A funny thing happens when you become a parent.  You change.  Obviously, you change.

But in fundamental ways you thought were genetically impossible.

You know what I’m talking about.  You that are out there.

I’ve been a parent for almost twelve years now and I am still astounded by these changes.

I recall a feverish argument with my husband in a crowded restaurant in an even more crowded airport.  We were off to one of our many exotic destinations and had dropped in for a quick drink.  Ahhhh, the days of unfettered travel.  I admit my husband and I refuse to kick our travel habit and we make it a point to take our children to all sorts of distant destinations.  But of course, it entails a lot more work, planning and schlepping.

This particular argument was all about Diet Coke.

“I forbid you to have ...Read on]]>

A funny thing happens when you become a parent.  You change.  Obviously, you change.

But in fundamental ways you thought were genetically impossible.

You know what I’m talking about.  You that are out there.

I’ve been a parent for almost twelve years now and I am still astounded by these changes.

I recall a feverish argument with my husband in a crowded restaurant in an even more crowded airport.  We were off to one of our many exotic destinations and had dropped in for a quick drink.  Ahhhh, the days of unfettered travel.  I admit my husband and I refuse to kick our travel habit and we make it a point to take our children to all sorts of distant destinations.  But of course, it entails a lot more work, planning and schlepping.

This particular argument was all about Diet Coke.

“I forbid you to have Diet Coke in the house when we have children.  It will ruin them!”  (Okay, maybe not my exact words, but the general message was that crystal clear (and crazy.))  And I did say ‘forbid.’

My husband, with his sexy tan skin and jet-black hair looked at me with warmth and infinite patience and said:

“You’re crazy.”

Add this and a several glasses of merlot and the argument didn’t get any better.

Fast forward to the present and our children are now almost 12 and 8.  The fridge is regularly stocked with my husband’s favorite drink, Diet Coke.  The kids aren’t ruined (not by that, at least).  ‘Forbid’ is out of our lingo, for those wondering.

Then there’s my sister-in-law, whose children are a good ten years older than mine.  When hers were little and mine weren’t even a thought, I’d tease her constantly about her letter writing, or lack thereof.

Occasionally, we would get crisp wallet-sized portraits of her children with cheesy paint splash backdrops in fake hues of teal or grey, and if we were lucky, a post-it with an illegible afterthought:  “All well here. Picture of kids. Love, K.”

“What???? Can’t you have the decency to sit down and write a line or two???” I’d reprimand as soon as the post office made its delivery.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her how tacky I thought those portrait shots were.  I certainly would never do that when my kids would come around, I smugly thought to myself.

Flash forward to the present and my children are now almost 12 and 8.  I don’t send post-its.  I send only the pictures.  The same portrait shots (I tend to favor chestnut brown and olive green backdrops.  It brings out the hazel in their eyes…)

And of course, there was the food issue.  I swore on my culinary spirit that my children would never and I mean never, ingest the fat and sodium-laden Haden that is McDonalds.  This, there was no budging about.  Non-negotiable.  A child of mine – no.

Flash forward to the present and my children are now almost 12 and 8.  I won’t reveal anymore except that the golden arch is no stranger to them.  You get the picture.

But some things have made me the wiser.  Like the 1-2-3 approach to a time consuming meal like lasagna.  I want to say wisdom and good parenting taught me to divvy this dish into several days so that the moment of making it requires only a quick assembly.  But like most eye-opening moments in parenting, this was completely an accident.

I had the best intentions.  I did.  I wanted a carb-loaded nutritious meal of lasagna for our Wednesday night.  So off I went to diligently prepare a nourishing meat sauce, a creamy béchamel, and some sautéed spinach, all to be readily assembled into layered bliss.  The kids were getting cranky and hungry.  6:15 soon became 6:45 and then 6:55.  I was creeping into their bath time and reading time and the pressure was on.  I could handle it though, I could handle it.

Until I realized I had no lasagna noodles or mozzarella cheese and two very cranky children.  The plan was ditched, or delayed; however you look at it.  I quietly wrapped up my prepared goods and scribbled out a list for tomorrow’s run to the supermarket.  The lasagna would be assembled another day.

The kids, on the other hand, had resorted to full meltdown mode offering incessant whining about hunger pains.  I did what any reasonable mother would do.  Even a culinary snob has her breaking point.
“Everyone get in the car”, I commanded.  “We’re headed to McDonald’s for dinner!”

You change.  Obviously, you change.

