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

When one spends three hours late Sunday night in a pediatric ER because one’s child develops eyes similar to Rocky Balboa’s at Round Eight (did he ever make it to round 8?) you know you’re in for your parental run of the money. Large, pendulous red mountains rose around bloodshot eyes which slowly disappeared under the swelling, demanding a detour from a peaceful family evening at home to one filled with fluorescent lighting, numerous nurses and lots of hospital forms.

The ER adventure lasted three hours, ending with a diagnosis of an extreme reaction to conjunctivitis (because normal reaction was too boring, I assume), and the added bonus of an ear infection as well (“Oh yeah, mom, I can’t hear out of that ear”, would have been a handy thing to know earlier on). And then, the remaining …Read on

Cuándo uno gasta tres horas el por la noche en la sala de emergencia pediátrico porque su hijo desarrolla ojos similares a Rocky Balboa en la ronda numero 8 usted sabe que le va tocar una noche interminable. Los ojos, que crecieron como montañas rojas grandes, exigieron un desvío a partir de una tarde de familia pacífica en casa a uno lleno de enfermeras y mucho papelero de hospital.

La aventura de sala de emergencia duró tres horas, y terminó con un diagnóstico de una reacción extrema a conjuntivitis (porque una reacción normal era demasiado aburrida, asumo), y el sobresueldo añadido de una infección de oído también (“Ah sí, mamá, no puedo oír de aquel oído”, habría sido una cosa práctica de saber anteriormente). ¿Y luego, las altas horas restantes de la noche fueron gastadas sosteniendo …Read on

Julia Child’s breasts where leaning on the speckled white linoleum table in lopsided fashion. It figures, I was in the presence of the icon of American cooking and all I could focus on where her breasts.”Dear, just a speckle of black pepper will give it the bite you need”, she volunteered with a warm smile.The room was small and musty. It was late at night and the light had a warm glow to it. I didn’t know the day or the year, or the five other people huddled around her for that matter. All I recognized was the table. It was the same one that graced my family’s ancient kitchen in Venezuela thirty years ago. The one with the cheap, dented chrome border. How Julia’s breasts ended up resting on it was beyond …Read on

“Ya wannit in fourths or ya wannit in eighths?”, he asked in an unequivocal New York accent resilient to thirty years of South Florida living.The man behind the meat counter was an oxymoron of sorts. Tall and hefty, he held his cleaver with calloused fingers poised to attack the organic remnants of the chicken I ordered (I would name her Molly, but that would come later). The blade was sparkling, befitting of a Hitchcock scene or the prized collection of Julia Child and appeared both perfect and mismatched with his once-white butcher’s coat, now a patchwork of assorted animal DNA. This was a man that was tough but gentle and had the bloodstains to prove it.”Miss? Fourths or Eighths?”, he pressed, this time a bit annoyed.”No. None”, I responded. “I will do it myself.”His …Read on