Pastechi and Pancakes (Antillian)

This evening we were all busy making what looked like empanadas to me. And we were filling them with cheese, tuna, or minced meat fried with paprika, raisins, and piccalilly. We were beginning to feel like family, teasing one another and exchanging banters. One of the younger women tried to find out more about me, about my origin, my culture, and asked me what I thought about the Dutch and the local Groningers.

At dinner time we couldn't tell which pastechi is which. They were small ones but very satisfying. They filled us instantly and we washed them down with red wine or fruit juices. The pretty white-haired woman who sat at my right side was complaining that the black women weren't eating with us. Like a little girl she kept repeating: It's not nice! It's not nice! I told her to hush and eat her dinner. She immediately complied.

At around 8 I was feeling tired and quiet already. The other younger women, the prettiest of them all, who always sat opposite me at table must have noticed it and was looking at me with compassionate eyes as if she wanted to ask me why but I ignored her. I kept looking around. The guy who joined us two weeks ago in someone else's place tried to attract my attention smiling at me with friendliness a number of times. When he finally caught my eye he told me to eat more. I politely smiled back at him in acknowledgement. But I couldn't have more, so they told me to take home some of the pasties.

The members of the young all-black dance group finished their dance practice and joined us at table. They too were eating our pancakes made of gourd puree and flour mixed with eggs.