Preserved

Yesterday I burnt two wonderfully orange persimmons to a brown crisp in the oven. I had sliced them into thin circles, laid them on a baking tray in an oven turned to 200 degrees and guided them towards a sweet dried crunch as they slowly lost their moisture in the oven. But somewhere along the way, a good two hours into the process, i got lost in my statistics homework and forgot about the persimmons in the over. I rose myself from the delirium of linear regressions to find the persimmons nearly blackened producing a bitter sweet smoke. I was unduly disappointed in myself. Drying persimmons is culinary simplicity. All i had to do was slice and wait. But i got distracted. I found myself completely consumed by the tedium of a subject i have minimal use for. The burnt persimmons were just one more reason to resent what had been a horrible re-entry into the academic world.
So today, when i finally handed in that statistics lab, the final piece of work for my first semester of an unfulfilling graduate program, i baked bread. I used an old favorite challah recipe from a childhood babysitter who was the first person to teach me to make bread. When the challah had risen perfectly, when the egg wash i had brushed on had left the baked challah a shiny golden crust, i left the bread to cool and went to the bookstore and bought a cookbook. It is called Preserved, and i am determined that over this winter break (when i have immediately come to love being a student again...) I am going to dive head long into the world of preserving, of baking bread, of exploring the intricacies of persian cuisine (thanks to a wonderful slew of Armenian grocery stores in nearby watertown that provide me with everything from dried barberries to pomegranate molasses). This is what i have missed. It has been a busy semester, and i have made excuses, and i have complained about my classes and i have complained about my professors, but i think what has truly bothered me the most is how i have strayed from the kitchen. I am in a program that is supposed to be about "Agriculture, Food and the Environment," but somehow, by immersing myself in this program I have lost the intimate relationship i used to have with food. I used to cook for a living. I woke every day to a full day of work in the kitchen. I chopped 50 lbs of green beans at a time and catered dinners for 300. And i left that job because it was not the relationship I wanted to have with food. I left because I lost the passion i had had for cooking when i was forced to do it every day for people i did not know and often did not like. And this semester, i once again lost that passion for food. And i refuse to let it stay lost. I'm still looking for the right balance. So this winter i will preserve lemons, dry chiles in my oven, start a window of potted herbs in my sunny study, and I will cook. Food sustains our bodies, but there is something else in me i haven't yet identify that it sustains as well. Without good time in the kitchen i become agitated, feel unfulfilled. I know that it is not the right season to start preserving, but last week i ate the last of the peaches I froze in august. The blueberries from june are almost gone, and i have just one last jar of raspberry jam on the shelf. I did not preserve enough last summer. The growing season is short in new england and the winters are long and cold, it's never too early to start preserving.

In a new place

I have not used this blog in over six months. I am not in Guatemala any more--i have been many places in between, and now I am in Boston. I am in Boston and as of this afternoon, I am on vacation! It is vacation and it is time to write. It is time to remember the things that I love to do and to do them.

View from the Finca

View from the Finca
Originally uploaded by simcahorwitz.

Where I been the past three weeks-Finca Bona Fide on Ometepe Island. Read on for more info about what this place is about. But it sure is purty, in´t.