Close your eyes and imagine it. Come with me. The smells are there. All sorts of them: fresh spicy radishes laid out on a wool blanket for all to see and buy, sizzling tacos of unknown meats and sausages, corn tortillas toasting on a cast iron griddle and the citrus freshness of plump limes whose juice is constantly drizzled over everything. This is the de Mercado Valle de Bravo in Mexico: a Sunday market housed in a cramped labyrinth of tiny stalls connected by a roof made of blue plastic feigning the sky. It is an infinitely raw and vibrant world nestled within Valle de Bravo, a scenic vacation town of picturesque cobble stone roads and a breathtaking lake where tourists enjoy mountain fresh air and sit and eat trucha fresca, fresh trout, and escape the pollution and population ...Read on]]>

Close your eyes and imagine it. Come with me. The smells are there. All sorts of them: fresh spicy radishes laid out on a wool blanket for all to see and buy, sizzling tacos of unknown meats and sausages, corn tortillas toasting on a cast iron griddle and the citrus freshness of plump limes whose juice is constantly drizzled over everything. This is the de Mercado Valle de Bravo in Mexico: a Sunday market housed in a cramped labyrinth of tiny stalls connected by a roof made of blue plastic feigning the sky. It is an infinitely raw and vibrant world nestled within Valle de Bravo, a scenic vacation town of picturesque cobble stone roads and a breathtaking lake where tourists enjoy mountain fresh air and sit and eat trucha fresca, fresh trout, and escape the pollution and population of Mexico City. Steps away from such manicured tourism there lives this world of the mercado, its blue lit alley beckons those who dare enter it, and of course, taking that sharp left and following the locals and stray dogs seemed the obvious choice for my husband and I.

It was crowded and sweaty and lively and wondrous. Men carried sacks filled with blender parts, indigenous women sprawled on the dirt floor were selling woven baskets, bright green nopale (cactus) leaves, and action figure dolls that saw their heyday in the early eighties. They were all there.

The local butcher chopped yellow chickens that peered at me with eyes still open. I knew they hadn’t lived a life in a windowless, cramped coop but rather roamed a field picking worms most likely hours ago. And then, the famous taquerias, or taco stands: they were everywhere, lacing together this maze of shopping. The sound of meat sizzled throughout the market like an orchestra: carnitas, tacos de carne, de barbacoa.

Freshly grilled meat is chopped on a tronco, a big slab of wood resembling a tree trunk and in the air there floats a thick smoke of flavor that would stubbornly land on your clothing and refuse to leave, so much so that, even if you didn’t stop at one of the plastic tables for a quick bite, the food traveled with you.

Speckled throughout the market where the fruit carts. Gloriously colorful cups loaded with chunks of freshly chopped tropical delights: pineapple, watermelon, sapote, and of course, mango. Mango is a celebrated fruit in Mexico and rightly so: every mango I’ve ever eaten there is a memorable exchange between my palate and my memory: smooth, juicy and bursting with flavor, there isn’t one fiber to be found, just fleshy fruit generous with juice. And here, Mexican’s have defied all logic and introduced this sweetness with a spicy bite: adding their homemade assortments of chile sauces and powders, they take cups of the chopped chunks of golden mango and drizzle and sprinkle and drizzle and sprinkle and drizzle some more.

I am intoxicated by this market. I am in love. Camera in hand, I cannot stop being there. I want to see, smell, and eat everything. The locals all stare at me curiously. I am a guera, a slang term for someone blonde, blue-eyed and fair-skinned- unheard of in this wave of Aztec rich complexion and dark eyes. We are drawn together for our differences, the local market folk and I. I long to be a part of them, and they quietly take me in, accepting me into this underworld of theirs, this weekly ritual they will forget today but I will carry with me forever.

The mango girl smiles at me and my camera. “Como lo quieres” she asks? How do you want it? And then she dares me, “Con todo?” With everything?

And of course, because I know no other answer when it comes to food, I reply, “Si, todo” and she begins the procession with my fabulous cup of diced mango (which she has rinsed in a dirty red bucket filled with suspiciously grey water). She drizzles and sprinkles and drizzles again. This chile powder and that chile sauce. I ask her several times what it is and she tells me. But I cannot catch the names. I am a fluent Spanish speaker but this simply isn’t enough: there is the cadence of the speech, soft, courteous and rhythmic and then the many Aztec names weaved into a Mexican’s Spanish. They slip off my memory in their foreign sounds. I do understand that the last cayenne-colored sprinkle comes specially homemade from some region in Mexico, whose name, again, evades me, but by the shine in her eye I know, this is the good stuff.

