Today is a Throwback Thursday post. I was cleaning out old files and discovered this essay I wrote about a memorable lunch with my homestay family while volunteering in Croatia during the summer of 2003. I wrote it in 2007 for a contest at a now defunct magazine. It was one of the first pieces of creative non-fiction I ever wrote and thought it would be fun to share because the question raised are some I still ask myself daily living in Brazil. (Also, this past week was Carnaval, so I haven’t had time to write anything new.)
A Different Part of the Pig
It was with something less than enthusiasm that I sat down for lunch next to my host sister. I had never quite understood what indigestion was, but after three weeks of eating plates of fried meat swimming in its own fat, I could now write an epic poem to its effects. Unfortunately, the small little village of Zdala, Croatia, where I was teaching, had only 600 people and no CVS with shelves of antacids to choose from. So, while I was thoroughly enjoying the rewards and challenges of teaching English to the local kids, the prospect of three more weeks of potatoes, bread and meat drowned in liquid fat made each meal a bit of a trial.
I was staying in Zdala with a generous family who had volunteered to house me while I was teaching. They weren’t receiving any kind of money or stipend for their trouble. I also knew from my walks around the village with my host sisters that no family in the village had resources to waste. Every house in Zdala had its own small farm and animals that supplied the staples for each meal. Knowing this, I couldn’t refuse to accept their generosity, even if it made my stomach feel like a beach ball blown up to the point of bursting. What would my host family think if I turned down the large helping of meat specially prepared for me and asked for a cucumber instead?
As I looked at the table that afternoon, it looked pretty much like every other lunch. Potatoes and onions, bread (which was homemade, amazing, and the one thing I was never sorry to see) and a large dish of meat stacked in the center of a shinning pool of grease. But there was something different on the meat this day. It was placed directly on top of the meat, like the star on a Christmas tree. A grayish, jiggly star. Oh no. I looked at my host mother and grandmother on the opposite side of the table. There was no way I could discreetly ask my host sister what it was that jiggled at the top of the meat tower. And I knew as the guest, I was going to be offered the first helping.
That summer in Croatia was my first time living abroad, and the first time I had ever lived with a family other than my own. I was desperate to make a good impression. I wanted them to like me and not write me off as one of the arrogant Americans I had heard the cousin talk about. But I do not eat food that jiggles. I have had a lifelong no-jiggly-food policy. I believe that orange Jell-O is the worst food ever invented. I was sure my family would offer the jiggly thing to me, and I wasn’t sure I could tactfully refuse it on the grounds that it jiggled.
I was still staring at this piece of grayish, jiggly matter when Granny spooned it out and sure enough, offered it in my direction. I looked down at the offered spoon and saw them, two slits in the flat top of the fat. Oh God! It was a nose. I was being offered a pig’s nose. I looked across the table at Granny. Here was a sweet old woman, smiling kindly and holding out a large spoon with a pig’s nose nestled in it. I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.
Coming face to face—or, more accurately, face to nose—with a pig nose in a spoon, I knew it could be considered hypocritical to eat some parts of the pig but be repulsed by others. I was clearly the only one there who found a pig’s nose on the table unusual. I didn’t want to seem rude. I had come on my first trip abroad prepared to try new things. I was ready to be open-minded, but apparently not open-mouthed. I knew my family couldn’t afford to waste any part of the animal, but I couldn’t eat the nose. I wanted to adapt to Croatian culture, but I couldn’t deny who I was either. What level of discomfort was I supposed to be willing to accept in order to avoid offending my hosts? Where should I, or could I, draw the line?
As it turned out, I didn’t have to answer those questions on that day. My hesitation (and possibly the shade of green on my face) had tipped off my host family that I was not accustomed to eating this particular part of the pig. They started laughing, and my sister said I didn’t have to eat it if I didn’t want to. She didn’t like pig noses, either. But Granny loved them. And with that, Granny put the nose on her plate, scooped it up with her own spoon, and slurped it into her mouth. I knew I would never see Granny in the same way after that.
My family enjoyed teasing me with other animal parts over the next weeks, like a chicken beak in the soup. I was so thrilled they didn’t think I was rude that I didn’t even protest when a chicken’s foot was placed right on the middle of my plate. In retrospect, I could have saved myself some panic if I had just explained that where I come from, we don’t eat noses. After all, the family didn’t want me eating or doing anything I felt uncomfortable with.
