A few letters ago (Letter-19: Unpalatable Patriotism), I discussed the perils of Peace Corps Missions II and III. These missions include representing U.S. culture overseas and taking an alien culture home, legally. So permit me to talk about today’s comida.
In México, comida is the big meal of the day and occurs about two o’clock in the afternoon. Traditional Christmas dinners in the United States tend to start at three in the afternoon. Combine that coincidence with the fact that I walked off with the big prize at a departmental shin-dig last week, and we have got a "Christmas comida".
Last Thursday, the general management division of the engineering research center where I volunteer had a grand breakfast to celebrate Christmas. After trying every which way to avoid winning, I ended up with this turkey. Not only did I feel guilty as a guest of one month’s standing taking the prize, I was mortified because I do not know how to cook nor does my novia.
Frankly fed up with my yammering over what to do about this fifteen pound predicament, a colleague bailed me out by offering to cook the turkey. That is when His Eminent Brilliance put two-and-two together for the Christmas comida. So my running all over town (i.e., to an upscale Mexican market, WalMart and Costco) combined with the help a lovely lady who pitched in a tasty salad and my colleague's masterful job -- actually that of his sisters -- on the turkey yielded a solution.
Monday would have been the logical day. No way; I immediately vetoed that idea. Call me a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee – a Northerner still fighting the War – but I could not see throwing a party, even in another country, on the one hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the secession of South Carolina from the Union to precipitate a war that claimed about as many of our countrymen (both South and North) as every other war put together.
History aside, today’s was a truly American Christmas comida with turkey; Mexican stuffing and salad; cranberry sauce (with the can-ridges as noted by my sister); brie and crackers; mashed potatoes and gravy; sparkling grape juice (in lieu of wine, per major school rules); chocolate almonds; as well as, of course, pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Out of thirty people eating, only two Peace Corps Volunteers (Brian Johnson and I) were from North of the border.
My Mexican colleagues loved the Christmas comida. They gave me a big group cheer, amid my blushing. One senior exec said to me, perhaps giving me my best gift this Christmas, “Thank you, Ned. People will remember this fiesta for a long time…” As gratifying, I had the privilege of paraphrasing a condensed version my father’s traditional Thanksgiving grace in my halting, frightful Spanish:
“Dios, pedimos la bendición ahora para esta comida de navidad porque nuestra familia son amigos y nuestros amigos son familia. Gracias.”
(Supposed to say: God, we now ask for your blessing for this Christmas dinner for our family are friends and our friends are family. Thank you.)
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