Skip to main content

Un Cumpleaños

There is a panadería here in town that makes the best Pastel de Tres Leches in the universe. A. turned 5 today, and besides the locura that is the piñata, guess what mom brought? You guessed it! If you have never tried this little bit of heaven, get yourself somewhere to try it now! (Or you could try to make it yourself - if you are handier with an oven than I am) It is indescribably incredible, and I could eat an entire cake if someone left me in a room alone with one for any amount of time.

Now, as for the piñata - you should have seen her parents' dismay as they watched her spindly and timid midwestern classmates hint ever so tentatively at trying to break this thing. I have had mixed feelings about piñatas for a long time; the whole process of beating an animal with a stick until its insides fall out - so you can scurry to collect and consume them - has always been a bit unsettling to me, in theory. But it's so much gol-darned fun! And A's mom brought up an interesting point - it is truly a tension relieving sort of thing. Mexican kids will whack the crap out of a piñata, and someone almost always ends up getting thwacked on the head with the palo. Great fun had by all. Would things be any different here if we were unashamed to express ourselves? Our culture is so restrained. Que lástima.

M

Comments

Cerridwen said…
with the tiring moving and exhausting thoughts on how to deal with life, I salute you for the time you extend to your blog...always an interesting read I figure it's time to express it :) kudos!
6:00 pm
The Humanity Critic said…
I remember my mom thinking I was going to be a thug, based on the force and agression that I used to possess when striking the pinata as a kids..ll take care..
4:32 pm
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

May your children's children have painful bunions!

So I was sitting with my tired feet being gurgled in the bubbling jets of a cheap vietnamese manicure shop pedicure chair when I look over to see some preppie chick giving the pedicure girl a hard time. She was apparently unhappy with the level of exfoliation her stupid tootsies had recieved. Fine. Well, first of all, you are paying for what is the equivalent of a happy meal in the scheme of the grand pedicure menu, bitch, so what do you want? But beyond that ... Her tone was so disdainful and contemptuous, and the pedicure gal handled it so graciously ... Just looking at her sitting there at the feet of this ho-bag, massaging her callouses with the pumice stone one more time, trying to get it right, to make the girl happy, I was SHAKING in anger by the time the whole scene played out and the check was practically THROWN at the poor woman. SHAKING. I mean, okay - you're unhappy with the services you received. You complain. Acceptable. Fine. But for fuck's sake you can speak to ...
8 comments
Read more

here i go again

it seems as though i tend to take up writing again, when i do, in spring.  i don't know that i have any particular reading of this observation, it's just something i noticed.  maybe something about renewal and starting fresh, starting over? i am sitting in my living room and the windows are open and it's a bit chilly but the fresh air feels good.  i have a blanket on my legs and i am sitting cross-legged on a chair.  it's funny to think about writing this blog from this place, this here-now, when i have written it in other places before.  when i think about this blog, it's as though i give it a particular time-space all its own, but i also associate it strongly with the apartment where i lived when it all began.  which feels (and i guess sort of is) a lifetime ago.  i feel like a completely different person, this almost-ten-years-in-the-future me.  back to that catch-up conundrum.  how to explain how different i am now, and all that's happe...
4 comments
Read more

You Tremble at the Edge of Gone

The first time I saw D was my first day back at school the first semester of my sophomore year in college. When I opened the door (after my last two roommates, dreading who or what I might find when I entered), I saw her squinting at me from against the radiator at the far wall of the tiny rectangle that was our dorm room, smoking a Marlboro Light 100. I'll never forget the brand she smoked. They fit her. They were slender and inconspicuous, the box long and cream and white and somehow common but sophisticated. I don't know what it was, and I'm trying to remember it now - it frustrates me that I can't - that told me in an instant that we were kindred spirits. She was beautiful, slender, native american. She had almond eyes and high cheekbones and long brown hair ... we shared a sort of eclectically funky style. She was fond of loosely woven brown sweaters and a sort of rust colored lipstick that brought out her eyes, hair, skin ... she wore too much makeup to cover old ...
6 comments
Read more