In my 17 weeks in country, I’ve managed to lose weight at a rate that exceeds a pound a week. 26 pounds lighter than the day I arrived, each day with the host family in Kapan is a new adventure in my effort to distance my culinary intake from any semblance of pleasure. Whether it's consecutive days of white rice and ketchup, or yesterday’s awesomeness of 2.5 meals of only cold boiled eggplant…food at the house is kinda rough with my host sisters.
The good news? Khorovats! This is meat on swords. We don't get much meat here, but when we do, it is often armenian bbq, cooked on swords. Did I mention there were swords involved? The bad news tonight was that we didn't get chicken or pork khorovats. Nope, it was organ night at the Balosyan house.
And tonight’s dinner? Let's say I longed for the days of rice and ketchup.
It is served as a semi-solid glassy blubber that jiggles this way and that, like jello. I spooned it around in my bowl, thrusting it against eggplant and cow stomach. I think that’s cow stomach. I know the word for cow, but not beef. And I’m not sure if I know ‘stomach’ at all. Usually I just make a series of horrible gestures more befitting an American Pie sequel than an international aid volunteer.
Then I closed my eyes, prodded my soul for courage, and lifted the stew to my lips. I wish I could say that I savored this crunchy rampage of jumbled body parts, this casserole of failed Armenian tradition that fractured but would not go down. I wish I could. I wish.
To further convey enthusiasm for the meal, I tore apart a loaf of meat, released a mini battle whoooop!, lowered teeth to platter, and razed everything within scent-range like Godzilla after a bad breakup. Not everyone did that. Nope. Just me. But I did impress them with my ability to take down their feet-scented homemade vodka. I also made multiple well-received toasts towards peace in Karabakh and for the health of my host father, who still is recovering in a Yerevan hospital. I hoped it earned me some leeway with the ears and stomach stew, but frankly, I have no idea.
Times like this have also shown me Armenia’s rich, soft underbelly: the gracious friend of a friend who treats you to an unforgettable meal, displays the true meaning of hospitality, and who then can’t go home with a smile until you’ve tried some of his pig ears or cow stomach. And drunk from his Fanta bottle filled with moonshine.
My suggestion is this: next time you visit a foreign country in the hope of discovering a New World, eat local food and learn the local language—no matter how rubbery the meat, or how grueling the grammar. Next time you’re being chased by bandits in Colombia, turn around and, en espanol, offer them your wallet in return for some home-cooked potato sopa. If you lose an arm along the way, well, at least you’ve still got another. And it’ll make an awesome story for the grandkids.
Dammit. I’m gonna need grandkids now. I’m not sure how entertained Robbie and Jay will be when they hear this story for the 74th time, sometime in winter 2052.
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