‘It’s the end!’ I screamed to the world from under my covers.  ‘The end!’

“No mom, we have one more day of summer,” my daughter corrected, oblivious to my symbolic moment of doom.  My husband peeked under and gave me a sympathetic ...Read on]]> I woke up to discover my daughter had grown breasts.  And not tiny little mosquito bites that mother’s proudly point out or gingerly giggle at with the ease of time on your side.  Breasts.  Full-fledge-get-me-a-real-bra-this-Target-crap-ain’t-cutting-it breasts.  It was a tragic moment for me.  A sense of loss overwhelmed my caffeine-deprived body as my eleven-year old pounced on my husband and I to wake us from our Saturday morning slumber.  “Wake up!  Wake up!” she shouted.  Her giggle was still the same.  The twinkle in those gorgeous eyes.  The only addition was the extra perky body part I refused to acknowledge.

‘It’s the end!’ I screamed to the world from under my covers.  ‘The end!’

“No mom, we have one more day of summer,” my daughter corrected, oblivious to my symbolic moment of doom.  My husband peeked under and gave me a sympathetic grin.

One more day of summer.  One more day of careless play, of hanging in pajama’s, of endless movie watching and lots of late nights.  Before I know it this big puppy dog that is my daughter will be suiting up in her new uniform and boarding a bus for a forty-five minute ride to her new Middle School.  It seems so diminutive writing it now.  Older, more seasoned parents are chuckling at this very moment remembering the little puddle jump from elementary to middle school.  No doubt they’ve been bruised plenty since:  the new boyfriend, the bad friend, the dreaded driver’s license, the missed curfew, the wrong choice…the wrong choice again. Such bigger fish to fry await me, I realize, and  yet I can’t even fathom my daughter handling multiple classrooms or remembering her locker combination, although I know she can.  I know she will.  I know she is ready.  I know I’m not.

“Stay little!” I beg her and her younger brother, now a confident third-grader.

“No, keep growing,” I hear their father contradict.

I am instantly irritated by the ease in which he offers this thought.  I don’t know how I made it from my daughter’s baby stage to her now bubbling preteen self.  I fear it has been much more difficult for me than for her.  And, even though I am excited for her new adventures and her inevitable growth, she’s got breasts and I can’t stop myself from feeling slightly horrified that this actually happens.

“Mom!” she shouts as she continues bouncing and banging her bony knee against my hip.  She is almost as long as I am and, although she is thin as a rail; she is getting heavy for such endeavors.  “I’m hungry, mom!  Please get up!  Please!”

I froze under the covers thinking what teenage meal she would now deem ‘cool’ and request  for breakfast.  Cereal?  Bran muffins?  Salad?  What do they eat, I wondered, slightly horrified, remembering at the same time her announcement last night that No Lunch Box Shall Be Packed (it’s the land of brown paper bag now that we are in Middle School).  I shuddered wondering how I’d make this leap, or at least, the culinary leap that stood before me.  And then there was silence followed by that sweet high-pitched voice (some would call it a whine, but at this particular moment in time it felt sweet) and in that shrill voice her father and I try so hard to encourage not to happen (yes it was sweet, yes so sweet, why, music to my ears), I heard her ask me in a tone that had her big knee not been precariously lodged in my rib would have fooled me into thinking she was five, she asked:

“Will you make me sunshine breakfast with the toast strips around the yolk like you used to when I was little?”

And instantly the memories came flooding back:  pushing her on the swing, running after her with spoonfuls of baby food because the child wouldn’t eat (yes, there was a time we worried that the child wouldn’t eat), holding her hand, tying the shoes, and all those strips of toast for sunshine breakfast gingerly placed on the plastic Barney plate she loved so much.

A smile spread on my panicked face and suddenly my worries were slightly eased.  Maybe I can handle the breasts after all.  Just keep sunshine breakfast coming.

But needless to say, summer brings on the glorious tomatoes.  The little ones, big ones, ugly ones- you name it, we have it.  I always feel a tad guilty eating just any old tomato.  You have to be careful nowadays, resourceful.  Make sure that baby is politically correct and not the byproduct of social injustice.  Our tomatoes got bad rap for that reason in the past.  So now I am diligent.  I go to my local farmer’s market, or, ...Read on]]> Summer is here. For Floridians it’s easy to note:  humidity and hurricanes. Lots of talk of both.  What used to be a pleasant sit outside, to read, to walk, to lounge, suddenly becomes a friggin’ sauna.  It’s okay. It’s all right. We Floridians are used to it.  Or we are all transplanted New Yorkers and used to kvetching.  Either way, it works.

