Split Pea Pie

“I’ll make a pumpkin pie and an apple pie”, I said. How hard could it be, really?  I’d just bought something that was smaller, greener, harder shelled, and more ridged than a pumpkin at the market the week before, and it was remarkably pumpkin like inside.

Sundays are market days, and the streets were overflowing with vendors. I walked down a crowded lane, fruit displays, papaya, pineapple, granadillas, strawberries, and some fruits I couldn’t even identify forming haphazard towers.  I restacked an orange I’d knocked to the ground as I brushed past and headed past vegetables: tomatoes, red peppers, onions, eggplants and broccoli. I wasn’t noticing any pumpkin-like squash. I headed into the covered market, made a detour to one of the stalls in the back that sells candles and then zig-zagged through past kitchen goods, dried peppers, cheap clothes, fresh fish and more vegetables.  Still no sign of pumpkins.

Outside, and close to giving up, I finally spotted something that looked like a cross between a butternut squash and a watermelon. It just might do the trick. “What color is it inside?” I asked the lady selling it. “Black”, she answered off-handedly. “Black?!”  I asked, surprise in my voice, as my mind mentally cataloged every vegetable dish I’ve ever been served at Guatemalan restaurants and failing to bring a single black squash to mind. But, she continued to insist that it was black, and when I told her I was looking for one that was orange inside and asked if she had any, she pulled another odd shaped winter squash from under some lettuce and presented it to me.  It looked pretty much like the other. “It might be black, it might be orange,” she shrugged, then nicked the outside skin, revealing some pale orange flesh underneath.

I took my pumpkin substitute home and tried to hack it open with my kitchen knife.  When it finally split, I looked at it in consternation.  Blackish green goop and dark greyish green flesh were what the inner layer looked like, only the very outside of the squash was orange at all.  But, I had a pie to make, so I cut it into pieces and stuck it on the stove to boil. 

As I scooped the softened flesh from the shell to make puree I almost stopped the experiment then.  The green vastly overwhelmed the orange and this was going to be the strangest “pumpkin” pie ever.  But, I had just spent an hour buying it, hacking it apart, and boilng it til it was soft enough, and it smelled and tasted pumpkiny enough so I threw it into the blender, and continued my recipe anyway.

Several hours later, my no bake, pea-soup “pumpkin” pie was chilled and ready to go.  And green notwithstanding, I’m thankful that a little bit of cinnamon and nutmeg go a long way towards transforming a mystery squash into a very tasty and almost convincing “pumpkin” pie.

Who is my neighbor?

Image used under Open Government License from Wikimedia

Now, hundreds in Paris are mourning the loss of a loved one. Now, thousands of Syrians flee from terror in their homeland. And while profiles on facebook supportively turn white, red, and blue in solidarity with our neighbors in France, thirty-one US governors symbolically slam the door on these other neighbors from Syria in need.

And my heart breaks. It breaks for those in France. It breaks for refugees who faced horrors we can't even imagine, only to be told they aren't welcome. It breaks because of the fear that wants to keep out those with nowhere else to go. And it breaks that some who call themselves followers of Christ seem to so completely forget his words.

“Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life? He said to him, “What is written in the Law? . . ,” And he answered, “You shall love. . . your neighbor as yourself.” And he said to him, “You have answered correctly; do this, and you will live.” But he, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Fear speaks loudly. But love can speak louder. And sometimes a story can break down walls.

They welcomed me into their living room, this family who'd arrived as refugees years ago.  "Have you eaten yet?", the mother asked. "No, but I will eat when I get home".  "No, no. Look, we have food left from dinner.  Do you eat chicken? Let me heat it up for you."  Passionately, she told me about her dreams for her two daughters, her love evident in every word. She lit up as she told me how wonderful it felt to see her daughter learn to read. She told me how she narrated stories to her children in her first language so they would grow up multilingual, even though the language she most wanted them to become fluent in was the one of the country they were now living in. 

This was a story of love, of family, a story any mother can relate to.

Jesus replied, “A man . . . fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road, and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was. . .

Their mother went on to tell me how she wanted her children to know where they came from and be proud of who they are. "Your identity is made up of foundation posts- your culture, your personality, your language and your religion" She continued, faith radiating from her as she spoke, of her Muslim beliefs, the way her heart responds in faith, and how she hopes to pass her beliefs on to her children.

Now this story, like that of the Good Samaritan, takes a turn that isn't quite as easy to relate to. The Jews, listening to Jesus' story, would have been suspicious when the Samaritan arrived on the scene. After all, their faith was not to be trusted.  And too often, we can have the same uncomfortable, suspicious knee jerk reaction to the Muslim faith. 

. . . and when [the Samaritan] saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, ‘Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.’ Which of these three, do you think, proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?” He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” And Jesus said to him, “You go, and do likewise.”