I take the cup from her with a smile and a big gracias and then, as if by intuition, I close my eyes. I am circled by life. I smell the street, the dogs, the sounds of bartering, the clang of pots, and I hold a cold cup of precious fruit sprinkled with Mexican secrets for my taking. It is a moment I want to freeze in time. But instead, I take a bite and allow my tongue to dance with the sweet and spice of this unforgettable country of Mexico.

“If you let your leg dangle just a teensy weensy bit off the side of the bed, the bed monster will get you,” my older sister informed a gullible six-year old me many many moons ago. Her steady, authoritative gaze bore deeply into my impressionable eyes and I instantly believed her. Why wouldn’t I? She was my big sister and my guide to survival in life. Whatever she said, stuck.

And so, this freshly seared image of a patient beast (slightly benevolent and cuddly but with a wicked temper that could turn on you in an instant) housed itself in my psyche and settled in so comfortably that it took me years to stop sleeping with my feet safely curled up by my chest…just in case.

I would greet mornings with a quiet sigh of relief ...Read on]]>

“If you let your leg dangle just a teensy weensy bit off the side of the bed, the bed monster will get you,” my older sister informed a gullible six-year old me many many moons ago. Her steady, authoritative gaze bore deeply into my impressionable eyes and I instantly believed her. Why wouldn’t I? She was my big sister and my guide to survival in life. Whatever she said, stuck.

And so, this freshly seared image of a patient beast (slightly benevolent and cuddly but with a wicked temper that could turn on you in an instant) housed itself in my psyche and settled in so comfortably that it took me years to stop sleeping with my feet safely curled up by my chest…just in case.

I would greet mornings with a quiet sigh of relief and a quick toe count and then eagerly jump out of bed to the welcoming aroma of our nanny Yolanda’s cooking. Yolanda seemed to never sleep, for, walking into the brightly lit kitchen as dawn turned to day was like entering a whirlwind of a restaurant at high peak. Pots clattered, coffee brewed, fresh orange juice awaited, and something always sizzled on the stovetop.

On top of being an amazing cook, she seemed psychic as well, for, on nights that had seemed particularly bumpy (maybe my foot had accidently slipped and my big toe leaned precariously over the side, maybe I had felt a sharp claw or furry paw make its deadly move) she’d erase my troubled, sleepless look with a batch of her famous empanadas de carne, meat empanadas. These would sputter shamelessly on the skillet, ending up as golden crescents exploding with seasoned meat, carrots and potatoes. Crunching into them made my stomach and every other part of me, for that matter, feel happy and safe.

Years later I confessed to my sister the countless nights I slept curled in a ball, not because I liked it, but because I felt my life depended on it. She seemed puzzled and asked me why and I, aghast, reminded her that it was because of the monster story she told me when we were little. A chuckle escaped her mouth and her blue eyes softened and sparkled at me.

“Seriously?” she said, “I don’t even remember saying that.”

I could have kicked her, as siblings do. But instead, I joined her in her chuckle and more than anything, got an instant craving for Yolanda’s meat empanadas.

It recently became fashionable to celebrate our obsession with list taking. You know the books: 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die, 1000 Things To Do and even the movie, The Bucket List, a melodramatic journey of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two old men revisiting dreams and rekindling failed relationships. Even Oprah Winfrey’s O List has a way of magically transforming the item mentioned into an instant best seller, whether it is a book, a product, or a personality like Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. We are a culture obsessed with lists: little items, thoughts, or deeds we must write down to check off and feel a sense of accomplishment. I’m not knocking it; I am a list queen myself. If I don’t write it down (to then check it off), it doesn’t get done. ...Read on]]>

It recently became fashionable to celebrate our obsession with list taking. You know the books: 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die, 1000 Things To Do and even the movie, The Bucket List, a melodramatic journey of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two old men revisiting dreams and rekindling failed relationships. Even Oprah Winfrey’s O List has a way of magically transforming the item mentioned into an instant best seller, whether it is a book, a product, or a personality like Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. We are a culture obsessed with lists: little items, thoughts, or deeds we must write down to check off and feel a sense of accomplishment. I’m not knocking it; I am a list queen myself. If I don’t write it down (to then check it off), it doesn’t get done. And then, sometimes it still doesn’t get done! I have pads of paper at my nearest reach: lost in the scary place that is my purse, scattered about my vehicle, fighting for space amongst half forgotten water bottles (baking for hours in the hot Florida sun), and then there is the grocery pad list on the fridge AND the iPhone application lists, iGrocery and To Do’s, respectively. Lists are a necessity. A requirement. So, why don’t I have one for food, I wondered out loud the other day while tackling the careful balance of tastes in my refrigerator (breathe the wrong way and my leaning towers of food will collapse)?