But needless to say, summer brings on the glorious tomatoes.  The little ones, big ones, ugly ones- you name it, we have it.  I always feel a tad guilty eating just any old tomato.  You have to be careful nowadays, resourceful.  Make sure that baby is politically correct and not the byproduct of social injustice.  Our tomatoes got bad rap for that reason in the past.  So now I am diligent.  I go to my local farmer’s market, or, I grow my own.

Those that know me know I curse everything I grow. Everything.  Save for Lilly, my first baby, my lovely and sprawling Hibiscus plant. She loves me even if I sorely neglect her.  She sprouts neon pink flowers everywhere, spewing her love over the fence to the neighbors, spreading her happiness uninvited.  That’s Lilly.  She’s been around for twelve years now and is here to stay.

Which is why I thought it wise to plant my cherry tomatoes next to her. Maybe she could impart some wisdom upon them on how best to survive Alona Martinez. Or at least a gentle word or two when things went south, or at very least a pretty pink flower for the damn dying tomatoes to look at.

But a funny thing happened: the tomato plant and Lilly became fast friends.  And now there is a web of green, pink and red love tangled about in my back yard.  Embraces of Hibiscus and tomato reign, sing, dance shamelessly in my garden; flourishing in my neglect, they have each other and each other seems to be all they need.

I am grateful for this cohabitation. And a tad selfish too.  I am guilty of going out there and plucking the divine little round fruit of sunshine and claiming it mine.  It is really not. It belongs to Lilly.  But what is she going to do? Really?  So I’ve become a bully of sorts, you could say.  But I satiate any guilt by occasionally showering Lilly and her buddy with organic fertilizer. There.  Some people repent with diamond earrings.  I repent with fertilizer.  Organic fertilizer.

Those little round bursts of sunshine soon add up, and combining them with my farmer’s market tomatoes makes for a killer tomato soup.  Life isn’t whole without soup, particularly a lunch soup.  Want to win my heart? Make me soup for lunch. It’s that simple.  Really. So I am one step ahead of you and already on the go.  Lilly and Tomato Plant (yet to be named) are much appreciated and have won my heart already with this delicious soup.  Yum.  And thank you.

Mysterious bags of dark powders now line my azure kitchen counter.  They are next to my interminable row of specialty salts, giving the space its own market feeling.

I could put them in glass jars.

Tupperware.

Away.

But I choose not to.

I’ve left them on the counter, not only because their quasi-drug look reminds me with pride how they all passed unnoticed through rigorously-trained olfactory senses of airport beagles, but also because they represent the constant, intoxicating chaos of the Mexican market I recently left behind and still long for.

It’s all good here, of course.

Suburbia is nice.

The grass is mowed.

The kids are clean.

The DIRECTV guy came when he said he would.  Even fifteen minutes early.

But chaos?

What is it about chaos I long?  Miss?  Crave.

Is it the rowdy pedestrian streets of Sabana Grande in Caracas where I grew up?  The ones my best friend and ...Read on]]>

Mysterious bags of dark powders now line my azure kitchen counter.  They are next to my interminable row of specialty salts, giving the space its own market feeling.

I could put them in glass jars.

Tupperware.

Away.

But I choose not to.

I’ve left them on the counter, not only because their quasi-drug look reminds me with pride how they all passed unnoticed through rigorously-trained olfactory senses of airport beagles, but also because they represent the constant, intoxicating chaos of the Mexican market I recently left behind and still long for.

It’s all good here, of course.

Suburbia is nice.

The grass is mowed.

The kids are clean.

The DIRECTV guy came when he said he would.  Even fifteen minutes early.

But chaos?

What is it about chaos I long?  Miss?  Crave.

Is it the rowdy pedestrian streets of Sabana Grande in Caracas where I grew up?  The ones my best friend and I use to own when we were sixteen? We’d plop our rebellious bodies smack down in the center of the walkway and engage in a made-up Krishna chant that would draw curious crowds around us? Man I loved that.

Or the cramped Tel-Aviv roads, the ones I learned how to parallel park my 1964 Volkswagen Beetle when I was a college student?  If you didn’t know how to squeeze into the miniscule space in the first five seconds you’d have a group of nosy passerbyers tapping on your window telling you to turn more to the left, and then another group ordering you to turn to the right.  Then a heated discussion would follow.  Man I loved that.

Perhaps it’s the classic feel of New York City, where I was fortunate enough to finish my studies and explore early adulthood?  I was one with the patchwork of cultures, customs, and cuisines there.  I was the Dominican Republic doorman eating his snack of tostones. I was the Turk dining a dizzying array of appetizers at a miniscule yet rowdy restaurant, wrapping it up with an aromatic Keskur (coconut pudding).  And I was most definitely the gregarious Frenchman rollerblading through Central Park with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and a cold beer nearby.  I was all of them and I was me.  It was glorious.  Invigorating.  Challenging.   Man I loved that.

