It’s that time of year- corsages, condoms (gotta have the condom talk again), and plenty of tears from you as Empty Nest Syndrome darts your way.

Your baby is growing up.  Graduating.  Out of the house, soon.  Too soon.    You may find yourself buried under old photo albums of Mommy and Me circa 1996, thinking you want to use this time wisely to teach your young one what a photo album was.

Photos- those hard copy images we used to click on a camera, take to the photo store and have developed into glossy prints.  Prints we’d then take home and slip into elongated books that, you’d place on bookcases in living rooms, offices, or bedrooms to bring down and peruse at a later moment in time.  Real live photos?  Photos?  You with me, kid?

Let me save you the trouble.  Kid won’t ...Read on]]>

It’s that time of year- corsages, condoms (gotta have the condom talk again), and plenty of tears from you as Empty Nest Syndrome darts your way.

Your baby is growing up.  Graduating.  Out of the house, soon.  Too soon.    You may find yourself buried under old photo albums of Mommy and Me circa 1996, thinking you want to use this time wisely to teach your young one what a photo album was.

Photos- those hard copy images we used to click on a camera, take to the photo store and have developed into glossy prints.  Prints we’d then take home and slip into elongated books that, you’d place on bookcases in living rooms, offices, or bedrooms to bring down and peruse at a later moment in time.  Real live photos?  Photos?  You with me, kid?

Let me save you the trouble.  Kid won’t be with you.  Eyes glazed. Mind a zillion miles away.  Kid has already navigated 5845 new topics in his/her brain.  Because this is what it means to be a teen nowadays.  Too much of a hurry.  Too much going on.  Too much competition for attention.  So, if you wanna stand a chance, you’d best get up off that couch, put them albums away, whip out your Smartphone and say what you’ve always needed to say, the teen way:

143

4EAE

OMG I’m SMH in shock.  You are all grown up.

FWIW

Here are my tips on life:

IRL

SH

But don’t ever think

STBY

POV will change

If you spend some time ROFL

Treat yourself and others with TLC

RAK are a good thing

MHOTY for getting this far

Always ask yourself

RUOK?

WTH?

And of course,

WTPA?

IMHO, life is too short to carry a VSF

GLHF

Communicate

Txt and TMB

IM

DM

F2F is so 2000 but WTH

IU2U

DWBH

HTH

SWAK

And remember,

PAW!

Parent’s Copy:

143                                                                        (I love you)

4EAE                                                                   (For ever and ever)

OMG I’m SMH in shock                               (Oh my God, I’m shaking my head in shock)

You are all grown up.                                    (You are all grown up.)

FWIW, here are my tips on life:                 (For what it’s worth, here are my tips on life:)

IRL                                                                     (In real life)

SH                                                                     (Shit happens)

But don’t ever think                                      (But don’t ever think)

STBY                                                                 (Sucks to be you)

POV will change                                           (Point of view will change)

If you spend some time ROFL                   (If you spend some time rolling on the floor laughing)

Treat yourself and others with TLC          (Treat yourself and others with tender loving  care)

RAK are a good thing                                  (Random acts of kindness are a good thing)

MHOTY for getting this far                       (My hat’s off to you for getting this far)

Always ask yourself                                      (Always ask yourself)

RUOK?                                                             (Are you okay?)

WTH ?                                                              (What the heck?)

And of course,                                                (And of course,)

WTPA                                                               (Where the party at?)

IMHO, life is too short to carry a VSF    (In my honest opinion, life is too short to carry a very sad face.)

GLHF                                                                 (Good luck, have fun)

Communicate                                                   (Communicate)

Txt and TMB                                                     (Text and tweet me back)

IM                                                                        (Instant message)

DM                                                                      (Direct message)

F2F is so 2000 but WTH                              (Face to face is so 2000 but what the hell)

IU2U                                                                   (It’s up to you)

DWBH                                                                (Don’t worry, be happy)

HTH                                                                   (Hope this helps)

SWAK                                                                  (Sealed with A Kiss)

And remember,                                                (And remember),

PAW                                                                    (Parents are watching!)

Then go and eat some cupcakes.  Together, even!  And preferably these.  You can text each other what you thought, later. LOL!

Ever bake with buckwheat flour?

It makes your batter grey.  Yes, grey!  I’m a bit unnerved by it, but, since I am a buckwheat virgin, I am going with the flow, acting as if I know what the hell is going on, as any good virgin will do.

Yesterday began a bit haphazardly when I was cleverly outsmarted and daringly attacked by my blueberries.

(Yes, the little round things you eat.)

It takes a lot of preplanning to be a mother.  The older the children get, the more running around one does (so watch out how much you new mamas drool with joy when baby takes first steps!)  They tell me the high school years are a real picnic.

And so I find myself eating a lot in my car.  Simply because I don’t have time to eat as mankind should, in the comfort ...Read on]]>

Ever bake with buckwheat flour?

It makes your batter grey.  Yes, grey!  I’m a bit unnerved by it, but, since I am a buckwheat virgin, I am going with the flow, acting as if I know what the hell is going on, as any good virgin will do.

