viernes, agosto 29, 2008

cooking mishaps not to be repeated...

Oh god, my hands are on fire.  Not literally of course, but they might as well be. I made I. touch them and they are even hot to the touch.  Peeling the skin off several chile anchos gloveless and carelessly mushing my hands around in the seeds and veins that were neatly moved to the side of the cutting board was not such a wise decision.  But they didn't seem hot... not at the time.

And dinner was going so well.  I made an incident free corn-bread from scratch (far better than the metallic tasting box mixes, and minus the lard!), a fresh chicken caesar salad that my little vegetable nymphlet devoured happily, and I even had the fresh corn shorn from the cob and waiting for the chiles, to be converted into rajas con crema... but alas, I started washing dishes in hot water, exacerbating the ardent effect of the capsaicin on my poor skin.  So violent were these chiles that they melted the polish right off my non-bitten nails.  Damn!

Live and learn.

jueves, agosto 28, 2008

Pseudo-Haiku (Corazón mío)

Imposible músculo
Ahogado en su propio olvido
De un acto sanguinario

domingo, agosto 24, 2008

The last day of summer

The end of summer.  Marked by the rubbery smell of fresh erasers, new sneakers and notebooks, it was always with secret glee that I would arm myself with the accoutrements of another school year and thus ritually cleanse away the suspended disbelief of summer.  

I have offered no such rituals to my child.  Instead we squeeze out every last golden drop of our glorious freedom.  Nothing more, and nothing less than a bike ride, together, to the pool (with accompanying raccoon-style sunburn) and back.  Then an afternoon with friends, she with hers, I with mine.

Kik is leaving, it must be true because half her living room has found its way into mine, but I can't really bring myself to understand the gravity of my soon to be utter loneliness.  And I mustn't complain really, I have been surrounded by friends and children, biking and hiking and sharing meals, Travis and Amelia, Nate and Bekki and the kids, Cheyla and Nico and their newest edition, Kik and P., but I know this too all will end, and it will be back to the grind for us.  And the dissertation looms.

But for now I will be pleased, after successfully feeding all four children, pasta, carrots and coq au vin (I was exceptionally proud of the results, and I even managed not to waste the wine that David opened and left last week, and the other bottle that Nico barely touched before leaving). Soon the smell of Californian eucalyptus will permeate the air and remind me of broken-heartedness, ever ready to manifest its record, albeit a more and more distant present.

My child has no backpack, she reminds me, and we decide to shop tomorrow.  She goes up and showers while I scrub the remnants of our meal from the pots and pans, smiling because I am reliving the salad we had for lunch and the baffling but welcome change of vegetable heart that has overcome my small person.  She combs her hair, lays out her clothing and acquiesces to my alternate suggestions for the morn, every day a bit less little girl, a bit more young adult.  She reads stories out loud to me as I go about putting some semblance of order to our upstairs universe, wash out bathing suits, hang damp towels, brush my teeth.  Then we snuggle, it is only 9:30, I congratulate myself inwardly, and she clamps down in a vise-like hug, supplicating that I not leave until such time as she has fallen asleep.  It doesn't really work because with each movement that I surreptitiously make, in an effort to ease myself out of the bed and onto the floor, she stirs and clamps down harder.  I finally reason with her.  Yes, I will leave my bedroom door open.  Tomorrow is the first day of a new school. Once again.  Some things never change.

domingo, agosto 17, 2008

bending borders

I am home.

Home?

In the last 72 hours I have displaced myself, and a hefty consortium of loosely affiliated luggage particles from my parents' home in NH to Los Angeles, San Diego, Tijuana, San Diego and finally, finally to the peaceful, fire-free Goleta that we know and love.

Of course what makes this homecoming all the more, well, homeful, is that there is a small person, sullenly sulking about because after the first 15-minute euphoria of being back on this side of the world, she realized that her "sister" was out of town for the next 48 hours. There may well be no consolation for such bitter disappointment, but I shall make the attempt with an impending purchase of new bicycle. Maybe that way she'll entertain herself? Who knows.

Meanwhile, I am relaxing after an emotionally taxing, if uneventful weekend.

Tijuana, by car, is no trifle and finding a dive hotel whose concierge grumpily tells you to cross over the border and then ask directions is nothing to be sneezed at, but there I was, in my trusty, dusty Civic, that (fortuitously) was not stolen in the 14 days it was driverless near LAX, and California plates, trying to navigate without making too much of an ass of myself. Not sure I succeeded. The turnarounds are always confusing, and I am sure that I pissed several drivers off, but there was a lovely gentleman that pointed me in the correct direction, ever so much more helpful than the roaring black panthers that I first rolled my window down to greet in traffic.

I was so happy to see my little I. and to hear her prattling on in Spanish! about her summer and her tías, and her cats and how much fun she had. I definitely breathed a sigh of relief to have her back with me, to feel like I made the right decision in sending her to visit her father's family, and to make it back over la línea, with out too much trouble. There was a tearful goodbye, and she did cry for roughly the first half-hour that we advanced through the approach to US immigration and Customs. Then we started listening to a CD of Juanes and all tears were forgotten, as we listened over and over to her favorite songs. I marveled at the entrepreneurial endeavors that were happening all around me, ice-cream, sodas, porcelain frogs and giant-sized corona beer mugs, paintings, hammocks, newspapers, gum and more, available for immediate consumption. I rolled down my windows a) to save gas (I feared I might run out of my last 1/4 tank in line) and b) to fully enjoy the sights and sounds, smiling, conversing with the pedestrians whose movement was far quicker than ours, albeit in a less uni-directional flow. One man even reached in my open window to leave not one, but several, calling cards for psychic readings. I was tickled.

Again, my experience at the Canadian border just a few months back was ever so much less pleasant than this border crossing, and I can't really figure out why. I was armed with custody decrees and airline tickets, but wasn't even asked about my "expired" passport. En fin. Back in San Diego, at our hotel, I. exclaims, "finally a real hotel." and makes a b-line for the pool where we spent the evening and 6 hours the next day.

Danielle and Alejandro's wedding was lovely, but she was so worn out from the swimming, that there was no dancing to be had. 10:30 and my child, MY CHILD, asked to go home because she was exhausted. I was perplexed, but happy to comply, and happily watched Olympic history on the nice hotel television before crashing myself.

So the drive up the coast was smooth, with pockets of inexplicable traffic that formed and dispersed at will, the fridge is once more stocked with fruits and veggies, and our luggage lies half-unpacked. But now, I think it is time for some exercise.

domingo, agosto 10, 2008

thoughts on a Sunday morning

It never ceases to amaze me that no matter what my intentions are, I have no control over the end result, the interpretation thereof, or the manner of treatment that stems from my actions (or inactions).

I do know one thing, and it is that I am deeply saddened when people behave aggressively towards me, regardless of the reason.  It seems both unfair and unwarranted, considering that I make it a point to be as gentle with others as I possibly can.  (And yet, my mere existence seems to cause pain.) Of course it may be a bit of a contradiction in terms, this public forum to express a wish for personal privacy.  Perhaps it is just a foolish whim of mine to think that I deserve to be treated with the same respect I afford to others.  Or that my desire for the wholeness of others is a reciprocated one.

The conclusion, of course, is increasingly a move away from any sort of self-expression associated with the self, a sort of a schizophrenic anonymity to mend the things that should never have been broken in the first place.