The answer for this one is a no-brainer for me: my tastes are too erratic, too temperamental, too unconfined to confine them to a list. That is the answer I want to give: it sounds cosmopolitan and articulate, the only snag is that it is, well…wrong.

Whereas I pride myself in being a culinary adventurer (I’ve yet to turn anything down, although I may take pause with the live cockroaches in China), I find myself headed down the road of comfort time and time again, back to meals that intrinsically make me feel better because of the emotional connection I have to them. Meals with a childhood story woven into them have me hooked, regardless if they are far from Michelin stars, and the older I get the more I seem to crave them.

So, while, yes, I do enjoy greatly a reduction of lamb with truffle foam and a sprinkling of fresh dandelion (it’s good, trust me) I am proud to say I happily gobble up a bowl of Spanish rice, not only because it is hot and filling and good, but also because each bite is brimming with stories my mother told me as a youth: stories about her adventures as a young adult in New York City, where money didn’t go far and to splurge on a meal meant to buy ground beef for a fancy dish of, you guessed it, Spanish Rice (always made to impress boyfriends, no less.) These were tales of adventure, resilience, and determination, not cuisine.

My mother, allegedly could not boil a pot of water before she got married, a detail I always questioned and deemed as wildly exaggerated for my mom was not only a cook, but a chef, creating delightful surprises meal after meal after meal. Yet I felt hugged and loved and nourished by the simplicity of her big bowl of Spanish rice which she’d happily plop in front of me, year after year and I’d ask, each time it seemed, I’d ask, for those stories of her in New York with her best friend Virginia and the endless amounts of Spanish rice. And so in my safe, comfortable home in Venezuela, where I would want for nothing and, quite frankly, was spoiled rotten as the youngest of three girls, I envisioned my tall and beautiful mother in her dank apartment on the Upper West Side (and not the chic part) scraping up enough to splurge on this delightful feast of Spanish rice, the same I would be spooning up happily in her company all those years later.

Spanish rice is not fancy. It’s not emulsified. It’s not even on a restaurant menu. But that doesn’t stop it from being top on my list, especially when paired with a nice green salad, a glass of hearty red, and the memory of a great story.

What’s top on your food list?  Let me hear from you!

Twenty years ago I was a daredevil. Today I am chic. I am poised upon the fresh powder (that’s Colorado snow, for those of you not in the know), garbed up in my razor sharp ski outfit (Spyder jacket ice white with aqua and midnight trim, white gloves, sexy black pants) helmet, goggles, boots, skis. Ready for the slopes. On top of the world.

I had made it on the lifts, a contraption I gave no thought to mount from age 6 to 19, but now, at 39, approached apprehensively. All right, approached in a panic. I haven’t lived in Manhattan in over 14 years but it’s as if Woody Allen and all his neurosis had infiltrated me steadily through the years:

“Get on this thing? It’s not safe? A dangling chair in subzero weather climbing precariously ...Read on]]>

Twenty years ago I was a daredevil. Today I am chic. I am poised upon the fresh powder (that’s Colorado snow, for those of you not in the know), garbed up in my razor sharp ski outfit (Spyder jacket ice white with aqua and midnight trim, white gloves, sexy black pants) helmet, goggles, boots, skis. Ready for the slopes. On top of the world.

I had made it on the lifts, a contraption I gave no thought to mount from age 6 to 19, but now, at 39, approached apprehensively. All right, approached in a panic. I haven’t lived in Manhattan in over 14 years but it’s as if Woody Allen and all his neurosis had infiltrated me steadily through the years:

“Get on this thing? It’s not safe? A dangling chair in subzero weather climbing precariously up a cliff with lunatics zooming down (hey wait a second, am I going to have to go down THAT?)

My husband was faithfully at my side, coaxing the daredevil back. Or at least trying.

“You’re fine. You’ve done this a thousand times, remember? Scoot up. Sit. Bar down. Enjoy the ride. Simple. Follow my lead.”

