Our home is a temple, kind of

Some people say their home is a temple. Ours actually is, although it doesn’t look like it. Our apartment shares space with an evangelical church which has loud, exhuberant services on Sunday mornings and Wednesday and Friday nights.

Our apartment and the church together make up the first floor of Roberto and Christina’s house, but we rent the apartment from Manos Amigas. Our apartment used to be their office until they built a giant warehouse across the street and moved their operations there. They used the church and Sunday school room for packing, which was a nice way to constantly use the space.

The layout is such that the church has two rooms: a converted single car garage which shares a wall with our apartment, and a room with a bathroom and tables and chairs for Sunday school... which looks into our bedrooms. 

The first Sunday after we moved in to the apartment, I was surprised when I walked into our bedroom and saw Sunday School going on, several feet away.

The view from Simon's room: the bathroom

Since the garage is not used for a car but for the sanctuary, Roberto and Christina’s car is parked in what might have previously been a small garden space directly in front of our apartment, close enough that Simon and Giuseppe make faces to each other, Simon in our apartment, Giuseppe inside the car. 

Waving goodbye to Giuseppe

When there is someone at church with strong perfume or cologne, and there often is, we can smell it instantly. When they clean with bleach, we get the fumes, since there aren’t many places for those fumes to go, save our apartment.

And so it is with the noise, too: while people are praying, singing, drumming, crying, shouting, and sobbing, it’s as if they are in the kitchen with us. It is disconcerting at times; it can be downright annoying at others, such as at Simon’s bedtime on Wednesdays and Fridays while drumming and loud, off-key singing ricochet through our apartment.

Simon and I used to escape on Sunday mornings and go swimming at the municipal pool in Barranco. But now it’s winter and the pool is closed for the season. So we make up other adventures for Sunday mornings. Last week we were en route to a park and passed a Catholic church. Simon stopped, parked himself on the sidewalk, and watched the priests do complicated things up at the altar. Maybe he wants to be in church more than I do!

Our little church-goer

The best part about living in this apartment is the proximity to Giuseppe. Simon hears the lock turning for Giuseppe to go to school, and he bolts over to the door to say hi and show him a book or toy. They giggle and poke each other through the bars while Christina loads the car and unlocks the car door. Giuseppe likes to put various stuffed animals on Simon’s head, which Simon thinks is the funniest thing ever. Then he’s off to school and Simon resumes breakfast, satisfied at several minutes with his friend.

The harder parts have been no access to outdoor space (usually solved by walking to a park), internet issues (Mario likes to randomly turn off our internet at critical times), and privacy (such as during several house projects, like painting the house and refinishing the bars on the windows, which have made me feel a little claustrophobic at times).

The workers used the parking space as their work area when they chipped off all of the paint - by hand - off of all of the bars from the windows. This took about three weeks, from start to finish, and was slightly awkward for them and us the entire time.

When the house was painted, the scaffolding blocked our door for a day or so. Yannina had warned us, saying, "don't worry, you can just crawl through." Luckily every time we needed to exit or enter, the painter moved the scaffolding slightly to allow us to slip in or out.

Can you imagine painting like this?! Not only had he been painting while standing on half of a ladder, unsecured, propped up on the scaffolding, but here he is holding on to the bars on the windows while he paints around them!

While there are many, many things I will miss about living in Peru, our apartment and its attendant issues are not among them. It’s been perfect for this year, but I will love returning to our backyard and the peaceful quiet - every single day and night of the week - of our neighborhood.

Monument worthy

In the town square in Urubamba, in the middle of the Sacred Valley, the anchor for the main plaza was not a huge statue of a Peruvian revolutionary or military hero. It was a monument of a giant corncob. Now that is my kind of monument, one dedicated to food!

I wondered out loud to Sam what my monument would be to, were I to build one. Garlic? Guacamole? I started listing off all the foods I have missed and am excited to eat within  days or hours of returning to Indianapolis.

Sam looked at me as if I were crazy. “You don’t know? Think!” He gave me a minute to remember. “Your monument would be to ice cream!” Of course!

