My body runs on a custom-made fuel composed of items that
come in boxes. Cheez-Its, Club Crackers, Pop-Tarts, and any brand of cereal
(for I am not one to be close-minded). From an early age, all I was ever fed by
my single father was Captain Crunch and the occasional bowl of ravioli. Since
my childhood, I never had the chance to enjoy a “cultured palate”, and only
recently did I discover this truth. After making the spontaneous decision to
spend my first spring break as a college student in Antigua, Guatemala, I
thought little of what I might be eating. On the contrary, I thought mostly
about how to fund raise for the trip, which t-shirts of mine could afford to get
ruined, and making sure my Hepatitis vaccinations were up to date. Food was
never the priority on a mission trip, for one is bound to primarily be offered
the typical beans and rice delight with a side of diluted orange Gatorade. However,
when the eleven of us college students finally arrived at the guest house in
Antigua, we were perplexed by what was presented before us; this was not the expected
PB&J mission-trip meal to which we had all become accustomed.
Placed before our eyes lay a seemingly endless buffet of
traditional Guatemalan meals, none of which I recognized from my Kellogg’s and Campbell’s
upbringing. Breaded, saucy, crumbling, greasy dishes lined the linoleum countertop,
only to be proceeded by more plates carried by women pointing and saying, “picante,
muy picante!” Despite my apprehension, I
found myself amongst my peers in the food line, plastic ware in hand. My mind
wished to choose wisely which items would be appropriate to eat, whispering to
my stomach, "Be careful, this is your first day in a foreign
country," and, "do you even know what that is?"
The local women came around to each of us, pouring pink
liquid into our waxy Dixie cups. I cautiously took my seat, making contact with
each of the ten pairs of shifty eyes who also had no idea what was safe to
consume. To refuse this feast at the cause of our subconscious American haughtiness
would be counterproductive to our ultimate goal of connecting with this small
community of locals. After a few seconds of uninterrupted silence and hesitation,
I assumed an alpha position and began to excitedly and gracelessly inhale my
food.
A valiant champion arose within me, pushing aside the feeble
white-bread-sack-lunch schoolgirl who used to have my name. Red, oily juice
rolled from the wrapped-up concoction onto my fingers and down my forearms. I
was insatiable, loving everything put before me. I tasted ingredients and
recipes in combinations that my system was starkly unaware of how to compute:
cinnamon-braised chicken, deep fried balls of dough, orange-flavored rice, all drenched
in the freshest salsa verde. Each of my fingers was licked clean, void of any
and all left-behind sauces. Each cup contained a different fruity juice, and
each mug contained the thickest, richest, sweetest hot chocolate that I have
been blessed to experience. My life, truly, was better after that meal. I took
a step that I did not even realize I needed to take- a step into an unknown
world of food served by the most generous, hospitable people I have ever met.
These plates of food, in this shabby guest house in Antigua, revitalized my
idea of a meal. I was satisfied. I was, at last, cultured.