We crept up in the crowded line, closer and closer to the ominous ride. I recounted the zillions of times I’ve turned down rides of any kind, roller coasters, Ferris wheels, spinning teacups. Something about my feet not being on the ground and in control just doesn’t jive with this control freak. Yet here I was, my feet already not in control, straddled in clunky alien boots and slippery skis, trying to keep up with Yeshua (outfitted in an even jazzier outfit given to him by the number one Slovenian ski champion, Jure Kosir). In my moment of panic I could at least appreciate how good we look.

I heard a tiny sigh and turned around. The six-year old behind me was getting frustrated with my hesitation. No doubt this little bugger would zoom down the mountain without a thought. What was it about aging that makes some of us more precarious? Why couldn’t I just have fun?

The lift came and, indeed, as riding a bicycle, every movement clicked and I sat down without a thought. As we swung through the frigid air I begged Yeshua to talk to me, distract me from the perilous death I was envisioning. I clung to the thin bar for life and cursed myself for agreeing to ride this endless and steep ride. But as the ride continued my grip eased and I actually began enjoying myself. It was hard not to. The trees looked so beautiful and pristine, their evergreen branches comfortably hugged by mounds of fresh snow. Agile skiers flew through them with natural precision (I learned with relief that was the black diamond slope, not the beginner’s green allotted for me). So, you see, the slopes looked fabulous and chic again.

‘Hey, maybe I can do this,’ I thought to myself. ‘Maybe those years and years and years of zooming down the benign Vermont bunny slope on Pico Peak with my family back in the seventies would kick in and I’d be able to pull this off as a middle-aged precarious nut.’

I turned to my Slovenian ski champion and smiled. I could definitely pull this off. I looked at him, after all: tall, dark and handsome, but nevertheless a tropical Venezuelan who had never set foot on skis until his mid-thirties. Yesh had come a long way, now hitting the black diamonds and coming out alive. If I could only smile at him long enough, maybe his fearlessness would infect me. I thought of our two young children, off with some ski pro in their class at this moment. No doubt our wild seven-year old son, who already sported a black eye that would make Rocky Balboa jealous, would find the thrill of this sport intoxicating. If he would zoom, then so would I, damnit.

So there I am, poised atop of the main summit, 11 thousand and plus feet altitude. The air is thin and icy and lovely. I am surrounded by skiers and snowboarders and mountains. I am in the moment and take it all in. And then, I see the photographers. Yes! There are photographers. I snag one immediately. Yeshua scoffs. He thinks I am absurd. Why are we taking a picture now? Let’s ski, he urges. But I know why. I must capture this moment. This moment now. When I am full of the mountain, when I don’t fear it because I haven’t quite met it. Where I feel free and possibilities are endless and I don’t live the pain my quads will feel as they burn their way down Jack Rabbit Hole or Red Bull Run in a stubborn snowplow that will not relent to the ease of a parallel ski because I must slow down, slow down, slow down and not hit that tree or that one or that one.  Yesh will patiently ski behind me shouting out all sorts of Zen commands: feel the mountain, you control it, don’t let it control you, put your weight into it, you know how to do this, you’ve DONE this before, enjoy the moment, look forward, don’t look down, be one with nature.” It is all going to get shot at me and I will grow more and more impatient with him as my legs beg for a break and my mind fills with anxiety, I will manage to turn around (and ski) and shout that he please shut up and question over and over and over again, “Is this really a green slope? Is this a green?!” because there is ice (I thought it was illegal for ice to exist on a Colorado slope) and skiers and snowboarders, the same ones that added to the ambience of excellence I needed photographed up on the summit but now just felt like intrusions on my moment of panic and safety as they all zoom past me without a care in this world:

“On your left”

“On your right”

They’d shout on the way down, throwing me further and further off balance and spiraling into blackness.

And then, there we were. We’d somehow made it to the bottom and good God my two legs where shaking but they were intact, and, even though I felt like sending Yeshua to an ashram in India for all his philosophical spewing, he had guided me patiently down the mountain, gently prodding my sense of adventure back to life, which, was slow to wake but definitely stirring, buried under years of motherhood vigilance, weighed down by moments of ‘eat your peas, tie your shoelaces, look both ways before you cross the road, don’t talk to strangers, hold my hand, no come back here and hold my hand.’

How could this persona be expected to fly down a mountain without a thought in this world? But somehow I had. Okay, not fly, but crawl. Snowplow, zigzag. Stopped. Reassessed, and continued. Slowly sawing my way down Beaver Creek but here I was, still chic, victorious, and still married. Maybe I’ll go up the mountain again. Tomorrow. First, I need a glass of wine and a good hearty mountain meal.

