An ode

As the last dishes are being washed, I need to write about the meal that I just enjoyed. My penultimate night at the lake was my best in terms of food on this trip. It was not my idea to cook an elaborate meal and host a dinner party for the entire crew: I have been focused lately on the clinic, sticking to the simplest vegetarian cooking possible. The clinic is fascinating and fun, and food for me has fallen slightly to the wayside. But, like an alcoholic, entice me with a chance to shop and cook alongside locals, and I will relapse. (My father's daughter all the way.) Thus I found myself with the doctor's endorsement to miss my last classroom afternoon in favor of practicing my culinary Spanish with my new friends from the clinic.

It began with a boat ride at noon: to Pana, the largest town on the lake and the connection to the rest of Guatemala. Then I rode in a tuk tuk with two women from the clinic, Paulina and Martita, to the outdoor market. A shame that it was my first visit there: even on one of its smaller days, the market was overflowing with bright, ripe produce. Bunches of basil and cilantro, piles of chayotes, avocadoes, shelled fava beans, you name it. Ginger and potatoes so fresh that you feel no fiber when you slice them. Bags of dried chilis, foot-long cinnamon sticks, sesame seeds, and pepitas. We bought five pounds of potatoes, two pounds of tomatoes, ten pounds of chicken, stacks of fresh tortillas made to order. As we waited for the tortillas (corn meal, calcium, and water made into a paste, slapped flat between two palms, and placed on a huge griddle, with a tin can of water to splash and moisten the tortillas as they cook), we placed an order for fried chicken around the corner, and waited for that to be made fresh, too.

(Watching a daughter, mother, and grandmother prepare tortillas for a seemingly endless line of customers reminded me of visiting Di Fara's pizza in Brooklyn, where two generations put together pies the old fashioned way. Waiting with a crowd for a fresh batch of fried chicken, selling out rapidly, reminded me of Galleria Umberto's Sicilian pizza in Boston.)

It's worth mentioning that Paulina and Martita are key staff members of the clinic, where they work as interpreters (from Kaqchiquel to Spanish) and medical assistants. I particularly enjoy teaming up with Paulina because she gleefully corrects my broken Spanish. Martita has been working at the clinic for years and is in charge of the pharmacy. They, too, enjoyed the afternoon off to cook.

After enjoying our fried chicken, the rest of the afternoon was spent peeling (five pounds of potatoes), chopping (two pounds of tomatoes), mincing (bunches of basil and cilantro), and washing dishes under the command of Paulina, who until recently worked as cook and then chef at a luxury hotel on the lake. It felt especially enjoyable because I'm wrapping up my dad's book, in which he put himself under the command of cooks at Craigie on Main. I've spent the last few days reading about his hours peeling, chopping, mincing, and washing dishes at a restaurant in Boston.

Las jefas

To be continued...