Yesterday began a bit haphazardly when I was cleverly outsmarted and daringly attacked by my blueberries.

(Yes, the little round things you eat.)

It takes a lot of preplanning to be a mother.  The older the children get, the more running around one does (so watch out how much you new mamas drool with joy when baby takes first steps!)  They tell me the high school years are a real picnic.

And so I find myself eating a lot in my car.  Simply because I don’t have time to eat as mankind should, in the comfort of one’s home over a crinkly, fresh edition of The New York Times (until someone gives me an iPad, I remain a paper die-hard.)  And the car becomes my refuge.

Now pat me on the back somewhat because I could resort to the temptation of a meal fit for a car:  a bagel, Mcsomething, or donut.   But those of you who know me better, or even slightly, understand completely that I would never ingest such crap.  And so, my convertible mini cooper has become something of a one-woman-specialty-food-truck/tiny car.  Mornings waiting in carpool for my son’s school to open are enjoyed with a green onion and lox frittata, a roasted veggie and feta cheese omelete, or, as I prepared yesterday, steel-cut oatmeal simmered with walnuts, blueberries and cinnamon.

I cram my culinary treasures into my teenage daughter’s discarded Princess thermos (okay, so it was discarded a long, long time ago), throw in a disposable fork or spoon, and off it goes with me to be eaten in between traffic lights.

You can imagine this breakfast experience is sadly uneventful, save for the important factor of getting tasty nutrition at the appropriate time (‘do you want cranky mommy?’ is the go-to question in my house if I don’t eat when I should.)

This morning I was surprised by a rogue blueberry, who, as I plunged my plastic spoon into my oatmeal to grab a scoop (apparently side-swiping the alleged fruit), shot a resentful spray of hot blue juice right into my left eye, forehead and shoulder.

“I’ve been hit!” I screamed, laughter expressing the shock.  My ten-year old son looked at me with disgust.  I’ve been known to be a prankster, but this was even beyond my realm of stupidity.  And distracting him from his video game just wasn’t cool.

“Mom?  Are you okay?”  He felt compelled to ask, glancing at me for a nano second.  I could see the wheels turning fervently in his mind but ends couldn’t meet on this one and his mother’s incessant laughter was little explanation.

When I did catch my breath and finally explain, play-by-play, what had happened, he let out a disappointed sigh, shrugged his shoulders and continued flying his tiny kitten through space, avoiding dynamite and catching floating milk bottles.

The attack stuck with me for the remainder of the day and since then I have been eyeing the leftover blueberries in my fridge with skepticism and, dare say I, a bit concern.   My left eyelid remains a bit tender (who knew hot fruit could leave such an impression) and I feel the need to eliminate all traces of the fruit until, at least, the pain goes away.

And so I came across this buckwheat blueberry muffin recipe.  It seems delicious and healthy.  It was in The New York Times, so, that’s a good start.  And it takes care of my blueberry situation in a humane manner (who doesn’t like a good blueberry muffin?)  All for a good cause, and hopefully, a tasty palate.  I just will be paying close attention to each bite, and maybe, don a pair of sunglasses, just in case.

Start by having roasted a turkey in 2012.  Preferably December.  Hopefully, in your turkey-induced stupor, you had the wherewithal to save to turkey carcass.  Maybe got a little clever and saved some meat on the bone (if family members allowed it:  mine simply never found out.)

2013 is fresh with promise.  Fresh with unbroken resolutions (for some, at least.)  I’ve already eaten too much bread, because I am weak.  And I love bread.  Am willing to live with the gut strapped around me because of it.  But I digress.  Back to the turkey carcass…

Throw that into a soup pot.  Actually, mine was too large to fit into a bag so I just threw it into my soup pot and refrigerated that until I was ready to use it.

Hey, if you have homemade gravy leftover from that crazy I-wanna-remake-Thanksgiving-dinner-on-December-17-just-because moment, dump that ...Read on]]>

Start by having roasted a turkey in 2012.  Preferably December.  Hopefully, in your turkey-induced stupor, you had the wherewithal to save to turkey carcass.  Maybe got a little clever and saved some meat on the bone (if family members allowed it:  mine simply never found out.)

2013 is fresh with promise.  Fresh with unbroken resolutions (for some, at least.)  I’ve already eaten too much bread, because I am weak.  And I love bread.  Am willing to live with the gut strapped around me because of it.  But I digress.  Back to the turkey carcass…

Throw that into a soup pot.  Actually, mine was too large to fit into a bag so I just threw it into my soup pot and refrigerated that until I was ready to use it.

Hey, if you have homemade gravy leftover from that crazy I-wanna-remake-Thanksgiving-dinner-on-December-17-just-because moment, dump that into the soup pot as well.

Now come the trimmings for this Welcome 2013 soup:

Grab some real good potatoes.  I went to Costco and bought those mega-huge football size things (whoever grew those definitely catered to bunker folks betting on the Mayans to be right and the world to end 2012).  Anyhow, those puppies are tasty good.  Grab one of those and chop it up.  Then add the usual soup suspects:

Carrots, onion, celery, chicken stock, salt and pepper.

