A Moving Feast

Our feast consisted of crepes, hot and spicy tomato soup, steamed shrimp dumplings, a lo-mein-like stir fry dish, macaroni and cheese, and rice pudding. Ying also brought some dubious looking eggs that were black as night. She and Regina, our new student from Korea, discussed how both their countries hold these traditional pickled eggs in high esteem for special occasions. I sampled one because I am a big fan of most pickled things. 

It was unlike anything I had ever tasted. And not really in a good way.

"Is it the texture that is odd?" Regina asked, seeing my complicated expression as I tried to swallow.

The texture was, indeed, odd. The yolk of the essentially hard-boiled egg becomes liquefied during the long pickling process, while the white of the egg—now a strangely translucent dark gray‒remains fairly firm. The combination of tart flavor and slimy mouth feel hit me pretty hard. Try as I might, I was unable to eat the second half of my portion. I had to work hard just to keep the first half down.

I've eaten—with relish, mind you‒sunny-side-up eggs, liver and onions, egg foo young, beets, pickled cauliflower, and Hurka, a Hungarian sausage made of pork liver and spicy rice in an intestinal casing. I love trying new foods and being surprised by them. In France, I sampled donkey jerky and escargots, which were both delectable. In high school, I drank wine a boyfriend's father had made from tomatoes. The vomiting that ensued was more from excessive volume than any intrinsic quality of the wine itself, which was surprisingly sweet.

But those "century" eggs (the Chinese name for them is pidan, and they are a cherished delicacy) were my Waterloo. The flavor wasn't so bad, but the murky color and bizarrely smooth texture through my palate for a loop. I could not make sense of this new experience, so my brain and mouth rejected it.

Luckily, I had some of Luz Alba's delicately sweetened rice pudding to wash it away.

As we digested, we discussed our individual plans for Thanksgiving. Jana, Van, and Luz Alba have family here in Akron with whom they will cook and eat elaborate, mostly traditional turkey dinners. Ying, Yuwei, and Regina, however, have no relatives in town and look at the long holiday weekend as simply a recess from the workweek.

Jana told us how, in the Czech Republic, it is traditional to cook fish for a winter holiday meal. When her American husband first met Jana's family in her homeland, he was seriously disappointed to be served a plate of fish, rather than meat or fowl.  When I asked Jana why fish was the tradition, she said, "it is just a habit Czech people have."

I guess that's similar to why we Americans eat turkey and stuffing at Thanksgiving, instead of the fish, maze, and squash our earliest settlers likely dined on for their first harvest meal. It has become our habit.

As we cleaned up our plates and leftovers, I shared another American Thanksgiving tradition with my class, perhaps the most important tradition of this holiday.

"Thanksgiving is all about being grateful for what we have," I said. "And I am particularly thankful that all of you came today and brought food for all of us to share. I love this class and am thankful that all of you come here."

All six of my students echoed the sentiment. Ying, in particular, who has expressed her enjoyment of this weekly meeting in the past, reiterated how important our class is to her.

"I love coming here," she said. "And I always try to come, even if I am busy. I will always try to come here when I can. I love this class."

I am thankful for many things this year: my health, my new job, my husband, my friends, my newly adopted cat, the lack of petty fights within my family. 

But one of the things I am most grateful for is the opportunity I have for volunteering. Not everyone has the time, resources, or energy to volunteer, and not everyone has a skill to offer as a volunteer. I am in a unique position where something as natural to me as speaking my native tongue is a valuable skill that I can share with newcomers to my native land. In the balance, I get the unique gift of sampling the cultures and languages they brought with them. And whether that involves an old Czech axiom about not stepping on a snake in bare feet, insight into the impact of the American economy on Columbian farmers, or a gag-inducing taste of an ancient Chinese egg delicacy, I treasure each of these experiences.

The two hours I spend with my ESOL class on Thursdays always expand my world a bit. For that short time, I am not just another dead-eyed American buying plastic stuff made in Southeast Asia or surfing the web on an expensive computer manufactured in a Chinese sweat shop or waiting in line for a coffee imported from struggling plantations in South America. For that brief period every week, I am an ambassador. I am an example of the best America has to offer, of American hospitality and generosity, of American knowledge and ingenuity. I am a counterweight to the politics and posturing of the government, to the sex tapes and violent videos of the Internet, to the xenophobia and bureaucracy of a broken immigration system. For two hours a week, a tiny forum of international outreach convenes in our classroom, and some small amount of cross-cultural understanding begins to emerge.

It is a tiny, tiny revolution. And I am immeasurably grateful to be a part of it.