I assume most normal folk would run in horror, scream, or, quite logically, TURN THE KITCHENAID MIXER OFF, but I fell straight into the role of the demented killer as a smile the size of a quarter watermelon slid on my face and a curling, and pardon the pun, bloodthirsty laughter escaped from the deepest and most carnivorous corner of ...Read on]]> Oh I thought of all of you last night, my friends, as I used Larry for the first time (no, Larry isn’t my vibrator, if you recall from a former post, he’s my meat grinder…)  My husband was helping me shove in chunks of top round as it was all spewing out of the tiny little drain-looking contraption and meat and blood was flying EVERYWHERE splattering my seven-year old son and I in the face like an edited-out scene of Carrie.

I assume most normal folk would run in horror, scream, or, quite logically, TURN THE KITCHENAID MIXER OFF, but I fell straight into the role of the demented killer as a smile the size of a quarter watermelon slid on my face and a curling, and pardon the pun, bloodthirsty laughter escaped from the deepest and most carnivorous corner of my being.

My seven-year old just said “cool” (it’s a start) and followed it up with an “eeewww, I got blood on my face” and ran back to the television to resume watching the trials and tribulations of good over evil on Disney XD.  My husband looked at me rather wearily, after all, I have had a bit of an emotionally rough ride these past few weeks and seeing me this giddy did make him feel happy, but still, I could read through that furrowed brow clearly: meat spewing like mad all over our kitchen and this woman is jumping up and down like she got chosen on Bob Barker’s show, The Price Is Right….seriously? And of course, it being Yeshua, if you looked even beyond the brow there was the same excitement because, as partners in crime for the past 22 years, what makes one of us pumped seems to automatically infect the other, and so, there he was, just as quickly and eagerly shoving those slabs of beef into Larry and watching the magic happen with equal elation.

Now I know, I’ve gone a bit overboard with the meat situation here.  I mean, I even chose a pancetta dish for last week’s blogger potluck for Joy Manning and Tara Mataraza Desmond’s book Almost Meatless.  And truly, I am more a fish-eating type of gal.  But something about the 103-degree Florida summer weather, the suffocating mugginess, and the shiny appliances in my kitchen has got me craving red meat.  Call me an enigma.  Or just low on iron.  Who the heck knows?  All I know is that witnessing the consummation of Larry and Lulu’s love was fantastic.  Right up there with the top ten things I enjoy doing.  So maybe there’s a butcher in a former life of mine. Or a future one.  Or maybe I’m simply a repressed voyeur.

I’d imagine most mothers celebrate the moment their preteen daughters set off for camp. It can be viewed as a time for growth, self-awareness, peace, and calm.

I bought myself a meat grinder instead.

You see, I know I am supposed to feel happy. I know it is good for her. Good for me. Good for everyone. But still, that mother identity has steadily coated its glaze on me over the years of driving the child to karate class, driving the child to piano lessons, driving the child to physical therapy, driving the child to play dates and on and on and on is suddenly hitting me dead on. She’s gone, now what the hell do I do? Who the hell am I? And that’s when I am not done. I still have a seven-year old son left ...Read on]]>

I’d imagine most mothers celebrate the moment their preteen daughters set off for camp. It can be viewed as a time for growth, self-awareness, peace, and calm.

I bought myself a meat grinder instead.

You see, I know I am supposed to feel happy. I know it is good for her. Good for me. Good for everyone. But still, that mother identity has steadily coated its glaze on me over the years of driving the child to karate class, driving the child to piano lessons, driving the child to physical therapy, driving the child to play dates and on and on and on is suddenly hitting me dead on. She’s gone, now what the hell do I do? Who the hell am I? And that’s when I am not done. I still have a seven-year old son left to contend with. But he seems too easy: throw a Wii game his way and an occasional bowl of blackberries and he’s pretty much good. No catfight there.

But with my daughter, my beautiful, daring, and wise-beyond-her-years daughter, things are very, very different. We are very different. And the friction is always there. It’s a codependency of sorts, I know. My first response to the temporary evaporation of this role was to reinstate it through housekeeping duties, so I immediately pulled out the vacuum and began tackling the disgustingly dirty floor. No sooner had I done that did I miss my daughter’s scolding voice warning me not to vacuum, “Never vacuum, mom, you know that it messes your back up!” I could hear her saying. And she’s right, of course, it always messes my back up.

