How I became an instant international cook

My daughter Johanna and I finished our hamburgers and dumped our soft drink cups and wrappers in the trash.

"Remember, tomorrow's the fifth-grade Christmas Around the World Feast," she said, as we headed to the car.

"Oh, yeah," I said, hoping she didn't notice I'd forgotten. "What is it you're supposed to bring?"

"Anything from Spain," Johanna said.

"Any ideas?" I asked. Did the teacher expect me to be an international cook? The last "foreign" food I'd fixed was Italian spaghetti with Old World Style sauce from a jar. Then I remembered an easy recipe: "I'll make Spanish rice!"

"Ashley's already bringing that."

"You mean more than one kid chose Spain?" Johanna nodded.

"How about tacos?" I asked.

"That's Mexico. Brett has Mexico."

"Is it too late to change countries?" I asked as we got in the car. "If you take China, we can order crab Rangoon at the Golden Bowl drive-through No, wait! France! You can take French fries!" I turned to go back into the restaurant.

Johanna glared. "It has to be from Spain."

"No problem," I said, forcing a smile. "We'll look in my cookbooks."

At home Johanna perched on the end of my bed while I rummaged through the linen closet and found an armload of cookbooks I'd received as gifts from my well-meaning mother and sisters. "There's bound to be something in one of these," I said, spreading them on the bed as if I were dealing poker.

I picked up one at random. Johanna looked over my shoulder as I checked the index and found "Spanish bluebells." The corresponding page showed only a flower arrangement with sprigs of blue on a dining room table. I flipped back to the index and found "Spanish moss." That picture showed a man sprinkling something into a flower bed.

Johanna grabbed the book and checked the cover. "This is a gardening book!"

The real cookbooks in the pile were no help. They listed only Spanish rice.

Becky, my high school daughter, peeked into the room. "What are you guys doing?"

"Hey, maybe you can help," I said, motioning her into the room. "Did you study anything about the cuisine of Spain in your Spanish class? We need a Spanish dish."

Becky shrugged and shook her head, then left the room.

I phoned my mother for a suggestion.

"Spanish rice," she said.

"Ashley's bringing it."

"How about gazpacho?"

"What's in it?" I asked. I repeated the ingredients for Johanna as Mom described cold tomato soup with cucumbers and onion.

"Yuck!" Johanna said. "No one would eat it."

Next, I tried my sister Ann.

"Spanish rice," she said.

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