More states than days

“We’ve visited more states than there are days in the year!”

The Brit cheerfully, albeit gingerly, brought this to my attention last night from across the room where he sat, out of striking distance, on an unfamiliar bed in Mr. Poopie’s pajamas. I turned my congested head towards him, snot clogging nearly every orifice of it, and gazed upon my well-intentioned boyfriend. He peered back at me with cautiously uplifted eyebrows, not knowing whether this eureka moment of his would cheer me up or annoy me. (I can be grumpy when snot-filled and feverish.) My mental faculties slowed by a particularly effective virus, it took me a while to do the simple calculation. Right he was.

New York
Brooklyn & Manhattan. This is where we spent our post-Christmas days. Catching up with cousins of mine and mutual friends of ours. Subway hopping. Bundling up in scarves, hats and gloves against what was cold for us but unseasonably warm for New Yorkers (or as they say in Brooklyn, Noo Yawkuhhs). Museuming. Drinking. Eating. (Chocolate.) (Pizza.) Central parking. Shopping. For jeans. (As previously mentioned, the bane of my existence…but since one of my cousins manages a jeans boutique, I allowed her to guide me through an only-slightly-less-painful jeans shopping experience.) Meeting up with my brother who Fung Wah’d it up to NYC from Boston. Ringing in the year 2007 with my cousins, brother, and The Brit. Genuinely good fun. (Except for the catching this cold part. Happy viral new year to me!)

New Jersey
West NY. This is where we went to visit my Abuelito’s sister, Tia Coño Carajo (named as such because those two words seem to fly most frequently out of her mouth). (We swear like drunken Cuban sailors in my family.) She made a killer Cuban meal complete with pernil (roasted pork), potaje (red bean stew), papas con mojo (potatoes with garlic and citrus juices), white rice, ropa vieja (shredded beef) and flan for dessert. All hopes of eating sensible portions after Thanksgiving and Christmas went right out over the railing of her 20 story balcony overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Right along with any hopes of being able to fit into the jeans I just purchased. Oh well…at least those goals had something nice to look at as they plummeted to their deaths. And we did, afterall, have a lovely visit with Tia Coño Carajo.

Virginia
Manassas. (Or as I like to affectionately refer to it, Man’s Asses.) This is where we spent an unplanned night after missing our connecting flight at the Dulles Airport last night. Ironically, though The Brit and I missed our connection, our luggage (complete with our own pajamas and toiletries) somehow managed to make it. Explain that one to me! Whatever the ridiculous explanation, it explains how The Brit and I ended up crashing at Mr. Poopie’s house in Man's Asses. And also explains why The Brit, while donning pajama pants that were meant for a man nearly two feet taller, was trying to cheer me up with a bit of our own travel trivia. Thanks, my dear Brit for the earnest attempts to keep me happy despite clogged nasal passages, a scratchy throat, barking cough and itchy ears. And thanks, Mr. Poopie, for the short-noticed hospitality! Much, much appreciated!

California
San Francisco. Home sweet foggy home. This is where we finally arrived today. Where our luggage, thankfully, arrived the night before and awaited us, untouched, behind nothing but a single easily penetrated partition. (I would have had to beat someone unconsious if my ceramic hair straightening iron had gotten stolen in my airline-induced absence.)

And this is how we came to visit four states within three days. Hope everyone’s 2007 is off to as adventurous a start as ours. (Though without the virus part. This mucous plugging is no joke…)

Silent Night

All is calm. All is bright. (Though there isn’t a single round yon virgin in sight. Or even a virgin, for that matter.) As I sit in the post-Christmas quiet, the ringing in my ears is just beginning to fade.

Everyone is sleeping. Which means no one is screaming. In the morning, the silence will surrender to the screaming all over again.

Within five minutes of the arrival of my family, I was reminded that the Cuban baseline volume level is several decibels (and octaves) above the Gringo baseline volume that I have apparently grown accustomed to. The Cuban volume dial doesn’t stop at 10. Seriously.

It’s a remarkable phenomenon, really. Whether someone wants to watch a movie and needs to know where the remote control is, or whether someone’s just accidentally chopped their forearm off in the kitchen while preparing dinner, it all sounds the same. It’s enough to maintain a persistent state of tachycardia.

