How NOT to Repay Your Hosts

Delicious pasta sauce - now imagine the exact opposite. That´s what mine looked like.

“Do one thing everyday that scares you.”

I read the quote in Tim Ferris’ blog, and it sounded like something I wanted to apply. So when Gabriel asked if I’d like to cook for his weekly Thursday get-together, I ignored the voices screaming “Don’t do it! For the love of all good delicious food in the world, don’t do this!” I paid no mind to the fact the only thing I can make are omelette’s, and that I never know how much salt to add to a dish.

I’d love to cook a meal for seven Argentinians I’ve never met, I told him.

He suggested I make comida china, but I balked at the idea. I needed something full-proof, something unf*ckupable, so to speak. Something an amputee monkey with its tail up its ass could make. I decide on making spaghetti. I’ve done it a few times, and it’s always turned out fine. You can’t screw up spaghetti, right, right?

It’s not until later in the afternoon I remember I always used premade Prego sauce for my spaghetti. And guess which country doesn’t have Prego? There are probably a lot of them, but the only one I care about is the one that starts with an “R” and ends with “GENTINA.”

I send a last-ditch effort e-mail to Natalie, asking for the recipe she used for her spaghetti sauce. I helped her make it before (read: I drank wine and taste tested while Natalie made the sauce. Thanks to my astute observations, like “Hmm… good” and “Dammit, this takes longer than I thought,” the sauce was delicious) and I’m pretty sure I can recreate it.

Of course, if Natalie got back to me in time, the title of this post would be “How to Repay Your Hosts,” and would be more of the same: “I want to travel, blah blah blah. I am awesome, yap yap yap.” I believe this version is infinitely better and more humbling (read: I am now desperately searching for the silver lining of this awful situation.)

Natalie does not get back to me. I proceed to make up my own recipe. It is the most awful, bland tasting meal ever concocted. The sauce is watery, and runs through the spaghetti like it has grown legs and competing in the 50-yard dash. It’s too salty, yet there is no taste – which is quite an achievement if you think about it (hello, silver lining.) There seems to be something wrong with the pasta itself, which only required a pot of hot water and occasional stirring.

The most amazing part of the meal isn’t the food, however. It’s Gabriel and Maxi, who insist on how good it is while even as the rest of the table struggle with pained expressions on their face. Maxi gives me a thumbs-up while Adrian nearly chokes, demanding “Sal! Sal!” and washes down every bite with wine, beer, and cigarettes.

I am certain I have some of the best couchsurfing hosts ever. I am also certain they won’t ever ask me to cook dinner again.