Papas con brillitos

Papas con brillitos:

Literal translation from Spanish: "Potatoes with sparkles"

Neo demanded the other day "potatoes with sparkles". It sounded odd I thought, but then again it could be interpreted as avant-garde, I could think of Breton or Dalí demanding to eat sparkling potatoes.

But she didn't want them in the metaphoric way, she very much wanted to eat them, so she pulled me back from my reverie: "I want to eat potatoes with sparkles!"

In my home town, where we had just been, we have a true delicacy: boiled potatoes sliced covered with chili powder, salt and lime juice. I thought that maybe in her creativity she saw the chili powder on them as sparkles, so I offered to make them for her.

"No!, not that. I want the sparkling potatoes I had at my friend's house!"

"Which friend?" I asked

"My friend from when I was a baby!"

We had recently traveled back to the city in California where we lived when she was born, and met with a group of moms and kids we used to see every day. I thought about it until I remembered her eating any sort of potato there. And it suddenly hit me:

At J's house she tried a new type of potato chip: "Pringles"

So, the forensic linguist in me traced her thinking process:

pringles -------> sprinkles -------> sparkles -------> brillitos

From now on Pringles shall forever be known as the chips that sparkle!

Tied together with nice red tape

Translated from the original in Spanish as requested by him.

The greatest difference between us is not race, gender nor creed.

It is, however, how we assimilate bureaucracy, the red tape.

I was born in a culture where "paper speaks" and I reach the holy altar of the applications window with the kafkian fear of my people.

He, instead, travels under the flag of his optimism, and can't conceive having to go back five times when only one visit should suffice.

I know the unwritten rules and protocols of filling a form, in addition to knowing the archaic language of "hereby", "I, the undersigned", "under protest of stating the truth", "your constant server", etc.

He is used to having documents with variations of his own name, typos, abbreviations.

I trust my own fatalism, knowing before I get there, that I'm surely missing a signature, a copy, the dog's papers.

He thinks that we'll have enough time to have breakfast, go grocery shopping, pick up the kid at school, and that they will process our application in the time they have promised.

I know that I have to carefully document in original and two copies (and another in my purse just in case) that A equals B and B equals C, therefore A equals C, with a signed, sealed and notarized letter where I solemnly swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth so help me God and that there are no pending trials on my name (my holy name, currency of this society), plus signatures of two witnesses, attaching photocopies of their official form of ID and a utility bill on their name (water, phone or electricity will do).

He doesn't understand why we need to keep so many papers.

I get frustrated, people bother me, I get pissed off.

He only gets confused and overwhelmed.

But his optimism never breaks.

I wish, despite everything I know, I could believe the way he does.

Counting

Little Neo counting peso coins, Ritz crackers and cotton balls:


dos, four, six, eight, thousand...


dos thousand four, dos thousand eight...


thousand three, thousand, six...


Thousand... Five!

When wrong is right

So how did I end up down here in the land of the brave and the home of the beans? As like all things in life, it’s a long story so let’s stick to the highlights… Met the misses in the States, moved to Mexico to court her, married her, back to the States, lived on the right coast, then the left, wanted extended family close, found a telecommuting job with a cool boss, moved to Mexico, and loved it -- strike that, loving it.

One of the surprises has been the polar views folks in the States have about living here. One conference on, let’s call it Pi, in the course of 30 minutes I had the expected “So you have a team there… do they show up on time and work hard?” to the other extreme of “Awesome, I’d love to do that.” followed by an intellectual remark not at all bigoted.

During a trip to the Lone Star state I caught a silly show on the tube. Not what I would be proud to admit watching, but a show about catching people on camera reacting to different situations. This time, it was all hyped up about these poor “Mexicans” who couldn’t order food at a restaurant. The punch line? The majority of people who came into the experiment supported the actors playing Mexicans who couldn’t speak English.

Once you get past the vocals who love to speak out about all those political causes, and while living here you might guess my views, this isn’t what my blog is about. It’s about what is great about living here on the “wrong” side of the border.

For me and my family, living here is very right.

Neoism

pi·ya·mas pa·ra na·dar: (from Spanish, well sort of.) noun.

1. Literally: Swimming pajamas
2. Bathing suit
3. Neo's own (and apparently necessary) concept coined to call a garment for which she already possesses not one, but two names.

Cutting corners

I was a late bloomer in the maternal instinct department. I remember fondly playing with Barbies, always setting up a story with career, house, and great friendships, I guess my definition of success back then included being a journalist moonlighting as an ice-skater living in a pepto-bismoed house and sports car and a white horse in the living room, yes, the horse had to be in the living room.

I can’t remember really enjoying cuddling a doll as it was my own baby.

Later, I remember being in school in a class about vocations (yes I went to catholic school) and they talked how you felt a calling to the type of life you wanted: married life, career life, religious life, and I seriously asked about having a calling to be celibate, you see I defined myself as a plant.

So, Fast-forward to me reproducing. Got lucky. The kid is everything I’m not.

Thank God.

Now, once I was actually contemplating the idea of me having kids I remember thinking about all the cool staff I’d do. They’d call me by my name, wear vintage rock tee shirts, boys would have long hair and girls would do, I don’t know, something equally outrageous.

My kids would identify Mozart and Beethoven’s music in their toddler hood just by listening to it, and know all Beatles songs. And I would read high literature to them every night, something in the lines of Proust’s In search of lost time… In French…

Fast-forward a little more to me cutting corners.

Neo’s watching Hercules for the n-th time.

Can’t name Beethoven’s symphonies but can demand for Apple TV.

The husband asked if she can go to sleep in the pony tail he did earlier today, in the hopes it’ll look good enough in the morning for school.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked

“You don’t waste good hairdos like this one… You have to get at least two good days out them if not more…”

Oh yeah… Someone is going to call social services on me…

Or my mother…

Enjoying the corner bodega life

One of those little things you barely notice when it starts, until you realize you are in a love affair with the corner bodega. To pick up a phone and ask for anything from a kilo of limes or a half kilo of fillet especially when you are in the middle of cooking a meal and realize you need an item -- priceless. A few minutes later, our local bodega delivery guy shows up on his bicycle with your items. Definitely brings convenience to daily life.

The downside? None? Makes grocery shopping easier when you know you only need to get 98% of the items for the next few days. And all with a two dollar delivery minimum!