But I love it. This is my family. Locos que son. They are mine. It’s been a good Christmas. Cardiac arrhythmia provoking, but good.

Christmas crack

“Oye, Culona, check out my back, I think there’s a cyst or something back there I need your opinion on.” My Abuelito, El Exagerado, stood before me, fresh out of the shower, smelling like a rose. (Literally. He used my favorite rose soap.) He was wearing a long t-shirt and, one would assume, some underwear. “Mira, chica!” he insisted as he turned his back to me to facilitate the examination.

I leaned down and lifted up the bottom of his shirt. Nothing but bare, 81-year-old ass crack staring back at me.

El Exagerado, pleased with himself, erupted into a hearty laugh.

Sheesh. What an amateur my grandfather is! If it were my brother that’d done that, he would have topped it off with a fart to my face.

That’s right, the family is here for the holidays. Let the merry making begin!

Tis the season...

...to be jolly. Except, given the subject of the last two posts, one would well know I was headed for anything but jolly. I was doing quite well in the sad department. And for the first time in my life, checking a bit into the bah humbug department. If I’d heard another Bing Crosby song about roasting chestnuts…surely there would have been a roast. But not of chestnuts.

So the last place I thought I’d willingly find myself yesterday morning was amongst the throngs of frantic holiday shoppers in Union Square…with Bing Crosby’s roasting chestnuts wafting out from every storefront. But, I did, indeed go. Willingly. Happily, actually. (So needless to say, noone’s chestnuts got roasted, and noone got elbowed or sworn at, even. Bravo, me.) Since I last wrote, contact information for my family in Cuba has materialized, so having my friend deliver a package to them while down there for her vacation is suddenly a realistic goal again. And money is going to be a very big part of that. Hence needing to go to the branch of my bank in Union Square, the only one with an international currency exchange.

Money, medications, pictures of all of us together during my July visit, and some nice chocolates went into a little Christmas package…and my dear friend graciously took it from me midday yesterday.

I am jolly at the prospect of that making it to them.

So jolly that I think I’ll refrain from leaving the “ñ” out of the word “Año” in my Christmas greetings to a few choice assholes that I obligatorily send cards to every year. Instead I shall write it properly…

Feliz Navidad y Feliz Año Nuevo a todos.*

* 'Año' without the ñ = 'Ano.' And 'Ano' means 'anus,' or, as I like to more appropriately put it: 'asshole.' But in the spirit of Christmas, I’ll be nice even to them. (Again, bravo me.)

Gluttony and Charity

Like Ebony and Ivory. Who knew they could go together so well?

Despite the Muppet show at the airport on Saturday, I did manage to make it back to SF in time for the Dessert and Wine Party that The Brit, our roommates, and I hosted at our house. (Or should I say…I made it back to SF in time to be the maid of honor in that wedding…wink, wink.) I even had time to throw together my famous Cuban flan (for…errr…the wedding reception of course)! A fabulous time was had by all. Hoards of people came to partake of the desserts that The Brit crafted over the course of the week (his dessert-making skill is one of the reasons I date him…he had me when he made Winter-Spiced Molten Chocolate Cakes two years ago). [See below for list of desserts and links to their recipes.] Also, I am happy to report, this year’s party did not go without the holiday tradition of at least ONE couple banging each other senseless in our Christmas-candle lit guest bathroom while a bunch of “innocent bystanders” waiting for the bathroom stood less-than-discretely by the door to listen. Yes. A good time was had by all indeed.

What’s more, we started a new holiday tradition: collecting “suggested donations” at the door for a charity. This year’s charity, Habitat for Humanity. With all the people that came, most of whom gave happily (some of whom we had to beat senseless and then feed mercilessly), we managed to raise $723.00. We like our friends. I think Habitat will like them too. Good job all!

Dont’cha wish your boyfriend cooked HOT like this…

Chocolate Caramel Walnut Torte
Frozen Grand Marnier Torte
Poached Pear Tart with Caramelized Pistachios
Toffee Crunch Caramel Cheesecake
Orange Blossom Cheesecake with Raspberry & Pomegranate Sauce
Raspberry, White Chocolate & Almond Trifle
Pistachio Crème Brulee with Sour Cherry Sauce
Strawberry Baked Alaska
Spiced Chocolate Torte wrapped with Chocolate Ribbons
Chocolate Peppermint Ice Cream Cake
Cuban Flan (If I told you the secret recipe, I’d be forced to destroy you.)

