TheBanyanTree: Cooking Woes

[apmartin at canada.com]

Cooking Woes


I had a plan; I was going to make apple crisp and
banana bread for everyone at Casa Ayuda.  It didn’t
matter the apples obtained through the vegetable
program were puckered with rotten spots.  If I peeled
them and cut out the bad bits, they would make a
delicious dessert for the family. And the bruised,
overripe bananas the grocery store threw out were
perfect for banana bread.  No one in the house knew
what apple crisp and banana bread were but I felt
certain they would enjoy them and would use my recipes
long after I moved on.

Casa Ayuda’s kitchen was spacious with tiled counters,
fourteen foot ceilings and walls with life-size murals
of cacti painted on them.  I scouted the food cupboard
for ingredients.  Unlike my cupboards in Canada that
were stockpiled with food, there wasn’t much there
except some large plastic tubs of dried beans, instant
coffee, vats of salsa and large tins of chili peppers
along with staples like white flour, rice and pancake
mix.  I needed to buy whole wheat flour, butter, brown
sugar and walnuts. 

Andrew told me there was only one store in San Miguel
that resembled a Canadian supermarket.  Gigante
(pronounced he-gan-tea), located on the outskirts of
town, involved a bus trip to the city square and
another bus to the shopping centre.

The sun baked down on us as we walked four blocks along
Avenida Santa Rosa to the bus stop. Mexican houses are
made of mortar and brick or adobe and have flat roofs. 
Many either front onto the street or have high walls
that do.  Often, people keep their dogs on the roof. 
Along the way, several fierce-looking mongrels peered
down at us and barked aggressively.  A burro grazing on
a small patch of dry grass on the roadside ignored us. 
We passed a cactus the size of an apple tree with
wide-reaching limbs.  

Along the way, we greeted the people we met in the
street with a cheerful, “Buenas tardes (Good
afternoon.)”  Mexicans are very sociable and usually
speak to everyone they pass, especially if eye contact
is made.   

After a short wait on the corner, a small white bus
arrived.  Mexican buses, I discovered, were nothing
like the chicken buses of Guatemala.  They were newer,
cleaner, less crowded and were pleasant to ride. 
Nevertheless, the trip was entertaining because the
streets were incredibly narrow and in places the
sidewalks were only two feet wide. With cars parked on
only one side of the road, there was barely enough room
for the bus to pass.  As we wove our way toward town
over the cobblestones, only inches separated the bus
from vehicles, power poles, brick walls and
pedestrians.  

On the way to city center, I watched for landmarks. Few
streets were labeled and they all looked the same to
me.  Andrew, who usually had no trouble finding his way
around, told me he became hopelessly lost the first
time he walked to town and back.  After walking miles
out of the way, he finally ran into some children he
knew from Casa Ayuda’s afternoon program and had to ask
them for directions.  

Half an hour later we arrived at Gigante which was
bright, clean and modern with a good selection of
foods, unlike the hundreds of tiny, family-owned
tiendas (stores) found in San Miguel.  Andrew and I
bought groceries for the house as well as baking
ingredients. The prices were in Mexican pesos. To
determine whether they were reasonable, we had to
divide by ten to get an approximation in US dollars.  

I had decided that teaching the live-in boys to bake
would be an opportunity to spend quality time with
them.  Initially I wanted to focus my efforts on
Natcho, the youngest live-in boy, because he was always
in trouble.  I’d heard repeatedly how naughty he was
but I wanted to make up my own mind about him.

Later that day I asked him, “Quieres cocinar conmigo
manana? (Would you like to cook with me tomorrow?)” 

He nodded.  “Si (Yes),” he said eagerly, bobbing his
head up and down.  His dark brown eyes glistened.

The following day, I spent over an hour peeling and
slicing ‘garbage’ apples into a huge casserole dish. 
When I was ready to prepare the topping, I called
Natcho. 

”Primera, necesites se lavar sus manos muy bien con
jabon, (First, you need to wash your hands well with
soap,)” I said, and guided him to the sink 

I helped him measure the oats, flour, butter, sugar and
cinnamon into a large plastic bowl.  Because there was
no pastry blender, he used his hands to mix them.  He
wore a happy smile but watched me closely, seeking my
approval.  Baking was entirely new to him and he wanted
to do it right.  

“Muy bien, (Very good)” I said and patted his shoulder.
 “Buen trabajo (Good work!)”  I had noticed that the
boys never received any positive words from Victor and
Alicia.  While I lived at Casa Ayuda, I planned to fill
that gap by recognizing their efforts as often as I
could and creating situations where I could praise
them. 

