I'm starting this post from a deliciously comfortable reclining chair at an AirB&B in Panajachel. A vase of cheerful daisies perches on a traditional table cloth in front of me. The walls are painted a soft, textured yellow, and a neglected flat screen TV sulks opposite nap-inducing chair. The refrigerator hums softly in the kitchen, and I find myself oddly soothed by a sound that used to get under my skin.
Because it means that I can keep butter and yogurt and cheese and milk and -- oh, god. The glorious hum of the refrigerator signifies the probability of dairy.
The stairs to my left lead to the two upstairs bedroom, one in which Cathy and John are probably sleeping by now.
I'm enjoying this chair too much to sleep. And I will probably continue to enjoy it until quite late. It isn't often that this girl has chairs as comfortable as this in which to plunk away at her blog.
Yesterday was our last full day in Antigua. A day which commenced with a brilliant breakfast prepared by Cathy. Prepared by Cathy in a kitchen with hardly enough counter space to murder a baby carrot. Yet Cathy managed to produce a spectacular plate of tropical fruit --
-- and fried up some eggs on a stove which adamantly insisted that cooking eggs was above its paygrade.
"Welcome to Guatemala," I told Cathy. This is what I tell everyone when either, a) something or someone is inordinately late, and b) something just doesn't work. In this case, the stove didn't work and the eggs were late.
Which makes this a very Guatemalan breakfast indeed.
"There's only one light bulb in this lamp," John noticed a lamp that had space for three bulbs, but barely managed to illuminate the room with its lone bulb.
"Welcome to Guatemala," I told John.
Breakfast greedily devoured (turns out that slow-cooked eggs are fucking phenomenal), we headed into town. John to a historical tour of the city, and Cathy and I to a cooking class.
"I requested to make tamales, radish salad, and stuffed fried veggies with a deep fried bread dessert," Cathy informed me about our upcoming adventure en la cocina.
"Great, let me just make sure I have the exact location on my phone. I don't want to get lost for this one," I said, double and triple checking the address and surrounding landmarks of the school.
But of course, the school was not where the map had said it would be. So I popped into a tour agency, trying not to look desperate --
I CAN'T SCREW THIS UP. Not after the museum fiasco yesterday.
-- and asked the agent, in my broken Spanish, where the cooking school was. And when Cathy and I finally walked through its misplaced doors, I gave her a hug.
"We found it. We found something. Hallelujah."
I may or may not have been supremely relieved.
"Today we will be making pepian, beetroot salad, sweet and sour atol, carrot rice, tortillas, and a dessert with plantains and chocolate," the fellow translating the class informed us.
"Not one thing on your list," I whispered to Cathy.
"Well, they did say it could change based on what was in season..." Cathy shrugged her shoulders.
"Welcome to Guatemala," I replied.
"You can wash your hands and choose whatever color of apron you like," the interpreter told us.
Cathy chose neon pink. I chose neon green. And wished I had enough room in Fat Ellie to lug around a neon green apron.
Cathy volunteered for the most labor intensive/stressful job. Cathy was in charge of reducing beautiful, vibrant veggies into smoldering piles of char.
"Don't turn it so much," the interpreter interrupted Cathy's overly-active tongs. "They need to burn."
"But isn't this enough?" Cathy appeared afflicted. "I usually accidentally burn things at home, and now I have to do it on purpose. This is so stressful..."
The smell of the burning tomatoes, tomatillos, onion and cilantro smelled divine.
The smell of the carbonized chilies sent all of us into coughing fits.
All the ingredients burned to our teacher's satisfaction (and Cathy's dismay), we plopped everything in a blender and pushed "on". And unless you've had to ride a bicycle for six months straight to blend your soups and salsas, you probably don't fully appreciated the awesomness of the "on" button.
We did our best to create little bundles of chocolate and plantains, but the insides oozed intrepidly into the pan.
And finally, we had to make tortillas.
And our tortillas, oh goodness... our tortillas were magnificent.
They were diverse. In texture. In size. In shape. In... uh... color (I wasn't able to get all the beetroot out of my hands, so my tortillas were a little on the pink side).
Why? Why do people make tortillas all the same, boring perfect discs of corn when they could make tortillas like THIS?
Our teacher was very impressed by our magnificent tortillas. Clearly. Because who wouldn't be?
"Un día seré muy famosa en toda Guatemala por mis tortillas rosadas," I told our teacher.
We finally ate lunch. And it was brilliant. Even if it wasn't the tamales, radish salad, stuffed fried veggies, and deep fried bread that Cathy had requested.
Yup. Welcome to Guatemala.
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