Pass the Politeness, please?

The family thanksgiving dinner I’m used to involves a distinct measure of offensive joke-telling, laughing with mouths full and wide open, the unbuckling of belts at the dinner table, drunken monologues, insult contests (“Hey, harry nutsack, pass me the yucca con mojo will ya?” “Sure, sweaty undercarriage, mind passing the platanos when you’re done?) and, because there are usually frijoles negros on our tabletop, a belching and/or farting contest. The men end up passed out on the couch in front of the TV with their hands down their pants en el estilo de Homer Simpson while the women congregate in the kitchen to tend to the seemingly XX’s responsibility to clean up the mess. (That’s old fashioned latin culture at it’s best for ya!)

Throw in a divorce, allow to ripen a few years, invite a few non-latinos over (or 15 as was the case around our thanksgiving table this year for a ratio of 5:1 gringos:latinos) and poof, the culture of thanksgiving (and all other holidays for that matter) is changed! Strange. Curious. Provocative.

We all gathered around the three conference tables we’d lined up, shoved together and covered with green tablecloths (all in various stages of fading) to a menu that was all-American (with the exception of the Cuban Pernil a la Criolla that I couldn't resist making):

Dinner:
Yam Frits with Saffron aioli*
Baked Artichoke dip with Sourdough baguettes*
Tossed Green Salad
White Bean Salad*
Roasted Spiced Winter vegetables*
Green Bean Casserole
Sweet Potatoes baked with marshmallows
Cornbread rolls
Macaroni and Cheese
Mashed potatoes
Cranberry Sauce
Stuffing
Gravy
Turkey
Pernil (Roasted Pork)*

Desserts:
Pecan Pie (2 different ones)
Apple Pie
Pumpkin Chiffon Pie
Cheesecake

*Cooked by me, and thus, of estimable taste and quality. Well, except for the artichoke dip...note to self, pick a different recipe next time.

The congregation was polite…chewed food remained behind courteously closed mouths, belts stayed buckled, jokes were overwhelmingly squeaky clean (certainly there was no mention of sweaty or harry anything), and Homeslice’s joint problem seemed to temporarily wane. Conversation centered around food, work, and weddings…Ms.Artsy and Banana (my two friends from college) both got married earlier this year (The Queen’s Own was actually Banana’s wedding photographer!) and, ofcourse, Daddio and Italiana are aiming to get married in May 07. At one point, Homeslice, who’d somehow managed to seat himself at the newlywed and about-to-wed end of the table looked like he needed a rescue. I was making conversation with Italiana, so I deployed The Queen’s Own (who, suffice it to say, among other things, has a “knack” for talking right through awkward silences…hence one of the reasons why he’s been deemed [by me] The Patron Saint of Thoughtfulness, Generosity, and Talking Too Much). Needless to say, he recovered the situation splendidly.

All in all, an extremely polite thanksgiving event. While I enjoyed that this new culture allows for some of the XY’s to help out in the cleaning duties, I must say, I kind of missed the drunken monologues and the dirty humor. But, as I rejoined The Brit and Homeslice with a new round of beers in our favorite dive bar yesterday, I was just in time to enter a conversation on the importance of trimming pubes (I believe the words “putting green” were used) and thought…ahhh yes, back to the status quo. Thank goodness!

Great SF weather on Thanksgiving Day.

T-Day minus one

On this Eve of Thanksgiving, all things are falling into place for tomorrow…

The turkey quietly sits, chilling, in it’s cooler of a coffin…awaiting its final destiny: an olive oil and salt rub down, a cramming with sausage stuffing, and a really long sauna.

The pork has been marinating in onions, garlic, naranja agria, lemon, salt and pepper since Monday night. The contents of the entire refrigerator are now saturated with the aromas of the marinade. (Mmmm, blueberry yogurt with hints of garlic anyone?)

Immediately following our house dinner of delivered pizza and a variety of cabernets (one of which was my favorite Argentinean wine at the moment, the Crios Cabernet Savignon), Captain Organico and his mom commandeered the kitchen for the construction of pumpkin pies.