Accordingly, for my birthday, we went to my favorite ice cream place here and ate lots and lots of ice cream. From the presentation to the tiny spoons, it was wonderful.

Now this is my kind of bowl of ice cream - huge!

Punctuating the experience was Simon cheerfully chirping his birthday wishes: “Happy Mommy! Happy Mommy!” With a huge bowl of delicious ice cream and a lovely family, I am definitely a happy mommy.

Even Simon is wowed by the size of our bowl!

You have nothing to fear but a class of high school students (Celebrating World Fair Trade Day, part 2)

In March, Yannina told me she wanted to visit a class to celebrate World Fair Trade Day in May. “Kids are the ones who grow up to change things, so better we talk to them about fair trade than organize a march or something.” Sounded good to me. We discussed her ideas for a presentation to an elementary school class, confirmed that Sam and I would go with Yannina to present, that Sam and I would plan the presentation, but that we would all deliver it together and that we would have an artisan to demonstrate his or her craft and talk with the students.

I went with her to a school meeting to present our ideas to the administration and we left with two dates in May to present to the 5th grade. Since they weren’t keen on Simon coming along, Sam or I needed to stay behind each day. Therefore, Sam and Yannina were to do the first presentation on Thursday, in English, and Yannina and I would do the second one on Friday, in Spanish.

I worked on our presentation. One day, I was asking Yannina about different May dates we had held in our calendars for various Manos Amigas responsibilities. As she went through her calendar, she gasped. “Dios mio! I am scheduled to go to Lurín with a college group all day on the 25th, the same day that you and I are going to the high school. Ay! What should we do?”  I looked at her blankly, not really sure what I should say. I was pretty sure that “Let’s cancel it” wasn’t an appropriate response.

“High school?” I said. “I thought it was 5th grade.”
“Yes,” she said, “5th grade of high school.”

I didn’t quite get it. “How old are the students?” I asked. “10?”
“Oh, no! They’re 16 or 17.” She thought for a minute. “Christina can go with you.”

Based on the lack of communication at Manos Amigas, I wondered when and if Christina would find out about this. Probably the morning of, I thought. Ok, whatever. My new worry was that I was presenting to a class of high school students.

The next week, Yannina told me that Christina wouldn’t be able to go to the high school presentation with me. “What should we do?” she wondered. Argh! ¿Por qué? ¡Porque Perú!
A: “You are sure that I’ll have an artisan with me, though, right?” 
Y: “Yes! Yes! Of course! Rosa will come. I will call her right now.”

I wondered why she was asking the artisan that lived the farthest away – 2 hours by car – to come to the presentation, when there were far more that were closer and could speak to fair trade just as well.

But at this point I felt helpless. I was about to be set loose in front of a class of high school students who would mock my Spanish, or my clothes, or my hair, whatever – they are high school students! they are ruthless! I remember! – and I would have no official-fluent-Manos Amigas-kind-soul there to save me.

A: “What do I do if Rosa doesn’t show up on time?”
Y: “I will tell her to arrive to your apartment at 8:30, so she will be there by 8:45. Then you can take a taxi and get to the school on time.” Yannina seemed so confident that it would all work out that I figured it was worthless to try nail down details, phone numbers, backup meeting places, etc.

I tried not to worry that I was
1) DELIVERING A PRESENTATION,
2) TO HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS,
3) IN SPANISH, and
4) ALONE.

Any one of those by itself would be fear-inducing to me, let alone four of them together!

I prepared for the class, wrote out what I wanted to say, practiced, etc. In some ways I was excited to deliver a speech in Spanish. It was something I would be proud of myself for doing afterwards, but dreading right up until it ended.

And so it went. Sam and Yannina’s presentation went fine. Sam had adapted a presentation that one of his volunteers had designed for students, an activity where they were the artisans and had to buy materials, create a product, and sell it for a pretty low price. They didn’t end up having an artisan with them, but Sam’s activity was excellent enough that it didn’t matter. The teacher also didn’t pick them up from the office until 15 minutes into the class, so they didn’t have all of their time to present anyway!

