March: Papusas

Day one of living with my Nicaraguan host-family we spent the evening, as we would spend many evenings, at the papusa house. My host-mom Elizabeth and her sister Rocío run a pulperia (a mom and pop store) and sell papusas out of Rocío's house. It turns out my family isn't Nicaraguan, but Salvadoran. Papusas are a typical Salvadoran food, they're basically thick tortillas stuffed with sausage, cheese, and/or beans, and are delicious. (They're also typical of Nicaragua, but I am assured that Salvadoran papusas are better. I have yet to discover the difference.)

The outside of the papusa house has plastic tables and chairs set up and a half-finished painting of two women and a grill full of Papusas Cuscatlecas on the green wall. The inside is mostly bare except for the partition of wooden shelves that make up the store and the corner where papusas are hurriedly prepared. My host-family has lived in Nicaragua almost five years, Rocío moved her family here barely three months ago.

Upon arrival that first day my two little brothers, Samuel and Andrés, ran off screeching to play with their cousin, Daniel. Elizabeth jumped into papusa mode with a woman who's name began with “R.” I was left alone in the living room with the mostly deaf, one-legged grandma rocking sedately in a wicker chair with a broken seat. We attempted polite conversation but ended up just smiling and nodding at each other.

Unsure of my place in the universe at this point, I hovered near the table with the papusa ingredients and asked to help. My papusas were too small and not exactly round.

A few times a week we spend the evening at the papusa house. My cousin Gabi has latched onto me. She's ten years old, too old to run crazy with the three little boys, but cooped up in the house with papusas and one TV channel. She likes to steal my phone, grab my arm to drag me around, and find other ways to be a nuisance. Entertainment improved drastically after I bought a deck of cards.

For dinner I am offered a choice of papusas or something else. I usually go with three or four papusas. Elizabeth and Rocío always ask if I'm bored of eating them yet – nope! They smile and say that after eating papusas their whole lives they're not tired of them either. Rocío always eats with her hands but Elizabeth prefers a fork. Rocío argues it's the traditional Salvadoran way to forgo utensils but my host-mom has the health department on her side: it's okay to use your bare hands in preparing papusas because they're cooked, the health concern is that the consumer doesn't wash their hands before eating.

As a routine developed over time I found I couldn't break the ice with Elizabeth. It seems that neither of us are blessed with the gift of small talk. She's also busy most of the time, which doesn't lend itself to cozy chats. As she makes my breakfast in the morning she runs between the stove and the bedroom to get her sons ready for school, and in the evenings she's busy with papusas. We do share an affinity for pretty clouds. When she's driving she'll point out interesting sky activity but otherwise conversation doesn't flow between us.

I like to stand with Elizabeth or Rocío and pat masa in my palms. It gives me something to do besides endless rounds of kings in the corner with Gabi, and when hands are busy it frees up the mouth.

Last week Elizabeth begged me to help her sell papusas on the street. Rocío's house in a quiet neighborhood isn't the best location to attract customers' attention. Recently Elizabeth found a spot next to a busy bus stop where she's swamped with hungry commuters. I've only helped her once, but I can't imagine how she does it on her own.

After we set up the grill and a plastic table full of all the supplies, I asked Elizabeth if I should holler at passersby to buy papusas like most street vendors do. She looked appalled. “If you want to” she answered. She made just short of a million papusas, and as fast as she could make them I was bagging them, handing them off to customers, and counting cordobas.

Conversation had always been stilted before this, but when it was just the two of us and papusas sizzling for hours, it became easier. She encouraged me to interview customers for my theology paper, since “Nicaraguans love talking about religion.” When I was reluctant she did it for me, immediately asking a woman at random about her church.

After that evening I think we began to stop tip-toeing around each other. It can be hard to ask questions to get to know a person. You think about everything that could go wrong – you'll pronounce a word wrong, she won't want to talk, the question is too personal... but usually no harm is done. Conversation comes easier over papusas.