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Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Cow Intestines in Argentina means: Chinchulines!!

My husband loves his meat.
I couldn’t believe his mother when she told me that he was a vegetarian for the first 1/3 of his life, I mean, he sure as hell is taking advantage of lost time, because I have to cook him skirt steak twice a week (minimum).
I don’t know how his stomach takes it, but he hasn’t dropped flat from indigestion so I assume, the meat is not killing him… or so it appears.
I still remember our first trip to Argentina to visit my family.
Buenos Aires is a pretty tough town; known for its coarse traditional fare like guts and tongues, all the parts of the animals that other parts of the world, throw away.
My father does this amazingly huge barbecues with lots of meat varieties (and non-meat varieties as well).
My husband took in his responsibility to try everything that was put in front of him, so my father, who does not miss a challenge, put in his mind the idea to make him cry uncle.
I was 100% confident in my hubby’s strength and resilience towards my father’s efforts to exhaust his oesophagus; however, my convincement started to crumble once the aliments changed from cow meat to everything else.
His cow intestines tasted OK (for me), as long as he didn’t think too much about what they were. They’re cooked in the barbecue, with just salt… and the intestines had a kind of… well… intestinal consistency. Kind of like liver, buy mushier.
I could see my husband’s face and even though he wanted to spit the thing out of his mouth, he didn’t want to disappoint so his mind tried to imagine other flavours than the ones he was experiencing, other consistencies…. and failed… miserably.
He did well until he started trying to think how he should describe the dish and he thought: it doesn’t look like intestines... It actually look like worms.
Just then, he pushed it aside and asked for a salad.
- You don’t like it? – I asked, batting my eyelashes like an innocent angel
- I bet you’ve never ate cow intestines in your life – he said gagging.
- Of course I have!
- No, you couldn’t. Not even wholesome carnivorous could eat... that.
- But carnivorous don’t have to eat that, because intestines aren’t meat, honey, they’re just.. shit.

YUMMY!!

Monday, August 30, 2010

The perks of having Jane Bond in your family tree

I don’t know if you know this, but I have a twin sister.
We’re pretty much alike regarding appearances; same eye color, same hair color, same skin color… different weight though, if I loose some pounds, she gains that same amount of pounds, so my theory is that we’re always weighting the same when together, the matter comes when we’re weighted apart, when I gain, she looses and vice versa.
Must be some mystery regarding identical twin sisters that only presents itself in our case, but nonetheless, we’re pretty similar concerning looks.
Regarding other areas however, we’re not so alike.
I’m more of a business driven person, always looking to get the “next best job” and trying with all my might to become a billionaire (millions aren’t enough); while she is the doctor-to-be of the family, whit several years ahead still to produce enough (if any) money to sustain herself. She’s not rich… not yet… and probably never unless she specializes in cardiology, oncology or face-lifts. Medicine it’s not the type of career you go into in order to make money right away; I’m pretty sure that if you break down her shifts into hourly rates, every receptionist in the Hospital makes more money than she does.
However, she’s happy and this, my friends, is something that it took a while to get.
I believe it is better to live your own destiny faultily than to live an replication of somebody else’s life with flawlessness; my sister in the other hand, spend several years trying to comply with everybody else’s wishes, rather than her owns.
But now she has started living her own life; defective and clumsy as it may look, it resembles her now… in detail.
She would kill me when she reads this but she has boundary issues... with everybody.
Or maybe that’s not fair to say.
To have issues with restrictions, one must have boundaries in the first place, right?
But she disappears into the person she loves. If she loves you, you can have anything from her.
You can have her time, her dedication, her money, her family, her dog, her dog’s time, her dog’s devotion...
If she loves you, she will carry all your sorrows, she will assume for all your debts, she will defend you from your insecurities… your family’s insecurities… your pet’s insecurities.
You get the point.
She will project on you all sorts of good qualities that you never actually cultivate in yourself; for in her eyes you’re the best there is!
So being her sister and allowing her to love me is like becoming the Queen of the most beautiful and richest country ever existed; but if you’re not too careful, you can deplete her of her energy and leave her spent; because she can’t honestly stop being her extra-giving-self.
So to all my sister’s friends, love ones, family and companions, beware that if you don’t GIVE in the same amount that she gives you, and as uninterested as she gives you… you’re probably dead by now; surely killed by me in a most unpleasant way – drowned in the sink or hanged with your shoelaces or skin shaved with your dog’s nail trimmer – don’t hesitate to call me if you have any doubts; my assassination services come with a full informative package for my soon to be targets.
Regards from my sister’s privately hired, widely confessed, assassin (for free, of course... with her income she can't even keep a turtle and their 100% lettuce diet).

