There is one day when the stove and I aren’t friends, where the skillet looks at me with suspicion, and the kitchen might as well be cordoned off in yellow crime scene tape. It is on this day that I am forced, even though my maternal clock has insisted I rise at 6:30 and no later, to stay in bed and feign leisure. It has a fuzzy metallic taste, leisure. I use all my brain power to try and recall what it truly feels like; to sleep in, to take a long shower, to go to the gym in the middle of the day just because. That all evaporated many moons ago when a bundle with chunky cheeks, beautiful eyes and a persistent squirminess was handed to me in a hospital room over eleven years ago. ‘You are ...Read on]]>

There is one day when the stove and I aren’t friends, where the skillet looks at me with suspicion, and the kitchen might as well be cordoned off in yellow crime scene tape. It is on this day that I am forced, even though my maternal clock has insisted I rise at 6:30 and no later, to stay in bed and feign leisure. It has a fuzzy metallic taste, leisure. I use all my brain power to try and recall what it truly feels like; to sleep in, to take a long shower, to go to the gym in the middle of the day just because. That all evaporated many moons ago when a bundle with chunky cheeks, beautiful eyes and a persistent squirminess was handed to me in a hospital room over eleven years ago. ‘You are a mother now,’ the bundle seemed to proclaim, as I held her in a panic, wondering what the hell to do next.

But I stuck it out and the kid grew on me. Enough to have another, this one a son equally as cute and blessed with those same damn long eyelashes (ones I try, I try, I try to duplicate and never come even remotely close to getting.)

So I dove into my dizzying whirlwind of motherhood; of pampering and nurturing, cuddling and fixing, demanding and guiding and on and on and on until, before I knew it the clock has fast forwarded in a frenzied rate to eleven years later.

So on this day, Mother’s Day, I am commanded to relax. I lie stiff on my bed, attempting to remember leisure, as my two children and their father wreak havoc on my culinary turf, just as all children and their fathers do on Mother’s Day. I imagine burnt toast and spilled orange juice and bits of sugary cereal drowning in insane amounts of tepid milk. But I forget, how easily I forget, that these children are a bit of me, and that in this house there is no sugary cereal to speak of and instead, while I pretend to sleep and wonder, feverishly wonder, ‘what the hell is going on out there?’ the three of them have it covered, so covered.

Husband is already brewing my Venezuelan espresso coffee while Daughter will be gently simmering the slices of lox that will be carefully added to the slow-cooked scrambled eggs she specializes in making just like my mother (whom she’s never met) used to. Her brother will argue, adamantly argue (because they regularly get into discussions of this sort) as to which herb to pick from the garden for Mom’s eggs: the dill or the chives.

My son will demand it be dill, because he is a traditionalist at heart and dill and lox are married in flavor. My daughter likes life a bit more piquant and will insist on the way chives tease the egg and lox out of their comfort zone. My husband will proudly and quietly observe this rigorous dialogue worthy of a United Nations assembly. A tear or two will quickly form in his eyes; he wears his heart on his sleeve; that’s one of the things I most tease him about (and most love him for) and then, ultimately, they will all decide in a very kid-like manner: flipping a coin or a game of rock-paper-scissor. They will be respectful of said decision. They will be gracious about the victorious herb and move on to other aspects of the dish (plating, flowers, notes and homemade gifts: all to celebrate my lack of leisure.) I lie and await a meal that will be memorably theirs and delicious because of it. There will be nothing burnt, for they have been intuitive observers and willing participants in my kitchen over the years.

The three of them will hobble noisily to my room to ‘wake me’ with a tray full of love and culinary bravado and I will act surprised and inhale the comforting and salty aroma of butter, eggs and lox and I will see a lovely family, my lovely family, by my side. My husband will hand me my coffee (because he knows I must have a sip of this elixir first) and I will feel lucky, so very lucky, that for this I have forgotten the meaning of leisure.

A mother has free range to get desperate.  You moms out there know what I am talking about.  Non-moms, maybe not so much.  It goes pretty much like this, or at least, it did for me:

Non-mom declaration:

When I have kids they will never drink Coke.

