Pan Sribiri

April 23, 2016

If the culture were a woodworker, she would be it’s masterpiece. She has been carved by the physical demands, detailed by a knowledge of the land and the old traditions, sanded by the language, and stained and colored by faith in its doctrine. Now she is admired by the grandchildren which look to her as their teacher and a masterpiece. Her arms are thick from pilaring rice, her feet callused from the rocks, sand and mud that cover the trails, her tactile hands trained for fine artisan work and long nights on grinding corn and coffee. Her eyes are deep, with shadows of births gone wrong, children lost, and fear of the changing land and climate. The culture has chipped, scooped, cut, and shaped her life. I did not hear her speak a word of Spanish until I had moved out of her home and into my own house. She spoke to a friend of mine who was visiting in soft and broken Spanish, revealing a knowledge of the outside language and also her choice to stick with her sculptor, not to let another take a hold of the chisel.

Naturally, in the presence of a masterpiece, I have been humbled but interested and inspired. Through the children she would teach me the names and uses of plants, and how to harvest and prepare traditional foods, and encourages me to figure out the language. In this place, what is “ideal” had been left on the magazine racks in the checkout line of a supermarket  and replaced by a grandma.

It was quite the surprise when she expressed interest in learning how to make bread. I had advertised the ease of making bread from corn and bananas and flour, but no one had taken the bait, until she asked me in basic ngabere about “pan sribiri” - (bread work). I acknowledged and made her a drawing with the necessary ingredients and by suspending a small wok-shaped pan inside a larger one, we were able to make an oven-like environment. She prepared to bread, while I watched, her dark and wrinkled fingers, tearing open a bag of baking powder and measuring a quarter of a spoonful on the European instrument. She finished preparation and we put the bread over the fire. Within the hour, we were feasting a delicious banana bread.

A few days later I woke up and opened my door and stepped outside into a beautiful dawn. As is usual, the kids were already washed and ready for school before the sun rose. One of them called me over to drink coffee and eat bread. This is not particularly unusual, while bread is a special food, the loaves, packed with preservatives, can be found in the little tiendas in the community for a reasonable price. However, this morning Abuela had made bread from scratch, and saved a piece for me to dip in my coffee. She smiled large when she handed me the piece of bread. It was by no means the fluffy bread made from yeast found in bakeries, but it was made under a thatched roof on a three stone fire. While I had been sleeping, while two aged hands moved in ways they never had, and combined new ingredients, and willing allowed another to take up the chisel, and shape her knowledge and form. I can only hope it is not a chip off the virginity of a culture, but rather simply an extra detail on an already beautiful and solid masterpiece.