Our last night in Batallas

We talked about it for days.  Emma’s family was incredulous: “you’re going to make mashed potatoes without peeling them?  You’re going to cut the carrots into big chunks and not grate them?  Well, we’ll just stay out of your way, shut our mouths, and eat.”  There was a lot of skepticism from all sides, but we were confident.  Our secret weapon was the farm at the agricultural university that we visited earlier in the week.  We had taken a tour, which included the on-farm store.  All sorts of tasty milk, cheese, llama products, and chorizo were at our disposal. 

Neal and Militon, Emma's father

Modesta, Emma's mother, in her usual spot

It was our last day in Batallas.  We teamed up to shop in the morning.  Annie and I went to the market on the plaza with Emma’s father for fresh veggies, potatoes, and bread.  Neal drove out to the farm with Emma’s brother, Andres.  I watched Emma’s father for cues on how to bargain Bolivian-style.  Apparently the secret is to look pained and say “no, too expensive!” no matter what the old lady says the price is.  Then you give in and pay, but you look mad about it and maybe you get an extra onion in the deal. 

We took a hike up on the hills around town after shopping and then ate lunch.  After a siesta we began cooking.  The guest list was long, including not only Emma’s parents, but the families of her brothers Andres and Solomon, and Annie’s host family (also related to Emma: Annie’s host mom is her half sister).  15 adults and a half dozen little kids.

 Neal pealing potatoes

We began by washing a pile of potatoes.  We decided to peel some, but certainly not all of them.  The altiplano, where we’re staying, is the birthplace of the potato.  Before the Irish were living and dying by them, and before your grandpa was putting them next to his steak, the Aymara were cultivating a dizzying array of papas: pink and hale-sized; long, thin, and brown; round and white.   They were boiling them and baking them and frying them and freeze-drying them over three days.  But mostly boiling them.  We had eaten a lot of boiled potatoes over the course of our trip, so we figured we’d go gringo and mash some up with plenty of farm milk and butter, salt and pepper.  The rest of our menu included some bread, cheese, and llama jerky as an appetizer, as well as a sausage and veggie stir-fry of sorts. 

Most of the gang

The final result!

We had obstacles.  No cutting boards, two passable knives, two gas burners and some pots and pans.  The biggest pot fit the ten pounds of potatoes we wanted to boil, but our stir fry had to be completed in shifts in a relatively small frying pan: first the sausage, already boiled and cut up, then onions, carrots, garlic (for the mashed potatoes), tomatoes, and chard, each on its own.  Salt we had already.  We had to buy cumin and aji (picante!) at the morning market.  Black pepper was even more of a challenge, but Emma’s mom was able to hook us up with a late afternoon run to somewhere or other.

Annie "going to war with the army she's got", in other words no cutting board and a crappy knife.

After three and a half hours the guests had arrived and the feast was almost ready.  Andres came through big time when he saw Neal mashing the potatoes with a spoon; he happened to have a masher next door.  The kids ducked under the table and popped back out in unexpected places.  Paxi, Annie’s host niece, looked up at her adoringly.  We served up the plates and passed them around.  The food was good (with enough chorizo, how could it not be) and the company was in good spirits.  We had four generations at (or under) the table.  Conversation zipped around in three different languages.  Emma tried to get Annie to do her pterodactyl call and, when Annie demurred, Andres’ wife Ana suggested we all do a different animal sound.  Ana went first, taking the easy way out with a duck quack.  Some highlights included a dying sheep, a full chicken dance from Solomon’s son, Roy, and of course the pterodactyl. 

Andres and Neal

Only after I got seconds did someone mention that we were booked to play indoor volleyball later that night.  Oof.  As I write this, four hours after the meal began, I am still stuffed.  Luckily, volleyball played at a mediocre level can be relatively easy on a man’s stomach.  Team gringo probably got smoked in the long run at volleyball (score-keeping went by the wayside), but dinner was a success.  As we piled out of the minibus at the end of the night, arriving back at the house, I felt as if I was part of a bigger family, if only for a night.