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

The little wine bus

Not many of you know that while living in New York you can visit Vineyards as near as one hour away from the city.
Isn’t it wonderful?
One of those boring summer Saturdays, we decided to hop on a tour towards the northern part of the state to visit several Vineyards that, even though you can’t compare them with Argentina’s (puh-leeze) they’re worth every minute of your time!
(I can assure you that my husband is strangling me at the moment for the bold comment... this might be my last post... so long dear world).

Still here...

And who am I kidding?... most of all, I was looking forward for all that free sampling and tasting… let’s face it, wine makes me a jolly good fellow!
(And yes dear hubby, you can say “fellow” when referring to a Girl– he always check my spelling errors).

There are five steps for a proper wine tasting, or so we were taught:
See… Spin… Smell… Sip… and Spit.
Isn’t it gross?
So there I was, tasting these wonderful flavors, swirling the liquids in my mouth and then…
I would spew out everything into a recipient!!
Just like that.
And we shared it with other people!!
Puaj!
I would re-act the moment in my mind, over and over again, seeing my pouting mouth sputtering around like a crazy volcano with incredible accuracy… I’m definitely not going to repeat that experience again.
Next time, it would be lots of wine for me, yes sire!
What a nitwit… just to think that we tried almost 20 different types of wines and we threw everything away.
By 6 o’clock in the afternoon I was completely sober and aware of my tiredness.
Such a hard effort and not even a tipsy brain… bummer.
Worst of all were my toes.
I have terrible feet problems (thanks to my father’s inheritance) and when I’m standing for a long period of time, they start getting cranky and needy, just as my “mosquito-self”… the bastards!
After a whole day I wasn’t sure if it was wise to release them from the prison of my shoes; they might have revolted and run off into the Vineyard and refuse to return.
So 8 hours later, I returned home with amazing pictures, several bottles of wine, 100% sobriety and non-existent feet.
Should you decide to do the same tour, I’m going to give you the best recommendation:
Get completely and utterly wasted!!

http://www.thelittlewinebus.com/

Monday, August 23, 2010

Me, The Mosquito and My Husband... one big happy family

Sometimes, my husband thinks that spending time with me is like watching paint dry (boring), except without the home improvement.
I would have to agree with him because if I’m engrossed with a book I act, and behave, like a zombie.
If he talks to me at some point and says:
“Can I ask you something?”
I can surely answer:
“Is ‘no’ an option?”
I mean, it’s the end of the book… or the beginning (who cares?), the point is that I’m busy.
If I’m at the moment where I don’t know if the hero is going to get the damsel in distress, I cannot possibly concentrate in anything else… right?
That’s how we start... badly… and then, progress to worse because my lack of attention on anything else rather than passing the pages gets him extremely annoyed.
So I lift my eyes from the book, cough a bit to add some drama to the scene, and force my face into a mask of penitence (which wouldn’t have fooled even the most incompetent of mind readers) and I try to show repentance for my absent of interest for anything other than my story.
In my head, however, I’m still plotting with the writer for future outcomes for the book.
He doesn’t need to know that I’m still “reading” though, so my “interested” face stays on for the duration of the chastisement; and my brain is all over the place, paying zero attention to what’s coming out of his mouth.
He knows that I’ll get him when he’s studying.
I’ll pick the moment when he’s most concentrated in his lesson to unleash “the mosquito”, the nickname that I gave to my Pestering-Self-Mode; that annoying needy creature that clings over you relentlessly and with no mercy.
I’m more capable than a mind reader in perceiving deception, so if by any point he tries to pull a “mask of penitence” on me, I’ll catch him in-fraganti.
Next time, he would restrain himself before saying anything other than:
“Honey, do you want anything to read?”

Anniversary for us… for you… or for me?

Last week was my two year anniversary with my husband and I had this plan in my head that I could master an elegant dinner, candles, wine and the whole nine yards… playing make-believe that I could pull off a Hot-Housewife routine with my tight schedule.

Who was I kidding?

I arrived to our home after work and made a quick stop at the supermarket to buy ingredients to cook something meat-related (my husband was born a vegetarian and transformed into carnivorous, I assume, a well played move from the cosmos, considering that he’s married with an Argentinean, who her meal by default is cow-related)… I already had the wine bottle (a treat from my father who has achieve the hard task of exporting our Malbec wine to NY) and I was only missing the ambience.

I got home and quickly decided to take a shower and transform my persona from an ordinary working woman into a spectacular cooking super-hot-mama-wife (black dress and high heels included). After some light make-up, I headed for the kitchen, arrange my apron and started the preparations.

I first set the table, lit some candles, turned-on the music… so far so good; I started getting a bit hot (surely because of the anxiety), buy not a big deal.
Thanks to being in the XXI Century, A/C’s are a commodity in every house, so I started them full blast and continued my tasks.