I hadn’t planned to do Sam’s activity since I am not as fluent in the language of fair trade as he is, and I would have a hard time facilitating a conversation about the principles of fair trade (in English, let alone in Spanish) and how they related to their artisan activity. Instead, I was planning to split my presentation three ways: who Manos Amigas was/what they did; have the students present each of the 10 fair trade principles and I’d give an example of how Manos Amigas complied with each one; and the interview with Rosa.

On the morning of my class , I took a taxi to the school once Rosa hadn’t shown up. (I called Yannina every so often to see if I should keep waiting for Rosa or if I could leave yet, and each time she promised Rosa was “only 5 minutes away!”). I got to the school several minutes before the class started, thankfully met Rosa at the security desk, and went in.

In general, I am good about having a poker face while frightened, so while I was super nervous, I tried to be friendly and joke around with the students as I set up my presentation and attempted to involve them with questions, mostly met with silence. I went through my presentation, full of colorful pictures of the different products Manos Amigas sells, who the artisans are, to which countries Manos Amigas sells.

I had budgeted about 15 minutes for Rosa to deliver her presentation and explain more about her products, fair trade, etc, and had reviewed it with Yannina beforehand. I’m not sure Rosa knew, though. I had a number of questions to ask Rosa in case she was quiet, and had given her about six to answer as her presentation. But I didn’t have nearly enough questions prepared!

Rosa was mute. The class was mute. Even the teacher was mute! I had thought he was my ace in the hole, having provided him with questions to ask Rosa if the students didn’t have any of their own. “OK, great,” he said. “Thanks for giving me that.” But then he asked only one, despite my prodding. I kept asking questions, trying to pull more of her fascinating story out for the students, but I didn’t do a compelling enough job to get anyone talking. She showed the class two or three of the dozens of products she had brought, and they were impressed.

But their favorite part of the presentation by far was when Rosa answered a cell phone call while I was asking her a question.

And so, when we had 10 silent minutes to go, I thanked the class and we left. The class gave us a round of applause, which echoed down the hall and stairway as we slowly walked out. I felt so bad that Rosa had traveled so far, bringing lots of samples, but with so little actual interaction with the students.

On my bus ride home, I thought through several things I could have done differently. I’ll make those changes for my next high school presentation… which will be never!

Celebrating World Fair Trade Day, part 1

Yannina decided that Manos Amigas would celebrate World Fair Trade Day (the second Saturday in May) in two ways. The first was to rent a booth (with the rest of the Peruvian members of the WFTO) at a downtown small-business fair to distribute flyers and talk about fair trade with passersby. The second was to visit a school to talk about fair trade. That gets its own separate post, later this week.

The booth space at the fair was theirs for four days, and each of the seven Peruvian WFTO member organizations drew lots for the time it needed to staff the booth. Yannina asked us to cover Manos Amigas’ time, the first day from 9-2. It was obvious Yannina was super stressed with getting orders filled and packed, and we were happy to help provide her with much-desired time in the office.

As with everything else, it was pretty haphazardly “organized” but came together at the last minute. At 5 pm the day before, Yannina wondered out loud if we should distribute anything about Manos Amigas. She finally decided we should give out Christina’s business cards, but we needed to remember to correct the email address on the cards before distributing them.

She also gave us a giant stuffed llama to display (each organization had agreed to bring a large, eye-catching object to draw in people), and as we were leaving really early the next morning to set up, we got to take the llama home with us overnight.

Simon loved having the llama in our apartment, gave it many hugs and pats, and asked if the llama could be part of storytime before bed. Sam acquiesced. He even read them one of Simon’s favorites, Is Your Mama a Llama? The llama listened attentively.

The next morning, we got to take a taxi since the giant llama wouldn’t travel well on a bus. We’d probably have to pay its fare, too!

We got to the booth much later than expected, but it didn’t matter. While we thought we were the only ones staffing the WFTD booth, there were seven other people from four other organizations, slowly putting their organizations’ materials up. We had only the llama to contribute to the setup, and everyone was content to work alone to put their materials out, so we played around until the booth was finished at noon, 3 hours after it was supposed to open.

Right next to our booth was a little gathering space, and when a seemingly random dance show preceding a public health presentation started up, we were among the riveted watchers.