Back on the mainland

So after a month long disappearance or so, I´m back in the land of computers. Or at least back on the mainland of Nicaragua after three weeks on Ometepe Island, a volcanic island in the middle of lake Nicaragua. I was living and working on a finca taking a permaculture design course. It is hard to begin to describe it, and perhaps this is a matter of needing more distance, or perhaps it will always be confusing. It was a time of contradictions.
What is permaculture-this may depend who you ask. Officially, it stands for permanent agriculture and permanent culture-the idea that we should design agricultural and social systems that are not only sustainable, but regenerative. That will nourish and heal the environment and the people who are a part of the environment. Systems that will have the potential to last forever.
I am interested in permaculture because I see it as one of many solutions driven approaches to addressing food insecurity on a local and global scale. I don´t want my own little piece of land in paradise. I don´t want to go live on an eco-village, and frankly, i don´t even see myself leaving the city. But it don´t matter. Or at least i believe it don´t matter. That is what is cool about permaculture. It is a framework for approaching community and environment and it can be applied on any kind of scale, from massive commercial farms to your city community garden plot. I´ve heard it can be applied to your sock drawer, but if you´re doing that, you have way too much free time on your hands and you should figure out some way to be useful or at least get dirty.
So i´m not going to get into a whole lot about permaculture design, but i´d love to talk about it when i see you. (Mysterious ´you´ who is apparently reading my blog.) But in a nutshell, permaculture can be used to help regenerate the soil, micro-climate, landscape etc. in areas that have faced environmental destruction (which is to say-everywhere) and create healthy environments in which an abundance of food can be grown to meet human need and the landscape is designed to promote positive community development. I really feel that Finca Bona Fide is doing an amazing job on these fronts, leading by example in the community. They seem like a great example of small scale sustainable development work that really addresses the specific needs of a community, that is willing to adapt to changing needs and situations. They offer a holistic approach to increasing food security and economic development while promoting environmental regeneration.
But...I felt a major disconnect between the politics that seem to be running the organization and the framework that was brought to the course. It´s a lot of the same old shit of other environmental movements-unackowledged white privilege and a failure to recognize how the language we use in our movements can be incredibly alienating to certain communities-serving to perpetuate the very imbalances we are supposedly working against and creating major roadblocks to the creation of an inclusive movement. That´s a whole lot of jargon basically to say that i felt the course was taught to the white ´nothern´ (largely US) participants and assumed a great deal about their reasons for wanting to take a permaculture course and did not adequately include the Nicaraguan participants in a meaningful way. This is not to say that i didn´t learn tons from the course-i did. The instructors were incredibly knowledgeable and really engaging. We did a whole lot of theoretical work and plenty of really practical design processes and solutions too. I´m definitely ready to get some more farm work on when i get back to the states. And i want to learn to weld. I figure i like to solder, it´s just a slightly larger scale.

Granada

Granada is hot and everything moves slower in the heat. It´s like this thin sheet of sleep that descends over a place-makes each step a little shorter, each swing of the arm a little gentler. I have been trying to muster the energy to explore, but mostly i am wanting to sit and drink juice and get lost in nothingness. The buildings in the center of the town are big and bright and a beautiful contrast to the seamlessness of the blue sky. I haven´s seen clouds since returning to the mainland. So much new inside so much old and lots left to memory. A history of fire. A city burned by American William Walker who, vigilante army in tow, declared himself ´President of Nicaragua´. Soon thereafter, facing defeat, he burned the city of Granada before fleeing the country. It is strange and scary steps we follow as US citizens in Nicaragua. In practically anywhere. So there are ruins turned parks, old stone walls turned trellises for creeping vines, benches, sitting stones. It is good to be doing everything slowly, to have the time to write, to remind myself of being solitary.

Una boda con la gripe

On Saturday night i went to a funeral. And a wedding. In that order. I hiked up a hill satuday afternoon for a picnic, and by the time i returned i felt somewhat ill. I thought maybe it was because I had gotten too much sun. I had been invited to attend a neighbor´s wedding that night and didn´t want to miss the opprortunity. So i put on my one skirt and nice shirt and got assurance from my host mother that the wedding was "just around the corner and we´re just going to eat dinner really quick and come right home, and you can walk home at anytime if you´d like". So i pulled myself out of bed, got in the car and set off for the wedding. They had told me that the wedding was a civil wedding, so when we arrived at the local church i was rather confused. They explained that we were just going to a really short mass first. An hour and a half later, i found myself still standing in the back of the church, dizzy and very definitely feverish, as a mob of people slowly pushed their way out the doors. A very small Mayan woman in traditional dress kept resting her hands on my ass. I could not understand how it could take anybody so long to leave a building until twenty minutes later when i finally emerged from the building and found myself proceeding down a long receiving line of men and women dressed in black. I was at a funeral! Actually a memorial service after a funeral, but pushed along through the line i found myself offering "lo sientos" to a lot of unsuspecting strangers. My fever rose.
We made it two the wedding about 2 and a hald hours after leaving the house. The huge banquet hall was filled with men dancing this dance that is traditional to this area. It essentially involves a few steps forward (very slow steps), a few steps backwards (slower still), and a nod of the head. Then the women line up and do the same dance. But they wear way cooler clothes.
We ate Pepian and drank whiskey and coke and my fever rose. Then i drank tea and my fever rose some more. When i woke up the next morning it was 102. I had la gripe. But that was one interesting funeral/wedding. Someone gave the couple a stove with a big bow on it. And midway through the party the kids got to take down all of the baloons and pop them.

