Pukquasiokunabo

Yesterday was soup kitchen day for the boys and me. I made a concentrated soup in my kitchen so that I wouldn't have to carry a heavy soup pot across the parking lot. It was so yummy. I was very happy with my soup-cooking skills. 25 minutes before we were supposed to be serving, I took the boys and the soup over to the mission's kitchen. I turned to soup on high to get it boiling so that the pasta I had just added would cook and so I could add water. I started getting everything else ready- we serve hot drinks and buttered bread with the soup.

Then I noticed a strange smell. I looked over at my precious soup. What?!!! I grabbed the lid and the smoke POURED out! The basement immediately filled up with smoke. Nooo!!! We dumped what was still liquid into another pot and tried to think fast. By this time I had 2 people with me trying to remedy the situation. Only 15 minutes to go. I opened a couple windows, desperate to get rid of the smoke so as to make the situation less obvious when people came in.

I was trying to make it okay. I thought that the burnt taste (and yes, it tasted very burnt) might not be so obvious if the room wasn't filled with smoke. I'm ashamed to admit the dumb things I was trying to tell myself about why it wouldn't matter to our guests if the soup was burnt. So I won't.

Soon it was time to open the doors. We had pulled some leftover soup out of the refrigerator and were frantically trying to thaw it. If we used the scalded soup, but added good soup to it, maybe the flavor wouldn't be so...umm...flavorful. It was taking forever to thaw, but people were coming in. We served tea and coffee and told them that it was going to be a bit late. "No problem!" they said, "We can wait!" Nothing (at least not in English) was said about the cloudy air or the smoky aroma.

Finally we served the soup. (My delicious creation burnt to a crisp!) We didn't mention anything about what had happened in that very room just 30 minutes earlier. The first few bowls of soup were handed out and nothing was said. "So far, so good," I told myself.

Then I heard a woman's voice pipe up for all to hear: "Who made the burny soup?" Standing there by the reeking soup pot, I slowly raised the hand that was not holding the ladle. All heads slowly swiveled to look at me. With all eyes on me, I reluctantly confessed, "That would be me." And we laughed. And people assured me that it was fine. And some (though not as many as usual) even requested seconds. They told me that they were used to cooking over a fire. In fact, my soup now tasted like pukquasionkunabo- some kind of flour, milk and duck fat soup. Yummy.

So I think I've earned myself a reputation. When they're around me and not speaking in English, I'll have to keep my ears open for one of the two words I now know in their language: pukquasiokunabo and me-gwetch. The second word means 'Thank you' and I have heard it a lot in three weeks. Even yesterday.