"Canned Ham"
Momma Doris asked that each of us bring canned ham for Thanksgiving dinner. I wasn't sure where to even buy canned ham, but discovered to my surprise and delight that Publix actually sells such things. It took three employees searching the store however (Publix' customer service is top notch) to finally discover the canned hams, and quite by accident. We were all reconvening after our search, about to give up, when the guy from the meat department looked up and suddenly said, "I found them!" He was standing far enough back to see them on the top shelf above the beef jerky at the end of the aisle. I bought five.
Mary Ivon bought hers at Wal-mart where the checkout lady pointed out, "Girl, those are nasty." Mary Ivon attends Ole Miss with Mallory, Cassie, Amber, and Billy. Their team lost to Mississippi State last night (apparently that was a big deal) even after the Rebels pulled from behind with two seconds left and went into overtime. Jeremy had just prayed for his Mississippi friends' team when State fumbled the ball. For a brief teasing moment their hopes were high that God did indeed favor Ole Miss; after all, four of his servants were in Honduras serving his kingdom on Thanksgiving Day, nearly 200 poor people to be precise. But who's counting?
And I digress.
Back to the canned hams. So between all of us, we managed to get approximately 40 cans to The Children of Love Foundation to serve on Thanksgiving. I wondered upon our arrival as we collected our prized pork, how Momma Doris would prepare them. I envisioned injecting them with rum, slathering them with honey, and slow cooking them in the fire fit. I was curious about the preparation all week, so when our beloved American holiday finally arrived, I was more excited to discover the secret recipe then I was about baptizing children. Okay, so for the sake of my salvation, maybe I wasn't. My point though, is that I really wanted to know. Turns out, the kitchen staff chopped it up and served it with marinara sauce on top of pasta with sides of mashed potatoes, green beans, a piece of white sandwich bread and cake. I ate a mound of that stuff. It was really good, considering it was from a can. And while I'm still on Hondurian soil, I would like to officially proclaim, that from this Thanksgiving forward, I will prepare, along with the turkey bird of course, "Pasta con Ham in the Cano," in remembrance of this special Thanksgiving.
I am amazed how resourceful Mamma Doris and her small staff are. They can make anything out of anything and stretch an American dollar further than Mary Ivon can do the splits. Mamma runs this entire Foundation on $30,000 a year, caring for, loving on, and providing educations for 20 kids, while also reaching out to her community. I have witnessed this all week. She believes she can help change Honduras for the better through a new generation.
I believe it too.
As I walked past the open outside kitchen before lunch yesterday, I spotted the cans from the canned hams. Martita, Consuela, and Dina were washing them. Of course they were, I told myself. Did you think they would throw them away? I embraced the concept of recycling in 2007 after a visit to Ecuador when my family and I stayed at an Eco lodge in the Andes Mountains. The owners recycled everything and had even started an impressive recycling program in their rural community. My shower had even been made out of used bottles. It was the coolest thing. Anyway, I told some of the people on my team what I saw. "The ladies in the kitchen are washing the cans from our canned hams. I wonder what they are going to do with them?" Which started our heads spinning. Perhaps they will become bowls. Or containers to hold things. Or maybe crafts for the kids. Or maybe they will make something with them and sell them. And just like with the ham recipe, I was, and still am, dying to know, "How does one recycle the can of a canned ham?"
My team gathered last night, as usual, to pray and debrief the day. David commented on the smells. When 175 poor people, who have little access to water, gather in God's house, they stink. Bodies. Feet. Hair. Clothes. But, after challenged plumbing (the Foundation's and our personal plumbing), dirty clothes, cold water on cold days that convince the cowardly to forfeit showers, difficulty of washing our hair, and adding ditties to our singing like, "close the flapper on the crapper," we were stinking too. The college girls introduced me to some fascinating feminine hygiene products that made me wonder if I had an odor. Surely not. I know Mallory's feet were smelly because Jake told us so after Mallory told us how long he hadn't brushed his teeth. On a side note, I think anyone who's courting should be required to go on a mission trip together. It's great marital training.
Sorry, but on Day Six we start talking about things like smells. We still see the smiles. Hear the laughter. And embrace the precious hugs. But Day Six is when we notice . . . that not only do the people whom we're serving smell bad, but we kind of stink too.
My family ate deep-fried turkey yesterday. I know because my husband texted me.
Before I went to bed, I texted back, "My pee smells like canned ham."
And I am so very very thankful.
