acket tied with a fibrous plant “string” to help keep it “fresh”.It doesn’t sound very appetizing but it is quite good...or maybe I’m just getting used to the food here, I don’t know. It’s not available in stores and one either makes it themselves or buys it from someone who knows how to make it. Making cuajada is becoming a lost art in so many areas here in Nicaragua. It’s also something I wouldn’t let anyone visiting from the States try because it’s not pasteurized and certainly isn’t made under the most sanitary conditions. But it’s made with pride and tradition and is becoming harder and harder to find.
When Rhonda told me Olga was the one who made the cuajada, I told her I would love to buy some from her sometime. Olga said she was going to go make some right then and I could buy it before we left. She asked how much I wanted and I told her two balls, thinking they would be small like the ones I have seen here in Managua. She acted surprised. I asked her how long they would keep and she said that if they were kept cooler, then they would keep longer. A typical Nicaraguan answer…an answer, yes, but not an answer to the question I asked. Rhonda laughed and said that hers usually lasts a couple of weeks in the refrigerator and so I thought I would go ahead and get two since we typically eat a lot of cheese as an alternative source of protein for us since red meat is so expensive.
Olga smiled and said she needed to go get more milk from her cow and hoped the cow would have enough milk to make a second ball. Before I could tell her not to worry with it, she was gone. Rhonda explained to me how the cuajada is made and that it is a labor intensive process since the cheese has to be made from warm milk right from the cow. I suddenly felt badly that she was going to go try to get more milk from a cow that was probably already not giving enough milk to take care of her family as they would hope. I said something to Rhonda and she told me that Olga sells the cuajada to make extra money for the family and that it was okay. She said that she recently raised her price from 20 cords and now sells her cuajada for 25 cords a ball…which is less than $1.30.
Later that morning, when there was a bit of a lull, Rhonda and I walked over to Olga’s house so we could see some of the process of how the cuajada is made. Mind you, walking to Olga’s is not like strolling on a sidewalk to a house down the street. We walked down a slight embankment behind the school, squeezed through two fence posts made of limbs that had been cut down and while at the same time, ducking under a strand of old rusty barbed wire that served as a property marker.
Olga lives in a little community of about 4-5 houses where each household is related to the others. There were chickens and dogs and of course, children. The houses were made of scrap pieces of wood and tin – typical houses you find in the Nica campo (country). Usually this kind of sight is disturbing to me. But this time, there was something different about Olga’s house. Flowers…flowers that had been planted deliberately and with thought given to their size and location! She even had herbs planted outside her door. I felt an immediate kinship to this woman with whom I struggled to communicate.
Rhonda and I went on to the open door and Rhonda called inside. Olga responded and we went on in, stepping in to her living area, wiping our feet in to a small pile of sawdust to help remove the dirt from our shoes. The first thing I noticed was a beautiful tile floor that covered the living room area. It didn’t seem to be on any kind of concrete base but rather just laid down on top of the dirt. There were several rocking chairs that sat on the perimeter of the room and there was a small mirror on one wall. I could see in to the bedroom…it was a dirt floor. There was a double bed and a small, odd-sized obviously handmade bed next to it. I caught a glimpse of a hammock next to the small bed and wondered how many people slept in that one room. We proceeded on in to the matchbox sized kitchen – the only other room in the house. The three of us filled the area.
Olga was still kneading the cuajada when we walked in and seemed to be embarrassed that I was there with Rhonda. I had Rhonda tell her I was curious how the cheese was made and wanted to see how she did it. She immediately smiled and proceeded to tell us her process, all the while kneading while she talked. Because she was talking directly to me, I didn’t get much of an opportunity to look around the small kitchen but did notice she had two covered pots cooking on a small 2-burner propane cook stove (like one you would use to go camping, but certainly not as nice or as large as the Coleman’s with which we’re familiar). The cook stove sat on an elevated piece of wood. She also had a small, apartment-sized refrigerator sitting next to her tiny dry sink area. The “shelves” consisted of cross boards in the kitchen. We watched her work for a few minutes and then went on back to the clinic.