Throw in some lentils to the mix.  I said one cup originally, Husband said two.

I added one (because mamacita is always right).  The final result was good.  But not quite right.  On the sly, I added Husband’s other cup (because mamacita is always right.)  Perfect.

Then simmer.  Simmer and think of all the things you are going to get done this year:

Visit the gym more often (or at all.)

Read more philosophy (or an ezine at least.)

Make a positive contribution to your community (or your household, at best.)

You can even go ahead and throw in the weight loss resolution.  This soup won’t get in the way, too much.  And it is all worth it anyway because when you have this hot bowl of goodness in front of you, and you go ahead and drizzle in some extra virgin olive oil (my late and great father-in-law’s tradition), anything is possible, particularily a successful 2013!

He watched it ooze and bubble and grow steadily under the flame, his eyes widening in awe with the rhythm of the melted mess he was creating.  This was no ordinary activity.  This was the best activity for a cold, cloudy, rainy Wednesday, a day that kept him trapped indoors instead of his usual outdoor setting of trampoline jumping and dog chasing.

Playing with fire was my ten-year old son’s version of being antsy.  I needed to redirect, and fast.

“Whatcha doing there?” I asked, feigning as much casualness as my terror instinct allowed.

“Melting a marshmallow,” Son replied, equally unphased.

Black scabs formed on the petrified victim, a super-sized Jet Puffed marshmallow ruthlessly pinned to a fork.  My fine bought-in-Italy fork.

This had to end and fast.  I had to think of a distraction.

I turned on the television and put his favorite cartoon on.  ...Read on]]>  

He watched it ooze and bubble and grow steadily under the flame, his eyes widening in awe with the rhythm of the melted mess he was creating.  This was no ordinary activity.  This was the best activity for a cold, cloudy, rainy Wednesday, a day that kept him trapped indoors instead of his usual outdoor setting of trampoline jumping and dog chasing.

Playing with fire was my ten-year old son’s version of being antsy.  I needed to redirect, and fast.

“Whatcha doing there?” I asked, feigning as much casualness as my terror instinct allowed.

“Melting a marshmallow,” Son replied, equally unphased.

Black scabs formed on the petrified victim, a super-sized Jet Puffed marshmallow ruthlessly pinned to a fork.  My fine bought-in-Italy fork.

This had to end and fast.  I had to think of a distraction.

I turned on the television and put his favorite cartoon on.  It did nothing to deter him from his pyromania.

I called our puppy, his favorite play thing, and began bouncing his ball around and playing tug of war with him in the cramped kitchen, risking collateral damage all in the hopes of engaging my son.

Nada.

Flames have a way of mesmerizing him.  He was hyperfocused on the destruction of sugar.

“Are you going to eat that?” I asked, desperately.

“Naah.  It’s too burnt.  I like my marshmallows gooey but good, like we had them at summer camp,” he offered, allowing me a sliver into his and his sister’s coveted secret world of summer camp.

And that is when inspiration hit!  Of course!  Summer!  Marshmallows!  S’mores!!!

My genius moment was quickly deflated by the thought that embarking on a s’mores project would inevitably entail more flames for toasting the marshmallows, and as much as I wanted to bring home the joy of summer, there’s a reason they do this stuff at camp and not in my sleek kitchen.

Still, s’mores had invaded my thoughts now.  That is the perfect combo of childhood yumminess:  melted marshmallows with chocolate and graham crackers.  There had to be another way to relive it without possibly burning down the house.

At that point my daughter pounced into the kitchen and looked with horror at the disaster her younger brother was making.

“Mom!” she castigated in the tone of a seasoned caregiver.  “Don’t let him do this mess! Make a s’mores pie instead.”  And with that, she was gone.  A fleeting vision of inspiration.  A true moderator.  My beloved problem solver had planted her seed and disappeared, back to her Facebook or her Skype or whatever other technological trend had a hold of her 13-year old mind.

‘S’mores pie, of course,’ I grinned.    And even my daughter’s brief entrance had made an impression on my son, who, for once, looked up from his fiery disaster.

“Hmmm. That sounds good mom.  Let’s do that,” he echoed.

As quickly as a marshmallow turns to a crisp I grabbed my distressed Italian fork from his grasp and turned off the fire that so readily had grasped his attention.

“Let’s put a bunch of marshmallows on the top of the pie and watch them grow in the oven,” I urged, seeing the spark of excitement light anew in my son’s mischievous eyes.

Take peanut butter, for example.

Now, peanuts are big in the culinary world of Mexico.  They call them cacahuates here, and they are everywhere.  First and foremost, there’s plain cacahuates as a botana, or snack.  Go to the markets or cheese trucks and you’ll find huge sacks of them for sale:  plain, the Mexican favorite, sal con limon, (salt with lime) or the uber Mexican favorite:  chile, sal y limon ...Read on]]> In Mexico they call me “guerita” but I’m really a gringa at heart.  Sure I am a sucker for mole, (especially the dark black Oaxaqueño type with its 72 mysterious ingredients) and I can never turn down a street quesadilla (how does that fresh white cheese ooze and ooze so much?) but there’s something about being out of the United States that makes me yearn for certain American foods a little bit more.