The finished booth, at noon

One of the booth walls. The other organizations brought beautiful photos and materials displaying their work.

The flyering was great, though. We talked to probably 50 people between 12-2 and distributed Christina’s business cards. At 1:30 one of the organizations arrived with some brochures we could hand out, which were excellent, except that Manos Amigas’ email address had a typo. Oh well.

What I was particularly surprised by was how many of the people we talked to were artisans themselves. How can I be part of fair trade, they would ask. We would give them the brochure, which included all the contact information for all seven members, and tell them to bring product samples to each one, after calling. 

Sam kept Simon asleep during part of our shift. Fermín, one of my favorite artisans, period, stopped by the booth for awhile as he is a member of APTEC, a member of the WFTO.

I am curious to know if they - potential producers - were the intended target audience for the flyering, or if the group had wanted to reach potential consumers of fair trade instead. Regardless, hopefully each organization is ready for the onslaught of people who may call now, looking for ways to sell their products.

Another cup of tea?

As part of his generally helpful nature, Simon likes to help me make myself a cup of coffee in the morning. It's my "congratulations for getting up hours before you would like to be up" treat and therefore has milk and sugar in it. Simon spoons in the sugar, usually asking if he can put a little bit more in after I say enough, then I pour a little milk into a cup, which he then pours into my mug. He stirs it all together and starts tasting it. We judge when a perfect coffee-sugar-milk ratio has been achieved and then he sneaks about five (admittedly tiny) spoonfuls more, then we move on to another early morning activity, thusly fortified by our coffee.

Ratio perfection has been achieved.

I wasn't surprised that Simon enjoys the coffee ritual, since it’s something we do every day (since Sam and I both really like good, strong coffee) and Simon can help out with it by spooning coffee grounds into the filter with me, telling me what step to do next, etc.

But tea is not exactly as popular of a guest in our house. I have started drinking a lot more of it now, since it's cold and wintry (for Lima, anyway) and I don’t drink coffee after breakfast. At a coffee shop a couple of weeks ago, I ordered rooibos tea and Simon asked to try some. I figured a sip couldn’t hurt, so I let him have one. Then he drank two cupfuls!

Several evenings later he saw me make myself a cup of mint tea, and he asked for some too. Now I get a kick that he appears to have mostly forgotten about helping with the coffee (which definitely makes making the coffee go that much quicker) and he requests tea when I start making coffee.

He likes to drink his tea with his breakfast. I think it is especially funny when he gives it a two-thumbs-up designation, which he learned several weeks ago when a man on the bus really liked that Simon recognized the Peru brand on his shirt. He was very animated, giving Simon two thumbs up and saying, ¡Muy bien! ¡Muy bien! repeatedly. Since then Simon has been busting out two thumbs up when he hears us say ¡Muy bien! or when he really likes something.

Simon's current favorite breakfast drinks: tea, jugo, and yogurt.

Two thumbs up!

Sam, worried that perhaps tea was not the best thing for Simon to drink, did some quick research and ensured that unsweetened mint tea was just fine for him. I think it is quite funny that every other toddler in the world is probably asking for more juice or soda, but this one is begging for another cup of tea.

A shining path to terror

A question we routinely ask during our artisan interviews is where the artisans are from, and, as it’s most often outside of Lima, why they moved here. The answer most frequently given is, “because of the terrorism”. Their answers don’t go much farther than that. I usually don’t press them for more info, not wanting to be rude or pry, but I often wondered what that meant. Their answer was abstract, until we went to the 6th floor of the Museo de la Nación.


Between 1980 and 2000, the Shining Path, or Sendero Luminoso, took over towns and entire regions of Peru, killing and “disappearing” people indiscriminately in their quest to abolish the governmental structure and institute something akin to anarchy. Peru had long been governed by the military, but the first democratically elected government had just taken power in 1980. This new government was loathe to send in the army to quell the senderistas, concerned that granting the military this authority would reempower it.


Several years into the conflict, the government finally couldn’t justify ignoring the senderistas any longer and sent in the military. Unfortunately, the military didn’t act differently than the senderistas, racking up massacres, rapes and disappearances of their own.