“Esta listo (It’s ready.)”  Ahorita, tu puedes las
poner arriba de las manzanas, (Now you can put it on
top of the apples,) I said.

“Perfecto!” I said when he finished.

The casserole dish of oven-ready apple crisp was heavy.
 I carefully set it in the preheated electric oven,
thanked Natcho for his help and started to wash the
dishes.  Less than five minutes later I smelled
something burning.  I charged to the oven and opened
the door.  A cloud of smoke billowed out, fogging my
glasses.  Through the mist, I saw my ‘perfect’ dessert
with a scorched top.  I had not realized the oven was
in Celsius, not Fahrenheit.  

After dinner, I served up the dessert along with an
apology.  The family looked at the apple crisp and
exchanged glances; no one seemed keen to try it.
Embarrassed, I shrugged.

“Es un postre de manzanas, (it’s a dessert made from
apples)” I said.  “Es un poco quemado pero todavia es
bueno para comer (It’s a little burned but it is still
good to eat.)”

I served up a few bowls and passed them around the
table to those who were game to try something new.  The
response was subdued.  Only a thin layer on top was
burned, nevertheless there were plenty of jokes about
my abilities as a cook.  With a wry smile, I promised
everyone it wouldn’t happen again now that I ‘knew’ the
stove.

A few days later, I was ready to bake ‘Pan de Platanos’
(Banana Bread).  Again, Natcho was keen to help me. 
The measuring and mixing went well, although I could
see how hard it was for him to control himself.  If I
looked away for a moment, he immediately touched
something he wasn’t supposed to.  I allowed him to use
the electric mixer but didn’t feel I could take my eyes
off him for a second; I sensed he had no concept of
what would happen if he stuck his fingers into the
rotating beaters.  Although he is about 11 years old
(he doesn’t know how old he is), it became clear that
in some ways he had the maturity of a three-year-old.  

I set the oven correctly at 160 degrees Celsius. 
Natcho watched me pour the batter into two pans and
place them inside it.  As I turned away to start
cleaning up the kitchen, I saw Natcho adjust the
temperature on the oven.  I knew he wasn’t doing it to
be naughty; he was simply imitating what he had seen me
do.

“No!  No toce la estoufa. (No!  Don’t touch the
stove),” I said severely.  I readjusted the temperature
and gave him my most stern look.

The boys worked from morning to night at Casa Ayuda so
I did not ask Natcho to help with the dishes.  Instead
I said, ““Gracias para ayudarme. Mas tarde, tenemos pan
de platano. (Thanks for helping me.  Later, we’ll have
banana bread.)

I wiped down the table and started washing the dishes. 
An acrid smell tickled my nostrils.  I sniffed.  To my
astonishment and horror, I smelled something burning.
It couldn’t be!  I rushed over to the oven and saw that
Natcho had cranked it up to maximum, more than 300
degrees Celsius.  My ‘perfect’ banana bread was black
on top and completely raw in the middle.  Immediately,
I turned the oven down and pulled out the pans.  Then,
hands on my hips, I chastised Natcho. I was mad and I
gave him a serious tongue lashing.

I was still shaking my head with disbelief when I put
the banana bread back in the now-cooler oven, hoping I
could salvage it.  

After ‘comida’ (lunch, the main meal of the day) I cut
off the banana bread’s burned top before slicing it. 
To my relief, it didn’t taste burned and everyone
seemed to enjoy it.  When Andrew led everyone in
kidding me that I burned everything I touched, I was
not amused.    

It took me nearly a week before I was willing to give
Natcho a second chance.  I wanted him to be successful
at something so I could praise him.  Everyday he heard
he was a bad boy.  To gain self esteem, he needed to
feel he could do something right.  

“Quieres ayudarme con pan de platano otra vece?  Es
otra opportunidad, (Do you want to help me with banana
bread again?  I’ll give you another chance.)”

“Si,” he said quietly.  Ever since his reprimand, he
had withdrawn.  Before starting, I insisted he promise
me he would not touch anything unless I said it was
okay.  By then, I knew what to expect and kept an eagle
eye on him.  All went well.  As soon as the banana
bread was in the oven, I sent outside Natcho to play.  

That evening, Natcho and I finally presented the family
with a perfect ‘postre’ (dessert).  

“Natcho lo hizo, (Natcho made it,)” I told everyone,
and Natcho glowed with pride as he received thanks and
compliments from everyone at the table.  Success at
last (in more ways than one)! 
 
.....