Rattie and Vinja have headed over to Rattie’s apartment after dinner to work on an apple pie and homemade macaroni and cheese.

Dochechka’s gleaming clean kitchen awaits its honorable duty.

Homeslice has been taking it easy this evening…turns out he’s developed a rather serious joint problem since I saw him last. He’s called upon my skills as a physician multiple times today alone…

“Hey, sis, my elbow is really bothering me…check this out, whenever I extend my elbow like this…”

He then demonstrates how, upon extension of his elbow, a rather mighty and thunderous wind seems to simultaneously erupt from his backside. A putrid smell immediately follows. He then chuckles, pleased with himself.

A little later… “Hey, sis, my knee’s been cramping up all day…check this out, whenever I flex my knee past 90 degrees, it’s inexplicable really, but…”

And the vicious, smelly cycle repeats itself. It’s a horrible affliction. As a general surgeon, I'm pretty useless to him...he really should get that checked out by a primary care physician.

The Queen’s Own has been collected from the airport this evening. Along with tales of gutting old moldy houses and roofing a new home, he comes back armed with horror-filled stories about the continued state of New Orleans post-Katrina…still much to be done there, he says. I am encouraged to hear that he was working alongside volunteers from all over the world. It never ceases to amaze me when people are giving of themselves. One of the many things to be thankful for, I suppose. It's good to have The Brit home again.

Daddio, Italiana, the rest of the Captain Organico’s friends and family, and two college friends of mine along with their husbands are all set to arrive tomorrow afternoon for what will surely be a gluttonous celebration.

I’m sure it will be lovely. (Fingers crossed!!!)

Thanksgiving strategery

Turns out it takes a lot of strategery to plan a meal for 20 people. With the annual celebration of that-moment-in-time-when-the-
early-settlers-stopped-slaughtering-Native-Americans-long-
enough-to-enjoy-a-bountiful-feast-with-them fast approaching (aka Thanksgiving), and 20 people slated to be at our house for the gluttonous ingestion of ridiculous amounts of food (aka the “giving of thanks”), a little planning is required.

So, Captain Organico and I sat down last night to skillfully craft a plan. There are five roommates in this six bedroom house, four of whom will be giving thanks in conjunction with various members of their visiting family. The Queen's Own and I are serious about cooking…and Captain Organico is serious about organics (Exhibit A: see untouchable collection of assorted organic fruits and vegetables, one of which is kale, in his exclusive refrigerator drawer). [He’s also serious, I am learning, about Thanksgiving. Being all American, and all.] [The Queen's Own and I are British and Cuban, respectively, so we just want to eat.] So, as to prevent the cut-throat competition for the stove top and the oven (because I WILL jab ribs if anyone gets in the way of my roasting spiced winter squash and fennel), we had to plan, plan, plan. What developed was a complicated matrix with timetables and stick figures and codes and legends. Brilliant. [Cue angels singing.] Then we threw the matrix out. We realized that what we really needed was two more stoves, and neither one of us was going to make it to Sears before Thursday. SO, because Captain Organico’s life giver (mom, in from Texas) is willing to do the 25 lb turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes I surrendered the kitchen to the turkey crew and resolved to craft my Cuban pork roast and other assorted gourmet goodies in Dochecka’s kitchen. (She’ll be back from Peru on Tuesday…I’ll welcome her back with the news that I will be camping out in her kitchen cooking food she will not get to enjoy since she is working that day.) (Ehh, leftovers always taste better anyway.)

So, T-day, we are ready for you. Well, now I just have to go buy the ingredients and start marinating the pork. Then I’ll be ready. Well, almost. I don’t believe anyone is ready for what will ensue when you put Captain Organico’s conservative family in the same room with an opionated Cuban and published author of many editorials (my father), his fiancé (who my brother and I barely know) and a bunch of my liberal friends and roommates…with lots and lots of wine and food. This could be interesting. Verrrrrry interesting.

Updates:

Word has indeed come that Dochechka is alive in well in the jungles of Peru. Mamichki, you can take a nap now.

And previously mentioned hypothetical email fiasco failed, to my surprise, to elicit a hypothetical shit storm. I am relieved. (Hypothetically.) Enjoyable Thanksgiving day encounter imminent. (Hopefully.)