My eyes welled up more just thinking of that reprimand, knowing it would never come from my son, whom even as I voraciously (and, I admit, quite dramatically) thrust my aching spine back and forth with the heavy vacuum, strategically placing myself between him and his viewing of Star Wars: The Clone Wars (which, he’s seen way too many times to count), no comment came forth. Not even a grunt.

Seeing that the housekeeping tactic was spiraling me further into sadness I switched gears and went shopping. With my son and his DS game in tow, I felt all alone as I careened the large polished aisles of Target bursting with an exuberant range of choices: dresses, purses, bathing suits, sunglasses… and I was only five steps into the place. Many a battle had been fought with my ADHD girl and still, a sappy voice within me surged thinking, “Oh…If I were with Dani…” I caught myself and smacked my head with my hand. What was I thinking? Had I succumbed to nostalgia over shopping fights with my daughter? Was I too used to always having the gloves up “No you can’t buy that, did you bring your allowance, maybe next time, no I never said you could “ and on and on and on, that here, in this quiet air-conditioned playground of Capitalism, I had nothing to contend with but my son’s game giving an occasional beep and him shouting an aimless “yeah, I made it to the next level!” that wasn’t even addressed to me? Where was the fun in that?

Some people resort to alcohol to cure their blues. Others smoke. Others jog marathons. I cook.  But if my kitchen isn’t accessible, I do the next best thing and hit the closest Kitchen Appliance aisle. Thus, in my mopey state I found myself seeking comfort in Target’s latest gleaming culinary gadgets. They knew my angst. They felt the pain. They’d been there throughout, whether it was the immersion blender that ground up my nanny Yoli’s celebrated black beans so that my then-baby daughter could slurp them all up and splatter the remnants on the wall just because (oh remember how cute she was slathered in black sludge?) Or the blender that had whipped up the strawberries for her favorite frozen yogurt popsicles (the only way I could get that girl to eat fruit, even today). And of course, the hand mixer that beat her favorite carrot muffins to life, muffins that she gobbles as readily as she breathes air and then tests all her friends to try and guess the secret ingredient (carrots: they never do). Yes, the aisle was basking in memories, and as my son advanced from level 6 to level 7 on his DS, I passed by the meat grinding attachment and smiled.

Dani and I had just had a whole conversation about it. She had spotted it in a culinary catalogue, which she reads voraciously since she first took a serious interest in cooking at the age of 5.

“Mom, this would be peeeerfect for us,” she squealed with glee. I watched her apprehensively: not sure if it was the shopaholic or the cook in her talking. But then she went on:

“You won’t have to buy that nasty ground meat in the supermarket, who knows where it comes from. Even the organic one, mom. Pu – lease. This way you are in complete control. We buy the meat and fresh grind it at home! How cool is that? Think of all the burgers we could make.”

She makes a good argument, I thought to myself, knowing that my daughter knew me well enough to understand it didn’t take much to twist my arm towards culinary purchases. Also, the whole do-it-yourself spin had many levels of appeal. And of course, this was the fundamental tool for a die-hard meat eater like my daughter.

“I’ll think about it”, I offered, not knowing it would be a mere 48 hours before I’d have the memory hitting me in the face at Target.

It must be a sign, Kitchen Aid FGA murmured, instantly reading my mind. I quickly agreed and snatched Lawrence (all my appliances are named) anticipating taking him home to my hot red mixer, Lulu. I knew they’d get along just grand and images of endless tasty burgers shared with my daughter upon her return from camp filled me with warmth and happiness.

LA MEJOR HAMBURGUESA: MOLIENDO TERAPIA

Me imagino que la mayoria de las madres celebran el momento en que sus hijas preadolescentes van a campamento de verano. Puede ser visto como un tiempo para crecimiento, conciencia de sí mismo, paz, y calma.

Yo no encontré paz, mas bien me compré una máquina de moler carne.

Sé que supuestamente debería sentirme feliz. Sé que es una experiencia buena para ella. Buena para mí. Pero de todos modos, esta identidad de madre que me ha cubierto durante los años de conducir la niña a la clase de karate, conducir la niña a lecciones de piano, conducir la niña a la terapia física sin cesar me ha dejado un pelo desorientada ahora. ¿Ella se ha ido, ahora qué demonios hago? ¿Quién demonios soy? Y esta crisis ocurre cuando todavía tengo un hijo de siete años en casa. Pero él es demasiado fácil: dale un juego Wii y un plato ocasional de frambuesas y él está feliz del mundo. Ningún pleito allí.