No one could trust anyone else – perhaps you were really a senderista out to intimidate or kill them, for whatever reason. If someone was from the government militia, that was zero guarantee that they were there to help. In fact, you could almost count on the opposite.


Complicating matters was another guerrilla group, the MRTA (the Tupac Amarú Revolutionary Movement). Although they appear to have acted on a much smaller scale and took responsibility for their actions, they were nonetheless responsible for bombings, taking hostages, and raids. (Now that I have read more about the MRTA’s takeover of the Japanese embassy in 1996-7, I wonder if one of my favorite novels, Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto, is based on that experience. There are so many factual similarities. If you are looking for an excellent and beautifully written book to read this summer, pick up Bel Canto!)


As the violence picked up and casualties mounted in the early 1980s, families started sending their children to live with relatives in Lima, or relocating the whole family here. This gave Lima another in what had been a series of population explosions, and was ill-equipped to handle the flood of refugees. Many people made a home wherever they could, in the sands in Lurín, shanty towns in Chorrillos, in slums in the middle of the city, or on mountain hillsides, without water or electricity. 


Once in Lima, life didn’t necessarily improve, as many migrants were not only living in squalid conditions but were also met with suspicion and hostility, as Limeños were worried that the new migrants were senderistas themselves.


Things came to an end, mostly, by 2000 through brutal and questionable methods. The Fujimori government had cracked down hard on the senderistas, through corrupt and illegal techniques and racked up many human rights abuses in the process. Eventually, enough of the senderista leadership was captured or killed that it was paralyzed as a government “reform” organization.


The Sendero Luminoso still exists today, but is now primarily a cocaine smuggling operation. My Spanish teacher, Silvia, says that the senderistas still control certain areas of Peru, and I frequently read headlines about senderista activity. But it doesn’t seem as emotionally or fearfully charged now as it was several decades ago. (Of course, I’m not sure whether the people who live in the areas with active senderista involvement would agree with that.) A recent set of headlines has revolved around the revelation that a current senderista leader is recruiting and using children as soldiers, with perhaps 80 children under his command.


Once Fujimori fled the country in 2000 to escape prison (although not for long; he’s currently incarcerated here), the next president established a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Between 2001 and 2003, the Commission held public meetings, collected testimonies, and completed much research.


Through their investigations, they determined that nearly 70,000 people were killed during what is now called “the internal conflict”. Nearly half of the deaths was attributed to the senderistas, an almost equal amount was attributed to the army, and a small percentage was attributed to the MRTA. The Commission also made recommendations for reforms in their final report, in which they noted that the Sendero Luminoso and the Peruvian army were major perpetrators of human rights abuses. They called out the Catholic Church, so important in Peru, for its steadfast determination to look the other way instead of taking a stand against these abuses.


The Commission culled photos and videos from news sources, individuals, and the government to create an archive, called Yuyanapaq (“to remember” in Quechua). And now, on the 6th floor of the Museo de la Nación, that archive is open to the public, a gripping and graphic exhibit of just how far people can go when power or zeal overtakes them and the people are powerless to stop them.


By law, to incorporate a business in Peru, you need three people, called socios. Manos Amigas was formed by Yannina, her brother Roberto, and their mother, Angélica. My Spanish school, Elelatina, was formed by my teacher/the director and two of her siblings. Learning more about Peruvian history makes me wonder whether having family businesses is a ramification of the internal conflict, because when you can’t trust anyone, you turn to your family.


It also makes me wonder if that is why, in the back of every notebook you could possibly buy, the 1948 United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights is printed.


Since learning more about what “the terrorism” meant, I’ve been more frank in asking questions when artisans mention it as their reason for leaving Ayacucho, one of the regions that was completely under senderista control. And it’s been scary and sad to hear more, but I’m thankful to learn more about what happened to them and why they were driven to seek a better life in Lima. Rosana’s father was murdered just after she turned 9. “He was the governor of the district, and the senderistas were looking for those in authority. So they killed him.” She was sent to live with an aunt in Lima soon after, for her safety. She later moved in with her father’s brother, after he and his family relocated to Lima when he received word that the senderistas were coming for him next.