Take peanut butter, for example.

Now, peanuts are big in the culinary world of Mexico.  They call them cacahuates here, and they are everywhere.  First and foremost, there’s plain cacahuates as a botana, or snack.  Go to the markets or cheese trucks and you’ll find huge sacks of them for sale:  plain, the Mexican favorite, sal con limon, (salt with lime) or the uber Mexican favorite:  chile, sal y limon (lime, salt and chile).

This is a serious Mexican snack.  I keep a stash of the stuff in my desk drawer and my hand grabs regularly as my creative process unfolds.  Poe had opium, I have this.  There’s something about that tangy, salty crunch with a spicy aftertaste that feeds on the addictive tendency of a writer.

Cacahuates make their appearance in Mexican main courses as well.   Soups are a popular starter in Mexico and there is no forgetting the tantalizingly smooth and rich, Crema de Cacahuate (Peanut Cream soup).  Pollo en Salsa de Cacahuate competes with the equally delicious Lomo en Salsa de Cacahuate for a combo of crunchy, tangy, and salty- it just depends if you are in the mood for chicken or meat.  And of course, I cannot ignore the world of moles again- this time the  Mole Poblano, hailing from the colonial town of Puebla, whose rich accent is on nuts in general, including cacahuates.

So peanuts dance in my Mexican palate frequently.  Still, sometimes something missing.   Even on days bursting with market-going, friendly, beautiful scenery Mexico I may return to my apartment with a longing, a want, a vacuum for the United States that even wonderful Mexico cannot appease:  perhaps I miss the quiet of my hometown suburban street, a hassle-free visit to the bank, or simply a run to Target for a much-needed something or other. It is funny how much  you miss Target when it is not around the corner, or around the country for that matter.

These are my American nostalgia moments. They seem to be rhythmical pinnings that affect my kids and I at the same time.  Placating the kids may prove to be trickier.  Their nostalgia is so linked with their entire world: the home they grew up with, their best buddies from forever, and especially visits to movie theaters that play movies ONLY in English.  But food, as always, has a way of creeping into our soft spots and tender moments and  when they start craving a taste of the United States, I know exactly where to go:  down deep into the secret depths of my pantry where I pull out my coveted jar of Skippy’s peanut butter and plan for an all out attack against The Gringo Blues.

My son’s eyes light up when he sees me with the jar.  He knows happiness is 12.5 minutes away.  I will mix this simple batter in minutes and the whole house will lighten up with its creamy, sweet flavor, instantly bringing moments of sunshine, friendship and good ole’ fashion love.  The jar is a prized collection kept in an undisclosed location of my pantry- purchased here in Mexico but imported from the U.S.  Only to be used in emergencies, I warn family members.  Craving Target slushies warrants an emergency, by the way.

So in my beautiful Mexican kitchen I mix and sugar and flatten the dough, dreaming of dreamy moments I left behind in the peace and quiet of South Florida.  Things are always remembered fondly under the aroma of baking cookies- no matter what the recollection is.  Today’s memory consists of my son climbing his fortress, his favorite tree out front in our yard back home and my daughter giggling endlessly with her BFF whom she’s been BFFs with since age three.  They are American memories mingling lazily with the baking of these cookies.

Life isn’t bad in Mexico. The food here is exquisite. The country beautiful. The people friendly.  But nostalgia has a way of wrapping its heartstring around you and not letting go.  And when that happens, best bypass the cacahuate drawer and take a bite of a peanut butter cookie.

Because I’ve had so much carne asada and pollo a la plancha and ensalada and have bypassed bread and cookies and, gasp, even wine.

Because I’ve been so good, forcing myself onto the damn treadmill, elliptical, bicycle (ouch on a poorly designed seat!) And still I ride and run, and walk.

Because I am one that adores food, builds altars for it (usually involving lots of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon) and now my well has gone dry, turned off, chastised and set on zero, all in the name of losing a few pounds.  Okay, maybe more than a few.

Because of all this and more it builds, that pining, destitute, fervent yearning.

It builds quietly while I diligently do my sit-ups.

It builds forcefully while I bake uber-fudge brownies for my kids (and don’t even sample the batter, I don’t!)

And there it is, on the ...Read on]]>

Because I’ve had so much carne asada and pollo a la plancha and ensalada and have bypassed bread and cookies and, gasp, even wine.

Because I’ve been so good, forcing myself onto the damn treadmill, elliptical, bicycle (ouch on a poorly designed seat!) And still I ride and run, and walk.

Because I am one that adores food, builds altars for it (usually involving lots of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon) and now my well has gone dry, turned off, chastised and set on zero, all in the name of losing a few pounds.  Okay, maybe more than a few.

Because of all this and more it builds, that pining, destitute, fervent yearning.

It builds quietly while I diligently do my sit-ups.