Mom reality:

Only two cans dear. You have to eat some dinner.

Non-mom declaration:

My children, MY children of all children, will never step foot in a McDonalds!

(I can hear my sister-in-law’s laughter all the way from Omaha on this one…)

Mom declaration:

Gimme a Mighty Meal, double bacon cheeseburger, extra fries, Coke, and maybe another cheeseburger.

(Note: I still don’t touch the stuff, but they sure do!  Okay, I can’t say no to one or two or three french fries. Damn those french fries are good!)

So you get it. Maybe I was a bit idealistic.  Maybe I wanted to be like ...Read on]]>

A mother has free range to get desperate.  You moms out there know what I am talking about.  Non-moms, maybe not so much.  It goes pretty much like this, or at least, it did for me:

Non-mom declaration:

When I have kids they will never drink Coke.

Mom reality:

Only two cans dear. You have to eat some dinner.

Non-mom declaration:

My children, MY children of all children, will never step foot in a McDonalds!

(I can hear my sister-in-law’s laughter all the way from Omaha on this one…)

Mom declaration:

Gimme a Mighty Meal, double bacon cheeseburger, extra fries, Coke, and maybe another cheeseburger.

(Note: I still don’t touch the stuff, but they sure do!  Okay, I can’t say no to one or two or three french fries. Damn those french fries are good!)

So you get it. Maybe I was a bit idealistic.  Maybe I wanted to be like Dianne Keaton in that baby movie and live in a big barnhouse in Vermont and make my own baby food from scratch (the million-dollar business and cute veterinarian being a nice bonus.)  But life gets in the way and, I dare say, even I, a professed food snob, gets desperate from time to time with a bit of greasy, preservative help.

Take the whole vegetetable conondrum for instance.  My daughter won’t go near them.  Not with a ten foot pole.  Not with a ten foot pole loaded with M&M’s on the end.  Nothing.  No can do.  And I have tried. I did charts, rewards, sneaky stuff like those famous spinach brownies (‘They taste weird mom, can’t you just make your normal ones?‘)

I resorted to cute and crazy.  Mixing it up a bit.  Living outside the box.  Dani is a box girl.  There are rules and WE FOLLOW THEM.  And so, if I break one it’s a big deal.  And the girl keeps track, I tell you.  I can’t slip up one bit because she’s there to call me on it: It’s Tuesday mom, you usually have the laundry folded by now. Why isn’t it on the table?  Monday is your bill day, why are there so many envelopes unopened in the front desk?  Don’t forget mom, it’s Friday, ice cream day.  We go every Friday.  I’m telling you she is relentless about the order of life and trip-ups are unacceptable.

Except when they work in your favor.  Like serving up potato chips for dinner.  Potato chips no less!  Oh the rebellion!  Dani wigged on that one.  So much so that she didn’t realize the vegetables lying underneath.  And thus, gobbled the whole thing up and even asked for more.  This is a small victory for me and all mothers out there (we are all smiling and nodding our heads now.)  So, you may think it irrelevant, cheesy, or too Rachael Ray, but it works.  I got the idea for this recipe from epicurious.com. Take some eggs, throw veggies into them, shred cheese, dump it all in muffin tins so they bake individually and look too precious, and sprinkle crushed potato chips on top and you’ve got yourself a potato chip frittata that will make the most stubborn anti-veggie kid smile and ask for more.

Mom declaration:

Mine did!

Like many seven-year olds, my dad was my ultimate heroic figure.  He could do no wrong, say no wrong, and was always filled with an alluring intrigue.  He also was an amazing storyteller.  My father’s stories weren’t about monsters he battled with swords or rough oceans he bravely steered ships through or mythical creatures he aligned with to save the universe.  My father’s adventure tales were all real.  Born in Israel, then called Palestine, in 1933, my dad’s place in history gave him a first rate place in storytelling.

