Food is Love

I’ve been telling my host family for a while now that I’d cook dinner for them sometime, and it finally happened this week.  The kitchen in my home belongs completely to my host mother, so this was somewhat of a feat that she allowed me so far into her domain.  She wouldn’t completely give up the reigns and I could tell she had little faith in my cooking skills.  But I think I convinced her I knew what I was doing.

On the menu for the evening was chicken with mushrooms and onions in a white wine sauce served over my great-grandmother’s pilaf.  I thought it would be a symbolic gesture to prepare my Armenian grandmother’s rice pilaf for my host family here in Yerevan.  Her recipe would come full circle, returning to its origins.  This all seemed great in my head, until I was at the grocery store and couldn’t find any chicken broth.  This could be because A) I had no idea where to look; B) I didn’t really know how to ask; C) I still only know half of the Armenian letters so I couldn’t read the labels; or D) they don’t sell it because people just make their own.  I’m leaning towards D, but A-C are also valid answers.  Luckily, my friend was able to find the bouillon, so I settled for that instead.  This was all well and good, except it left the pilaf smelling and tasting like Top Ramen.  How could my grandmother’s pilaf which she probably first learned to make as a girl living in Turkey now taste like cheap college food here in Armenia?!  This didn’t seem right to me and I was overall disappointed in the meal.  But from the eyes (or stomachs) of my host family, the meal was a success.  I received the ultimate Armenian compliment from my host dad. “It’s delicious.  Now you can get married.”  Watch out Yerevan!