A taste of St. John

 So today's lunch at the cafeteria prompted this blog post. First, however, a backstory.


 I enjoy exploring new territory - especially when it involves Risk, Humor, and other such bedfellows of General Folly. Furthermore, I strongly believe that broadening your horizons absolutely involves broadening your waistline, and so dumpster diving, unconventional dishes, edibles plants, and strange, local foods are welcomed as opportunities for new appreciations, understandings, and immune system defenses. (In fact, for my three months of unemployment, most of my food supply came from dumpsters and church potluck leftovers. I affectionally dub it "The Winter Harvest.")


 One of my first ventures in the Virgin Islands was to the local farmer's market, which was a massive letdown. Homemade bread, local honey, and bananas pretty much sums it up (although they do grow a pumpkin down here which is much smaller and much sweeter - its terrific with black beans and a light curry.) 


 Undaunted in my commitment to find something local, my next hope lay in the employee cafeteria (called "The Chatterbox" for good reason - local West Indies have NO concept of volume control...). The first day of work, I strode in and found a decent salad bar, grilled fish, a Cuban-esque rice and bean dish, and STEAK on the menu. "Well, self," I say to myself, "it may not be local, but at least its legit!" The scene fades, and twenty-three and a half hours later, I stride in, with visions of sugarplums, pan-seared tuna, and barbecue ribs dancing in my head. I hop in line, grab a tray, and eagerly scope out my options...and ask for an explanation. I wasn't sure what I was looking at. The hairnet-less lunch lady, beaming with pride, announced my options were salt-fish or pig's feet. SALT FISH OR PIG'S FEET.
After a lunch of cucumbers and lettuce, I resolved to carry a Clif Bar with me every day to work...and I have, to my advantage. I'd be willing to try these dishes/ingredients, but I feel like huge vats made for a cafeteria just isn't going to represent the local cuisine well, and with a main ingredient like that trying to justify itself, you want to give it all the help it can get.


 Most days are pretty good, but today, I snagged chicken fingers. My buddies, however, went with the alternative: a murky brown, gravy-like soup with a few noodles, cornmeal dumplings (as appetizing as it sounds) and HUGE fist-sized hunks of bone with a gelatinous meat-like substance clinging on...yes, brothers and sisters, today's lunch was bull-foot soup.


 I suppose the moral of the story is: "When life gives you lemonade, make lemonade." But in the West Indies Curtis Bowden Translation, it appears: "When life gives you a bull, make bull-foot soup, bull-face soup, and bull-tail soup. Oh, and feel free to do the same with oxen and pigs, and don't forget to use the pig's snout and ears for a nice soup as well."


(This post is dedicated to Andrew Husen, Andrew Not-Husen, and all those lucky porkless religions that don't have to consider eating this trash.)