I chopped veggies and made some fresh salad… some cheese to start… I was getting hotter by the minute and while chopping I took resting minutes and I fanned myself with a napkin.
Then I started the meat on the Cuisinart electric grill; and I could feel my brow getting wet, sweat running down my back, my hair getting all messed-up and entangled, humidity running my make-up… definitely not a good portrait.
At that particular moment, my husband decided to appear… I don’t know how Lucy or Angie or Kim or Jenny can manage a Super Model Housewife act, but I assure you, that they never tried the routine while cooking real food!
A headache, made an assault in my temples at that same instant, and I stopped dead still against the counter hoping that a spinal realignment might ease the squeeze in my skull… no luck, maybe a cranial amputation would work an I could have the excuse not to present myself to my husband as a sweaty (not at all appealing) wife.
However (and that’s why I love him like crazy), just one glance from him and I knew he was planning something different…I could smell the gourmet meal being cook by a chef at a fancy restaurant by just looking at him; he wanted to go out… and so do I!

I’m so hard-headed, you could have hit my frontal lobe with a crowbar and made no impression whatsoever; but just that one stare resigned me completely to the dumb idea that I could manage to cook while avoiding sweating like a pig in the middle of the summer. I mean, surprises are well deserved and enjoyed, but for an Anniversary, it’s better if the surprise it’s for both of us.

Closing my eyes, I sent up a prayer to anyone who was listening; asking please, for God’s sake, keep sending me signals that we were right for each other.
I’d read the books, seen the movie.... I knew every reason that aligned us, and I was so damn happy that; stubbornness and all; I am still perfectly loved by him.

Needless to say that after another shower, I was Hot-Mamma again and ready to head out…
Who knows…? I might have even gotten lucky… or him… or both.

Wine: Fabre Montamyou Malbec 2007 (www.67wines.com)

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

It’s Tuesday and I already look “pureed”… urghhh!

Have you ever made a smoothie before?
I’m a blender fan, everything I cook related to veggies or fruits can be put into the mixer and become the best meal ever.
However, there’s a button I never push, because its strength it’s not enough to ‘Ice crush’ or it’s too strong to just ‘blend’.
So, when I write and tell you that I look like somebody dropped me into a blender and pressed ‘Puree’, it means that I look too bad for a Tuesday and too good in comparison, because if this rhythm it’s going to continue until Friday... THEN I’m going to look ‘Liquified’.
Translation: not hot enough for a Friday night!
This is a sentence I never thought I’d have to think - much less articulate - at 26 years of age.

I’m getting old people!

My psychiatrist once told me that we lie best when we lie to ourselves, so from this day on, I’ll pretend that I’m already 30 years of age.
The tiredness and lack of energy aren’t going to sound so outrageous coming from an old woman…

Sorry to my friends entering the third decade of their lives, the truth can be harsh; but my advice is: embrace it!

In all modesty, isn’t this a wonderful inspiration?

I have to admit, my idea stinks with the reek of genius!!

Greetings from your 26, fast forwarding to 30, year old blogger… looking fine and dandy, of course!

Friday, August 6, 2010

The need to cast out ‘a’ kilo

Women are always worried about weight and that extra amount of skin (fat) that falls over the sides of your jeans; however, it amazes me how less concerned are women who are ACTUALLY overweight, in comparison with those who aren’t but can find an ounce of fat in the slimmest body.
So I’m talking to a friend the other day, and we’re describing the painful experience of having to eat outside after the hundredth time during the week…
I’m not joking!
After you’ve received every family member you could possibly hold as a guest in your house in a crazy short amount of time, eating in restaurants (doesn’t matter how good the restaurant is) it’s an excruciating experience to endure.
We were teasing about that when she said, matter-of-factly:
- … because I need to banish a (one and only) kilo that’s been bothering me non-stop because it doesn’t go away! I mean, I love my wine so I can’t give up that glass with every meal, do you think if I cut the flour, would “it” cry uncle?
And all the while that she’s talking I’m thinking “what is her problem?... is she drunk while we’re talking and I’m not realizing?... mmmhhhh… maybe she needs to lay down the wine after all”.
Because, you see, she’s what I like to call a ‘feather weight’ person.
Her height holds 54 kilos perfectly fine… and I don’t know why is she soooo worry about 1(one) kilo when I need to figure out how the hell am I going to get rid of half my body mass?... and I’m not fretting that much… should I?
I mean, I’m plump where women are supposed to be plump… I miss when we were babies and everybody loved our body fat (babies of the world: enjoy society’s acceptance of your body fat while it lasts).
There you have it; women are psychos when they’re obsessing about their chubbiness (or lack of. for that matter).
My friend was still fretting in my ear about the “kilo” that was stalking her… I love her to death—it’s just as well we didn’t hook up to meet that day... What with the bitching about being stuck with 2 pounds of fat she didn’t ask for and didn’t want, and the way she manages (quite unconsciously, I’m sure) to make everything about her . . . nope, nope, nope. If she was with me now, I probably would have jammed a needle full of morphine into my heart before the end of the day.
I’m chubby but happy… deal with it!
PS: R.B., don’t kill me now!