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After about an hour of driving deeper into the mountainous terrain, the sprawling city of Santiago, Chile was behind us; the cars and people replaced by trees and wide-open spaces. “So, we’re here,” said Miguel, the patriarch of the family with whom we were staying. Distracted by the landscape, I turned my eyes to what was ahead: a large, nondescript gray gate and the red, white, and blue of the Chilean flag peering just over the top. We were told we would be visiting the small farm of Miguel’s wife, Marcela’s, uncle. In my mind was a picture of the farms I came to know in my childhood: a small wooden house on a tiny plot of land occupied by the occasional cow, pig, and brood of hens. With low hum, the gate slowly opened, followed by the crunching of the gravel underneath the car as Miguel shifted the car back into drive. The car now parked, Miguel’s family, my soon-to-be wife, and I stepped out into the warm September evening to an immense amount of land dotted with cows, horses, sheep, hogs, peacocks, and everything in between. Just beyond the seemingly endless fields, the Andes exploded out of the landscape, meeting the sky as they imposed upon everything around them. We walked together to greet our hosts, who I was having trouble identifying as the area next to the area next to the house containing 40 or so Chileans, laughing, dancing, and discussing the following days, which would consist of even more festivities. This was, after all, Fiestas Patrias, Chile’s national holiday, which involved non-stop cooking, eating, drinking, and dancing. Completely consumed by the scene playing out in front of me, I felt a small tug at my shirt. Looking down, a child held a small plate towards me with a pile of empanadas, not unlike one of the mountains I had just been admiring. Unable to resist, I took one of the pastries and followed by a “Muchas gracias”, which I must have butchered, judging by the little girl’s laughter. This small offering was the first of many, as I would end up eating half my weight in food in the subsequent hours. I followed Miguel to the series of tables, each hidden beneath bottles of Chilean wine and plates piled high with various cuts of meat; most likely the relatives of the animals I saw upon our arrival. Nearly every seat was taken by the most extroverted, happy people I have seen in my life. Not one conversation around those tables seemed uninteresting. A group of women discussed the hours they spent making the selection of dishes. and whose recipe was the best. Two men talked politics; at the next table full of men and teenagers arguing over whether Universidad Católica or Colo-Colo was the better football team that year. As I watched the countless interactions of family and friends at each table, something pulled me away. Beyond the tables came an intoxicating smell. A full lamb slowly spun on a spit over a small, wood-burning fire; below it pork ribs. The fat from the lamb dripped onto the ribs, then down onto the flame with a sizzle. The man responsible for the cooking must have noticed the salivating gringo, because he pointed directly at me and gestured me to come over. Pulling out a large chef’s knife, he cut a piece of skin off of the lamb and handed it to me. The mouth-watering combination of salt and fat hit my taste buds in just the right way. The perfect bite, if there ever was one. Although this farm in Chile was a culture foreign to my own, at the same time it was also something so familiar; a group of people gathering around the table over endless food and conversation. Finding an empty seat, I sat down, my plate piled high with homemade food, and poured a glass of wine.