Water

This past week I lived with a new family in Xela. They were really nice and super welcoming and have an unbelievable love of all things hip-hop and reggaeton. My first night we took a trip to Hiper Pais, which is basically the Guatemalan Walmart and listend to Eminem, 50 Cent and Snoop Dog the whole way there. I´m not so sure if they know the meanings of any of the words, but I felt pretty confident that if i played them the Orishas i wouldn´t receive any stunned looks of embarassment.

The week was complicated by the fact that there was no water from Monday afternoon until Sunday morning. I smelled. A lot. Apparently, with the aid of the Japanese embassy, Xela is installing a new water system in order to increase the potential water pressure that the pipes can hold. The project was so succesful that when the water was turned back on on Wednesday, the increase of water pressure was so high that several old pipes burst, resulting in the prolonged suspension of water for four more days while they repaired the old pipes. I would like to think that this sort of accident could have been predicted, but I´m no engineer.

So Saturday morning when I woke up, my family informed me that if i was interested I could come with them on a little excursion to the grandfather´s house, which was located on the other side of town where water service had already resumed. We would all shower at his house. I jumped at the opportunity, as I had played soccer for two hours on Thursday night and hadn´t showered since Monday morning and had no faith that the promises that the water would return by mid-day would be met (i was right, water returned mid-day on Sunday, not Saturday, and we´ve been told to expect further interruptions).
So we packed out bags and headed down the street to wait for a microbus to take us out to grandpa´s house. Grandpa supposedly lived "muy cerca". I´m not sure grandpa actually lives within city limits, which would explain why he had water when most of the city did not, but I did not care. Grandpas house had a shower! And grass! and all was wonderful. I was clean and ate cake and drank coffee with a super cool grandfather who was dancing in the living room to blasting christian rock when we arrived and who is a drummer in a marimba band. That was my favorite shower that i´ve had in months.

Santa Anita

This past weekend I went to a nearby coffee finca called Santa Anita. Santa Anita, about twenty minutes outside the town of Colomba in the southwest of Guatemala is actually a decently well known community within Guatemala. It is one of only four communities of former members of the guerrilla movement who received land through the government sponsored Land Fund after the Peace Accords were signed in 1996. The land, however, is not free, and the community has ten years to repay the government for the loan. It is unclear at this point whether this will be possible. After two years, they are yet to be able to afford to make a payment.

Santa Anita is a small community, up a steep hill in the steamy jungle-like forests of western Guatemala. The community members are working tirelessly to operate a viable organic coffee and banana farm, but have faced many setbacks. I first learned of the group through a friend in Xela who is working with the project Cafe Conciencia. He is working to provide the technical assistance necessary for Santa Anita, and two other local coffee fincas to operate viable business that provide sufficient compensation for the families involved and that will result in the secure, continued posession of the land. I went to the farm with two photographer friends who were there to take photos that might be used for promotional material for the finca. Hopefully i´ll get to post some of their work here. The preliminary shots i saw were really beautiful.

