What peanut butter taught me about culture and history

My 90-year old grandmother is a badass.  She’s cheated death multiple times, gotten sassy in her old age, and simultaneously handled both her walker and a shotgun.   I went to visit her earlier this week.  We got on the subject of peanut butter, and all of a sudden she just mentioned this offhand:

“Well, when we would get groups of German prisoners from the camp to come work on the farm...”

Wait, WHAT?  Stop.  Back up.  German prisoners of war worked on my grandparents’ farm?  I had never heard this story.

My grandmother threw her head back and started laughing.  “Lord, I hadn’t thought about that in years.”  

There was a German prisoner-of-war camp in the town closest to my grandparents’ farm.  Most of the men in the area had gone off to fight in the war, so proper farm labor in the early 1940s was pretty hard to come by.  Someone had the bright idea to take advantage of the German POWs, and before long the area farmers were able to check out groups of prisoners to help them in the fields.

My grandfather was in need of extra hands just like everyone else, so he would pick up prisoners to come work in the peanut, cotton, and corn fields.  While it sounds like forced labor, and frankly, it probably was, the men were actually happy to get out of the camp and do something.  If it was raining, they were even happier - rain meant that they got to drive the mules in the corn fields.  They loved driving the mules, and they would argue among themselves about who would get to drive next.  

The POWs weren’t given much food.  They were handed over to the farmers with a small sack that contained their lunch.  One day, my grandmother decided to sneak a peak at their provisions - the sack contained nothing but a little bread and peanut butter.  She was appalled.

Now, the Germans apparently loved peanut butter.  But my grandmother was rather miffed at the fact that they were sent out to work with so little to eat.  She had a garden full of vegetables, and even though giving anything to the POWs was very much against the rules, she wasn’t about to let them work through those long days on nothing but bread and peanut butter.  She started sending my grandfather off with home-cooked food for them.  

The men were incredibly grateful and appreciative.  They fell in love with collard greens, cornbread, and sweet potatoes.  They also had a great deal of respect for the food they were eating, and they took great pride in washing their faces and combing their hair back before sitting down to eat.  And it’s not like they were even dining at a real table - they ate on wooden planks smack in the middle of the fields.

After the war ended, the men were sent back to Germany.  But many of them stayed in touch and regularly wrote letters to my grandmother.  She wrote back and even sent them jars of peanut butter, which they couldn’t get in Germany.  

Now, my grandmother certainly didn’t speak German, and these men spoke little to no English.  But the former POWs knew a German family that had escaped to Flint, Michigan, and they served as translators.  When a letter from Germany arrived for my grandmother, she would send it to the family in Flint, then they would translate it and send it back to her.  They did the same for her letters, translating them into German before sending them to Germany.  

My grandmother has lived in the same rural community her entire life, and she’s never been out of the country.  But she was able to get a cultural experience in her own hometown that I’ve logged many cramped miles in pressurized jet-powered tin cans to get for myself.  Without ever going to Germany, she was able to experience some of it through the people.  People - that’s what travel is about, isn’t it?

She says she still has those letters somewhere.  I hope I get to see them someday.

The world, according to my liver

I've subjected my stomach to both the pleasure and pain of foreign cuisines here and there.  The winners were epic and unforgettable (warthog ribs in South Africa, prosciutto and melon in Italy, and tamarind shrimp in Vietnam).  The failures were cringe-worthy and forgettable regrettable (black pudding in Scotland, winter melon tea in Vietnam, and tako poki in Hawaii).  I've also put my liver to many a test.  Here is what my liver thinks about the rest of the world:

The Good

1. South Africa.  Wine country in South Africa makes my liver swoon.  It cried tears of sweet, sweet joy while processing the bubbles at the Graham Beck winery.  It declared it's undying, eternal love to Lynx's Blanc de Noir.  And the first touch of Amarula liqueur sent it frolicking into the lush, green hills chasing rainbows with a gaggle of puppies and kittens.  Quite frankly, I'm afraid my liver is going to defect to South Africa.
2. France.  The home of champagne.  The motherland of the tiny, beautiful bubbles that turn my liver into Tickle Me Elmo.  In France, my liver's inner child comes out to play on the see-saw, race across the monkey bars, and revel in youthful delight.
3. Germany.  The dark, glorious complexity of German beers make my liver want to don a smoking jacket and retire to the library with a cigar and a feeling of utter contentment.  The hefeweizens and doppelbocks have the ability to convince my liver that it can aspire to be The Most Interesting Man in the World.  

The Bad

1. Vietnam.  The "happy water" in Sapa turned my poor liver into a terrified child cowering in a corner in the fetal position.  By the end of the night, it was wide-eyed and crying, "No more, please, no more!" The beer was Budweiser-ish, but with Asian names such as Tiger and Bia Ha Noi.  Trying to convince my liver that this was beer is akin to eating turkey bacon and vainly hoping that the stomach and brain won't take notice.  My liver shook its head in shame at my consumption of such inferior alcohol.
2. Cambodia.  Once again, my liver had to tolerate the consumption of southeast Asia's version of Miller Lite.  With each new bottle, it would roll its eyes, sigh, and say to me, "Again?".  But it gained a new appreciation for these beers after I gave it it's own version of eletroshock therapy - garlic-infused vodka.  It breathed a sigh of relief when I went back to the good ol' Angkor beer.

The (almost) Ugly

1. Egypt.  My liver had a fit when it realized it had to spend 10 days in a predominantly Muslim country.  It's life flashed before it's eyes with visions of withering away and dying.  It fell to its knees in joyous thanks when it realized that I was staying with friends who were experienced expats - with a fully stocked liquor cabinet. 
2. India.  Once again, my liver was up in arms at the prospect of 10 days in a country that frowns upon its nectar.  But it was rescued a second time by understanding expat friends that had plenty of provisions on hand. And, I daresay that the nearly barren state outside of the expat compound gave it a new appreciation for cheap brews - it actually welcomed the ice cold Kingfisher beer that I fed it.  I must say, I was rather proud of my liver for learning to appreciate some foreign culture. 

The (truly) Ugly

1. Botswana. My liver has already informed me that if I so much as think about going back go Botswana, it will declare mutiny and go into hiding indefinitely.  The shot of Klipdrift (which, granted is made in South Africa, but my liver associates it wholly with Botswana) knocked it to the ground, twitching and screaming in pain.  It had barely recovered when it was hit with yet another poison - Chibuku.  Chibuku can best be described as a stale, fermented corn milkshake laced with a bit of moonshine.   Alcoholic gruel.  This was more than just an offense to my liver - it was a crime against internal organs (including my stomach).  I think my liver even tried to call the UN to report me after it regained consciousness from its violent reaction to the Chibuku. It's scarred for life, and I think it's writing a book.

WTF

1. South Korea. My liver left South Korea in a haze, wondering what kind of circus it had just been forced to partake in.  First, it was drowned in soju, thoroughly convinced that I was attempting some form of waterboarding for my internal organs.  Then I nealy gave my poor liver frostbite and sugar shock from a slushy pina colada concoction that came in a ziplock bag with a straw and a smiley-face sticker. It dusted off the glitter, Engrish, and Hello Kitty (not that it remembered where any of it came from) and wandered off into the night hoping that someday, maybe, it will all make sense.