The sun was kind to us by keeping the temperature just below 90°. We were building our third and final “house” in Honduras. I use the term house, but by American standards these more closely resembled Oklahoma sheds. As the top part or the walls were being finished and the roof started, the amount of people needed dropped and I found myself out of a job. Taking a seat on the ground, I gazed out onto the hills we were on. They were quite breath-taking, green with houses sporting aluminium roofs dotting the mountainside. “Chainsaw” John, as I referred to him in my head, had a bluetooth speaker playing some Imagine Dragons. A mix of the music and a game of soccer others were playing filled my head as I took a drink of water. If you think this sounds very surreal and dramatic, it’s because that’s what it felt like. In reality, I’d seen better mountains in Europe, preferred Imagine Dragons’ original album to John’s, wished the kids played something I was better at, and the water was about as hot as English people drink their tea; and it went right through me, as if it was air. Yet somehow it still seemed surreal.
    

While my cooking skills are about as strong as the average MMO player, I’ve always thought of life as a meal. After pondering and deciding the perfect method (I prefer baking), we try to balance out all the ingredients, attempting to make it as tasty and satisfying as possible. If you were to ask anyone what they would like more of, majority would probably answer money. And that’s understandable, as you can do almost anything with it. However, if you asked the same person what makes them happy, they’d probably say “family”, “friends” (people or the TV show), or something along those lines. A recent study revealed that while our quality of life is improving in America, our happiness has remained relatively unchanged. Many people seem to be aware that money and objects won’t bring them happiness, yet it seems to be all we’re after. The people I met in Honduras often had little or nothing to their name, but they seemed content with what they had. Sure they’d have more if they could, but they didn’t let how much they had get in the way of how happy they were. They continued to talk with us, work with us, play and laugh with us just like any normal people. While in Honduras, we didn’t live like kings. We ate bizarre food, struggled around town on an ancient school bus by the name of “Big Yellow”, and shared a small, cramped, unairconditioned room with three others. But I didn’t feel any less happy on the mountainside as I do in my room now.
    

Later that afternoon, I found myself playing the soccer equivalent of catch with a kickball. I was with my friend Ike and a local boy. He was probably eight or nine years old, thin, four-foot tall or so, with khakis and a purple striped shirt.  Ike and I decided to learn more about this kid, so we found one of the few bilingual people nearby to translate for us. “What’s your name?” Ike asked.
    

“Biubhfiudshfoha?” The translator translated. Good Lord.
     “Jfoadsnouga,” The kid responded quietly.
     “Oh, his name is Ricardo,” She informed us.
     “Ricardo? Thanks,” Needless to say, most our communication was through hand signals from then on.

Ricardo -- like many of the other kids eight or older -- seemed very reserved when talking or looking at us. Since he was the only one I had really “gotten to know” yet, I tried to learn as much as I could from watching him. And it didn’t take long for me to figure something out; he was just like any other kid. While reserved, he seemed to enjoy playing soccer with us. During the game, I was positioned right in front of a three-foot drop-off. When I slid to kick a haywire pass, I tumbled off. I followed Peppy’s advice and did a barrel roll, and somehow managed to stick the landing. After being sure I sustained no mortal injuries, I glanced at Ricardo to find his jaw had detached and dropped onto the dirt. This was followed by a chorus of laughter.
    

The reason I tell you this is because if placed in some rich Hispanic family’s house in Arizona, Ricardo would have acted no different. Despite different wealth and living conditions, he was an awful lot like every other kid ever. He wasn’t any more depressed or angry or good or evil as any other boy his age. All my life I’ve been experimenting with recipes. Seeing how adding a touch of this or removing a bit of that affects the taste. And I’ve only increased my trials since being in Honduras; because it was playing with Ricardo that took me a step closer to the ultimate meal. I don’t know the secret ingredient that makes us happy and content, but if there’s one thing I’ve found it’s that it isn’t just stuff. If I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s something more.