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14-Dec-2017 06:04

The next day, my boyfriend—Patricia’s grandson—and I wake up early again for the long journey to that same farm.

Before we leave on the six-hour trek, various aunts and uncles join us in passing around shots of quemadito.

Then, he pours Sambuca (“because vodka doesn’t catch fire,” my guide says, disappointed), and my friend tells me to dip my finger in it while he does the same. We pull out our fingers, and with a twitch of his arm he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and sets the fingers on fire.

In the midst of a heavy rainstorm I made the two-and-a-half hour trip to the Hamptons. I left Garten’s splendid home for the drive back to Queens. The rest of the family has been awake for almost an hour, setting off fireworks and dancing to the music coming from a small brass band in the village’s central square. 1 in Viraco, a small village in the Peruvian province of Arequipa.

I’d gone through a divorce and gotten remarried, coming out the other side fitter and happier.

But I have to wonder if the pisco and chocolate before breakfast every morning has something to do with it.

Walking past it, it looked like it hadn’t been fired up in a while. The meat inside was cooked to the greyish color favored by hospital kitchen cooks and the current President of the United States.

We ordered two tri-tip sandwiches at the counter at a piece, and they were handed to us, foil-wrapped, from beneath a warming light. It was served on what appeared to be slices of grocery store garlic bread.

“We usually didn’t have breakfast until after working in the field,” she tells me.

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With its burning flavor and chocolate energy boost, the quemadito powered her through the uphill trek and hard work.

But all I had to do was get on the highway and my car would be fine. After about an hour I coiled up my recording equipment as she told me she had a dinner party to attend.