But just as the Samaritan proved to be a neighbor, this lovely woman and her family I met showed this same ability to be neighbors, to show compassion, to love. The boundaries of religion do not mark who is or isn't our neighbor.

We cannot beat hate with more hate. Only love conquers hate.

This is the America I want to be part of:

"Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome. . ." 

(excerpt from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus)

(Writing a blog post seemed an insufficient response to a crisis of these proportions, so I hopped over to Ann Voskamp's blog A Holy Experience and followed one of her suggestions. If you'd like to know a way you can respond, she has a list of practical suggestions and trustworthy organizations you can contribute to here)

Kites and Umbrellas

Halloween festivities started off unexpectedly, in the middle of trivia night. “And this week, the physical challenge is to wrap one of your team mates as a zombie using an entire roll of toilet paper”. My face may have lit up like a jack-o-lantern with the surprising silliness of the task. Cheap toilet paper and a damp night worked against us, as we tried every method we could think of to wrap our “mummy”. When speed didn’t seem to work for us, we decided to go for the “best looking” bonus points. Carefully folding torn pieces back into the wrappings, and draping the remaining bits over her head, we stood back in triumph as our mummy was declared the best.


Now I was all geared up for Halloween, with one tiny problem- I had a costume ready to go, but nowhere to wear it to. But turned out Jamie was more or less in the same boat, so Friday night I booked a hostel in Antigua for the next day and went to bed, my inner child happy to finally have a costume party (and some other fun) to look forward to.


Saturday night, I slipped into my skirt, pulled on stockings, carefully pulled my hair back in a bun…each step in my transformation tugging me closer and closer to song. By the time I picked up my carpet bag and had a trial run with my unfurled umbrella, I couldn’t help it anymore. “It’s a jolly holiday with Mary, Mary makes your heart grow bright! . . .” We headed out into the streets, the skeleton and Mary Poppins, headed off to find dinner. Zombie brides, Mario and Luigi, assorted Minnie Mouses and a giant baby bobbed past in a thick stream of people. Everyone in Antigua seemed to be out, and ¾ of them were in costume. Scratch that. Everyone in all of Guatemala seemed to be out in Antigua. I’d never seen the streets so crowded here. We stood in line to get into a club as I came to terms with an undercurrent of disappointment- there were no Reese’s Peanut butter cups, or snickers bars for that matter, anywhere in my near future. Seriously, who wants beer on Halloween? They should have a bowl of candy out at the bar. But, since adults trick-or-treating seems to be frowned upon, I people watched from the balcony of the crowded club instead. Two girls came up to me. “Excuse me, can we take a picture with you? Your costume is great!” Ok, even if they didn’t give me candy, my evening was made. I felt like a minor celebrity. As we moved back outside where the people watching was better, my feeling of celebrity status continued “Mommy, mommy, is that Mary Poppins?” a little girl asked insistently. I couldn’t help but sing snatches of Mary Poppin’s songs when I heard people mention Mary Poppins as I passed. After a few more rounds of photos in the park (we’d joined up with some friends of Jamie’s, one of whom, Aladdin himself, on his flying carpet, had big-time celebrity status) I headed back to the hostel, singing as I went “Oh a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down!”


The next day we headed to Sumpango, a small town known for its giant kite festival. Every year on November 1st, people in Guatemala fly kites in memory of loved ones who have died and to frighten evil spirits away. In Sumpango, we were bombarded with color. Each kite takes hundreds of hours to create. Their intricate designs are made out of a mosaic of tissue paper, with some of the finer details painted by hand.

Kites, 2 or 3 times as tall as I am, pulled against the stands that held them upright, filling whenever there was a gust of wind. The message on one of the kites caught my eye- "there is no valid reason to take a child's childhood away". Contrasted with the harsh reality portrayed in the design- a shoe shine boy, a boy with a heavy pack on his back, a girl grinding corn with a mortar and pestle- it brought tears to my eyes.

We stopped to watch as one team glued their kite to its frame and another got ready to use pulleys to lever their's into position. We were coated in a fine layer of dust as we walked through the field, the sun glaring down from a perfect blue sky. Ice cream vendors strolled through the rows of kites (exactly what I needed on such a warm, sunny day), and stalls selling grilled meat with sides of tortillas and guacamole surrounded the field (exactly what I didn't need on a slightly upset stomach). Families were picnicking on the lawn, sprawled in the shade under the bleachers, clustered on plastic chairs under food tent pavilions. And over it all, smaller kites dotted the sky.



Eventually we headed back home, where I happily collapsed into my own bed and felt extremely happy that the next day was a holiday and I didn't have to leave the house.



I’m thankful for silliness
I’m thankful for weekend plans
I’m thankful for excuses to wear costumes and sing in the street
I’m thankful for living in a country that has rich, unique traditions
I’m thankful for rest