Pero con mi hija, mi hermosa e audaz hija, las cosas son muy, muy diferentes. Nosotras somos muy diferentes. Y la fricción está siempre allí. Es una dependencia mutual, lo sé. Mi primera reacción a no tenerla en casa es adoptar alguna acción casera, así que inmediatamente saqué la aspiradora y comencé atacar el suelo sucio. Apenas empezé y ya escuchaba la voz de mi hija regañandome: “No pases la aspiradora, mamá, sabes que esto estropea tu espalda!” Y ella tiene razón, por supuesto, esto siempre estropea mi espalda.

Mis ojos se llenaron de lágrimas tan solo en pensar en aquella reprimenda, sabiéndo que nunca vendría de mi hijo, que justo cuando vorazmente (y, confieso, completamente dramáticamente) empujé la aspiradora pesada estratégicamente colocándome entre él y su película de Guerras de las Galaxias (que, a todas estas, ha visto demasiadas veces para contar), ningún comentario salió de su boca. Ni un gruñido.

Viendo que la táctica de limpieza no me ayudaba en nada, cambie de plan y fui de compras. Con mi hijo y su juego DS en mano, me sentí absolutamente sola paseando los pasillos pulidos grandes de la tienda “Target” que explotaba con una variedad eufórica de opciones: vestidos, monederos, bañadores, lentes de sol … y apenas habiamos entrado al lugar. Había luchado muchas batallas con mi muchacha en esta tienda y de todos modos, una voz dentro de mí no se pudo controlar y penso, “Ay…Si Dani estuviera aqui…” ¿Qué me estaba pasando? ¿Había sucumbido yo a la nostalgia sobre las luchas de compra con mi hija? Era demasiado facil estar con mi hijo, perdido dentro de su juego electronico y completamente desconectado conmigo. ¿Dónde estaba la diversión en esto?

Algunas personas recurren al alcohol para curar su tristeza. Otros fuman. Y aun otros locos corren maratones. Yo cocino. Pero si mi cocina no es accesible, hago la siguiente mejor cosa y voy a comprar alguna cosa de cocina. Así fue, que en mi mal estado, me encontré cara a cara con las liquadoras de Target. Ellas sabían mi angustia. Ellas sintieron el dolor. Ellas habían estado allí en todas las etapas de mi hija: el mezclador de inmersión que usaba para liquar las caraotas negras famosas de Yoli, las que le encantaba tanto a Daniela cuando era bebe. O la liquadora que había hecho su helado de yogur de fresas (la única manera que aquella muchacha comería fruta, hasta hoy en día). Y por supuesto, el mezclador de mano que creaba los muffin de zanahoria que ella siempre devoraba. Sí, este pasillo de Target cargaba muchas memorias, y mientras mi hijo avanzó del nivel 6 para el nivel 7 en su DS, pasé por la molidora de carne Kitchen Aid y sonreí.

Dani y yo acabábamos de tener una conversación sobre ello. Ella lo había visto en un catálogo culinario, los cual ella lee vorazmente desde que tomó un interés en la cocina a los 5 años.

“Mamá, este sería perfecto para nosotros,” chilló con entusiasmo. La miré aprensivamente: no estaba segura si el comentario fue por obsessión de comprar o por interes culinario. Pero entonces ella continuó:

“No tendrás que comprar aquella carne molida repugnante en el supermercado, que ni se sabe de donde viene. Con esto tienes el control completo. ¡Compramos la carne y la molimos fresca en casa! Piensa en todas las hamburguesas que podríamos hacer.”

Hace un argumento bueno, pensé, entendiendo que mi hija sabía que no toma mucho esfuerzo para que compre cuestiones culinarias. Y por supuesto, este era el instrumento fundamental para un carnivoro extremo como es mi hija.

“Lo pensaré”, ofrecí, sin saber que la memoria de esa conversación vendría tan pronto en Target.

Esto debe ser un signo, Molidora Kitchen Aid FGA murmuró, leyendo mi mente. Rápidamente estuve de acuerdo, y agarré el Kitchen Aid (quien nombré Lorenzo) para llevarlo a casa a conocer mi mezclador rojo caliente, Lulu. Yo sabía que ellos serían gran amigos y las imágenes de hamburguesas sabrosas interminables compartidas con mi hija al regresar del campamento de verano me llenaron de calor y felicidad.