I was an eager and voracious listener, clinging onto his every word as if my life depended on it.  His stories where always vivid and alive and somehow woven in with food of some sort.   His mother’s incredible Lemon Meringue Pie was one of those food items that came up again ...Read on]]>

Like many seven-year olds, my dad was my ultimate heroic figure.  He could do no wrong, say no wrong, and was always filled with an alluring intrigue.  He also was an amazing storyteller.  My father’s stories weren’t about monsters he battled with swords or rough oceans he bravely steered ships through or mythical creatures he aligned with to save the universe.  My father’s adventure tales were all real.  Born in Israel, then called Palestine, in 1933, my dad’s place in history gave him a first rate place in storytelling.

I was an eager and voracious listener, clinging onto his every word as if my life depended on it.  His stories where always vivid and alive and somehow woven in with food of some sort.   His mother’s incredible Lemon Meringue Pie was one of those food items that came up again and again.  No one, apparently, could duplicate it.  He’d return home from some sort of mischief with his cousin Rafi and there it would be, the perfect combination of tart and sweet and fluff gulped in irreplaceable bites. Recounting the Jerusalem siege would bring up more food memories. The road climbing up to the city was locked in battle and little food was available, so my father mustered up stories of making do with meals of grass, tea and if lucky, scraps of some type of meat.  On good days, you’d have an occasional egg. (Our family joke growing up was that this was why my father was so obsessed with hording food in the fridge as an adult.  We called it his Jerusalem Siege Complex.)  He talked about his father Isaac Abbady’s historical role as the official translator for the British government in Palestine, where all the players, from the British, to the Jews to the Arabs, seemed somehow dependent on this man’s intelligent and accurate interpretations. Of course, equally fascinating was my grandfather’s obsession with Cacciocavallo, a salty aged goat cheese he would fry into crispy bites. This was the stuff of the perfect movie and it was coming to me live through endless enthusiasm that sparked off my father’s hazel eyes.

Then there were the wild James-Dean-like tales of my father.  The ones that occasionally made my mother blush or quietly shake her head and walk away, but the ones my sisters and I equally adored and demanded to be told over and over and over.  His daring move to New York as a young entrepreneur and all the challenges and successes that brought on, the endless list of starlet American college women (all from upscale Ivy League stock, of course) that he mesmerized, and then the blind date that almost didn’t happen with a young woman named Marilyn who ended up stopping his heart with her beautiful smile, graceful figure, sharp wit and unparallel intelligence.  Marilyn was only filling in for her roommate who had backed out of her blind date at the last minute.  Marilyn didn’t really feel like going, but went anyway, she was that kind of friend: loyal and kind.  Thankfully that meeting stirred a series of events that would lead to marriage and eventually to me.  Of course, during this important chunk of their history, many meals where shared, but the one that sticks to most stories is Marilyn’s famous Spanish Rice, a stew of ground beef, rice, green peppers and spices, which was all she knew how to cook and all they could afford to eat!

My dad is 76 now and still manages to find adventure.  High tales follow him wherever he goes.  Food is also still an integral part of his day to day, whether it be rubbing shoulders with local Ecuadorian market vendors where he sells his hotdogs every Saturday, perusing one of the cookbooks that line his library, or cooking up his superb omelets bursting with fresh herbs and cheeses.  I feel the same way about this omelet as he does about his mother’s lemon meringue pie:  there will never be one as tasty.  When I think about him I often wonder what meal he is enjoying: it is the one solid ground we’ve always had, despite many other ups and downs.  It is an obsession he helped pass on to me (and I dare say, like him, I’ve been known to wonder out loud during lunch what we will be having for dinner).  And no matter what, I always, always miss his omelet.

Como muchos niños de siete años, mi papá era mi figura heroica última. Él no podría hacer ningún mal, decir ningún mal, y siempre me llenaba de fascinación. Él también era un cuentista asombroso. Las historias de mi padre no eran sobre monstruos que él combatió con espadas o criaturas míticas con las que él se alineó para salvar el universo. Los cuentos de aventura de mi padre eran todos verdaderos. Nacido en Israel, Palestina en aquel entonces, en 1933, el lugar de mi papá en la historia le dio un primer puesto para contra unas verdaderas aventuras.

