Eating With Strangers

Cooking for Tainted Tongues

In the last few weeks I have had the pleasure of cooking for a wide variety of folks on the farm. From British couples who have escaped their mundane office jobs in search of a new life, to the hard working maestros with hearty appetites, to horses, cows, and dogs, my cooking and dining experiences have been innovative, fulfilling and mucho mucho delectable. (You will have to forgive me, but I am quite immodest when it comes to my cooking). My intentions were different when arriving on this Chilean fundo; I thought that I would mainly be harvesting honey, milking delicate udders, and shoveling cow patties from the fields. Alas, the cow patties are pecked through by gigantic crane type birds, the cows are for eating (and not for milking) and the honey is harvested with brand new, manly machinery. Because I wanted to feel like a productive person and feed into my integral capitalist wheel, I asked my farms hosts what I should do to help them out. I mean, I have to work. I have to do something outside of writing and taking photographs of cows, rare birds, scenic hillsides, and my own boca. To appease my (probably repugnant) sense of unproductiveness, I insisted that I cook for families and workers when they come to stay on the farm. I would do the shopping, we would all pool money to pay for the supplies, and hours later, presto, everyone could eat a scrumptious meal.

After I have taken pictures and written my stories down for the day, I meander to the main lodge to prepare the comida.

Thus far each meal has been a great success and most of which have introduced me to a fascinating spread of folks. There was one meal, after several glasses of Chilean wine, when the idiosyncrasies of a certain British/American couple started to seep from their satiated mouths. They claimed that they really didn’t know what all the “fuss was about” regarding food in general. To them, food was “a real pain in the ass”. All of that shopping and thinking about what to make isn’t any fun at all. I asked the couple what they ate every night for dinner, they replied that they usually had the same thing, she had an avocado with a little salt, salad with lemon, and he had steamed fish with a little salt, and salad with lemon. “What about chocolate?” I asked them. “Never, ever, do we give in to chocolate!” They scowled, spittle building up in the corner of their mouths. The group of people dining at the table suddenly became very quiet. The only noise came from the dog’s tongue lapping the salt from my leg beneath the table. When the couple spoke I was certain that the venom spewing from their mouths might contaminate the dessert I had prepared, so I waited until they left to serve it. There is absolutely nothing wrong with eating simple foods (the buttery taste of an avocado on its own is in my opinion one of the most perfect foods) but to deny other flavors when you have the access to do so to me seems a bit inflexible. In fact, I felt that the lack of flavor in this particular couple’s life seemed to put a strain on their characters. To me, they were sulky vacationing corpses, clad in khaki, fanny packs, and viciousness. But then, if I think about it a little more, I can understand their reasoning behind the denial of food. Westerners have so much to choose from every day. Our consumer driven cultures toss us a grocery cart full of options each hour, from the kind of music we listen to, to TV shows, to the color and type of clothing, to books, to cosmetics, to body parts, to paint colors, to coffee drinks at Starbucks…etc, which undeniably leaves us unsatisfied. So, it’s probably a good thing to give up some of the options that are available to us. It gives each moment more space to breathe and makes us appreciate the things we do consume a bit more conscientiously. Yet, ultimately, if I have to choose, which I do have the luxury of doing every day, I would rather give up the other things in life (particularly TV, bad radio, khaki, fanny packs, and scowling) than give up flavor.

But that’s just me.

Lonesome Fundo Edibles

It’s nearly my second week here in the southern hemisphere, in fundo Chaicapulli isolation, and I have just eaten my dinner. I thought, since I ate my meal alone, and I am somewhat intoxicated, that I should write about what I just ingested so that people know that I am in fact thinking of them while I eat, which I am. I think of eating with everyone. Everyone in the world sitting at one gigantic table. 

First I think I ought to explain how I have appropriated my food items, where they come from, and how much they may have cost.

A few kilometers down the road is a filthy, but charming town called Los Lagos.  I have only been to Los Lagos twice because I am trying desperately not to spend any money or get sucked into the bustling life. It’s not that this particular little town is going to send me into frenzy, it’s just that I have no desire to see more than two people at a time right now (I guess this sort of contradicts my statement of eating with the population of the entire world). Hopefully that doesn’t sound too misanthropic.

