Every Saturday for dinner at Camp Tawonga, we would have a barbeque – the older kids by the pool and the younger ones around the fire pit by the dining hall. I always looked forward to the burgers and kosher hot dogs, watermelon, trays of homemade rice crispy treats, and of course, the ice cold cans of soda. It would be a fun way to end a relaxed Shabbat. I have found memories of holding a plate of food on my lap and balancing a can of Coke on the benches made of tree trunks and keeping an eye out for rogue goats that were known to take nibbles off of absentminded campers’ plates. I’d usually be wearing flip flops, a t-shirt and swim trunks that were still a little wet from swimming in the Tuolumne River.
I was very excited when Carlos told me that we would be having a barbeque with some neighbors this coming weekend. I hoped for good weather – many days had been beautiful but rainy, and not ideal for sitting outside. Carlos would be getting some red meat, beer and wine from Cusco, and his girlfriend, Camille, who was from France, was excited to make a salad her grandmother always used to make and some cheese biscuits. (No guinea pig for this barbeque – we had already tried some earlier in the week. I liked it a lot, would not have it every day, but would definitely have it again! It was like a very moist, gamey chicken, than had a strong aftertaste).
It was a perfect day – sunny, but not hot, lots of neighbors came by and brought something to contribute to the barbeque and I enjoyed chatting with people from all over the world, who all seemed to be in this one pocket of the Sacred Valley. Locals from Arin and the neighboring town, Huaran, as well as people from South Africa, France, England and the US all enjoyed steak, chorizo, corn, a great cabbage salad, pasta salad, and flaky, light cheese biscuits courtesy of Camille, as well as cold beer, wine, soda, and sparkling water. It had a lot of familiar food and touches that were quite Peruvian. The corn we had was choclo, with fatter kernels than I’m used to, condiments included multiple types of ají, and many people were sipping on homebrewed chicha, a beer made of corn (different from chicha morada, a drink made from purple corn), which Carlos told me to decline. Even for Carlos, homemade chicha often results in a confused stomach.
Tupac was on good behavior and napped in the shade under the big tree in Carlos’ yard. It got warm enough that I took off my green jacket, my hands were satisfyingly greasy from eating chorizo with my hands and I kept thinking of other barbeques that I have enjoyed – I really don’t have bad memories of grilled food. Besides barbeques at camp, the sizzle of meat being turned over on the grill takes me back to dinners at the Duh’s house, with Quan-Yang grilling steak and chicken for a delicious early Sunday dinner, dinners in the courtyard of my dorm in college at the start of every school year, Labor Day and July 4th up in Point Reyes, just north of San Francisco, with Bubs eating an incredible amount of oysters.
I was comfortably full. My plate and cup had been emptied and were balanced on my lap along with my silverware. There was a soft breeze and puffy, Magritte-esque clouds floated by above.