Yo siempre escuchaba atentamente, adhieriendo en su cada palabra como si mi vida dependió de ello. Sus historias donde siempre eran tejidas con comida de alguna clase. El Pie de Merengue de Limón increíble de su madre es uno ...Read on]]>

Como muchos niños de siete años, mi papá era mi figura heroica última. Él no podría hacer ningún mal, decir ningún mal, y siempre me llenaba de fascinación. Él también era un cuentista asombroso. Las historias de mi padre no eran sobre monstruos que él combatió con espadas o criaturas míticas con las que él se alineó para salvar el universo. Los cuentos de aventura de mi padre eran todos verdaderos. Nacido en Israel, Palestina en aquel entonces, en 1933, el lugar de mi papá en la historia le dio un primer puesto para contra unas verdaderas aventuras.

Yo siempre escuchaba atentamente, adhieriendo en su cada palabra como si mi vida dependió de ello. Sus historias donde siempre eran tejidas con comida de alguna clase. El Pie de Merengue de Limón increíble de su madre es uno de aquellos que se repetia mucho en sus cuentos. Nadie, por lo visto, podría duplicarlo. Él volvería a casa despues de alguna clase de travesura con su primo Rafi y allí estaría el pie de merengue de su madre: la combinación perfecta de tarta y caramelo y espuma disfrutada en mordiscos irremplazables. El recuento del sitio de Jerusalén criaría más memorias de comida. El camino que sube hasta la ciudad fue cerrado por la batalla y poco alimento estaba disponible, entonces mi padre contaria de comidas de hierba, té y para los afortunados, restos de algún tipo de carne. (Nuestro chiste entre familia era que esto era por qué mi padre estuvo tan obsesionado con tener la nevera llena de comida como un adulto. Lo llamamos su Complejo de Sitio de Jerusalén.) Él habló del papel histórico de su padre Isaac Abbady como el traductor oficial para el gobierno británico en Palestina, donde todos los jugadores, del Británico, a los Judíos a los Árabes, parecidos de alguna manera dependiente en las interpretaciones inteligentes y exactas de este hombre. Por supuesto, igualmente fascinante era la obsesión de mi abuelo con Cacciocavallo, un queso de cabra salado que él freiría en mordeduras crujientes. Este era la materia de la película perfecta y me llegaba directamente por el entusiasmo interminable que provocó los ojos color de avellana de mi padre.

Entonces había cuentos estilo James-Dean sobre mi padre. Su mudanza audaz a Nueva York como un empresario joven y todos los desafíos y éxitos que provocaron, la lista interminable de mujeres de colegio finos americanos que él hipnotizó, y luego la cita ciega que casi no pasó con una mujer joven llamada Marilyn que terminó por parar su corazón con su sonrisa hermosa, figura elegante, ingenio agudo e inteligencia sin paralela. Marilyn sólo reemplazaba su compañera de cuarto que habia cancelada a ultimo momento. Marilyn realmente no tuvo ganas de ir, pero fue de todos modos, ella era esa clase de amiga: leal y amable. Por suerte aquella reunión movió una serie de acontecimientos que conducirían al matrimonio y finalmente a mí. ¡Por supuesto, durante este cacho importante de su historia, muchas comidas fueron compartidas, pero el que se atiene a la mayor parte de historias es el Arroz español famoso de Marilyn, un guisado de picadillo, arroz, pimientas verdes y especias, que era todo lo que sabía preparar!

Mi papá tiene 76 años ahora y todavía logra encontrar aventura. Los cuentos lo siguen dondequiera que él vaya. La comida es todavía una parte integrante de su día: si ello frotar hombros con vendedores de mercado ecuatorianos locales donde él vende sus perritos calientes cada sábado, leyendo detenidamente uno de los libros de cocina que adornan su biblioteca, o preparando su tortilla magníficas que se revientan con hierbas frescas y quesos. Siento lo mismo sobre esta tortilla de huevos que él sobre el pie de merengue de limón de su madre: nunca habrá un tan sabroso. Cuando pienso en él a menudo me pregunto de que comida estara disfrutando: esto es una tierra sólida que siempre teníamos, a pesar de muchos otros altibajos. Esto es una obsesión que él ayudó a pasarme (y me atrevo a decir, como él, se ha conocido que yo me pregunto en voz alta durante el almuerzo lo que tendremos para la cena). Y pase lo que pase, siempre, siempre, me hace falta su tortilla.

