I am exhausted.  Drained.  Beat.  Just baked a cake:  Golden Yellow with Fudge Frosting, Grandma’s Fudge Frosting.  It’s the antithesis of a Cordon Bleu creation:  sloppy, uneven, crumbly as hell.  I slapped on the frosting, which was decadently swimming in way too much butter.  It slipped and skidded along the crevices and craters left on my imperfect cake.

Here’s the best part: the secret of all secrets – is that I was thrilled baking this cake, happy stirring its batter, goop flying out in between conversations with Daniela and Jonathan, who watched and helped along the way.  Eggs were cracked and dribbled, flour was stirred and spilled, and somewhere along the line even an entire glass of red wine was dropped and shattered.  But that’s okay.  Wine and glass got cleaned up and a new one poured.  And baking continued, right up to its messy end where I placed the whole concoction in the refrigerator (to let Grandma’s Fudge set a bit)- smearing and dripping fudge bits on the side of the fridge along the way.

In ten minutes we will sample our Golden Cake and I bet it will be good…so good…way better than any praline or mousse or Opera I made with panic to detail, precision and fancy fussing.  This one here’s a homemade messy mess, like the wine, like the conversations, like our lives:  all the tastier, all the better!

He was the highlight of my afternoons in fourth grade.  I’d rush into our house in Venezuela after what seemed an interminable day at school and head straight for the television, turning on one of the four channels available.

¡Oh! Y ahora, ¿Quién podrá defenderme?

This was the quintessential cry of distress heard (‘And now, who will be able to defend me?) before the superhero of the day, El Chapulin Colorado (The Red Grasshopper) would burst through a wall or jump from a window, shouting:

“¡Yo! ¡El Chapulín Colorado!”

El Chapulin Colorado was a shlumpy superhero- flabby, with a slight potbelly, and sporting a ridiculous red costume with cape and bumbling antennas.  On his chest a big yellow heart was emblazoned with the letters “CH” for Chapulin.

Not the glamorous sleek look of Batman.

Nor the agility of Spiderman.

Or definitely not the bulging muscles of Superman.

Of course, El Chapulin Colorado was a parody of all superheroes, but as a nine-year old, I didn’t quite get that.  What I got was the tales of a real human being who dressed in a ridiculous outfit and was blessed with innumerable luck, somehow managing to save the day ending each episode with his trademark words of wisdom:

¡No contaban con mi astucia! (You didn’t count on my shrewdness!)

He was flawed and I loved him for it.

I try to explain the wonders and joys of watching this show to my nine-year old.  I find it a trying process.

“What do you mean you only had four channels?” (And so it begins.)

“No special effects? (Big hazel eyes fill with disappointment.)

“But what does he do?  What does he do?” my son insists.  There must be some heroic trait I can cough up to attribute to my beloved Chapulin Colorado but the only one I can think of is how incredibly hard I’d laugh watching that show.  Chapulin lacks the proper curriculum for a kid from 2012, I presume.

Jonathan remained unimpressed.

We were walking around the marketplace the other day and came across a vendor selling a daily Mexican snack, roasted grasshoppers.

I knew this was my chance.

“This is Chapulin Colorado!” I proudly declared.

“Huh?” Jonathan answered, stopping dead in his tracks.  His innocent look instantly glazed with shock, disgust, and, (I dare you not to find this in any nine-year old boy presented with this situation)…curiosity.

I knew I had him.

“Yes, this is “El Chapulin Colorado” – he’s a super hero dressed up as the Mexican red grasshopper.

The lesson would not be complete without a full demonstration so I quickly asked the lady for a bagful of chapulines.

“Here, I dare you try one,” I coaxed.

Jonathan seemed intrigued that a bug had become my favorite childhood superhero.  Suddenly, El Chapulin Colorado became worthy of his interest.

“Okay,” he said, never turning down a dare.

Eyes wide and mouth even wider, Jonathan grabbed a tiny, dried up insect and popped it in his mouth producing a loud crunch crunch.

