A familiar meal

We began by tying up our hair, washing vegetables, and chopping them into various bowls before mixing them with vinegar, oil, and seasoning. I slip into this ritual like it’s an inviting wave, gliding me through the motions of rocking the knife back-and-forth and making small-talk across English and Spanish.

A cherished friend once told me that it may serve us well to look for “thin” places —  where the delineation between profane and sacred becomes blurred. I think of those moments as when I find myself smiling for seemingly no reason, when the conversations flow as if I’ve been having them lifetimes before, and when the wind feels like a loving embrace.

I found it today, here with our new and newer friends from across the world. I helped flip, cut, and serve the asada after helping with the salad — learning a few techniques that I knew would likely be revealed. Believe it or not, South American men approach singularity the closer they are to a grill, and their jeers and jests become more predictable.

We drank good beer and better wine while talking about our youth, our experiences abroad, what home looks like, and what we like about Argentina so far. I helped out as the table-translator at points, describing things like speeding tickets and Pink Whitney to our Argentine hosts — and let me say, the tinto definitely helps me understand el acento cordobes.

In some ways, it felt as if I had met everyone years ago and we had finally come together to meet once more. It was fluid, it was lively, it was happy, and it was real. I watched parrots and pigeons fly over the green palms and laughed at Spanish dad jokes. I tried matambre fresh off the grill, and can report that it’s actually okay that Argentines cook the hell out of their meat. I walked in the garden with new friends as we remembered home, with pain and with fondness.

I used to always feel an anxiety about times like these ending; a sadness about a “little death” of a good thing. As I grow older and experience more of these moments, I become more and more comfortable with these endings as catalysts of being able to enjoy it. Life wouldn’t be as fun if we could have everything all the time (thinking of that one Twilight Zone episode).

Sitting in the van on the way to the next event, I watched out of the back window as the sun started to inch towards the horizon. I saw three friends joking with each other as they rode the same bike. I saw the neighborhood settling in for the dark. I felt good.

MEMENTO MORI