Monday, November 15, 2010

Chicha Morada

Blue cheese and fennel be damned. I found my new least favorite food in the world. Bring on the fried crickets, sauce made from cow excrement, haggis, or cow heart. Just please, please never make me eat chicha morada ever again.

I know, I probably deserve it after that last blog entry when I complained all we ever eat is rice and potatos. And I probably especially deserve it since at today's lunch Ragan (the other student at my homestay) and I joked about how appetizing our green spaghetti lunch with some chickenfriedsteak-like meat on top was going to be for dinner. What I would give to have had green spaghetti round II (and no, it wasn't spinach spaghetti - the source of the green remains unknown)!

So grandma and grandpa are in town, which makes the house a bit hectic. Ragan and I were joshin' around with las niƱas tonight before dinner, having a good ole time. We're called to the table and sit down, expecting the green spaghetti. Instead we are presented with chicha morrado. Don't let the picture below fool you (it's the closest I could find to what dinner looked like). Our bowls were one-half somethingkindoflikericepudding, and one-half purple gelatinous goo that could have been sculpted into and number of 3-dimensional figures. Ragan and I look at our plates, then each other, and then to Leah, host mom, who has just brought out a can of condensed milk to pour on top. When I politely attempted to decline the condensed milk she said, "Oh, but it's good. It adds another flavor!" Call me crazy but I am pretty sure sweet and sweeter are the same flavor.

The ricepudding imitation wasn't horrible on its own, but this purple gelatinous goo (made from purple corn) must've been what inspired Robitussin. Ragan and I basically weren't able to look at each other during the meal because we were laughing too hard about this "cultural experience." At one point Ragan actually excused herself from the table so she could pull it together. Little did I know this was the moment of true betrayl. While Ragan was "pulling herself together" in the other room, Leah looks at me and, with the voice only a mother has, says to me, "You must finish, Marr-garr-ette." Head down. One bite at a time. Don't taste. Just swallow.

Of course Ragan missed this command, which means she got away with not eating her entire dish. At the end of the meal, while the parents were doting on the kids, Ragan stealthfully stuck her purple gelatin in the trashcan after it refused to go down the drain. Yup, that's right - this "edible specialty" clogs drains. And just imagine how my stomach feels.

Chicha Morado

1 comment:

  1. My parents came to read over my shoulder because I was laughing loudly while reading this. You have a knack for capturing the experience in a way that brings the memory back to life. Blech. When do the hot dogs get their shout out?