Another artisan, Fredy, told us that he couldn’t wait to leave Ayacucho, since he had to spend his days hiding. “I had to leave before it got light out, and then spend days or nights in the mountains or in tunnels.” He finally came to Lima when he was 13. “The senderistas would come into a town at night. They would raid a home, kill all the old people, leave anyone younger than 3, and then kidnap or disappear everyone in between. The youngest ones were left to die. Some of my uncles, some cousins were disappeared. Some lived, some died.”

One of the final rooms in the exhibit features walls filled with quotes from participants in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission's  research. This one, very roughly translated, says, "All of the dead people had names and families, and the violence has reduced them to photos and memories. Let's not let their deaths be in vain. Let us please not forget!"

Melquiades and his wife

Melquiades and his wife have their wedding picture hung on their wall, their only adornment. (I am so, so sorry to not have her name as part of this post, but somehow I never caught her name during our visit, and when I later asked everyone what her name was, no one knew it.) 

We visit Melquiades on an excursion with Yannina, Mario, and Dieuwe, and while the adults are busy discussing product samples and the kids are running around, I am transfixed by the photo. They are so young and beautiful in it. Their whole lives lie ahead of them. I wonder what their plans and hopes were, and how often they look at their photo and remember them. 

They work together, producing retablos, scenes inside of eggshells, plaster stars, dried fruit skins, shells, or cardboard boxes.

Melquiades left home when he was 13, worked in a lead and zinc mine for several years until he was fed up with how he was treated. Then he began working full time in artesanía. 

He learned artesanía from his parents, then taught his wife so they could work together. As their six children grew up in and among the workshop, they learned too. Two of them now operate their own workshops. All live in Lurín, one of the southernmost districts of Lima.

It is an adventure just to get to Lurín. First, we take a bus across Miraflores, then Surco, to get to the Panamerican Highway, about 45 minutes away, depending on traffic. We walk down the ramp to the highway itself, then wait in the noise and congestion under the bridge for the right bus to come. It’s far, so the buses aren’t as frequent as we have come to expect (meaning that instead of waiting 2-3 minutes for our bus to come, we might wait 10-15 minutes). 

There are many people waiting for buses or taxis or colectivos there. For others, this is their place of work, where they sell candies or sodas to commuters. And there are beggars. The noise of the rushing traffic, so close to where we stand to wait, is deafening. I can’t imagine spending hours there, let alone every day, and I wince when I think about the permanent damage that might be happening to the babies and young children who accompany their mothers while they sell or beg.

Once we’re on the bus, the trip takes another 45 minutes. We go from congested city center to the outskirts where occasionally a giant trash fire spreads a huge plume of black smoke for miles. Buildings thin out and there is a giant sand dune to the left and the ocean to the right. Small restaurants line the coast and pedestrian bridges allow transport to the shacks and small businesses along the sand dune, which, if you climb it, brings you to Villa El Salvador. The bus leaves the highway and take a back road past a cemetery and religious retreat center, then pass archaeological ruins. Finally we approach Lurín. It’s a drastic change; it’s sand, sand, sand... until boom, a line in the sand is drawn and Lurín starts. 

Melquiades and his wife live about 15 minutes past the beginning of Lurín, in a small rented shack without running water. While they would eventually like to purchase their own land and build their own home, they currently do not have the means necessary to do so.

Before we leave, I ask them if I can take their picture with their wedding photo. They readily agree and stand solemnly beneath their young selves. Unfortunately, the glare from the incoming light obliterates their young images. Yet the image remains, at least in my memory.

Food, glorious food

Peruvian cuisine is getting a lot of attention these days, and I don’t exactly know why. It’s delicious, but then again, I tend to always love the food wherever we travel. Regardless, there is a lot of Peruvian pride for their culinary creations as well as the global focus on their ingredients and flavor combinations. 

Peppers, called aji, and corn (choclo) drying out

Papas waiting to be used at a restaurant... someone is trying to sneak his next round of papas!

The tastiest limonada on the planet... they throw the lime rind in the blender too.