It builds forcefully while I bake uber-fudge brownies for my kids (and don’t even sample the batter, I don’t!)

And there it is, on the brink of my sanity, I feel that urge, that desire that longing and I know it will burst because there is nowhere left for it to go and Saturday, oh glorious Saturday, Saturday comes along, the day I have allotted to put down my culinary flogging and eat!

I wake , this beautiful sunny Saturday, even the birds seem happier, their chirps welcome me and I rise with an extra oomph in my step, no longer worried by scales and their rising figures or pants and their tightening waistlines, no, no worries on this Saturday of that sort, for I plow my way into the kitchen on this glorious of all glorious days and announce, as loud and clear as a bell:

“Yo quiero chilaquiles!” (I want chilaquiles.)

And there it is. For when you are blessed with the angel of Saturday that is Angelica, my live-in Mexican cook, you make such pronouncements and they aren’t left for your dreams, they do become true.  She makes them so.

So begins the slow simmer of a spicy tomatillo sauce, the gentle layering of fried crunchy totopos (think tortilla chips from heaven) and the quick drizzle of warm sauce topped with generous shredding of Oaxacan cheese (that piece of Nirvana I used to eat so freely, so gleefully, before numbers took a reign of my psyche) and just to top off the decadence, (why not, it is Saturday?) there’s the drizzle of the richest of all riches, la crema, the cream, that needs no further introduction, no glamorous title or fancy name, its mind-boggling flavor says it all- putting all others creams from all other cultures to shame, the Mexicans have it down- this crema is of  the gods and today it belongs on my chilaquiles and in my belly.

Chilaquiles is a favorite breakfast food, usually served with fried eggs and/or shredded chicken, and always with a side of frijoles (beans) but today I want, I need this delicious and fat-loaded taste bomb straight up.  A plateful of goodness comes my way and my smile melts across my still-not-thin-enough face.  I forget all numbers, all calories, all counting, all exercising and  live in the moment: a moment where totopos, salsa de tomatillo, and cheese blend into a crunch, tang, zip, fire, and ooze all smothered in the decadence of the richest cream.  Caloric concerns fade away.  Happiness, on this Saturday, reigns.

I found this on my way to peace and tranquility.

It called me.

Beckoned.

Pleaded even.

I couldn’t walk on by.

Couldn’t smooch in the corner with others.

I had this.  It was happy and it was mine.

The picture seemed perfect, one would think. All that was missing was me, one would think.

But I couldn’t stop there, no, that would be too easy for me.

I had to have more.

Needed more.

A drink, possibly.  This picture is missing a drink.

Right?

A frothy piña colada, perhaps.  Naaa, too cliché (don’t know why cliché became the anti-hero in this story, I was at an adult pool, in an all-inclusive resort, in Acapulco.  All that was missing was Isaac from The Love Boat.)

No, this was Mexico after all. Land of lime. Land of salt.  Land of chile.

They sprinkle that combo on EVERYTHING here:  plantain chips, potato chips, mango, cucumber- it doesn’t matter, really.  ...Read on]]>  

I found this on my way to peace and tranquility.

It called me.

Beckoned.

Pleaded even.

I couldn’t walk on by.

Couldn’t smooch in the corner with others.

I had this.  It was happy and it was mine.

The picture seemed perfect, one would think.
All that was missing was me, one would think.

But I couldn’t stop there, no, that would be too easy for me.

I had to have more.

Needed more.

A drink, possibly.  This picture is missing a drink.

Right?

A frothy piña colada, perhaps.  Naaa, too cliché (don’t know why cliché became the anti-hero in this story, I was at an adult pool, in an all-inclusive resort, in Acapulco.  All that was missing was Isaac from The Love Boat.)

No, this was Mexico after all. Land of lime. Land of salt.  Land of chile.

They sprinkle that combo on EVERYTHING here:  plantain chips, potato chips, mango, cucumber- it doesn’t matter, really.  And I have become a certified addict.  So much so that I keep a stash of cacahuates japoneses enchilados in my desk drawer.   That’s Mexican code for puffed crunchy peanuts slathered in lime, salt, and chile.  Mine and only mine.

So we’re back to this idyllic scene missing me for a bit too long.  Husband gets up.  Looks around.  Hears the smooching nearby.  Feels neglected.  I have not bitten his bait, he concurs, feeling a tang of self-doubt (only a smidgen, as he is a fierce and proud hombre.)  Still, like any hombre, in need of constant coaxing. And come on, if this didn’t do it, what will?

His eyes soften as he catches sight of me.  Finally (for I was wondering where she was, his look betrays.)  And I am carrying the missing piece to this puzzle.  Two missing pieces actually.  In big, plastic tub-like containers.  They are hard to balance as they slosh with liquid.  No matter, if it spills, it will just wet my bikini, and bikini is going that route anyway, eventually.

Two Cheladas make their way to Husband’s happy place.  Cold Pilsen Mexican beer, mixed with fresh lime juice served in a super sized cup whose rim is dipped in lime juice with crunchy salt and if you are lucky, a sprinkling of chile, is the drink of choice.  The yin to this yang.  The moment made.

