and chocolate.