Growing coffee is not enough. The community is trying to start an agri/eco-tourism project to supplement their income. They have a large house, the former house of the dueño, that has been converted into habitaciones. They provide the opportunity to volunteer at the finca, eat with a family in the community, attend charlas on their work and exeriences, as well as explore the beautiful grounds of the finca. Cafe Conciencia is trying to facilitate the development of this program, as well as provide trainings in areas such as coffee roasting, marketing etc. that will help the business develop.

My time at the finca made me think quite a bit about my time working at NCV in Boston helping people (mostly recent immigrants) start food businesses. I think that one of the greatest satisfactions in life for people who grow food, cook food, do anything professionally related to food, is the opportunity to nourish your own community with the fruits of your labor. For the people i worked with at NCV, and for the member´s of Santa Anita, this is not possible. There simply is no local market for organic coffee. They cannot command a higher price for organic beans, and few people are able to afford the price that they must charge in order to obtain a fair wage for their efforts. This reminded me a lot of one particular man at NCV, Niel, who was originally from Jamaica. Niel was passionate about hot sauce. Jamaican hot sauce made with Jamaican peppers. Niel´s sauce was damn good. Niel dreamed of opening a hot sauce business, of selling his hot pepper sauce at every corner bodega in Boston, at the larger urban markets, anywhere with a Caribbean community. But when Niel and I figured out his costs, what it would take for him to be able to support himself, he realized that he would need to charge so much for each bottle of hot sauce that few recent immigrants from Jamaica would be able to afford to buy the sauce that he hoped would make them feel more at home in their new community. Niel would have to market his sauce to an affluent (read: white) commmunity that could purchase his ¨exotic¨item at a high price. And so it is with Santa Anita. They must attempt to market their coffeee to tourists, extranjeros, sell it abroad at upscale markets and boutique coffee stores. They cannot be profitable by nourishing their own community. I am meeting this week with someone from Cafe Conciencia to see if there is a way that my weird experience with food business marketing that i never thought i would be doing can somehow be helpful to a group of former guerillas in Guatemala, hoping to make a really great cup of coffee.

Chimaltenango

DSCF0130
Originally uploaded by simcahorwitz.

What more is there to say? Brahva, Guatemala´s premier beer. The King´s Poo. I love this place.

Maximon a.k.a Hermano San Simon

It has been a long time since I have written, primarily because I spent the better part of the past two weeks traveling with my family throughout Guatemala. I wish I had had the chance to write during the trip, as my writing about past events is never as strong, but alas, I´ll make an effort to convey the fun we had and the many crazy and beautiful things we saw.

My family arrived on Sunday, the 18th and took the harrowing drive east from the captial to meet me in Xela. There is nothing like getting passed by a 1980s generation US school bus on a two lane road that is missing one lane due to a mudslide. But they made it and our adventures began the next day with a trip to the nearby towns of Almolonga and Zunil, home of a famed altar to the pre-Columbian Mayan god of the underworld, Maximon . To reach the town of Zunil, about thirty minutes from Xela, you drive through lush farmland where farmers primarily grow vegetables primarily for domestic consumption and for export to El Salvador and Mexico. They farm on mountainsides as steep as airplane trails, rarely using terraces, somehow coaxing life out of the most unlikely spaces. I suppose this is the result of need. And a whole lot of chemicals. The number of men walking down the street going to or coming from a days work spraying the fields is overwhelming.
Arriving in Zunil, we visited the central church, a large colonial building adjacent to a beautiful convent. But i was much more interested in Maximon, supposedly tucked away in a small building behind the church. I don´t know what definition of ¨behind¨ the guide book is using, but it took us two friendly old men in the street and a fifteen minute walk up a steep hill to find Maximon. Maximon sits in a dark room, off a small cobblestone street, waiting for visitors. I expected a wooden statue, somewhat reminicent of the statues of the Virgin that I have seen proceed through the streets of Xela. But modern-day images of Maximon are nothing like this.
Carved out of wood, Maximon is dressed in twentieth century clothes--a dark suit and red tie, black sunglasses, a black top hat. He lounges in a chair in the back of the room, encircled with dripping candles, flower petals and the soft swirls of incense burning on the table in front of him. His hand grasps a bottle of Guatemalan rum and underneath his chair, an empty bed pan sits in waiting. Maximon signifies fertility, the bringer of wealth and luck to all who pay him honor. He is worshipped with offerings of money, Coke, alcohol, flowers and apparently all things hedonistic. I left my two quetzales in the collectionbucket by the bedpan, making a wish as i left the altar, somewhat afraid of what my wish might actually bring. I sadly have no picture of Maximon, as this would have cost another 10 Q, which i did not have at the time. The image on the page I linked to does not do him justice, but it´s a beginning. Apparently the god renowned for his sexual prowess is a bit shy.

