Octopus Spaghetti

 I was once told that when trying to create relationships across cultures there are three things which everyone can relate to: family, the weather, and of course, food. Every culture has its own unique dishes which to them appear the mundane, but to others of different cultural or geographical backgrounds; those very same dishes are different and open the door to a cornucopia of new and exciting experiences. It is the sharing of these cultural experiences that instills within each and every one of us a sense of common humanity. When we share our food, we share our heritage, history, values, and beliefs.

            Vegetarianism has been a way of life for me since a young age. The idea of eating another animal has never been one of particular appeal to me, but I have never once stopped my dislike of eating animals from inhibiting me from fully experiencing another culture. I have come to learn that being a vegetarian is a privilege many people cannot afford; more importantly I have learned that I should never exercise that privilege when invited to share in another culture. Two years ago I spent a summer living in Alajuela, a small city in the center of Costa Rica, with a host family. The family welcomed me as one of their own, and invited me to share fully within their nuclear family and their culture. They shared with me a great number of things, their love for family, country, art, music, singing, nature, and of course food.

            There was one meal from Costa Rica that truly stands out in my memory. Not because of the unbelievable taste or the beauty of the dish, not because the dish contained meat and caused me to throw up for hours on end, but because of the experiences I had while helping make and consume the dish. It was my fourth or fifth day in Costa Rica and my host mother, Maria, woke me up well before dawn and told me that the two of us were going to the market. We arrived at the market an hour later just as the sun was starting to emerge from behind the eternally green Costa Rican mountains and as the toucans began to be heard screeching from the far off distance. Around me different venders were set up and were already selling a number of different goods. Maria took us to a stall which had about ten large plastic buckets set up and in each one swam some different marine animal. Maria talked to the merchant for a few minutes and the next thing I knew I was reaching into a bucket of octopi and pulling them out one by one until we had five of them in a bag and were walking back to the house with them. When we arrived at the house we dumped the octopi into a large bucket and put them in the shade until later that afternoon.

            Once it was about two o’clock, and I had returned from playing a game of soccer with my host brothers, Maria told me it was time to cook dinner. She lead us out to the bucket where the octopi were, she picked one up and had me do the same. We took our little friends over to the table she had set up outside, and the next thing I knew she had taken the butcher knife and separated legs from body. I handed her my victim and the same fate was repeated until all of the octopi were swimming in a broth of tomato and other vegetables and seasonings. The entire time we were cooking, my host mother attempted to teach me some of her favorite songs. We laughed at my pronunciation and inability to carry any sort of tune. She told me stories of her life growing up as the poor daughter of a fisherman and how this had been her families Sunday dinner while growing up and how she had made the very same meal with her mother numerous times.

            Finally the meal was ready and we sat down at the table for Sunday dinner, with the entirety of the family, with grandmothers/fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins, every generation accounted for, even the coffee loving three year old joined us. The meal was something I had never experienced before, there was such a strong sense of community around the table, and the most amazing part was that I felt that I actually belonged to not just their family but to the entire Tico culture. Oh, and the meal was pretty tasty too, the only way I could describe it would be octopus spaghetti (I suppose that’s enough to get the imagination turning),

            So was it worth it? Would I do it again? Would I be willing to spend another twelve hours throwing up any drop of sustenance that has entered my digestive track within the last six months? The answer to me is a simple and obvious yes. In fact I wouldn’t even have to think about it, if someone is willing to make me feel such an integrated part of their community how could I ever turn that down?