Rations
I feel that I’m approaching the heart of the issue when I assert that a common enemy among study abroad students here is food. All can rally behind it, all can rally for it, and all can rally against it. The food prepared by our host families manages to capture the entire career arc of the average politician. It really is a marvel, albeit a flawed one.
It’s not so much the quality of the food-the general consensus is that feijoada is less weather-stripping and more chicken feed-nor is there any lack of fascination for the diversity of cuisine, which runs the gamut from rice and beans to rice and beans and salad, all served with a hearty side order of cheese bread and rice and beans. It’s the overabundance in our houses. Specifically, it’s the expectation that we, either as growing students or gluttonous Americans, will consume three plates of rice and beans (my personal favorite variety) at every sitting.
Food has always been the principal barrier between my Brazilian host families and me. I was never sure why, but I figure it has something to do with the relative lack of responsibilities that they have with us. If they keep us alive in São Paulo, they’re already ahead of the curve. And it’s not that I simply don’t eat the food at all, or make a disgusted face whenever I’m presented with another round of rice and beans. The mothers simply assume that if we don’t eagerly accept seconds or thirds, there is an implied personal vendetta. Some sort of blood pact has been made against the household, one that likely involves a virgin lamb, which might go well with a pot of rice and beans. The level of distrust peaks. Their mind races, quickly examining all the possibilities in the most disjointed logistical clusterfuck that there ever was: “This child won’t consume my food; is it something I wore yesterday? Did I not explain well enough that this plate or rice and beans with chicken bones is a delicacy in my country? But they just finished a plate of two pounds of food and seemed satisfied. But was that satisfaction real? Maybe they feel superior to our traditions of second helpings. Maybe they hate my cooking. Maybe they hate me. I need to call the program director about this. I won’t be washing your favorite underwear this week, just wait and see.”
And so the litany of excuses unfolds itself, each one more self-indulging and megalomaniacal than the last. I don’t eat everything in the pot, and so I am an ingrate. I don’t come into the kitchen at all hours to eat snacks, and so I will not live through the winter. I don’t eat anything besides chicken nuggets, and so I don’t sufficiently appreciate Brazilian cuisine. Only, I appreciate the cuisine well enough to covertly enter the kitchen late at night and realize that the freezer is always and inevitably stocked with only one type of food: chicken nuggets.
But I had my revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge. During lunch yesterday, I was in a hurry to catch the bus to go to school. I took a long time to wake up and get ready, and didn’t have much time to eat. Already at strike one, I entered the kitchen and found a plate of rice and beans and hotdogs. My second favorite Brazilian dish. I felt compelled, as I always do, to finish the entire plate to please my mother and avoid another tearful argument when I came home later that night. So I made a rush job of eating. Strike two: you can never go too slowly when dealing with rice and beans and hotdogs. Scraping the plate, I consumed nearly everything in less than five minutes. I opened my mouth to finish one of the last few bites of some sort of chimerical hotdog-bean residue, when I reached strike three, and it was out.
The food, that is-vomit covered the entire plate. There was no warning; I simply “chamei Raul.” After I had spewed various chunks of rice and beans, and picked some hotdog crumbs off my front teeth, I realized that the event had the potential to be a watershed moment in the history of international food relations. Here was biological proof that I don’t have the capacity to consume everything that I am offered. There was not a trace of lamb blood, nor any polemical tracts involving the eugenic inferiority of Brazilian food. Simply chunks of half-bean, half-regret.
I left the plate as it was in the sink. Didn’t have time to eat the chicken nuggets, but I don’t like them that much anyway. When I finally came home last night, my mother seemed much happier than usual. She didn’t push for dinner as much as she would have any other day. I noticed no political ads for hotdogs on the evening news. Very few campaign buttons for rice and beans were to be found in the living room. No one was offended when I ate only one plate of feijoada. A weight was lifted from both of our shoulders. Things were looking up.
Somewhere, a lamb slept.
It’s not so much the quality of the food-the general consensus is that feijoada is less weather-stripping and more chicken feed-nor is there any lack of fascination for the diversity of cuisine, which runs the gamut from rice and beans to rice and beans and salad, all served with a hearty side order of cheese bread and rice and beans. It’s the overabundance in our houses. Specifically, it’s the expectation that we, either as growing students or gluttonous Americans, will consume three plates of rice and beans (my personal favorite variety) at every sitting.
Food has always been the principal barrier between my Brazilian host families and me. I was never sure why, but I figure it has something to do with the relative lack of responsibilities that they have with us. If they keep us alive in São Paulo, they’re already ahead of the curve. And it’s not that I simply don’t eat the food at all, or make a disgusted face whenever I’m presented with another round of rice and beans. The mothers simply assume that if we don’t eagerly accept seconds or thirds, there is an implied personal vendetta. Some sort of blood pact has been made against the household, one that likely involves a virgin lamb, which might go well with a pot of rice and beans. The level of distrust peaks. Their mind races, quickly examining all the possibilities in the most disjointed logistical clusterfuck that there ever was: “This child won’t consume my food; is it something I wore yesterday? Did I not explain well enough that this plate or rice and beans with chicken bones is a delicacy in my country? But they just finished a plate of two pounds of food and seemed satisfied. But was that satisfaction real? Maybe they feel superior to our traditions of second helpings. Maybe they hate my cooking. Maybe they hate me. I need to call the program director about this. I won’t be washing your favorite underwear this week, just wait and see.”
And so the litany of excuses unfolds itself, each one more self-indulging and megalomaniacal than the last. I don’t eat everything in the pot, and so I am an ingrate. I don’t come into the kitchen at all hours to eat snacks, and so I will not live through the winter. I don’t eat anything besides chicken nuggets, and so I don’t sufficiently appreciate Brazilian cuisine. Only, I appreciate the cuisine well enough to covertly enter the kitchen late at night and realize that the freezer is always and inevitably stocked with only one type of food: chicken nuggets.
But I had my revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge. During lunch yesterday, I was in a hurry to catch the bus to go to school. I took a long time to wake up and get ready, and didn’t have much time to eat. Already at strike one, I entered the kitchen and found a plate of rice and beans and hotdogs. My second favorite Brazilian dish. I felt compelled, as I always do, to finish the entire plate to please my mother and avoid another tearful argument when I came home later that night. So I made a rush job of eating. Strike two: you can never go too slowly when dealing with rice and beans and hotdogs. Scraping the plate, I consumed nearly everything in less than five minutes. I opened my mouth to finish one of the last few bites of some sort of chimerical hotdog-bean residue, when I reached strike three, and it was out.
The food, that is-vomit covered the entire plate. There was no warning; I simply “chamei Raul.” After I had spewed various chunks of rice and beans, and picked some hotdog crumbs off my front teeth, I realized that the event had the potential to be a watershed moment in the history of international food relations. Here was biological proof that I don’t have the capacity to consume everything that I am offered. There was not a trace of lamb blood, nor any polemical tracts involving the eugenic inferiority of Brazilian food. Simply chunks of half-bean, half-regret.
I left the plate as it was in the sink. Didn’t have time to eat the chicken nuggets, but I don’t like them that much anyway. When I finally came home last night, my mother seemed much happier than usual. She didn’t push for dinner as much as she would have any other day. I noticed no political ads for hotdogs on the evening news. Very few campaign buttons for rice and beans were to be found in the living room. No one was offended when I ate only one plate of feijoada. A weight was lifted from both of our shoulders. Things were looking up.
Somewhere, a lamb slept.