So those dusty plastic bags of earth-colored mole I bought in the Mexican market are worth more than gold to me, it appears.  I almost thought I’d never use them.  But then I did.   I had some leftover chicken, a casualty from my chicken soup. It sat in a Tupperware awaiting its next destination, which was unknown.  Until I realized one day while I watched the city workers in orange shirts, the only folks wandering about the neighborhood (save for the occasional dog walker) diligently watering the magnolia tree they had planted on my swale (city property:  city watering), I realized then and there that tonight I must open the bag.  Use the chicken.  Make mole.  Make magic.

And so I did. It was easy, quick, and ravenously delicious.  The chicken shred itself willingly and danced happily in the blessing of chocolate, chili powder, and other mysterious elements.  It was quick.  A dash of broth, a squeeze of lime, a hot tortilla, and I was back.  One bite and I was back.  To crowds. To cities.  To people. To life.  Man I love that.

I gravitate towards the most crowded spot in the city, the Mercado de la Merced, the Saturday market, a labyrinth of tiny alleys and passageways leaking with cow guts and blood from pigs’ feet, where chickens dangle upside down in skinned nudity, waiting to be snatched and boiled ...Read on]]> If the sip of a crimson drink will take me there, I will go.  I will go freely and happily, just as this tart, crisp flower that stained my water to a delicious and refreshing memory lures me back, I will go willingly.  Because even though the traffic is horrendous, the likes of Bangkok’s gridlocks and Cairo’s chaos, and even though the news of crime and kidnap and danger ricochets from its warm and forgotten embrace terrorizing those outside its magic and charm, I will go, gladly,  I will go back to Mexico.

I gravitate towards the most crowded spot in the city, the Mercado de la Merced, the Saturday market, a labyrinth of tiny alleys and passageways leaking with cow guts and blood from pigs’ feet, where chickens dangle upside down in skinned nudity, waiting to be snatched and boiled into some tasty broth or mole or taco.

The spaces are small and dank and festering with people, some toting their goods precariously stacked on wheelbarrows which they deftly navigate through the city that is this market. Whistling serves as their horn to warn others of their passage.  And many would feel claustrophobic in this dimly lit chaos, nauseous perhaps: the smell of life and death are pungent; inescapable.  But I, I am invigorated here, shoved along this wave of food and people.  I feel embraced by the millions of stands overflowing with produce and meat, and even though I am the only fair-skinned, blue-eyed woman in the entire market, a guera, I am embraced by the Mexican’s characteristic courteousness:

“Bonita, guera, aqui, bonita, aqui.” ‘Here pretty blondie, here’, the vendors coax, offering up free samples of fresh cheese, a slice of a mango, a piece of tripe.  They are curious of me and my camera, each peering out from behind their stalls loaded with their life’s work, becoming bashful and hiding safely behind a bag of tacos or a mountain of fresh nopales when I turn to shoot their image.  But still they all call after me, wanting me, and we share a moment of laughter, a smile, and a taste; always there’s a taste.  I apologize that I can’t buy their goods: I have no kitchen of my own here in Mexico and it aches to leave empty-handed.  I am too weak with temptation.

An aged lady at a corner stand senses my eyes softening and draws me in, offering up dried flowers the color of rubies, placing a bunch delicately in my hand:

“Bueno para el corazon, bueno para la mente:  un pedazo de Mexico,” she promises and I reflect on her wisdom as it echoes my whole experience of this country:

“Good for the heart, good for the mind, a piece of Mexico.”

And so I buy a bagful of these beautiful flowers, called Flor de Jamaica.  They are dried Hibiscus.  I will cradle their delicacy amongst my lingerie, brushing away the image of a U.S. Customs dog attacking my suitcase to confiscate my goods.  I risk it all because they are lovely and when boiled with water and chilled they make the unmistakably Mexican drink of Agua de Jamaica, a little piece of my experience I refuse to let go.
I take the bag from my Mexican muse and hug it close to me.  I hear the bustle of life.  Something cold drips on my toe and I dare not look down.  I am in Mexico.  I am in the market. The waves of passer-byers behind me feel like a mammoth embrace.  A man carrying several sacks of jalapeños on his head brushes by.  A woman slices a lime and it explodes with juice, leaving a trail of citrus oil within smelling range. A row of pig feet salute me in the next stall.  I breathe in the flower’s fragrance and feel myself irrevocably drawn into this country.  In this culinary chaos I am home.