Eating is such a highlight. It can also be nerve-wracking, between being celiac (and therefore constantly wondering if I can trust the waiter swearing up and down that there is zero gluten in whatever dish, wherever), and having two bouts of food poisoning a couple of months ago. That memory is still fresh. But mostly, we love the food. 

In a country where there are 84 different microclimates, the variety of food that is grown is sizable. Peru’s food has some interesting influences, from the coast and its plethora of fish and seafood, the mountains and its potatoes, quinoa, and amaranth, to China and Japan, of all places. Over a hundred thousand Chinese workers were recruited as contract laborers for sugar plantations and guano mines in the mid-1800s. The Japanese were recruited for work on cotton plantations around 1900. Just like immigrants everywhere, they brought their foods and techniques with them.

Chifas, Chinese food joints with a Peruvian twist, are everywhere. The vegetable vendors at the mercados sell wonton wrappers and bean sprouts. A popular appetizer is deep fried wonton rolls filled with cheese or avocado. Talk about a melting pot. Sushi and Japanese restaurants are pretty common in certain neighborhoods.

I’ve already written about ceviche and its prominence in Limeño cuisine. Also typical are causas, sculpted mashed potatoes filled or topped with some sort of salad, usually tuna or chicken salad. 

Causa with ceviche

Mom and I both ordered the vegetable causa, which was beautiful...

... but Dad's simple tuna causa tasted better.

Papas a la huacaina and Lomo saltado are two dishes that appear on nearly every restaurant menu, especially the menú del día (the lunchtime menu that is often a bargain, with several courses for a lot cheaper than they would be a la carte). The papas are boiled potatoes covered with a rich sauce made of aji amarillo, an orange, spicy pepper, and queso fresco. Lomo saltado is essentially a beef stir fry with tomatoes, red onions, and aji amarillo… and papas fritas. Somehow papas fritas worm their way into nearly every dish.

Indian food is our go-to comfort food back home, what pizza is to most people. Here it’s pollo a la brasa, rotisserie chicken. My guess is that pollerías are the second biggest restaurant category in Lima, assuming that cevicherías are number one. There are several giant pollería chains here, often occupying the same block, with of course many mom-and-pop pollerías rounding out the scene. The standard order is a whole chicken, roasted on a spit, which comes with salad, papas fritas and various salsas.

At this point we have sampled pollo a la brasa at many different places and swear allegiance to La Pollera (a play on words with pollería, but it means “skirt”). We stumbled across it shortly after we arrived and live 8 blocks away, which is dangerously close at times. We go every week or two, it’s always deserted when we go, and we always ask if we can sit on the closed-off second floor so that Simon can play in their fabulous playroom. We are such regulars there that the time their credit card machine broke and we didn’t have cash on us to pay, they said, “that’s ok, you’re here all the time, we know you are good for it.” I’m going to try to trade on that familiarity in a month or so when I ask to watch them make their salsas, particularly the chimichurri. It is so good that Simon, who loves ketchup as much as his mother and grandfather, has even been known to ignore his ketchup to dip his papas fritas in the chimichurri. If that isn’t a testament to its fabulousness, I’m not sure what is.

We actually don’t eat out all that often, although it certainly sounds otherwise in this post. I try to cobble together Peruvian dishes based on a food blog published by the national paper, a sampler cookbook Yannina & Mario gave me for Christmas, and what looks good in the mercado.

Zapallo macre is the giant squash at the mercado that I am scheming how to grow back home. 

This is a tiny zapallo macre. I've seen some that are as big as Simon!

I hadn’t realized how much Simon loved crema de zapallo (squash soup) until the time I ordered it as a restaurant – as my meal – and he finished the entire bowl, smiling and nodding his approval after every bite. So, I make it fairly frequently at our apartment, even more so now that it is turning cold. It’s so simple: a kilo of zapallo macre plus one yellow potato, cubed and in a little water, heated to boiling and then simmered until softened. Two red onions and four cloves garlic sautéed in some oil, adding in 2 cups of chicken broth later. 1 T curry is optional, S&P to taste. Blend everything in the blender. That’s it. I think some people also add milk or cream to it, but since the zapallo macre is really creamy by itself, it doesn’t need it. We eat it with avocado and queso fresco. ¡Buen provecho!