Una Quinceanera a Woon Kooc

Last night was the quinceanera of Ceci, one of the daughters of the family I am living with. This is a *big deal*. I feel really lucky to have been here for the celebration and to have been invited (though my stomach doesn´t feel the same way). The celebration began days in advance with Carmen (my host mother) making about ten large plastic flower centerpieces to place on the tables at the restaurant where the party would be held. Shiny white material was purchased, a dress was commisioned. Hair was done, nails painted, makeup purchased. Carmen painted 50 cloth napkins with flowers and wrote "15" in the corner. We stood over the kitchen table, folding the napkins, tying them with a bow, preparing them to hold the silverware at the restaurant--a homemade party favor.
When i returned home on Tuesday afternoon, the house was abustle with excitement as everyone prepared for the celebration. I became the official photographer, digital camera in hand, a soaked up the frantic energy, the dogs running in circles, Maria´s jealous antics. (Pictures to come).
The service took place in a large church around the corner. Ceci walked in, escorted by the father and three youth (training to do whatever it is that catholic youth train to do in the church during their communion classes). Ceci looked like a bride. I was worried that my knee-length skirt and stockingless legs would be to riské, but Ceci beat me out. Her floor length, sparkling dress had no sleeves, a tightly laced empress waist. Glitter on her arms, a light blue eyeshadow, and hair pulled back to reveal shining earings. The service was short--much about sangre, el cuerpo de Christo. And much about the ´povre´which was quite encouraging. There was music, a guitar played by a young man with a great voice. Though the church was cavernous the service was intimate. When communion was completed, the service concluded, Ceci left first, followed by the father and the young assistants.

On to Woon Kooc.
Who knew that Xela has its very own Chinese banquet hall?? It was on to Woon Kooc for dinner and celebration. We began with waiting. Much waiting for what I´m not sure. Eventually, it arrived....Tall glasses of tang! My favorite overly sweet flourescent orange drink. And then there was more tang. And then the kids were served hamburgers. I was beginning to think that this wasn´t a chinese restaurant. But the waiters were wearing those little red waiter-vests like big chinese banquet halls. And the room was overly big, just like many weird, suburban chinese restaurants. And they were pushing carts like in Cinatown, and on every table stood a lable-less bottle of black liquid i hoped was soy. And then came the whiskey. Lots of whiskey and water. The kids had finished their hamburgers and most were on to their second course of sugar packets. By the end of the night, not a sugar packet was to be found. Apparently sugar is an appropriate apetizer and desert. I politely refused this pre-diner snack, but was met with looks of confusion. The fact that i fail to put sugar in my tea or coffee is totally uncomprehensible.
And finally....the meal. I wish i could tell you what it was. There was rice. And brocolli and meat. Fried meat. Sauteed meat. And ham, definitely ham in the rice. My stomach could tell you more, but i think it would rather forget the night existed.
And cake. A wedding cake really. Layered, with flowers, curls of icing, pink dots, the lot. Sheet cake hear is awesome. None of that dry, flaky stuff we settle for. This is drenched in peach syrup, moist and spongy, sweet and dense. When i woke this morning, there was cake for breakfast. At school today it was one students birthday and there was cake.
So two weeks and two birthdays celebrated here and christmas on its way. I may break my record for most amount of cake consumed in a three week period. We´ll have to wait and see. perhaps there will be cake for dinner.