There is one day when the stove and I aren’t friends, where the skillet looks at me with suspicion, and the kitchen might as well be cordoned off in yellow crime scene tape. It is on this day that I am forced, even though my maternal clock has insisted I rise at 6:30 and no later, to stay in bed and feign leisure. It has a fuzzy metallic taste, leisure. I use all my brain power to try and recall what it truly feels like; to sleep in, to take a long shower, to go to the gym in the middle of the day just because. That all evaporated many moons ago when a bundle with chunky cheeks, beautiful eyes and a persistent squirminess was handed to me in a hospital room over eleven years ago. ‘You are ...Read on]]>

There is one day when the stove and I aren’t friends, where the skillet looks at me with suspicion, and the kitchen might as well be cordoned off in yellow crime scene tape. It is on this day that I am forced, even though my maternal clock has insisted I rise at 6:30 and no later, to stay in bed and feign leisure. It has a fuzzy metallic taste, leisure. I use all my brain power to try and recall what it truly feels like; to sleep in, to take a long shower, to go to the gym in the middle of the day just because. That all evaporated many moons ago when a bundle with chunky cheeks, beautiful eyes and a persistent squirminess was handed to me in a hospital room over eleven years ago. ‘You are a mother now,’ the bundle seemed to proclaim, as I held her in a panic, wondering what the hell to do next.

But I stuck it out and the kid grew on me. Enough to have another, this one a son equally as cute and blessed with those same damn long eyelashes (ones I try, I try, I try to duplicate and never come even remotely close to getting.)

So I dove into my dizzying whirlwind of motherhood; of pampering and nurturing, cuddling and fixing, demanding and guiding and on and on and on until, before I knew it the clock has fast forwarded in a frenzied rate to eleven years later.

So on this day, Mother’s Day, I am commanded to relax. I lie stiff on my bed, attempting to remember leisure, as my two children and their father wreak havoc on my culinary turf, just as all children and their fathers do on Mother’s Day. I imagine burnt toast and spilled orange juice and bits of sugary cereal drowning in insane amounts of tepid milk. But I forget, how easily I forget, that these children are a bit of me, and that in this house there is no sugary cereal to speak of and instead, while I pretend to sleep and wonder, feverishly wonder, ‘what the hell is going on out there?’ the three of them have it covered, so covered.

Husband is already brewing my Venezuelan espresso coffee while Daughter will be gently simmering the slices of lox that will be carefully added to the slow-cooked scrambled eggs she specializes in making just like my mother (whom she’s never met) used to. Her brother will argue, adamantly argue (because they regularly get into discussions of this sort) as to which herb to pick from the garden for Mom’s eggs: the dill or the chives.

My son will demand it be dill, because he is a traditionalist at heart and dill and lox are married in flavor. My daughter likes life a bit more piquant and will insist on the way chives tease the egg and lox out of their comfort zone. My husband will proudly and quietly observe this rigorous dialogue worthy of a United Nations assembly. A tear or two will quickly form in his eyes; he wears his heart on his sleeve; that’s one of the things I most tease him about (and most love him for) and then, ultimately, they will all decide in a very kid-like manner: flipping a coin or a game of rock-paper-scissor. They will be respectful of said decision. They will be gracious about the victorious herb and move on to other aspects of the dish (plating, flowers, notes and homemade gifts: all to celebrate my lack of leisure.) I lie and await a meal that will be memorably theirs and delicious because of it. There will be nothing burnt, for they have been intuitive observers and willing participants in my kitchen over the years.

The three of them will hobble noisily to my room to ‘wake me’ with a tray full of love and culinary bravado and I will act surprised and inhale the comforting and salty aroma of butter, eggs and lox and I will see a lovely family, my lovely family, by my side. My husband will hand me my coffee (because he knows I must have a sip of this elixir first) and I will feel lucky, so very lucky, that for this I have forgotten the meaning of leisure.

I am salivating.

I am stunned.

I am digesting.  Yes.  Lots of digesting, both physical and literal, took place at the IACP Conference in Portland last week.

Big shout out to old friends and new. We now Facebook.  We now Tweet, I promise to become a tweet whiz like my good friend, Jacqueline!  Eating through laughs is as good as it gets.  Fun games played, I’m thinking namely Human Bingo at Nourish Network’s mixer event – where a crowded room of strangers learned bizarre details of one on another in desperate attempts at shouting out BINGO.  We are a competitive bunch.  And yes, I have been to Africa, for those needing that spot filled.

Jaden Hair, from Steamy Kitchen,  was a burst of sunshine in the charismatically grey Portland day, offering up tips and advice and always a helping hand to those ...Read on]]> I am renewed.

I am salivating.

I am stunned.

