In France, I considered myself a decent cook. No. Better than better than average. As a vegetarian, I had learned dozens and dozens of recipes from here and there around the globe. They were good enough to make even the most ardent carnivores salivate. And Pauline cooks much better than I do.
Upon our arrival in South America, I was brimming with kitchen confidence. For our first host we planned on making risotto. So we visited the nearest supermercado in search of the ingredients….hmmm, mushrooms cost twice as much as back home, cooking white wine doesn‘t exist, and veggie broth has yet to be invented on this continent. Plan B : uh, how about a Greek salad ? Black olives cost two arms and a leg, feta is non-existent, and olive oil…we’re a long way from Italy. Plan C : Goddammit, pasta and vegetables, that we can do !
And it's not just the main ingredients. For quite a few Colombians and Venezuelans, when you say “spice,” they think “salt” or perhaps "pepper." And the spice rack here is limited to those two, and if you’re lucky, maybe cinnamon.
This scene was repeated over and over again in countless homes and supermarkets in countless cities...suddenly all my confidence collapsed like a deflated cholocate mousse. My list of recipes was decimated. And those that I could do, I couldn't do !
For a while it seemed like nothing would work. The pans would stick, the oven cooked too hot. One time, I woke up early to prepare some pancakes for our host…simple pancakes...but the damn things kept sticking to the pan. More butter, more oil, changing the pan…in the end I succeeded in making 3 or 4 things that resembled pancakes with multiple malignant tumors. And I went back to bed, in frustration. Our host, Clara, later asked Pauline if American pancakes are supposed to be that way, amoeboid-shaped, almost burnt on the outside, and uncooked inside.
So now I stick to the one recipe that always works and always makes the South Americans (read : carnivores) smile : my veggie burgers.
Upon our arrival in South America, I was brimming with kitchen confidence. For our first host we planned on making risotto. So we visited the nearest supermercado in search of the ingredients….hmmm, mushrooms cost twice as much as back home, cooking white wine doesn‘t exist, and veggie broth has yet to be invented on this continent. Plan B : uh, how about a Greek salad ? Black olives cost two arms and a leg, feta is non-existent, and olive oil…we’re a long way from Italy. Plan C : Goddammit, pasta and vegetables, that we can do !
And it's not just the main ingredients. For quite a few Colombians and Venezuelans, when you say “spice,” they think “salt” or perhaps "pepper." And the spice rack here is limited to those two, and if you’re lucky, maybe cinnamon.
This scene was repeated over and over again in countless homes and supermarkets in countless cities...suddenly all my confidence collapsed like a deflated cholocate mousse. My list of recipes was decimated. And those that I could do, I couldn't do !
For a while it seemed like nothing would work. The pans would stick, the oven cooked too hot. One time, I woke up early to prepare some pancakes for our host…simple pancakes...but the damn things kept sticking to the pan. More butter, more oil, changing the pan…in the end I succeeded in making 3 or 4 things that resembled pancakes with multiple malignant tumors. And I went back to bed, in frustration. Our host, Clara, later asked Pauline if American pancakes are supposed to be that way, amoeboid-shaped, almost burnt on the outside, and uncooked inside.
So now I stick to the one recipe that always works and always makes the South Americans (read : carnivores) smile : my veggie burgers.
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