That afternoon, as we were closing up the clinic, Rhonda and I went back over to Olga’s. She handed me a little plastic bag with the two wrapped balls of cuajada plus she had also put in a pitahaya for me. The pitahaya is a fruit grown from a cactus and is also known in the States as a dragonfruit. There are several different varieties but the one grown here in Nicaragua has a bright reddish-purple flesh which is often mixed with small limes (called lemons here) and azucar (sugar) and made in to a delicious fruit drink. The caution with pitahaya is to be careful with the juice as it will stain clothing and skin. It’s so saturated with color.
I thanked Olga and gave her 3-20 cord bills. She excused herself as she started in to her house to get me my change. I stopped her and told her that I would like for her to keep the other 10 cords as I knew she had to go milk her cow again to get more milk for my cuajada and that I appreciated her going to the extra trouble that it took and on such short notice to make my cheese. She was stunned and looked at Rhonda. Rhonda just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Olga looked back at me and I told her muchas gracias (you can figure that one out yourselves) and she shook her head no and thanked me in return.
About that time Rhonda asked me what the name of one of the plants was that Olga was growing. It was balsam. I started telling Rhonda about how easy it is to grow and showed her the seed pods. Olga saw us looking at it and asked if we would like some. Rhonda told her yes and so Olga told her son to go get a piece of paper. He brought out a piece of notebook paper torn out of his schoolbook. She started pulling off seed pods from all the various colors of balsam she had planted. They’re such a tall, stately plant anyway, but here, the stalks are really thick and fibrous which makes them look like they’ll be much more stable. The language barrier seemed to dissolve as we moved from plant to plant, with Olga telling us the name in Spanish and I would tell her the common American name. We each laughed at the strange sounds the other would speak for the plants we both loved. Rhonda told her Jim and I used to own a greenhouse and that I loved flowers and missed having a yard filled with them. She nodded knowingly.
Olga had flowers planted in any spare container she could find. There were impatiens planted in old plastic jugs that had been cut open and filled with dirt. There were hibiscus cuttings that had recently been transplanted in to little mounds. An old oil container held a recently planted coleus. Olga was my kind of gardener. She proudly pointed out a red-stemmed plant with a variegated shell shaped leaf. She didn’t know the name of it and said it didn’t bloom but that its attraction was the bright red stem and that it was not very common. The name of the plant was irrelevant to her…she had it in her “garden” because she loved how it looked. She was obviously very proud of her specimen. I liked this woman. She loved plants for their unique beauty and she loved to share that beauty with others who saw those plants through similar eyes.
All of a sudden, I saw behind one of her trees, the most beautiful salmon colored canna. She saw me look at it and asked Rhonda if I had any of those at my house. I told her no, but I wanted to get some started some day. She said something to her son and he once again disappeared in to the house, emerging with three more pieces of notebook paper. Olga grabbed the machete sitting by the side door and dug up two of the small salmon colored cannas and wrapped the base of them in the paper. She proudly handed me the gift. I was so touched and greatly pleased. I know my face revealed both emotions because her smile was gentle and she nodded as I thanked her. She told Rhonda that anytime we wanted more flowers, we could come back and she would be glad to share. Olga is a true gardener. She may not know botanical names and she may not have beautiful or expensive containers planted to showcase her flowers, but she has the heart and the spirit of a true gardener. She wants to share her bounty. As we were leaving, she also gave Rhonda two eggs, one for each of Rhonda’s children. Yes, Olga is a woman who shares.
I’m excited that I found someone to make cuajada. But more than that, I’m touched and my heart is warmed that I found someone who loves flowers in the same way I do. I can hardly wait to get my cannas in the ground and am already wondering what plant I can take back with me next month to share with Olga, perhaps my Tortuga. I think she would like it. It’s got a beautiful shape and unusual leaf. I don’t know the real name of it. It’s just what it’s called here because the leaf looks like a turtle shell. In Spanish, a turtle is a Tortuga. Sharing…that’s what gardeners do. I’m praying that someday, I will be able to share more than my plants with Olga.
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