I waited, wondering if this would improve or destroy my case with Chapulin.

“Hmmmm!  It’s good,” he announced, grabbing another and another.

“I still don’t know why they’d name a show after it, but these are yummy!”

This was as good as it was going to get for me.  Better still, because Jonathan spent the rest of that afternoon munching away on his new snack and explaining to his sister and whoever else would listen that these dried up dudes were mom’s favorite superhero.

¡No contaban con mi astucia!

My grandparents would stare at me from dusty, chipped frames occupying the top of the heirloom mahogany furniture piece strategically placed in the entrance hallway of my childhood house in Venezuela.  Grandma Agnes, my mother’s mother, drew me the most with her mysterious smile and bright blue eyes that bore through the aged photograph creating a luminous space around her. She sat on a bench on a porch somewhere during summertime when it was lush and sunny, Vermont, perhaps?  Or maybe her native Philadelphia?  I’ve no clue.  In the photograph she is close to the age she died, her early 70’s, and I suspect this was one of the few times my family shared with her, assuming I was there.  I would have been a toddler wreaking havoc on the other side of that porch.

Truth be told, the only memory I have of Grandma Agnes is of a visit she made to the hospital when I was three.  I remember being afraid, I recall a thick needle stuck in my foot and the glass bottles of whatever they were giving me, IV fluid for my dehydration caused by a stomach flu I suspect,  going clink, clink, clink.  I was in a room, or a hallway or some place that was a pace away from the bathroom and my nana, Pura, whose hand I clutched with a deathly grip, begging me to release her for one minute so she could pee.  ‘I’ll be right there, I’ll be right back’, she promised, but still that served as no consolation for a terrified little girl who continued to grasp tightly, disregarding any bladder needs.

And there was grandma Agnes. On a rare visit to Venezuela to see her long lost daughter (that bohemian, uncontrollable gal who ran off to South America to marry the strange Israeli man). Agnes had come.  Down the hall of the hospital I saw her walking towards me.  She wore a celeste dress draped with a finely knit white cardigan and as her slow shuffle got closer to my panicked self, I noticed a warm smiled coated her face instantly making me feel safe and soothed.

This is all I remember of my mother’s mother.  This and that framed photograph waiting to fall from termite damage.  My other grandparents all passed away before I was born and so the only memory of them lie frozen in those three images next to Grandma Agnes.  It is of another time, another place, someone else’s memories.

But not my husband.  He explodes with memories of his grandparents.  They are woven into the fabric of his youth:  his abuelo Pauxides taking him to the cockfights in Curarigua, his abuela Koko trying to tame a rambunctious and daredevil child who would be dropped at her doorstep for the summer in Barquisimeto, no questions asked.  And then there is his father’s mother, abuela Margarita, and her simple but illustrious grace.  Her fervent dedication to her children, her insistence on them applying themselves and improving themselves through education, something she was never privy to.  Her sons were good listeners and went on to become doctors and engineers.

And of course, there were stories of Abuela Margarita’s cooking.  Wastefulness being a pet peeve of hers as a result of the hard times she became accustomed to during her married life, Margarita would produce memorable dishes with whatever was in the fridge.  My husband  lost his abuela years and years ago, but his eyes still tear up as if he was still in her kitchen describing her preparing her meals.

“Breakfast was the best” he always claims, that same mischievous juvenile spark abuela was subjected to bouncing off his eyes.  And then he delivers. On any night where we’ve had pasta we know we are in for a Margarita breakfast treat the next day.  It may not be the most glamorous of foods, but Abuela Margarita’s Spaghetti Tortillas are easy and sure crowd pleasers.

My husband does just as his Abuela Margarita did… a bunch of spaghetti, a slew of eggs, and an assortment of whatever goods he finds in the fridge:  in our case it is always several kinds of cheeses, loads of parsley, chopped meats (ham, or salami works great) and any vegetable you have left (mushrooms and peppers work fabulously).  Lots of freshly ground pepper is a Martinez must and fast cooking at a high heat so the pasta is sure to get crunchy on the outside is the secret.