I like listening to classical music to remember my father.  It was the one detail I had not divulged to anyone else.  In the years of bitterness, anger, and deception that had slowly built a calloused wall between us, I still had that stream of pureness that effortlessly floated out as notes from Beethoven, Mozart or Brahms (his favorite) were played.  I’d find myself sitting in the quiet intimacy of my car listening to the music playing loudly and softly thinking of Sunday mornings long ago when the air was thick with youth and carelessness as the bacon gently sizzled and life was good, safe and sweet.

Mom was alive and very beautiful, wrapped in her mocha-colored terry cloth robe, always an odd shade in my young mind, yet, soothing in the way it contrasted the gentle blush ...Read on]]>

I like listening to classical music to remember my father.  It was the one detail I had not divulged to anyone else.  In the years of bitterness, anger, and deception that had slowly built a calloused wall between us, I still had that stream of pureness that effortlessly floated out as notes from Beethoven, Mozart or Brahms (his favorite) were played.  I’d find myself sitting in the quiet intimacy of my car listening to the music playing loudly and softly thinking of Sunday mornings long ago when the air was thick with youth and carelessness as the bacon gently sizzled and life was good, safe and sweet.

Mom was alive and very beautiful, wrapped in her mocha-colored terry cloth robe, always an odd shade in my young mind, yet, soothing in the way it contrasted the gentle blush of her soft cheeks and opened center-stage to her unwavering blue eyes.  Every Sunday morning I’d find her faithfully by the stovetop, stirring her scrambled eggs with a withheld patience, quietly luring them to a creamy perfection never duplicated by anyone since.  Mom would turn towards me and smile as I approached her those mornings, a twinkle in her eye, the words that I knew would come from her comforted me long before they danced from her lips:

“Breakfast will be ready soon dear,” she’d say with a soft smile and I knew I was well and loved and safe.

Life with filled with a sleepy and thick layer of deliciousness.  In a daze I’d float through the wonderful smells of velvety eggs, followed by the apple tart smokiness of sweet cured bacon, sputtering shamelessly on the back burner.

This was all in perfect synchrony with the music that would be playing.  It would be whatever my father would have selected for that morning amongst his endless collection of classical albums, all stacked close together; the crumpled brown thin papers hugging the shinny vinyl and keeping it from harm.  There were hundreds of records and each Sunday my father would approach them with a studious wrinkle in his brow and decide what mood would begin our day.  Quietly and very carefully he’d pick one and gently caress it clean and place it on the turntable to come to life. 

As the needle’s scratchy touch awoke the symphony our lesson would begin.   Notes would rise and fall as my father pranced around the toasty kitchen all the while describing the music’s journey while wildly waving his arms about orchestrating his musical bliss.  My sisters and I (all under the age of ten) would pretend to be annoyed but in reality we listened to the music and watched him, enthralled at how our father would savor each note with such pure and uncomplicated bliss, just as we’d soon sit to our meal of equal delight.

“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” mom would promise and we’d all gather closer to an intimate table of her sour cream slow-cooked scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, hot croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice.  Some Sundays, when mom found she had more time, or energy, or both, she’d make cheddar dill biscuits and tuck them comfortably in an old wicker basket, which lay in the center of the table.  I remember breaking one warm biscuit in two and placing a perfect square of sweet butter on it.  It would slowly melt as I closed my eyes and bit down and there would be a moment where I’d be caught in that lovely circuit of love bound by music, butter and love.

These were our Sunday mornings, our very own moments of quiet and peace, laughter and love, family and food.  It was the one time where the outside world no longer mattered.  The air we breathed was clean and pure and all of father’s impending distractions would, for that instant, remain uninvited.  On those days our family was sealed from such harm.