I still struggle with the question of how far I should go in adapting to different cultures. There is a balance. I could not have expected my host family to provide me the exact same foods I had at home. It was impossible to make Zdala like home. Living in another country means being uncomfortable and trying things that are often scary. But at the same time, I cannot reject my own culture and my own feelings. How far should I go? Where do I draw the line? It changes. I haven’t found the balance yet. I do have one line that doesn’t move though. It’s just in front of the pig’s nose.
Alright, now that we’ve covered 
13. Walk Along Copacabana Pretty self explanatory. The rules for beach going apply. Wear your shorts, tshirt and flip flops, bringing a little cash tucked away. Work out attire is fine too. The sidewalk will be full of people jogging and riding bikes. Grab a coconut to drink and stop and watch a game of footvolley. It’s volleyball played with your feet and it’s awesome.
15. Juice Crawl A staple of Rio is restaurants and kiosks specializing in fruit juice. The variety of fruit available to be freshly squeezed is astonishing and I can promise, no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to try juice from every fruit on the menu. My cousin made the most valiant effort I’ve ever seen, and even after consuming 2.5 liters of liquid during a walk from Leblon to Ipanema, she’d not tasted a quarter of the fruits on the menus.
16. 
18. Churrasco If you eat beef, you need to do so while in Brazil. Find a churrasco. Just type “churrasco Rio de Janeiro” into Google. They’ll probably be one within two blocks of wherever you’re standing. Brazilian know how to cook meat and they cook every part of the cow. Go for lunch and then plan on laying down for the rest of the day.
19. Watch Some Capoeira I’m sure there will be groups playing capoeira in the parks and beaches during the Olympics. With the exception of açaí, I don’t think there is a more uniquely Brazilian export. Capoeira is a Brazilian martial practiced to music and dance. I wrote a post explaining the 
20. 
We were walking the streets of Rio de Janeiro yesterday when my daughter piped up “Hey, it’s Festa Junina!” I shook my head and tolld her Festa Junina was last month. She insisted and pointed to a street vendor whose stall was decorated with primary colored flags and a stereo blaring forro music. My kid was right. This vendor was still celebrating Festa Junina. My husband, a native of Rio, explained it this way. “Whatever the party, it always lasts a month longer in Rio.”
While many places in Brazil celebrate Festa Junina on the night of June 23 with an official holiday on the 24th, in the Southeast where I’ve lived, Festa Junina parties happen any Friday or Saturday during the month of June. Or if you’re a university club in Rio, every Friday and Saturday in June.
There are fireworks, dancing, carnival games, straw hats and painted freckles (girls) or a painted moustache (boys), and usually at least one mock wedding. I haven’t read exactly how the mock weddings became a staple of Festa Junina parties, but I have a theory. Saint Anthony is considered the patron saint of marriage because he helps single women get husbands so many offerings and prayers are sent to Saint Anthony on his day, June 13. In addition to June being a time when marriage is on the brain, bringing the corn harvest to market was one of the few times people in rural areas got to meet someone they weren’t related to. Oh, and how convenient to have your wedding at the same time as the already scheduled festival! You can save tons on catering! Thus Festa Junina became a day of many weddings.
At my daughter’s school, it’s always Year 4 that stages a mass mock wedding, and this year it was finally her turn. That meant her Festa Junina costume was a wedding dress with a veil, and she LOVED it. It also meant extra time on stage because in addition to the mock wedding, all grade levels perform a quadrilha, a traditional dance done during Festa Junina but with preschoolers is really just a lot of jumping and arm waving.
In my personal opinion, the best part about Festa Junina is the food, but I feel that way about all carnivals and festivals. Any event that has portable grills and homemade sweets being set up on folding tables arranged around ring toss and fishing games is something I’d be delighted to attend.
There’s so much bad news coming out of Brazil lately. The economy is still in tatters. The president is impeached. The interim president is according to most sources a mysogynist, corrupt pig. (And those are the nice names people are using for him.) Any waterbased Olympic events will require the athletes to wear hazmat suits. Zika.