I am digesting.  Yes.  Lots of digesting, both physical and literal, took place at the IACP Conference in Portland last week.

Big shout out to old friends and new. We now Facebook.  We now Tweet, I promise to become a tweet whiz like my good friend, Jacqueline!  Eating through laughs is as good as it gets.  Fun games played, I’m thinking namely Human Bingo at Nourish Network’s mixer event – where a crowded room of strangers learned bizarre details of one on another in desperate attempts at shouting out BINGO.  We are a competitive bunch.  And yes, I have been to Africa, for those needing that spot filled.

Jaden Hair, from Steamy Kitchen,  was a burst of sunshine in the charismatically grey Portland day, offering up tips and advice and always a helping hand to those mastering the world of social networking. Be searchable, was a key phrase I came away with.  Dragon Crestwood, filled with spunk and creative energy (and with that name, how could one not be in for a good time!) delivered with her Deep Feast Writing, as we explored our writing lens through a baking potato.  Amy Sherman from Cooking With Amy, reminded us about the importance of knowing your voice and having a niche and agents Jenni Ferrari-Adler and Lisa Ekus-Saffer offered useful tips on queries, book proposals, and platform.  Oh but I leave so many out, I know I do.  Of course Kim Severson, from The New York Times and the food goddess herself, Ruth Reichl, made a memorable duo (requests to host the Oscars are already pouring in), and, Mark Bitterman, was there to offer his salty inspiration and directions to his shop, The Meadow (a dangerous, dangerous place for my credit card, I soon discovered).  Author Virginia Willis and  publisher Bob Dees offered new insights from opposite perspectives, Scott Givot doled out support and fashion statements and Michael Ruhlman seemed to create a buzz wherever he went.

But let’s get down to it. The food. It was amazing.  From the various events hosted by IACP to the morning bakeries to the grungy street cart festival under the bridge, Portland enchanted me with its culinary bravado.  I can’t speak enough about it. But I’ll stop now.  A picture says a thousand words. Enjoy the feast!

Golden raindrops beckon me from the newly built pergola. They come from Gingy, a tiny kumquat tree that is one of the newer additions to the Martinez garden, which, with my challenged green thumb, turns out to be more of a botanical boot camp than anything else: who ever can survive, deserves to stay.

There’s been a plethora of attendees at the Martinez botanical boot camp, beginning with the numerous lovely hanging plants, ones that are bright and happy and nourished when I purchase them but end up mangled dry messes: telltale signs of abandonment or over care. I try, I tell you I try. I buy all sorts of expensive potions: organic concoctions with photographs of healthy bright plants splattered on them and microscope writing promising fertility and growth, but then I lose interest or ...Read on]]>

Golden raindrops beckon me from the newly built pergola. They come from Gingy, a tiny kumquat tree that is one of the newer additions to the Martinez garden, which, with my challenged green thumb, turns out to be more of a botanical boot camp than anything else: who ever can survive, deserves to stay.

There’s been a plethora of attendees at the Martinez botanical boot camp, beginning with the numerous lovely hanging plants, ones that are bright and happy and nourished when I purchase them but end up mangled dry messes: telltale signs of abandonment or over care. I try, I tell you I try. I buy all sorts of expensive potions: organic concoctions with photographs of healthy bright plants splattered on them and microscope writing promising fertility and growth, but then I lose interest or desire or simply and awfully forget, until it is too late and I attack the dead plant with a hearty sprinkling of garden magic and a desperate overdose of water which flushes briefly through its dried roots and splatters loudly on the Saltillo tile as in angry reprieve to my carelessness.

I want to be different about it, I do. I see myself as a lover of all things nature, and my garden is no exception. I wander the aisles of local nurseries, endless outdoor rows of bountiful plants and imagine these beauties nourishing my air and creating a lush tropical landscape upon 9340 N.W. 17^th Street. And then I buy them and they are in shock with boot camp and die.

Mother nature is not much of a help either, supplying no rain when I am too lazy to bother with a hose or offering up unexpected frigid weather that demands I take my hanging plants indoors for shelter. This is too high maintenance for one that has two children that barely made it through babyhood in tact.