We played and ran around in our pajamas as mom would work her culinary magic in her remaining five minutes.  The symphony rolled on full throttle as we watched our dad in amazement, not quite understanding the look of complete satisfaction that shone in his hazel eyes, eyes that had not yet begun to tire, but rather burned brightly with youth, hope and love.   As he’d wave his arms wildly in the air imitating the moves the conductor would make to bring this grandiose piece of music together, a chuckle would escape his happy face.  He’d quickly glance at us and realize that his tiny, rambunctious and free family was together for that instant, held close by the notes of love, food, and Brahms. He’d wave his imaginary baton in its final frenzy and declare with a bow, “Let’s eat!” breaking our trance and leading us all giggling and happy to the breakfast table. We were suspended between seconds of music, laughter and food: a perfect and forever ours, Sunday morning.

In the abyss of a quiet night, when children have succumbed to their struggle of sleep and the spouse snores lazily on the stained blue sofa, I eat mayonnaise from the jar.  We’re not talking a light lick of the knife to cleanse it of its miniscule residue of spread, but rather a flat out, flagrant finger-scooping of the delightfully forbidden stuff. 

I readily swallow in big gulps of happiness.  It’s the same glee with which children gobble their chocolate pudding and in these moments of silence, with the glow of the refrigerator lighting my way my joy is complete, my crime only witnessed by Goldie, the obese hyperactive goldfish that would no doubt join in the fun if she could figure a way out of her cloudy fish tank and into the white delicacy of my family value ...Read on]]>

In the abyss of a quiet night, when children have succumbed to their struggle of sleep and the spouse snores lazily on the stained blue sofa, I eat mayonnaise from the jar.  We’re not talking a light lick of the knife to cleanse it of its miniscule residue of spread, but rather a flat out, flagrant finger-scooping of the delightfully forbidden stuff. 

I readily swallow in big gulps of happiness.  It’s the same glee with which children gobble their chocolate pudding and in these moments of silence, with the glow of the refrigerator lighting my way my joy is complete, my crime only witnessed by Goldie, the obese hyperactive goldfish that would no doubt join in the fun if she could figure a way out of her cloudy fish tank and into the white delicacy of my family value size jar of mayonnaise.

I know this is a horrible thing, to eat mayonnaise out of a jar.  Particularly from someone so versed in the nuances of artisanal butters, Iberico ham, Himalayan salts, and other fine culinary things.  I know that when I scoff at folks who dare house plastic bottles of minced garlic, instead of using fresh, or who sport blank looks at the thought of making homemade icing (i.e., not from a can) with fresh strawberries (i.e., not dehydrated, frozen ones), that I am nurturing my own dirty little secret with the big bottle of Hellmann’s tucked away behind my homemade yogurt (white on white, who will know?)   Which is why I do it only when no one is watching me.  Like the  clueless, bland husband played by Richard Bowens in the “The Big Chill”, I find a quiet solace in the secret midnight ritual of eating mayonnaise.

There shouldn’t be any shame to such a ritual, really.  My life is anything but bland.  It brims with passion, lust and good food, which is why it wouldn’t feel complete without a unabashful celebration of mayonnaise.  And not the homemade stuff whipped with fresh garlic, olive oil and organic eggs but the proudly processed jugs of soybean oil, water, whole eggs and egg yolks, vinegar, salt, sugar, lemon juice, natural flavors, calcium disodium and EDTA, respectfully.

On a Freudian approach, I could blame this all on my childhood.  In Venezuela, 5-gallon jugs of Kraft Mayonnaise seemed a prerequisite, where they sat alongside the 2-gallon tubs of margarine.  Savoring the salty creamy spread was a daily excursion.  Breakfast easily began with a basketful of arepas, the Venezuelan solution to all life’s evils.  These delicious round cornmeal cakes made a cameo appearance in every meal, but come morning time, they were readily available with wavy layers of mayonnaise and thick slices of pineapple-glazed ham.  For lunch, as kids in the U.S. turned their noses up horrified at the prospect of ingesting a vegetable, eager Venezuelan children lined up for seconds simply because their produce arrived slathered in mayonnaise.  Some days it was boiled beets with thin slices of red onion, a squeeze of fresh lime juice and immeasurable amounts of creamy whiteness, leaving the final dish in a pink glaze of sweet, salty and sour delight.  Cucumbers also made their debut swimming in a river of mayonnaise, tickled by finely minced parsley and scallions.  Ensalada Rusa embraced boiled carrots, potatoes and whatever other abandoned vegetable wanted to join in the fun into a disco party of mayonnaise.  Pretty much anything that was cuddled by the stuff won my heart over and in such fashion I grew up nourished and blessed by mayonnaise.

