My morning began at 6:00 am when a rat the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger scurried three millimeters in front of my bare feet as I entered the garage to get water bottles from the backup fridge.  Jolting myself awake, I let out a hearty scream, ran back into the house, slammed the door shut (oh my God, how many times has that door been left open…how many more furry rodents hide in the warmth of my safe home?) and called my husband who was away on business in the remote, rodent-free haven of Mexico.
 
He seemed rather befuddled by my anxious rambling; after all, I did rip him out of a cozy sleep.  But when he finally understood what had happened, in between my gasps and yelps, whereas he could have easily been irked to be awoken for such a thing …Read on

I suspect she will never be the same.
The road held humid secrets of the night before it and the sky was a blackish blue, the same color Richie’s veins habitually carried before the accident.
But then in an unfathomable twist of fate, while darkness turned to dawn, her son was hit by a Jeep Grand Cherokee and the break of day began with one less person.
One less son.
One less smile to fill Judy’s heart and so it froze and her eyes have turned cold, gray, and hard, eyes that normally flowed with warmth like rich butterscotch one drizzles on their ice cream with glee.
That was gone and I suspect she will never be the same.
There is no sense to such a senseless act.
There is no sense to a child, all of sixteen, being taken away from his world, which, by all …Read on

The crowd delicately coiled behind a dirty white minivan, weaving through a red Camry and back around a blue Lexus.
Without realizing it, we had wrapped ourselves around the quintessential American symbol: cars the color of the American flag.
The wait promised to easily exceed an hour, and I wondered who was the lunatic that assured me early voting at this unknown, dilapidated poll was a guaranteed twenty minutes.
Probably the same lunatic that spoke to the lady with the walker, the couple with the frustrated four-year old (we just started, kid) and the aunt and her overly enthusiastic nephew, whose high-pitched voice and pimple-laden face made me question if he indeed did qualify as a first-time voter.
These folks were my neighbors for the morning, and when we’d be done, we’d end as friends, regardless of whom we wanted on our ticket.
In fact, …Read on

He waddled with such determination that I soon realized this was a duck to be reckoned with.
Although he was tiny and barely feathered, I felt resolve in his stance, making him stand out instantly amongst his cramped, fuzzy siblings.
After all, I had looked high and low for him and it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly.
Only the best duck would do.

As a small child I remembered cuddling with a fluffy, bright yellow rendition of this fellow. It lay balanced on my head as the final pièce de résistance of my stuffed animal sculpture I’d require to be piled on top of me at bedtime. My mother would have to re-do the entire floppy monument if it was not properly topped with Sealy, the seal, Lady, the dog, and my washed-out duck, who remained nameless but held honorary …Read on

One of the things I remember most about growing up in Venezuela was the culinary expeditions I used to embark on with my mother when I was a teenager. Mom would have called them simple errands, but, to me, they were joyous adventures in search of the freshest loaf of oatmeal bread or the perfect cut of filet mignon nestled amongst coveted opportunities to share time with my mom. Contrary to what all the adolescent parenting books claimed, I really did like my mom and loved hanging out with her and I am sure these moments where crucial in molding my passion for food.Back when I was a kid, food shopping was a daylong affair in Caracas (Venezuela’s capital city). For meat, one went to the butcher. For fish, the ;pescaderia;, or fish store (only open in …Read on