Courtesy larkesandjapes.com

He grabs his jumbo cup as I sit myself down in the crisp wading pool with beer in tow.  Smoochy couples quit their smooching and glance jealously at our idea.  Love don’t seem so self-nourishing now, huh, I smirk at them.

We clink our clunky plastics together.  Some beer spills into the pool.  The rest is for our belly, the view, and our eternal love.

We stand at the bottom of a rocky cliff looking up.  The razor yellow rays itch just so we can barely see the summit of the mountain, but there it is.  We are waiting.  Lots of us have paid to wait as the wind sings and the waves crash below, they arrive.

Like seals frolicking on a lazy afternoon we spot them:  the divers. The famous Acapulco divers. They are there below us, knowing we are awaiting their deathly plunges into the water they thoughtlessly play in below.

“How will they get to the top of the mountain?”  my daughter innocently asks.

And as if on cue they begin, first one, followed quickly by all seven others.  With the nimble speed and agility of Spiderman (my alert son informs) they begin their ascent: no rope, no ladder, no steps- just calloused feet and ...Read on]]>

We stand at the bottom of a rocky cliff looking up.  The razor yellow rays itch just so we can barely see the summit of the mountain, but there it is.  We are waiting.  Lots of us have paid to wait as the wind sings and the waves crash below, they arrive.

Like seals frolicking on a lazy afternoon we spot them:  the divers. The famous Acapulco divers. They are there below us, knowing we are awaiting their deathly plunges into the water they thoughtlessly play in below.

“How will they get to the top of the mountain?”  my daughter innocently asks.

And as if on cue they begin, first one, followed quickly by all seven others.  With the nimble speed and agility of Spiderman (my alert son informs) they begin their ascent: no rope, no ladder, no steps- just calloused feet and strong arms pull them up reaching crevice to crevice of this incredible Mexican cliff, they climb.  We are already in awe and no one has dived.

Once they reach the top the real show begins:  they must dive into the narrow passage of water which they came from.  The crowd begins to hush.

“It’s all about the timing,” Husband assures.  But no one can quite believe that these boys (for they are merely seventeen or eighteen, at best) must time their jump precisely to the second which the swale of water consumes the narrow gap that is their landing spot.  If they land when the tide is out, then they land on deadly gaping rocks.

We are hugged tightly by the mob of people watching, waiting.  No one breathes in anticipation with the first diver.  No one moves.

“I’m hungry,” I squeak.  I can’t help myself.  I need a distraction, and there is a tiny taco stand selling all sorts of homemade goodies.  I can smell cilantro and meat and something else very familiar and sweet…honey is it?

“Not now,” Husband barks incredulously.

“But, I need,” I begin to whine nervously.  People shoot me dirty looks.  They don’t understand that if I don’t focus on food I’ll have to focus on this poor chap up there, willingly diving to his death.

“Shhhhh,” Husband commands.  “He’s about to..”

And with that we hear oohs and ahhs from the crowd.  I look up, biting my tongue, and see a graceful spin, twist and splash all against the backdrop of a beautiful sunset.  I wait and hope for a happy ending.  It arrives as the diver triumphantly pops out from under the wake and the crowd bursts into applause.

My children are in awe, clapping crazily with the crowd and shouting “amazing!”

I find I can finally exhale and my tummy growls in unison with the applause.

One by one the divers display their majestic and daredevil stunts.  Some spin, some flip, some back dive.  I hold my breath for all of it, only exhaling once their tiny heads appear above the rough waters.  This could be my son doing this crazy thing in the not-so-distant future, I think to myself.
The taco stand lady knows there are plenty of nervous eaters like me.  By diver #4 she begins sizzling and stirring stuff.  She is off on the sidelines of the action but still I turn to her regularly. Our eyes meet. She smiles. They will be okay. They’ve done this one hundred times, guerita, don’t worry, her mocha eyes seem to assure me.  And with that she pats more tortillas and places them on her comal, or Mexican skillet, to begin heating them.  The sweet scent I can’t figure out haunts and comforts me.  I can see it comes from a big pot but am not able to figure out what it is.  Are there traces of brown sugar?  Smells from home?  I suddenly feel comforted and safe.  Tortilla lady smiles gently at me.  Dos mas, ‘mija, dos mas, she seems to say, assuring me only two divers are left.

Of course they are the last two, so they jump from the highest peak and do the most complicated stunts.  The last one plays recklessly with time, landing just as the water begins to exit the passageway that is his landing spot.  People gasp and break out in cheer when he reappears after an unpleasant pause of not seeing him.  My knees buckle on that one.  Off on the side I hear a small giggle. It is the tortilla lady.  She has been watching me.  She knew that kid would get me.  Once it is all over and the crowd begins to disperse I run over to her stand, almost tempted to ask for a hug instead of a meal.  But once I get there the aroma of sweetness overwhelms me and I ask with urgency what’s in the pot.

“Platano maduro,” she replies, informing me she has ripened plantain simmering in honey.