As an adult desperate to break free and create my own culinary identity I temporarily moved away from the soybean oil and calcium disodium and took a radically different approach.  Suddenly my evenings where filled with lentils, curry and tofu, all of which I concocted into strange and wonderful dishes my palate readily consumed.  But still, something was missing and I couldn’t help imagine how perfectly satisfying a dollop of mayonnaise would nourish my crispy zucchini pancake.  Eventually, I came around.   

Mayonnaise has once again been invited into my fridge.  It does not play the hyperactive role of my youth, where it danced in nearly everything I ate, but its presence is carefully felt, whether it be alongside a tender chunk of herb-infused chicken schnitzel (yes, organic), or comforting a lonely crab cake (add lime zest, lime juice, shallots and basil for a party), or simply doing the tango with ketchup and hot sauce while waiting to be dipped by creamy hardboiled huevitos de Codorniz, another Venezuelan favorite.  And on those late nights with only Goldie as my witness, when it is quiet and there are no distractions and I find myself in a moment of delicious weakness it takes center stage for me, my memories and my palate in a delicious, finger-scooping swallow.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking. Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever. Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you. So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously ...Read on]]> It starts inconspicuously enough, like, when your kid turns towards you and gives a whole-hearty, sloppy sneeze in your direction.
‘Okay, that was gross’, you may think to yourself, but, being that it is your kid (the one that inevitably has crapped, puked, and pissed on you at some point in your bonding) you most likely will think nothing of it.
And so you go on your way.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking.
Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever.
Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you.
So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously in there declaring the arrival of your newfound illness, I can guarantee you, without a doubt, you can blame it on one of your children.
And you don’t even need proof.
When I was a kid, the world would actually stop if I was sick.
People would flock to my side to tend to me as I wallowed in self-pity, not too thrilled about feeling lousy, yet quietly basking in a utopian egocentricity.
It was a careful balance of perfection and lots of tissues. For eight hours, I became an only child bathed in excessive doting and not the forgotten last kid in a rung of three.
Meals where instantly cooked up and presented on pretty trays splashed with tropical flowers: perfectly soft-boiled eggs nestled in delicate porcelain eggcups, bowls of homemade chicken soup and freshly-squeezed orange juice arrived with me just thinking of them.
Each dish was hot and soothing and perfectly blended with love and salt and pepper.
Cars would honk in traffic in the distance and I would relish in the thought of harried children or workers, rushing to their varied responsibilities while I basked in the serene and almost naughty pleasure of sleeping at 10:00am on a weekday.
Of course there was always the nagging issue of make-up homework waiting in the dusty corner of my mind, but, for most of the day, I would park that nuisance in my unconsciousness and focus on the pleasures of being sick.
Today things are a bit different.
The world dare not stop when I am under the weather, it seems to only speed up.
With two young children to care for and a weekends-only spouse, balancing the tissues with self-pity only gets me behind.
I do get nostalgic for my past when Nyquil becomes my beverage of choice.
I can almost smell the chicken soup my beloved nanny, Yoli, tenderly simmered for me or the extra dose of warm hugs my mother would offer just to perk me up a bit, but I have piano and karate and tutors to get to, and if I don’t get going I will inevitably fall behind.
Still, a quick trip down memory lane is something I simply can’t pass on, especially if this one takes all of four minutes.
Tripping over laundry and discarded toys, I make my way to the kitchen for a quick, revitalizing soft-boiled egg.
It may not be served to me in a dainty eggcup as it was in my youth, but as I crack the top, douse it with coarse sea salt and fresh pepper and take that first nourishing, creamy bite, I am instantly transported to a moment made just for me filled with time, love, and the quiet pleasure of feeling sick for a day.