One of the main reasons my family moved to Mexico at the end of this summer was so that my children, ages 12 and 9, would learn Spanish.  They were born and raised in South Florida, guided by a pair of expat parents raised in Venezuela and coddled in a culture swimming with Latin American influence, so, it is not a language they are completely foreign to, but still, they are gringos, and we felt the best way to fully turn that language skill around was by living in a Spanish-speaking country.
We’ve already seen results in the short month we’ve been living in Mexico.  My son watches the early morning kiddie shows as he gets ready to school.  It is stuff he’d never dream about back home- Dora the Explorer, Handy Mandy, and Wonder Pets.  These are all phases he …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 …Read on

Once upon a time there was a very young lady and a not-quite-as-young man (a scandal left for another story) that were carefree, adventurous and childless. On a whim, they decided to tour the country of Spain, and as was their manner, to tour it in full culinary detail. Of course, this dashing duo tackled with the small inconvenience of being broke and feared little finance would serve as a burden in their experience of food.

They were joined by other friends on this journey that took place in the heart of a scorching summer twenty years ago and together they all crammed into a tiny and dusty red Ford Fiesta and, listening to endless rounds of Chrissie Hynde’s “Brass in Pocket” and Mecano’s melancholic “Aire” explored their souls and the Iberian peninsula for a sultry five …Read on

“Ma’am, do you want the cheese to melt or do you want it warm?”

I looked at her inquisitively and she returned the stare with utter impatience.  She was a petite woman with wavy black hair swept up in a hurried ponytail, a white shirt and apron emblazoned with the store’s cheery logo and a big pin that said “Hi, my name is Lucinda.”

Lucinda quickly categorized me as an incompetent culinary idiot for not knowing the immediate response to her apparently obvious query, but all I was thinking was how I’ve never before been asked what degree of warmth I wanted my Panini sandwich and leave it to some wanna-be quasi-gourmet food market in South Florida to be the first to pop the question.

“Won’t the cheese automatically melt once you heat it up?” I …Read on

Okay, so I lied.  So sometimes it is not all about the foie gras and the truffle oil and the ganache but it is as simple as a confession to tell you that I dream of spooning out and gobbling up Mayo from the jar and I get uncontrollable urges for black pepper potato chips (lots of them) and the ultimate source of a home comfort lunch can be, yes, can be in moments of angst and trial and turbulence, a mortadella sandwich slathered with that glorious mistress mayonnaise again (shun any light version) and a thick slab of hearty tomato on nothing else than a dense and overly processed slice of potato bread.  Yes I could do the focaccia or kalamata loaf or even multigrain your-colon-thanks-you-greatly stuff, but no, it’s the mushy, soft, heavenly bread in the …Read on