A warm smile spreads over my face.  Of course!  Baked plantain!  A favorite of mine as a kid growing up in Venezuela.  My nana Yoli used to wrap them in aluminum foil, place a dab of butter, a drizzle of honey and a sprinkling of cinnamon, seal the package and bake them until the flavors melded into one sweet comforting embrace.

Immediately I know I must have one. It will restore me. I ask for one and the tortilla lady smiles, knowing that this sweetness will round off the edgy nerves left on her new gringa subject.  She grabs a foil packet from the aluminum pot and gently opens it releasing the sweet steam that has been teasing me all afternoon.  The sun has set and the sky turns purple and pink.

“Queso?” she inquires

Yes, nothing compliments this caramelized banana better than salty dry white cheese.  Yin yang at its best.

“Si, queso, porfavor,” I replied and she generously sprinkles on shredded white cheese.

“Whatcha got there?” Husband inquires, appearing out of nowhere as I am about to bite into heaven.

“Platano con queso,” I growl, adding a possessive tone to my tight grasp.  I know it is one of his favorites, but after this diving stress, I must have this alone.  He looks at me and gets it. He almost always gets it.

“Enjoy,” he replies.  “I’m in the mood for a taco, anyway,” he lies, bypassing his confusing wife and heading straight for my smiling savior.

When I want to fall in love I go to Mercado La Viga.  Because there are fish guts on the floor and the sweet scent of questionable oil penetrates, infiltrates, becomes you, I fall in love.  It’s not the quantity of fish that gets my heart rat tat tatting, no, I am a market veteran and I’ve seen plenty more.  I’ve lived Mercado de la Venta in Madrid, Spain, where three floors-worth of fish and seafood beckons you.  This can’t stand a flame next to that kind of seafood seriousness.  Mercado La Viga in Mexico City is only eight or ten aisles worth at most…maybe.  What gets you skipping (over the fish guts) are the ‘restaurants’ lining the outskirts of the vender’s stalls.

The ladies and gentlemen of these establishments stand vigilant, peering in and out of the aisles and beckon ...Read on]]>

When I want to fall in love I go to Mercado La Viga.  Because there are fish guts on the floor and the sweet scent of questionable oil penetrates, infiltrates, becomes you, I fall in love.  It’s not the quantity of fish that gets my heart rat tat tatting, no, I am a market veteran and I’ve seen plenty more.  I’ve lived Mercado de la Venta in Madrid, Spain, where three floors-worth of fish and seafood beckons you.  This can’t stand a flame next to that kind of seafood seriousness.  Mercado La Viga in Mexico City is only eight or ten aisles worth at most…maybe.  What gets you skipping (over the fish guts) are the ‘restaurants’ lining the outskirts of the vender’s stalls.

The ladies and gentlemen of these establishments stand vigilant, peering in and out of the aisles and beckon you:

“Empanadas empanadas empanadas de cazon, de pulpo, de pescado, los camarones camarones, sopa de marisco fresco fresco fresco vengan señores vengan!”

I hear their call and I am in a trance.  I don’t even want to buy fish. I want to eat.

Husband is a willing partner-in-crime and together we pick the perfect dirty neon orange plastic chairs to sit in and be served.  Mind you, there is dirt.  Flies.  Questionable open spicy containers on the table.  I could get violently ill.  There’s no joking around when it comes to seafood.  But I see the lady frying my empanadas right in front of me.  I see the family of four slurping their piping hot soups (‘oh my  what soup is that I must have it’, I demand to Husband).  And everyone looks so happy. And safe.  And content.  And even though I am the only blue-eyed fair-skinned guerita around, I am one of them, I know I am one of them and nothing will happen but good things, nothing but good.  So the waiter senses my longing to fit in and willingly complies.

‘Sopa de mariscos,’ he proclaims, when I ask about the family dish.

‘Empanada de pulpo,’ octopus empanada, he promises me when I point at the lady frying with a smile.

‘Tostada de ceviche de pescado,’ he repeats, when I order on impulse a favorite.

Husband smiles and meekly nods his head.  He is enamored by this seafood-madwoman.  He digs me like this.

And together we quietly wait.

The empanada arrives first.  The one stuffed with octopus.  It’s like no other empanada I’ve had before.  The Mexicans have managed to Mexicanize it and raise my expectations of this stuffed fried patty to a whole new level.  Now I am doomed.  Every other empanada I have will never live up to this one.  I know it.  They have just ruined me.

It is sliced.  Sliced!  An empanada (my first traditional thought of course being, how dare they slice an empanada)!

But no. These guys are pros. They know what they are doing.  They have sliced it, allow the rich broth of octopus and tomatoes to steam and they have placed thick slices of creamy avocado, spicy pickled onion and aromatic cilantro inside. Then a hefty dollop of mayonnaise seals the deal.  They have done this brilliantly and these flavors are all having a party before they’ve reached my mouth.  I can splash some spicy sauce on if I care to, there are several bottles to choose from.  Or a squeeze of lime- a prerequisite plastic bowl filled with eager juicy limes sits on my table.  Or add more chopped raw onion.  The choices are endless.  The power is mine.  See why this is love?

