The ladies finally took a break from their knitting yesterday for the cuy lunch I'd been promised (or threatened with, depending on your view) from the time the ladies found out I'd be returning to Alto Cayma. For those of you who are new to the game, cuy refers to that most beloved preschool class pet, the guinea pig, which in Andean cultures is served as a delicious dish at special occasions.
I met Andrea, Maria, Sebastiana and Frida at the workshop, then we headed down the hill to the home of Paula, my comadre (the mother of my goddaughter, or literally “co-mother”), where all of the other Ñañas were awaiting us. The usual greetings were exchanged with a kiss on the cheek, but when Paula walked into the room, Andrea pulled out the raw egg she must have been carrying in her purse and smashed it over Paula's head. “What is going on?” I asked as everyone cheered, and I was told it was also Paula's birthday. No one had the slightest idea of the origins of the egg custom, but they all agreed that it was good luck for the birthday girl. Here's Paula in the aftermath, trying to wipe the egg out of her hair:
We seated ourselves and began snacking on corn and habas (fava beans) and drinking the super-sweet wine that is popular in Peru, which would be followed later in the afternoon by chicha -- a fermented corn drink -- and Coca-Cola.
Soon plates were brought out with our main course: whole roasted cuy, complete with tiny head and claws, served with a boiled potato, ají -- the hot pepper condiment used in almost every dish here -- and chuño, freeze-dried potatoes which are a very traditional dish in the Andes, but of which I'm still not a huge fan. [Apologies for not including the chuño in the photo and for not giving the cuy a better backdrop -- I think he looks a little extra ghastly in this one!]
I had eaten cuy with the ladies before, but this was my first time with the whole thing and they laughed and laughed as they watched me try to tackle it. The best way to eat it, they informed me, is with your hands, pulling off pieces then nibbling each part down to the bone. After watching me struggle at it for a while, they decided we would have to start eating cuy once a month so I could be trained to do the job properly. Here's Sebastiana showing me how it's done:
I had every intention of eating the whole thing, but once I got to the face it reminded me too much of Nicodemus from “The Rats of Nimh” (one of my favorite literary characters as a child), and I just couldn't do it. Frida graciously took over for me and as she ate, she told me about cuy-related traditions from Colca, a nearby valley in Arequipa and her homeland. When she came to the ear, she cracked the bone and took out what they call "the little dog," a tiny bone that does, indeed, look like a miniscule carving of a dog complete with head, tail, and legs.
She gave it to me and told me to keep it in my pocket for strength. So far, I'm thinking there must be a bit of a delay before one starts to feel its effects, but we'll see what happens in the next few days....
Now, if you'll bear with me, a final word on cuy: While many vegetarians might consider this meal akin to a personal hell and others unfamiliar with the custom might see it as a little barbaric, I think you can also take the view that it is one of the better, more sustainable meat options out there if you can get past its rather gruesome presentation. Many people in Alto Cayma raise cuy in the yards next to their homes, feeding them alfalfa grown on site and table scraps, along with peels from fruits and vegetables. The cuy take around six months before they're ready to eat and are an excellent source of protein and other nutrients. It's about as local as you can get, the animals are generally treated well, and the overall carbon footprint is probably not much larger than the tiny paws that go with it. So I say, "¡Provecho!"
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