Which is why I celebrate proudly the foliage that survives my tough love. There’s Lilly, of course, my twelve-year old Hibiscus plant that was my first child, long before the kiddies arrived. She knows no other home or parent and seems just fine: happily thriving in mountains of bright pink flowers, she is my reminder that, in the garden, I did something right. The nameless cactus has also been quite a resilient fellow, surviving six years of my neglect as well as my children’s constant prodding and poking and tripping over (the 5-stitch scar above my son’s eye is thanks to Cactus…)

So Gingy didn’t know what was waiting for her when I took her from the magical Flamingo Gardens Nursery and stuck her in the earth here. But so far, she’s fared quite well, offering up a healthy explosion of plump kumquats that where dutifully ripped off by my two young gardeners-in-training and then boiled up into a delightful marmalade. She’s now rather barren of course, only tiny leaves remain, that, upon close inspection, sport holes from some sort of fungi or worm or something demanding further care. She is angry with me, I know. I haven’t surrounded her with orchids and pomelos as she was in her former home. I’ve only planted her, waited eagerly and stripped her of her goods. Cheated her in a sense, she must assume. But I look at it another way, hoping she serves as much an inspiration to me as a gardener as she has as a cook. The marmalade is golden, tart and delicious, offering up chunks of peel that give way to the floral citrus of the kumquat. I have jars upon jars waiting to be enjoyed: a celebration of Gingy lines my refrigerator door. As for the tree, I know I must take care of that problem with the leaves. Maybe buy some fertilizer or some ladybugs to put on her leaves for protection. Something, anything; I owe her that much. But for the meantime, I find myself putting it off for later and enjoying another piece of toast slathered with boot camp perfection.

He looked at me with distrustful eyes: I looked like a gringa, after all, and Venezuela, a once open and accepting country, now lived in a climate of great anti-American sentiment. And still, his look locked with mine in a curious way. I stuck out like a sore thumb, I’ll admit, with my fair skin, blonde hair and light eyes, out in a dusty pit stop between the cities of Caracas and Valencia, in a sea of dark-skinned, dark-haired people. My husband and I had stopped for the prerequisite cafecito, a tiny plastic cup of rich caffeine that would curse through our veins until the next pit stop allowed a refill.

I sat in the parked car, watching the men and women saunter towards the goods beckoning at the counter: a box of ...Read on]]>

He looked at me with distrustful eyes: I looked like a gringa, after all, and Venezuela, a once open and accepting country, now lived in a climate of great anti-American sentiment. And still, his look locked with mine in a curious way. I stuck out like a sore thumb, I’ll admit, with my fair skin, blonde hair and light eyes, out in a dusty pit stop between the cities of Caracas and Valencia, in a sea of dark-skinned, dark-haired people. My husband and I had stopped for the prerequisite cafecito, a tiny plastic cup of rich caffeine that would curse through our veins until the next pit stop allowed a refill.

I sat in the parked car, watching the men and women saunter towards the goods beckoning at the counter: a box of cigarettes, a CD, a batido, or fresh fruit juice. My husband waited by the glistening chrome Gaggia coffee machine and I chuckled out loud thinking, this is what is so lovely about this contradictory country: parked in the middle of nowhere sits a luxuriously expensive espresso maker brewing out perfect cup after cup after cup.

And that’s when I saw him, each drawn to the other by our eyes : mine a clear blue, as blue as the sky allows on a perfectly pristine day and his, dark and muddled like fresh mud. His clothes were dirty and ragged, his flip-flops bore a huge hole at the heel and I sat in my air conditioned Land Cruiser with pedicured feet resting comfortably on the dashboard. He walked slowly in front of my car, carrying two plastic yellow buckets filled with something, never once taking his eyes off mine. Two worlds collided in one stare. I wondered what he thought of me, “una princesita yanqui” (a Yankee princess) most likely and immediately I lowered my feet but kept my stare. No, he was up to something, I realized. His gaze was now locked on mine and I detected the tiniest smile. I watched and waited, stealing a quick glance at my husband way over there sipping and purchasing more coffee. He was out of my range. It was just me and this man, whose stare was so dark and hypnotic, I couldn’t help but fall under its spell. He came closer and closer to my closed window and just when I didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened he bellowed out a loud and proud:

“LA CACHAPA CACHAPA CACHAPA, VENDO LA CACHAPA CACHAPA CACHAPA, CON QUESO DE MANO, TELITA, LA CACHAPA CACHAPA, CACHAPA”

And I knew I was safe. And I knew I was doomed. I had fallen for this scruffy man…and he sold cachapas. Next to arepas, cachapas, golden corn pancakes served with a chunk of fresh white cheese on top, are Venezuela’s most popular snack. Immediately I lowered my window and was greeted by the warm sweet smell of toasted corn pancakes wafting from his yellow bucket. I bought five. The fresh white cheeses he offered (telita, de mano, and guayanes) were so outrageously delicious, I bought them all. I would have taken the man home but my husband had returned by then and, with a shocked look on his face and two cups of coffee, took notice of the mountains of sweet corn and cheese precariously balanced on my lap and gasped:

“Alona, are you all right?”