We sit down to this meal and the table fills with crazy stories and funny tales of the Martinez family.  We are recently moved into our home in Mexico.  There are no photographs on the walls or on a mantle to stare at and try to create memories with.  The images of the Martinez grandparents are loud and clear, resonating from my husband on to his children, who chomp happily on Abuela Margarita’s signature dish and beg their dad for one more tale about her.

My mother’s terrycloth robe appears in my thoughts every morning.  If my eyes were to see such a thing today, draped on a dummy, let’s say, I’d believe it to be horrendous:  a putrid mocha-colored sea of fuzziness, with a plain beige belt strap and a black trim.  I can’t think of any skin tone that would benefit from it, and most certainly not my mother’s with her pale skin and salt and pepper hair.  So not her color.

This was a sophisticated and fine lady we’re talking about.  Marilyn Dorothy Graham Flynn was grand.  A graduate from Vassar, she was super smart and had the quality of a Hollywood star with sparkly eyes, a killer smile and the most graceful poise around.    Black and white pictures of my father and her dating emanate her strength and beauty next to a puddle of mush and awe (dad).

And this force that was my mother went on to tackle life with zest and courage:  moving to the exotic country of Venezuela at a time when no one did such things with an even more exotic man (Jewish and Israeli!) who ripped her from her family’s suburban Anglo-saxon  identity landing her in a tropical chaos of bananas and car fumes. But mom embraced it all, every second of it, raising three girls in a rambunctious house she pretty much ran on her own while said husband traveled and traveled and traveled.

And then she began to cook.

A woman mocked for not knowing how to scramble eggs became the queen of cuisine:  tackling thick and musty volumes of French Culinary Arts and Mediterranean cooking and melding those with the wonderful pockets of her own imagination making for unforgettable meals.  I was blessed with an array of delicious soufflés, roasts, cakes, and her signature dessert of Ile Flotante, requested at every birthday dinner.  I couldn’t have asked for a better role model and mentor.

Except for her breakfasts.  In that terry cloth robe.  You could put her in the jungle, you could have her beat egg whites with the ease of a signature French chef, but some things were not to be messed with when it came to her routine:  breakfast was one of them.  For all the glamour, grace, beauty and adventure with which she tackled life, this woman ate the most boring thing each and every single morning:  toast with cream cheese and raspberry jam.

“Mom, seriously?  Again!”  I’d say, half in shock half disgusted, as my thoughts raced through the plethora of available, tasty breakfast offerings.

She’d look at me and smile, taking another messy bite out of her toast slipping with the sweet ooze created by the warm marriage of white and red goop.

“Don’t you want an arepa con queso guayanes?”  I tempted, thrusting the warm Venezuelan corncake nestling fresh white cheese.  I was answered with another bite of bread and a savage dip of the knife into the jam.

I always found it unappetizing to reach for that jam, say for a quick P&J sandwich, and find the insides of the jar tainted with white strips of cream cheese.  There was only one culprit and I’d instantly go and complain:

“Ewwww, mom, disguuuusting.  Seriously, use two knives.”

She was patient and kind and always quiet, throwing me a small smile I thought I understood but really had no clue what it meant.

I read:  “So sorry. Won’t happen again, even though you know it will, time and time again”

She meant:  “One day you will remember this.  One day you will find yourself in your own comfortable robe, at your own table, eating your own toast and jam and cream cheese, and you will remember this.”

That day has come.  I am in Mexico.  I can have the most elaborate breakfasts of eggs and tortillas and sauces and beans, and yet, I find myself longing for, craving for, my mother’s breakfast.  Each morning I find myself turned into her:  toast, raspberry jam, and a small but important adjustment:  crema de Oaxaca, Oaxacan cream.

This stuff is for the Gods …and my waistline.  I buy it off the local cheese truck every Saturday morning.  The cheese guy pulls out a hugs plastic bag, snips a hole in the corner, grabs a Dixie cup, and pours it in.  He then puts a piece of plastic wrap over top and, if you are lucky, throws a rubber band over it to seal the deal.  It’s as simple as that.  No FDA, no pasteurization, no questions asked.

