 |
| THE cookbook of Argentina January 2019 |
Yesterday, someone asked me what I did.
I have the answer of my work title but it does not translate well. The short answer is my original curriculum of study, and this seems to satisfy most pleasantries (though it has no direct bearing on the present).
It’s a question that’s lingered as I worked on another project today.
When I arrived, “what I did” was try not to be overwhelmed. A cultural immersion of sounds, foods, and pace meets a girl that over-estimated her abilities with language. (It was a little akin to someone who had studied British English and had been dropped in the heart of Appalachia.) “Como?” became my new “do what?”
Then "what I did” was discover ways to enjoy solitude again. Without knowledge of how to move and really how to communicate efficiently, I was a walking safety risk. I had to stay inside much more than I was accustomed to doing, which meant I had to find ways to survive cabin fever and limited independence. I had to grow in trusting and relying on others.
Then, as the comfort and abilities grew, the “what did I do” changed again. I tried not to get electrocuted with 220V power. I tried not to mix cleaning chemicals in a way that would cause a “kill vapor”. I tried to avoid ladders in the street because there seems to be no OSHA-esque guidelines of how to ensure that nothing (and no one) will fall. I studied. I started to cook, but cut carefully because I didn’t know how to manage a doctor’s visit. When the coffee maker died, I became a student of the pour-over. I blushed whenever someone asked me “where are you from?”. I apologized for the President.
Because I had more time, I had more pleasure in small things. Lunch is a minimum of 40 minutes prep. Dinner usually takes an hour. I’ve slid into the typical Argentinean schedule of eating. I read a lot of recipes and think about Julia Child as I take cooking classes.
I write more and play the piano frequently. I read news in Spanish quickly but books and magazines slowly and always with a dictionary. I receive random books in English and I devour them, heart happy that this does not require effort.
My first spin class two years ago is now a funny anecdote. Yoga classes gave me basic anatomy but now I’ve branched out with vocabulary for other muscles and joints.
I’ve had a trip to the emergency room and doctors' visits so I have a baseline comfort with a different medical system. I still cut vegetables cautiously and I miss HIPPA.
People ask me where I’m from anymore less frequently but I do get the lingering look as they try to discern what exactly is different about me other than my accent.
I have a routine that’s flexible yet I strive to be disciplined.
“What do I do?”
It’s a question that’s lingered as I worked on another project today.
When I arrived, “what I did” was try not to be overwhelmed. A cultural immersion of sounds, foods, and pace meets a girl that over-estimated her abilities with language. (It was a little akin to someone who had studied British English and had been dropped in the heart of Appalachia.) “Como?” became my new “do what?”
Then "what I did” was discover ways to enjoy solitude again. Without knowledge of how to move and really how to communicate efficiently, I was a walking safety risk. I had to stay inside much more than I was accustomed to doing, which meant I had to find ways to survive cabin fever and limited independence. I had to grow in trusting and relying on others.
Then, as the comfort and abilities grew, the “what did I do” changed again. I tried not to get electrocuted with 220V power. I tried not to mix cleaning chemicals in a way that would cause a “kill vapor”. I tried to avoid ladders in the street because there seems to be no OSHA-esque guidelines of how to ensure that nothing (and no one) will fall. I studied. I started to cook, but cut carefully because I didn’t know how to manage a doctor’s visit. When the coffee maker died, I became a student of the pour-over. I blushed whenever someone asked me “where are you from?”. I apologized for the President.
Because I had more time, I had more pleasure in small things. Lunch is a minimum of 40 minutes prep. Dinner usually takes an hour. I’ve slid into the typical Argentinean schedule of eating. I read a lot of recipes and think about Julia Child as I take cooking classes.
I write more and play the piano frequently. I read news in Spanish quickly but books and magazines slowly and always with a dictionary. I receive random books in English and I devour them, heart happy that this does not require effort.
My first spin class two years ago is now a funny anecdote. Yoga classes gave me basic anatomy but now I’ve branched out with vocabulary for other muscles and joints.
I’ve had a trip to the emergency room and doctors' visits so I have a baseline comfort with a different medical system. I still cut vegetables cautiously and I miss HIPPA.
People ask me where I’m from anymore less frequently but I do get the lingering look as they try to discern what exactly is different about me other than my accent.
I have a routine that’s flexible yet I strive to be disciplined.
“What do I do?”
I explore. I try and fail, and then try again. I smile a lot.
And then somedays I just try not to shoot myself in the face with a bidet. And that’s enough.
And then somedays I just try not to shoot myself in the face with a bidet. And that’s enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment