The reason I have no photos of Peru is that BJ's Wholesale Club destroyed several rolls in processing. The remaining ones weren't very good. The young woman behind the counter apologized and said cheerfully "We'll, let's hope they weren't your once-in-a-lifetime trip to Venice." "No" I said, teeth gritted, "my once-in-a-lifetime trip to Peru." Almost more wounding than the loss of the photos was her insinuation that I might never make that trip again. Seven years ago, I still thought of myself as a young person, not a middle-aged woman who might not, in fact, hike Macchu Picchu the next time around, if there was a next time. It's absurd that I sometimes remember that tattoo'ed counter clerk in her red smock when I'm travelling, and the thought crosses my mind that I just might not make it back to Innsbruck or Budapest in this lifetime. There are a lot of places I haven't been.
I flew from Lima to Cuzco on Aero Peruana, I think. They went out of business shortly thereafter. It was quite a process. Curt, who teaches at UR but for whom the Maryknoll Mission in Lima is home, took me to the airport to lead me through the Kafkaesque twists and turns of departure taxes and "inspections." It was pre-September 11, 2001, and there was more screening when flying internally in Peru than flying internationally from the US. When I was in the final line, a little old Peruvian lady (grandmother type in flowered shirtwaist dress) asked me if I would carry on this little extra suitcase for her. I regretted, but no, senora. She went to the redheaded young British man behind me. "Hey, do you speak Spanish? She's asking me something" he said. I laughed and said "You won't believe this. She's actually asking you to take this extra suitcase on board for her." He was amused. "Can you please tell her 'Not bloody likely, Madam' for me?" Sure, I said, and explained, en espanol, that one should never take on board equipaje that belonged to others. Though I hadn't needed to translate for her; she got the drift. She scowled and moved down the line. Curt later told me that she certainly found a sucker to take the bag on, probably for good compensation.
I ran into the redheaded British guy the next evening walking aound the Plaza de las Armas. He was in Lima for three months, living alone in an apartment and working twelve hours a day working on securing some multinational conglomerate's computer systems. Guzman had been in jail for years, but foreign investment was still coming in slowly and unsteadily. I was impressed that he'd come up to Cuzco and Macchu Picchu on his own, instead of hanging out drinking the weekend away at the Hard Rock Cafe in Miraflores.
The next day I went to Macchu Picchu by train. I was suffering badly from the headache caused by soroche, altitude sickness. I was dragged onto the train at 6 am, feeling as though an iron band was being tightened about my forehead. A French woman looked at me, slumped in the seat, handed me a large square lozenge and said "Vite, mettez cela sous la langue." I did as ordered, and realized, as I put it under my tongue, that I wouldn't have cared at that moment if it had been cyanide. It wasn't, though. It was glucose, and ten minutes later, the headache was gone and I felt like Popeye after a fresh can of spinach. It was a scary train ride, but I was glad to be on the train and not on the 20-minute helicopter from Cuzco.
This is not a good place if you have a fear of heights. I spent the day with a British family. The parents were my age, and the 22-year-old son was taking a term off from Cambridge to do an internship in Sao Paolo. They'd just come from Bolivia and were traveling around Peru for a week. They came in handy at several points when I didn't want to look at the thousand or so foot drop. I closed my eyes and let them lead me over some of what they cheerfully called "the more harrowing bits."
We were having such a good time we very nearly missed the train back, and that would have been a problem. That evening, we had sopa de ajo at a restaurant, where we snickered at two Japanese girls who were taking turns videotaping each other eating dinner. It's probably on their blog somewhere.
This is my best memory of the sopa de ajo. It was a damp autumn evening, and the soup was great.
1 head (yes) garlic
1 T olive oil
wine or vegetable bouillon
canned crushed tomatoes
fresh sage
fresh thyme
salt, pepper, chipotle pepper sauce
one egg per person
Heat the oil in a deep saute pan and put in the chopped garlic. Cook until soft but not brown. Add maybe two or four cups of liquid (wine or water) and cover. Cook covered, low fire, until the garlic is very soft. Add the tomatoes, herbs, salt, pepper. Forget it for a half hour, simmering. Blend, or use a hand-held blender stick (in Italy they are called mini-pimer)until the garlic is pretty invisible. Or if you are lucky enough to have a chinoise, even better. A food mill would work but is too messy to clean.
Taste the soup. You may need a pinch of sugar, or more chipotle pepper sauce. It should be thinner than canned tomato soup.
To serve: five minutes before showtime, carefully drop from a cup in each of the four corners of the pan (if a round pan can have corners), one egg for each serving. Simmer until the white is fully poached and the yolk is heated and beginning to set, but not hard. Scoop the egg out with the same utensil you'd use for poached eggs and surround it with the soup. Garnish with olive-oil brushed toasted croutons and sprigs of fresh thyme. I served it with grilled asparagus and carrots. Et voila.
Bonus: when I took off the purple rubber bands from the asparagus John bought at the market, they said "Product of Peru." What are the odds?
3 comments:
mmm, the soup sounds delicious. please edit in the recipe! We had a fritata with baby beetgreens and sauted ramps. also, a big side of the season's first local asparagus.
I did finally get the recipe in, although it took me longer than I'd anticipated. There was more to say about Peru, but my hands did not permit. I am getting voice recognition software next week!
Post a Comment