And we are quiet, Husband and I.  Because these flavors require us to be so.  We are dazzled with each bite.  Empanada quickly goes.  Tostada de ceviche wolfed down too.  And then the soup arrives- exploding with the seafood we quickly visited in the stands moments before.  It is sublime.  We are stuffed beyond recognition and then I see a tiny, dented cardboard sign swinging in the wind… what is that it reads?

Husband looks worried and excited.  There she goes again, he thinks to himself.  I know that spark in her eye, he assures himself.  He is falling in love with me all over again.
“Cocazo de camaron?” I question out loud, and instantly, it is mine.  The waiter says it will soon be mine- shrimp doused in shredded coconut and deep fried. Just minutes away.  Minutes is all we have to reboot our brains to eat more.  And we wait. We are stuffed but eagerly, excitedly, we wait.

And when the cocazo de camaron arrives, it too changes us forever.  It will become the highlight of the day.  The essence of this seafood extraordinaire moment.  These are no ordinary shrimps. These babies are on steroids- about 5 inches long and coated in freshly shredded coconut (this is no packaged coconut stuff, this is the real deal.) They are delicious on so many different levels I feel dizzy just savoring them.  Fresh ocean, sweet water, crunch coconut.  I am in love.

The family of four looks at us and smiles.  We’ve ordered triple what they have but our grins are all the same.  We share this moment on plastic chairs, dirty floor and delicious seafood.  I pull off the last head of my shrimp and ram its sweet body in my mouth.

“Buen provecho,” the matriarch of the group blesses me with good appetite, making me feel like one of her own as I chomp away.  “Buen provecho.”

Rich hues of purple beckon me.  The market in Mexico is full of colors today:  fire orange for zucchini blossoms, crimson red endless mounds of tomatoes, and rich coal-colored piles of avocados that promise a buttery light green inside.  I could gather them all and on most days I do, but today I go for the eggplants- they are the perfect size- nothing too pretentiously large, smooth and shiny with a dark skin as mysterious as the pond in Vermont I’d dive into freely as a child.  These babies are mine.  Today I will make them shine.

I take them home – just two is all I need, and the ritual begins. It is a slow process- I must gently char the outside over my beloved gas stove.  Easing in the smoke that will give my dish its distinctive flavor.   My ...Read on]]>

Rich hues of purple beckon me.  The market in Mexico is full of colors today:  fire orange for zucchini blossoms, crimson red endless mounds of tomatoes, and rich coal-colored piles of avocados that promise a buttery light green inside.  I could gather them all and on most days I do, but today I go for the eggplants- they are the perfect size- nothing too pretentiously large, smooth and shiny with a dark skin as mysterious as the pond in Vermont I’d dive into freely as a child.  These babies are mine.  Today I will make them shine.

I take them home – just two is all I need, and the ritual begins. It is a slow process- I must gently char the outside over my beloved gas stove.  Easing in the smoke that will give my dish its distinctive flavor.   My son watches me in awe and confusion. I am doing exactly what I tell him not to do. I am playing with fire.  But this is different, I guarantee him.  This is aubergine and I am making babaganoush- a favorite Middle Eastern dish of smoked eggplant to be scooped with my freshly baked pita awaiting.

He isn’t buying what I am selling.  The smooth plum-colored skin is getting withered and cracked.  Its hue turning a tarnished black.  Chips of burnt skin fall off revealing a scarred cream interior oozing with shock.  This can’t be good, my son thinks.  This can’t be good.

But I promise him it is, and a mother’s promise is not taken lightly.  I will crush and mince fresh garlic, squeeze tart lime and sprinkle coarse salt and add it to this mix and this will be good. This will be so good.  Like your grandfather’s father ate in the dusty hills of Palestine before there was a state of Israel.  Like your father enjoys on a lazy Sunday afternoon.  This will be good. I will take this withered warrior of an eggplant and make a hero out of it.  I will slice it in half and gently scoop out the smoked pulp.  It will give to my spoon and splat out onto my bowl.  It will look ordinary but it will taste extraordinary.  The flame I’ve gently subjected it to has left it with a magical smoky taste.  And it will dance with those three simple ingredients. If I feel frisky I will drizzle some extra virgin olive oil (like a good Middle Eastern, this is reflex) and my fresh pita will scoop up this goodness and know something else is missing.  One other ingredient I dare have forgotten.

Chopped parsley.

Finely minced.  So as not to interrupt but to add a spicy bite.  Another reflex a sabra’s daughter ought never forget.

And it will be perfect. It will dance in your mouth and your mind will beg for more, your stomach content and dazzled.  All this over purple shine and blurry black and white photographs of forefathers and more forefathers – all of which shared this dish that today, my son, you share.  In the crowded city of Mexico you are instantly at that dusty hill in Eretz Israel.  What a drizzle of olive oil, a squeeze of lime, and an eggplant can do.  I promise you.  I promise you.