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.
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| 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.
