What's the Best Meal You've Ever Had?

In the interests of creating some positive associations with food, I wanted to open the door to everyone sharing their thoughts on the best food experience you've ever had. And if you can't think of one, imagine what it would be like if you did.

Some questions to help you get started:

--Who did you share your meal with?

--Where were you?

--How did you feel during and after the meal?

--What foods dd you eat: how did they smell, taste, feel?

--What else made it special?

I start by sharing mine:

I was in a remote area in Honduras, attempting to climb the largest mountain there with my girlfriend at the time and her friend. A tiny, three-wheeled, go-cart-like vehicle hauled us up a steep mountain road to our based camp, which was basically a cold concrete bunker with bunks with no mattresses and no heat or electricity.

We had brought a few canned good with us as well as snacks, planning to cook over a fire once we reached a cabin near the top of the mountain. we began our hike up the winding mountain paths the next day, through dense, high-altitude jungle. There were pine trees with purple orchids growing in dense lumps on their branches, and the smell of damp earth. It started out sunny, and through breaks in the trees, we say clouds rolling in over the jungles below us.

A cold, steady rain started, and didn't stop. Since everywhere else we'd been in Central America was over 100 degrees most of the time, we didn't have jackets or long pants, just rain ponchos and shorts. The trail quickly turned to mud. We burned through our snacks thinking, after 4 hours of hiking, we'd soon be warning ourselves in the cabin at the top. It got steeper and steeper, with no end in sight, and as exhaustion and hypothermia set in, we began shaking, stumbling and falling down.

Finally, we decided to go back without having reached the cabin. By the time we made back down to base camp, it was pitch dark, still raining hard, and the inside of the hut was dark and cold as a tomb. We had no dry clothes. We tried to light a cooking fire but had no luck getting one started. We lit the lone candle we could find, and shivered ourselves to sleep.

In the morning it was still raining, and we were still soaked, hungry, and were not expecting to get picked up by our ride back to town for another two days. We remembered that on the ride up to base camp we'd seen a tiny house about a mile down the road. We staggered like the living dead to a tiny, rural house with no windows, no doors, chickens running around, no electricity or plumbing, but smoke was billowing from a small, stone chimney.

An old woman hobbled outside and greeted us warming. Unable to smile, barely able to speak, and with poor Spanish, we begged her for something to eat. She ushered us inside and sat us down at a wood table nestled against a wall. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the ceiling. A cauldron was suspended by a small, open-hearth with a tiny fire and crackling logs. She wordlessly brought us coffee. I drank it, and felt a warmth inside me like a glow that spread throughout my body's core, and into my trembling limbs. Three cats were slinking along the well-kept dirt floor, poking their noses here and there, checking out the gringo visitors. One jumped into my lap and began purring. I instantaneously fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

When I awoke, there was a plate of rice, black beans, eggs and ham before me, a hand-carved wooden fork,and another mug of black coffee. I started salivating like a dog, and looked at my plate, this feast, unsure where to begin. Our stomachs were totally empty. I don't remember how the food tasted, only how it felt. The old lady laughed and said, "despacio, despacio!" Slowly, slowly. We ate in silence. The cat jumped in my lap again. I felt the warmth from the fire and the food glowing inside me. I heard the crackle of the fire, and nodded off again.

When I awoke, I fished in my pockets and found only ten lempira in coin and crumbled bills--about $2 U.S.. It seemed an insult, such a small amount for the meal that saved our lives. Even by Honduran standards of poverty, it wasn't enough. The woman saw me empty out my pockets of everything I had. She held up a hand and smile. "It's enough," she said.

I'll never know if she understood that she saved our lives.