This year my Thanksgiving (only about 4 weeks before I managed to publish this post) revolved around pie crust. I find this to be an interesting fact since before this year, I had never made a pie crust. I always thought that they must be utterly impossible since everyone I know (except maybe my cousin Jennie) makes pie crust in the checkout line of the local grocery store.
I decided that I needed to do something to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family to try to share just a little part of my culture since they have so graciously shared all of theirs. I began with the idea of a standard pumpkin pie. Can you guess what the problem was? For any of you out there who don’t cook (like me), you might not realize that 95% of pumpkin pies in the US are made with pumpkin out of a can. Not only does pumpkin pie from a cannot exist in Guatemala, pumpkin as we know it doesn’t either.
I tamed my fear of making the pumpkin filling from scratch only to be told several times that making pumpkin pie from a vegetable resembling a squat, green pumpkin wouldn’t taste very good. It was suggested that I try sweet potato pie. I jumped right to that idea without any hesitation because not only does pumpkin pie need pumpkin from a can, most recipes also call for condensed milk (from a can). I remembered that I had decided on Day of the Dead that sweet potato is the closest translation for the vegetable kamote. It’s not quite as orange, but the flavor is about the same.
On Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, I went into Antigua with two other volunteers, two of us looking for American pie materials on market day. We waded through the people, squeezed through small halls jammed with people, vegetables and meat hanging from the ceiling trying to find courage to barter and buy kamote. We came to a more open section of the market where you could see more than the head of the person in front of you and the vendor next to you. There I purchased close to 6 pounds of sweet potato. I didn’t want to be lacking when I got home and I don’t know how to pick out only 2 pounds! We bought cinnamon and flour that were transferred from their giant bags to our little plastic ones. After a quick rest over chocolate milk at a small tourist restaurant Saberico, after our market day adventures, we boarded the chicken bus with our overflowing bags. We, tall, white, and light brown-haired girls, squeezed into the chicken bus with bags full of kamote. I can only imagine that we were an entertaining sight for the other bus riders (as usual).
It’s a good thing that I have two wonderful American grandparents who take care of me so well here in San Miguel Dueñas. Tom showed me how he makes pie crust on Wednesday before my big trial on Sunday night. They also lent me tools like a rolling pin and a musher thing (I clearly don’t ever bake in the States) that are rather important in the pie process. On Sunday night, I began my pies. Pie crusts are frustrating. They like to break and tear and stick to the rolling pin. But after a pretty close fight, I came out a little whiter for the flour, but a champion. My pie crusts weren’t beautiful, but they were certainly functional.
With the help of my family to beat eggs and mush up cooked and skinned kamote, all by hand, the pies were ready to be transported to the oven. I say transported, because the oven in my house doesn’t work. Guatemalans don’t really use ovens, but fortunately for me, my host aunt two houses over likes to make cakes. Tom, Elizabeth, and Cousin Jennie will be proud of me because I even remembered to cover the pie crust rim for the first 40 minutes of the 60 minutes the pies were in the oven! I didn’t burn it (or myself)!
On Monday night, the whole family came over my host aunt and three of her sons, another host aunt, my host grandmother, and all 6 people of my family and I were all present. Marta, my host mom, bought tostadas to eat with the pie. My Guatemalan thanksgiving with tostadas, coffee, and sweet potato pie refreshed me. It brought me comfort in knowing that, yes in fact, I have built relationships here. I do have a wonderful and loving family. Even though I didn’t understand 90 percent of what was said around the table that night, I felt loved, welcomed, and thankful. Is this not what Thanksgiving is all about?
