That’s right dear ones. I GIVE UP. At six o’clock yesterday evening, I stood and stared at a piece of cake on my kitchen counter. I shook my head in amazement. I noticed the white china plate with the delicate flower design. I contemplated the sprinkles on top of the chocolate icing. And I put my fork into the springy, foamy mass. I was not the first pilgrim on this chocolate territory, I can count on my husband to be the first pioneer every time. NO. I am not dieting. (Not that I shouldn’t be!)  I had waged war on my host country’s hospitality. Guess who was the loser?  Yours truly.

Now I must explain.  In this culture, there is a delightful tradition of caring for neighbors by taking a plate of food.  It can be any food that you have made, although I most often get sweets and small finger-type foods.  I absolutely LOVE opening my door to a smiling face and a plate full of yumminess.  BUT, the OTHER half of the tradition, is that once these delicacies have been accepted, the plate eventually needs to be returned.  And…it mustn’t be returned…EMPTY.  I have fully participated in this lovely tradition, and can mostly keep up with my neighbors, except for the times that I turn around and have three plates from three different neighbors that need to be returned.  Then…I devote an afternoon to staying in and baking…and just go door to door with my offerings, usually accepting coffee along the way.

I have a good friend a couple of floors down.  She was here with her husband a couple of weeks ago, and her husband had made a pumpkin dessert for us.  I had the plate to return, and had baked banana muffins that evening, so I sent my daughter down with a plate of muffins for her.  A couple of minutes later, Annabelle had returned, and in her hands…another plate.  My friend had immediately taken the plate and filled it with a pastry that she had made that day. “What? She already filled it again?  What can I do now?  This means WAR!”  I sent my daughter and son back down with the plate and two bowls of chicken noodle soup that I had made that evening.  Of course, I could hear the laughter in the hall as her husband opened the door to accept the gift.  She was at my doorstep soon after, hugging me with tears in her eyes.  ”That was the soup you made for my father when he was dying.  It made me remember him.  We will stop the plates for tonight or we will continue all the way until morning!”  I love my neighbors!  Have I told you that before?

So, yesterday evening, the doorbell rang.  She had filled the plate with chocolate frosted cake that had a creamy center.  Thus I give up.  I will never win this war.   Maybe on our way to America…I can drop the plate as we are running with our suitcases to the car.  However, I have not a doubt that a couple of weeks later, it will return to me through my good friend, Mr. FedEx.  But, I will greet this courier with delight…and fond feelings for sweet neighbors.

Tash