22 Febrero 2012

Having been a vegetarian through the decade that made up the formative years of my life, cooking and especially cutting meat has been a nemesis of mine. When I take a knife to raw meat of any kind it looks less like suave filets and more like a purchase from a butcher with parkinsons.

When Hirma served me stuffed chicken at her house a few weeks go I was in awe. Each carving of chicken breast was perfectly crafted into cozy little rounds. Using the aji Amarillo pepper in a way I had never seen my taste buds were delighted. I had to learn.
So when she saw that I had returned from Chivay with cauliflower this week she told me to purchase the rest of the ingredients and she would show me how it is done. “I know how you like to each vegetables, so you need to know how to make this dish. And after we make it today, you need to cook it for your girlfriends in Corporaque and Arequipa so you don’t forget how.” 

We were like a proper chef and sou chef. Her hands running around my 3 foot by two foot kitchen calling out what she needed next, and my hands following cleaning up to keep the space functional. I stood in awe as she zig-zag sliced the chicken breast into long flat strips. How have I survived this long without this knowledge?! My mind was going crazy with all the combinations of things I could stuff in a chicken, “You can shred that cheese you love and put that in too.” Lord, this woman knows me too well.

The most beautiful part of the exchange wasn’t necessarily my child-like excitement, but how as she cooked I was reinforcing healthier cooking habits to welcoming ears. “Lets use olive oil instead of vegetable.” “Yes, I have white rice, but is it alright if we use whole grain?” “Lets use the water from boiling the cauliflower to make the stuffing soupier so we don’t loose all the vitamins and flavor.” Isn’t the recipe for the healthiest friendships built out of equal knowledge exchange paired with just the right dose of enjoyment?

We ate far too much. “This is what I make to serve the family of 6 and we just ate it between the two of us.” She laughed as I collapsed on my bed rubbing my belly, “push it down! Make more room.” She chanted while mimicking my circular hand movements on her own belly.

As lunch settled in our systems we talked over tea. How these conversations always evolve to topics about being a woman astonishes me. Today, perhaps because I am reading Ami Mckays book The Birth House, the theme was motherhood. 

I can only hope that I can someday be a mother as patient and compassionate as Hirma.