And I was all right. I was down right great. Because when you park your car in the middle of nowhere, only to get the best cup of coffee in the universe, and you have the good fortune of finding the cachapa man, life, my friends, is good. Life is great.

I celebrated this goodness all in one go, making sandwich upon sandwich of my creamy corn pancakes and their accompanying salty cheeses. The cheese would ooze and give to the heat of the cachapa, making for a delirious experience, and, as the Land Cruiser kicked into drive leaving a trail of dust in its wake, my eyes looked for those of the cachapa man only to find he had already locked gaze with another woman sitting prey in a shiny red Mazda. This was a man of many talents, I thought to myself, as I took another tasty bite of my cachapa and let everything else go.

Bread haunts me so. I am not supposed to eat it this week (a Passover thing) and so, it teases. And lures. And promises me I can’t live without it.

The scale reconfirms Jewish law: I can live without it (the scale insists for longer than one measly week). The rolls forming on my gut reconfirm that Jewish law and scale are correct (when did this happen?) But the bread, ah the bread, in all its glorious forms is insurmountable torture to go without. There are warm bagels sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds and spread with generous seas of creamy cream cheese or ciabata bread, with its extra chewy crunch on the outside, torn open to reveal those craters of dough forming planet-like surfaces which beckon wild blueberry jam to get trapped and devoured in. And ...Read on]]>

Bread haunts me so. I am not supposed to eat it this week (a Passover thing) and so, it teases. And lures. And promises me I can’t live without it.

The scale reconfirms Jewish law: I can live without it (the scale insists for longer than one measly week). The rolls forming on my gut reconfirm that Jewish law and scale are correct (when did this happen?) But the bread, ah the bread, in all its glorious forms is insurmountable torture to go without. There are warm bagels sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds and spread with generous seas of creamy cream cheese or ciabata bread, with its extra chewy crunch on the outside, torn open to reveal those craters of dough forming planet-like surfaces which beckon wild blueberry jam to get trapped and devoured in. And of course, let’s not forget the French epi loaf with thorns of golden crunch running up and down the captivating baguette like an edible spine. I am shameless with this loaf, leaving intellect behind, notions of carbs and calories and such; I just tear at these spines, ripping whole chunks of epi off their vine and devour them warm and whole, slathering the occasional hunk of butter or brie, if I have self-control or time or either. These are breads I can’t live without.

So, yes, the idea of a boxed cracker called matzo…well, pales in comparison. Don’t get me wrong. I look forward to the initial matzo meeting. There is nothing quite like a whole piece of matzo slathered with butter and a toxic sprinkling of salt. This is how my father taught me to eat matzo and almost anything else: butter and a toxic sprinkling of salt. Butter and salt is how the purists do it, the Israelis, or sabras: the real matzo men (and women). Other ways seem pointless after that. And I’ve tried: egg salad, peanut butter, chopped chicken liver. Some work. Some scream out for the real yeast deal.

I admit then that that first, second, even third piece of matzo was delightful, delicious, a real embracing of my Jewish roots and a straight shot back to my childhood, where, finding matzo in the Latin Catholic country of Venezuela was a feat in itself. But then pieces got stuck in my teeth. And I had to pick them out. And I felt I had eaten cement. Lots and lots of cement with butter. And horribly so, the charoset, that lovely Passover delicacy of dates, figs, apples, nuts and wine, ran out. That stuff does wonders to a piece of matzo. Right up there with the butter. But when I went dry on that, the matzo went awfully dry.

So somehow I found myself traveling to every bakery for every other possible thing one would get at a bakery: truffle mousse at Le Croissant Time, fresh pasta at Doris (strategically placed by their bakery), hazelnut coffee at the bagel shop. I knew this would not end well for me. I understood it was not fair to me. I have no self-control when it comes to food. None. Zero. It is not in my DNA like food and all things food is. Guilt riddles me somewhat, but then that wafting of warm dough sings and dances in my nostrils and I inevitably cave, like I did this Passover, like I did last.

I don’t go crazy on the bread: a fugitive sandwich in a darkened room, a warm bagel incognito in the car on the run. Abstract places for abstract delights. There is no outright celebration of all things yeast, but still, I can’t bear to turn them away, not even for the week. I hope to not have let anyone down: my rabbi, God, my scale. And so I keep the matzo box nearby, just so. And the butter is always soft.