So in the tiny little town of Los Labos there are crooked buildings painted colorfully, stray happy dogs that lick their crotches and itch their mange in the middle of the road, a fire station to put an end to all the Chilean pyromaniacs’ antics, and two massive grocery stores with neon signage, brightly colored grocery carts, and promotional advertisements in the windows.

The first time that I saw these stores I looked around confused, wondering why the owner felt the need to spice up his market in a town where there is so little competition. In such a poor, miniscule town it seemed odd that not one, but two of these supermercados existed. 

Beckoned by the neon, I sauntered into Brick supermarket and grabbed a cart. I scanned the goodies of the store as Euro pop music blared from a massive set of cheap speakers.

I hadn’t made a list because I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I am trying not to do things like make lists while I am away, or perhaps ever again. Lists stifle my living process.

           The store was made up of three grocery aisles and a section in the back for frozen items, dairy, wine, bread, meat, and produce. I weaved in and out of the grocery aisles first, plucking random things from the shelves: corn flakes (with a picture of a happy white kid on the front. Made by Nestle) dehydrated instant soup (in a bag that read Naturezza sopa casera, pollo, arroz, y verdures) boxed milk (similar to a carton of milk without the fancy spout) olive oil (Chefs olive oil) bagged tomato sauce (they don’t can veggie items as much as the US does) canned tuna, and cereal digestives (similar to a granola bar, but in the shape of a cookie).

Moving on to the produce section:

Lettuce (green leaf) Mushrooms (grow everywhere quite easily) onion, tomatoes, avocado (the most delicious buttery avocados that I have ever tasted) green pepper, garlic, white peaches, and watermelon. (I can pick apples, blackberries, basil, thyme, rosehips rosemary, cilantro, sage, and lavender on the farm). All of the produce was locally grown.

The bakery section was a bit lackluster, but I am used to getting my hands on any kind of bread that I can imagine, so I quieted my spoiled brain, picked out some flat white rolls from the bin, and brought them up to the bread counter where a masked scowling lady obediently weighed my bread, bagged it, and priced it with her fancy pricing implement.

I skipped the meat counter altogether because, if I wanted meat, I could slaughter up a fat sheep or cow on the farm.

Cheese is fairly unexciting here as well, but I picked up some gouda and crema queso to spread on the white bread.

Finally, the vino. So cheap, and so delicious. You can by it in a box, or you can buy it in a bottle for as little as 1 dollar or as much as 8 dollars. For 1 dollar, you are getting the equivalent to a wine that costs 10 dollars in the states, for 8 dollars, you are getting a wine that may cost 40 – 50 dollars in the states (at least that’s what my tongue tells me). I chose to go with two low-to-mid priced bottles, one Chardonnay and one Cabernet Sauvignon.

For all of the groceries piled high into my cart, a weeks supply, I spent 22.00. Yes I know, cheap.

So to get to the point of the story (although I wouldn’t say that it’s the most plot driven narrative I have written to date) tonight I made myself some instant dehydrated soup, a green salad with silky avocado, green leaf lettuce, cucumber, onion, and gouda, drizzled in olive oil, vinegar, and salt and pepper, and two glasses of red wine.

If you would have been here, I might have made something different, but there is only so far I can go in the kitchen when I am the only one eating.

Beef Stew

On the first night that I landed in Chile, my farm host and hostess cooked up a massive pot of beef, honey, beer, and tomato stew (not something that I would eat on a normal basis; I have been without beef for fifteen years). My reaction to the meat dish situated in front of me astounded me; without hesitation I devoured every morsel of beef and honey tomato sauce on my plate.

In the past, I was always the dinner guest that refused food, but because of the elaborate table setting, the benevolence of strangers from around the globe whom I was dining with, and the obvious affection and work  put into that particular meal, I couldn’t refuse.

Later that night as I lay in bed I envisioned the beef pirouetting through my intestines and rubbed my bloated belly. Staring at the ceiling wide eyed, unable to sleep, I feared that my innards might at any moment just revolt against me. I could hear the heard of cows crying out for food from the pasture (there has been a drought here for the last two months and nearly all of the grass has been chomped up). There I was, stuffed full of cow meat when the cows themselves were starving. 

Guiltily I whispered, don’t eat me in my sleep, please. I will try to find you some grass tomorrow, but please don’t eat me. Fifteen years without mammal meat will, when you finally ingest it, inflict nightmarish psychological havoc on your brain.

The next morning I awoke, innards unscathed. Perhaps this new-relaxed environment has also conciliated my stomach.