The flavor that explodes in one’s mouth is indescribable.  Everything you know your arteries shouldn’t have and more.  And gosh darn it the thing goes amazing with raspberry jam and black bread!  Mom was right on target with her combo and all I can think of is how much I’d love to share this with her right now.  We’d send that Phili cream cheese out the door and create a new annoying goop combo with the crema Oaxaca.  I long to have mom’s palate dance with mine.  Instead, I leave long white marks of Oaxacan cream in my jam.  It’s my tribute to her.  It’s my celebration. It’s my acknowledgement:  mother knows best, especially with goopy messes and terrycloth robes.

Bloodthirsty people are much the rage these days.  I dare say, passé.  Just look at the explosion of pubescent pale lusting vampires and their beguiled, love-torn victims.  They, like the characters in Harry Potter, managed the unmanageable in our Twitter generation:  captivation in a book.  And not even a book:  a series.  The Twilight Series first came out in 2005 and quickly paved the way for fanged friends to enter our day-to-day vernacular.  Of course, it was instantly followed by a barrage of cheesy copycats and, inevitably, it arrived in a theatre near you.  On television the theme seems to have gone viral.  Enough already!  Aren’t we sick of vampires yet?

It would seem not.  Not even on a dusty, windy, forgotten road in Mexico, heading west from Zamora to Guadalajara. You can find them there.  The make-up may not be as good but the  special effects are even better.

We were first intrigued by the flaccid vampire look-alike blowing in the wind.

“Stop!” Our energetic kids demanded in naïve delight.  “There’s a vampire there, stop!”

Expecting nothing more than just another Kodak moment for the books, Husband and I pulled over, albeit a bit intrigued by the avid dedication to Halloween emanating from the tiny street stand in the middle of nowhere with a vampire.

The stand ended up being a make-shift bar, promising this local drink called “Vampiro” I had never heard of (and I am a proud graduate of the Columbia University Mixology class!)  Being the lightweight drinker that I am, my stiffest drink is usually compromised by a hearty Cabernet.  But this I had to try.

Ernesto, the dusty-road bartender, produced a gallon-sized plastic bag and swiftly filled it with a dizzying array of ingredients.

He poured precise measurements into my bag and then shook it fervishly, wrapping the whole bundle up with tape after deftly inserting a thick straw in a tiny aperture left on top.  My red I.V. was handed to me and I took a bloody gulp.

Sweet, salty, spicy and sour danced in my mouth at once, giving me enough chance to feel slightly giddy and yearn for more.  The bag felt chilled in my hand and wobbled deliriously as I slurped at my cocktail.  Slurping would turn out to be a mistake, making me grateful I wasn’t in charge of handling the acute curves our impending drive promised.

Husband looked at me with concern and jealousy.  He knew I was no more than a wine wimp and here I was coddling with Vampiro a bit too heavily.

“Hand it over,” he grumbled.  “Let me try it.”

My eyes shot out a possessive glance.  This vampire was mine.  Like the pages of hungry lust that kept all those teenagers enthralled, I clutched my bag tightly and refused to let it go.

“Sorry, buddy,” I managed to blubber out before returning to my unbridled sipping, “it wouldn’t be responsible for me to give you any of this right now.”

I thought pulling out the responsibility card might do the trick, but before I could finish, Husband had already approached me and snagged the baggie from my clumsy grasp.  One sip said it all.

“You’re drinking this?”  He laughed, knowing how much trouble I was already in.  “Enjoy, sweetie,” he coaxed, giving me back my vampire.  I was in for a visit with delight, followed by dizziness, and then a pounding headache, cursing myself for being led astray by a vampire, knowing I should just stick to wine.

Still, the dance of flavors remained a bright and happy memory, and as I reached for my emergency stash of Tylenol, I can only say what all the love-torn protagonist of vampire sagas say:  for that vampire, I’d do it all again…