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]]>

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 I use to own when we were sixteen? We’d plop our rebellious bodies smack down in the center of the walkway and engage in a made-up Krishna chant that would draw curious crowds around us? Man I loved that.

Or the cramped Tel-Aviv roads, the ones I learned how to parallel park my 1964 Volkswagen Beetle when I was a college student?  If you didn’t know how to squeeze into the miniscule space in the first five seconds you’d have a group of nosy passerbyers tapping on your window telling you to turn more to the left, and then another group ordering you to turn to the right.  Then a heated discussion would follow.  Man I loved that.

Perhaps it’s the classic feel of New York City, where I was fortunate enough to finish my studies and explore early adulthood?  I was one with the patchwork of cultures, customs, and cuisines there.  I was the Dominican Republic doorman eating his snack of tostones. I was the Turk dining a dizzying array of appetizers at a miniscule yet rowdy restaurant, wrapping it up with an aromatic Keskur (coconut pudding).  And I was most definitely the gregarious Frenchman rollerblading through Central Park with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and a cold beer nearby.  I was all of them and I was me.  It was glorious.  Invigorating.  Challenging.   Man I loved that.

So those dusty plastic bags of earth-colored mole I bought in the Mexican market are worth more than gold to me, it appears.  I almost thought I’d never use them.  But then I did.   I had some leftover chicken, a casualty from my chicken soup. It sat in a Tupperware awaiting its next destination, which was unknown.  Until I realized one day while I watched the city workers in orange shirts, the only folks wandering about the neighborhood (save for the occasional dog walker) diligently watering the magnolia tree they had planted on my swale (city property:  city watering), I realized then and there that tonight I must open the bag.  Use the chicken.  Make mole.  Make magic.

And so I did. It was easy, quick, and ravenously delicious.  The chicken shred itself willingly and danced happily in the blessing of chocolate, chili powder, and other mysterious elements.  It was quick.  A dash of broth, a squeeze of lime, a hot tortilla, and I was back.  One bite and I was back.  To crowds. To cities.  To people. To life.  Man I love that.

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]]>

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 wee hours of the night were spent holding a screaming seven-year old as he shrieked and squirmed in horrible pain (what is a mother to do with such pain?) and you tell your kid he will be fine, the Advil will kick in, the antibiotic will kick in – and you want to offer love and full force of confidence and assurance as you are The Mother (and Mother knows best, right?) but he will not, cannot, be held. He cannot be contained through his pain that has suddenly and ravenously devoured that precious little body and you watch a million tiny crystals shatter in you, as something tremendous breaks and your mouth dries up ever so slightly; you cannot help him at this very moment and so you plead this episode (which you later find out to be a ruptured eardrum) will soon end and allow his exhausted small self to fall into forgiving sleep so that you can let out that breath you’ve been holding in all day; carefully exhaling so as not to disrupt the delicately woven web of his well-being at this particular point in time.

You feel incredibly hopeless but you are not hopeless. The Advil does kick in, the fatigue takes a hold and you are left with tiny fists clenched and a sleeping child, his flustered panting the only remnant of the pain that kept him up just minutes ago. A sense of relief begins to absorb you right along with hunger: violent, tactless hunger, because you realize in all this time you’ve not eaten a thing not even a sip of water.

The appetite is loud and angry and doesn’t take your neglect well. You need something full and filling, rich and creamy, sweet and savory with a crunch as well; something to engage all your senses and distract you from what has left such a rattled stamp. And so you shuffle over to your refrigerator in the darkness of night and hope you will find the unfindable in there. This is like a woman in search of her perfect mate: it just ain’t that easy (for you’ve read countless articles about this, watched Oprah and her clones, you are in touch). But in this case you are amazed at how in tune you are with yourself, for, gleaming amongst bowls of oranges, egg crates and the faithful tub of mayonnaise, sits your Creamy Labneh Chicken Salad begging for a midnight rendezvous. It is sweet, savory, crunchy, and velvety all in one and it is yours for this night.

A smile replaces the furrowed brow that has been your uniform all evening. And even though it is midnight and you are tired beyond words you now dash, dash I say, for a spoon, grab that entire bowl of creamy deliciousness, feeling the tang of the Middle Eastern sour cream delicacy of Labneh, the sugary assurance of golden raisins and plump grapes and the steadfast American crunch of celery and, selfishly and quietly, you eat by the glow of the kitchen fridge.

You eat and already you know things will be better tomorrow.

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]]>

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 a este chiquito de siete años que gritó y se retorció en el dolor horrible (¿qué debe una madre hacer con tal dolor?) y tu le dices que él estará bien, el medicamento empezara a resolver su dolor en cualquier instante – y quieres ofrecer el amor y la fuerza llena de confianza y aseguramiento porque eres La Madre (y La Madre sabe mejor, verdad?) pero él no le permite el dolor a ser sostenido, él no puede estar contenido por su dolor que lo ha devorado de repente y vorazmente aquel cuerpecito y tu te rompes por dentro viendolo sufrirmira hasta que caiga en el sueño indulgente de modo que podras soltar aquel aliento que has estado aguantando todo el día; con cuidado exhalando no para interrumpir la red delicadamente tejida de su bienestar en este punto.

Te sientes increíblemente inutil pero no lo eres. La medicina ha empezado a funcionar, el cansancio permitio que entrara su sueño dejandolo con puños diminutos apretados y un niño durmiente, su jadear inquieto el único remanente del dolor que lo invadió hace sólo minutos. Un sentido de alivio comienza a absorberte junto con el hambre: hambre violenta, indiscreta, porque realizas en todo este tiempo no has comido una cosa ni hasta un vaso de agua.

El apetito es fuerte y enojado y no toma su abandono bien. Necesitas algo que te llene y que sea rico y cremoso, dulce y sabroso con un crujido también; algo para contratar todos los sentidos y distraerte de la noche que ha dejado un sello tan agitado sobre ti. Arrastras los pies al refrigerador en la oscuridad dela noche y con asombro entre bolsas de naranjas, cajones de huevos y la jarra fiel de la mayonesa, te espera una deliciosa Ensalada de Pollo Labneh Cremosa para una cita de medianoche. Es dulce, sabroso, y crujiente y es tuyo para esta noche.

Una sonrisa sustituye la ceja arrugada que ha sido tu uniforme toda la tarde. Y aunque esto sea la medianoche y estás cansada más allá de palabras buscas una cuchara y agarras aquel tazón entero de la delicia cremosa, sintiendo el sabor inolvidable del Labneh, la dulzura de las pasas de oro y uvas y el crujido firme del celery y, egoístamente y silenciosamente, comes por el alumbro de la nevera.

Comes y ya sabes que las cosas serán mejores mañana.