Close your eyes and imagine it. Come with me. The smells are there. All sorts of them: fresh spicy radishes laid out on a wool blanket for all to see and buy, sizzling tacos of unknown meats and sausages, corn tortillas toasting on a cast iron griddle and the citrus freshness of plump limes whose juice is constantly drizzled over everything. This is the de Mercado Valle de Bravo in Mexico: a Sunday market housed in a cramped labyrinth of tiny stalls connected by a roof made of blue plastic feigning the sky. It is an infinitely raw and vibrant world nestled within Valle de Bravo, a scenic vacation town of picturesque cobble stone roads and a breathtaking lake where tourists enjoy mountain fresh air and sit and eat trucha fresca, fresh trout, and escape the pollution and population ...Read on]]>

Close your eyes and imagine it. Come with me. The smells are there. All sorts of them: fresh spicy radishes laid out on a wool blanket for all to see and buy, sizzling tacos of unknown meats and sausages, corn tortillas toasting on a cast iron griddle and the citrus freshness of plump limes whose juice is constantly drizzled over everything. This is the de Mercado Valle de Bravo in Mexico: a Sunday market housed in a cramped labyrinth of tiny stalls connected by a roof made of blue plastic feigning the sky. It is an infinitely raw and vibrant world nestled within Valle de Bravo, a scenic vacation town of picturesque cobble stone roads and a breathtaking lake where tourists enjoy mountain fresh air and sit and eat trucha fresca, fresh trout, and escape the pollution and population of Mexico City. Steps away from such manicured tourism there lives this world of the mercado, its blue lit alley beckons those who dare enter it, and of course, taking that sharp left and following the locals and stray dogs seemed the obvious choice for my husband and I.

It was crowded and sweaty and lively and wondrous. Men carried sacks filled with blender parts, indigenous women sprawled on the dirt floor were selling woven baskets, bright green nopale (cactus) leaves, and action figure dolls that saw their heyday in the early eighties. They were all there.

The local butcher chopped yellow chickens that peered at me with eyes still open. I knew they hadn’t lived a life in a windowless, cramped coop but rather roamed a field picking worms most likely hours ago. And then, the famous taquerias, or taco stands: they were everywhere, lacing together this maze of shopping. The sound of meat sizzled throughout the market like an orchestra: carnitas, tacos de carne, de barbacoa.

Freshly grilled meat is chopped on a tronco, a big slab of wood resembling a tree trunk and in the air there floats a thick smoke of flavor that would stubbornly land on your clothing and refuse to leave, so much so that, even if you didn’t stop at one of the plastic tables for a quick bite, the food traveled with you.

Speckled throughout the market where the fruit carts. Gloriously colorful cups loaded with chunks of freshly chopped tropical delights: pineapple, watermelon, sapote, and of course, mango. Mango is a celebrated fruit in Mexico and rightly so: every mango I’ve ever eaten there is a memorable exchange between my palate and my memory: smooth, juicy and bursting with flavor, there isn’t one fiber to be found, just fleshy fruit generous with juice. And here, Mexican’s have defied all logic and introduced this sweetness with a spicy bite: adding their homemade assortments of chile sauces and powders, they take cups of the chopped chunks of golden mango and drizzle and sprinkle and drizzle and sprinkle and drizzle some more.

I am intoxicated by this market. I am in love. Camera in hand, I cannot stop being there. I want to see, smell, and eat everything. The locals all stare at me curiously. I am a guera, a slang term for someone blonde, blue-eyed and fair-skinned- unheard of in this wave of Aztec rich complexion and dark eyes. We are drawn together for our differences, the local market folk and I. I long to be a part of them, and they quietly take me in, accepting me into this underworld of theirs, this weekly ritual they will forget today but I will carry with me forever.

The mango girl smiles at me and my camera. “Como lo quieres” she asks? How do you want it? And then she dares me, “Con todo?” With everything?

And of course, because I know no other answer when it comes to food, I reply, “Si, todo” and she begins the procession with my fabulous cup of diced mango (which she has rinsed in a dirty red bucket filled with suspiciously grey water). She drizzles and sprinkles and drizzles again. This chile powder and that chile sauce. I ask her several times what it is and she tells me. But I cannot catch the names. I am a fluent Spanish speaker but this simply isn’t enough: there is the cadence of the speech, soft, courteous and rhythmic and then the many Aztec names weaved into a Mexican’s Spanish. They slip off my memory in their foreign sounds. I do understand that the last cayenne-colored sprinkle comes specially homemade from some region in Mexico, whose name, again, evades me, but by the shine in her eye I know, this is the good stuff.

I take the cup from her with a smile and a big gracias and then, as if by intuition, I close my eyes. I am circled by life. I smell the street, the dogs, the sounds of bartering, the clang of pots, and I hold a cold cup of precious fruit sprinkled with Mexican secrets for my taking. It is a moment I want to freeze in time. But instead, I take a bite and allow my tongue to dance with the sweet and spice of this unforgettable country of Mexico.