Sippin' on some oil

If, as my health-conscious cousin and Nicaragua's Minister of Health maintain, it's catastrophic to one's health to drink cooking oils like water; if my daily frequenting of liberally-greasing fritangas -- purveyors of platters of slick gallo pinto; shiny, slippery meats; and coaster-sized bricks of fried cheese; all contributing to the yellowish puddles pooling on the food-cleared plates that I sop up with bits of tortilla -- is half as bad as I imagine, then I'll suffer seismic cardiac arrest before I ever make it back stateside. Because streetside grills don't advertise nutrition information, how many cups of cooking oil were used to coat that single, perfectly browned platano maduro, I don't obsess over the calorie or fat or vitamin contents like I do when neatly printed labels are available.

Oh, that two-pound mass of banana leaf-wrapped, pork-stuffed Nacatamal that oozed more oil than the Exxon Valdez? Where at the end of the meal it looked like I'd traveled back in time and been forced into some horrid massaging of jheri curl? Yep, delicious.

My sense of nutrition has returned to its most primal. Like caveman. Make me happy. Mmmm...meat. Carbohydrates. Sugar. More meat. I buy a bag of presliced mango or papaya or a mandarin every once in a while to stave off scurvy, a liter of ice cream or milk to keep my bones from disintegrating. Today I even took a break from fritanga, dining lunch and dinner on the Nicaragüense weekend-specialty Baho. Massive banana leaf-lined cauldrons meld flavors while fist-sized hunks of plantain (in the peel), yuca, and beef simmer in a bath of tomato, onion, and spices. Succulent beef emerges with the toughness of pudding.

At night, the fat lady on the trash and trash-juice littered outskirts of the market is the only person for blocks, perched upon steps in a dark corner, two crazed-looking men babbling behind her. In the act of searching for the signal flames of a fritanga I accidentally stumble upon her. "Hay baho todavía?" I ask. She nods as she pulls back the cloth that, during the boiling midday, shields her steaming treasure from the omnipresent flies. Her bare hand disappears to the elbow as she plucks chunks from the steamy depths that she piles upon the two giant banana leaves palmed in her other hand. The pile rises. "De cuarenta peso?" she inquires, her hand momentarily suspended, poised. "Bueno," I nod, excited to see what the five Cord increase from lunch buys me. The pile rises higher. Cabbage salad from another bucket is heaped atop, the banana leaves are folded over, a plastic bag slipped over and we trade: forty Córdobas for warm dinner to walk. My shoulder starts to ache after a few blocks, and the "stew" is so thick I can eat it with my hands at a table in the park. Passing Nicas don't give me a second glance, so I assume I'm following standard eating protocol. Neither time I order Baho am I offered a utensil or a napkin, nor do I see signs of either.

By chicken bus to Costa Rica tomorrow, but not before a cholesterol-coated breakfast of rice, beans, fried cheese, eggs and tortillas at the Granada market comedor El Maná.