A week ago, Michael and I went to the party of one of his cousins, Lourdes, which gathered most of the uncountable aunts and uncles on his mother's side of the family. The party was held in her and her husband's cozy flat in Pueblo Libre, and we had all been asked to bring something to eat. I had made Flickorna Lundgren's Mazarintårta, which I thought would go down well with the average Peruvian's taste for almost sickeningly sweet desserts.
Thanks to my Germanic genes, we arrived early (only one hour after the time stated in the invitation), and so sat and conversed with the family for a while. Then the aunts welled in! Immediately Lourdes' husband got the karaoke going on the DVD player, and within no time everyone took turns singing love ballads from the 70s/80s that have probably never been played in Europe. The beer and the microphone were passed around, and everyone was happy. After a while, we also danced some salsa, and some lucky couples, namely me and Michael and Carla and her man, had to do a round on the floor alone, with everyone watching, jeering and clapping...I thought we did rather well, after the first 30 seconds of trying to remember which foot goes where!
I was thoroughly interrogated by Lourdes' nine-year-old daughter on issues like where do I come from, how long am I staying, do I like dogs or cats more, would I like to have children (she doesn't because apparently it hurts to give birth). Charming. After what seemed like days, the food was brought out on the table in the corner, and we all helped ourselves to a plate. It was basically the same traditional dishes that I had from the Humboldt conference buffet, but infinitely better cooked. I still am not convinced that the stomach lining of the cow is intended for eating, but with lots of rocoto&culantro (chili and coriander) sauce, that went down too. For dessert, there was aunt Kuki's churros, which is something like chewy donut pastry in a different shape, and my cake.
After tasting my cake, the aunts declared me to have passed the test and everyone laughed. Then the karaoke was started again, and I was forced to sing to the only anglo-saxon music in the collection; Beatles, naturally. I wasn't booed out of the living room, and no windows shattered, which is always a good sign. Some time later, after Michael had had his fill of karaoke, we went home, tired but content.
