pão e queijo

Ode to the plate (Gluten-free peach crisp)

 

This morning after enjoying a bowl of Kashi and a ripe white peach that sat humbly on the dining room table, I went to take a shower and was momentarily distracted by my (fat) cat, Mrs. Newt LongJohn Bacon Squeejie.  We call her "Mrs. Newt" for short.  As I pet her silky fur, I glanced down to see the title, Odes to Common Things by Pablo Neruda on my mom's studio bookcase.  Intrigued, I picked it up, to find an odd, yet satisfying assortment of odes- from French fries to a violin in California to a bar of soap. 

I liked the Ode to the plate, so I will share it with you.

But first, I must tell you how much I loved this ripe white peach, briefly mentioned above.  I found the basket while strolling groggily through the Farmers' market last Saturday, it looked like any old nondescript container of peaches; a faded green cardboard holding house for these rosy gems, soft and fuzzy on the outside, white juicy flesh on the inside.  I wouldn't know until I got home that these are the best peaches I'd ever try… as you bite into them, they release a berry-like juice that evokes images of one picking peaches on a country farm on a bright sunny day, or maybe even of a picnic by the shoreline in California.  Their skin gives way to flesh so tender that your teeth cut down so smoothly you don't even notice.  They are hopelessly delicious and words will do them no justice. 

As for the ode…

Ode to the plate

Plate,
world's
most vital disk,
planet and planetarium:
at noon, when
the sun, itself a plate of fire,
crowns
the
height
of day,
your stars
appear, plate,
upon
the tables of the world,
constellations
in abundance,
and the world
fills with food, and the universe
fils with fragrance,
until work
reclaims
the workers,
and once again
the dining car is empty,
while the plates return
to the depths of the kitchen.

Smooth, perfect vessel,
you were spawned by a sponge on a stone.
Then the human hand
duplicated
that perfect hollow
and the potter copied its freshness
so that
time with its thread
could insert it
forever
between every man and his life"
one plate, two plates, three…
ceramic hope,
sacred bowl,
moonlight precise within its halo,
rounded beauty of a diadem.

I made this peach cobbler without thinking about plates a couple of weeks ago when my Aunt Linda came to stay.  I used many plates: various for mixing, a pie plate for the fruit crisp, others for serving.  They get used, washed, put away, hardly ever being given a second thought.  Yet they are vehicles for our prized and needed food, and play an important secondary role… if not for plates, what would we eat off of?

You need not use white peaches in this crisp; I didn't.  Use ripe peaches (though not overly ripe!) at the peak of the season (now!) and watch how they caramelize in the oven and their juices ooze through to make this a lovely, yet simple fruit dessert. 

Gluten-free peach crisp
Adapted from Gluten Free Goddess
Serves 4 somewhat generously

3 cups sliced peaches (if using frozen, partially thaw before using)
A drizzle of honey, to taste
½ cup gluten-free rolled oats
2-3 TBSP organic milk, as needed
½ cup gluten-free baking or pancake mix
½ cup organic light brown sugar
1 tsp ground cinnamon
3-4 TBSP butter, cut into small pieces

Preheat the oven to 350F and grease a 9-inch pie plate.  Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, combine the peach slices and honey, set aside.

In another mixing bowl, stir together the rolled oats and milk, just until moistened.  Set aside for 10 minutes.  Add the baking mix, brown sugar, and cinnamon to the rested oats and stir to combine.  Add dabs of the butter and rub it into the oat mix between your palms until the mixture becomes crumbly and moist.  If it's too crumbly, add a tad more milk. 

Put the peaches into the greased pie plate and top with the crisp and crumble topping.  Bake in the center of the preheated oven for 30-40 minutes, until the fruit is bubbling, tender but not too soft, and the topping is golden brown.

Saturday morning Farmers' market trips (Buttermilk biscuits)

 

 

Getting up at 6 am on Saturdays is worth it.   I've finally gotten more used to the blaring alarm that sounds on my iPod that sits on the cherry nightstand, waiting to startle me.  I groan, wanting to pull the covers up and ignore the cold world outside.  It's August, yet the early mornings feel like fall.  Reluctantly, I reach over and turn off the alarm, giving myself one last chance to snuggle back underneath the warm blanket. 

It's up-and-out in 15 minutes, which my mom and I never accomplish; we're always at least five minutes late to Em's.  This morning it was that mom had lost her wallet, other days it's just slow moving in the a.m.  We drive through the misty fog, cloth bags in the back, faces freshly scrubbed and clothes wrinkled.  I tell myself that very few things would get me up so early, and make me leave home without having a bit to eat.

That is quickly remedied; once we pick up Em and are on our way, my first stop at the Farmers' market is the bread guy.  While mom and Em pick up eggs, I head on over to the steely blue-eyed dude who scolded me the first time I tried to pick up a cinnamon crumb muffin out of the bin.  I felt like the clumsy younger sister as he told me that by state law it was he who had to pick the muffin for me.  How was I to know?  But the muffins were so good I keep going back, eager to try another flavor but always sticking with the same moist, melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon and icing cakes. 

Next we're buying local veggies, potatoes, corn maybe, huge boxes of ripe plum tomatoes, maybe some pasta or bread, always a little cheese (I totally scored with a huge wedge of delicious buttery Brie today), always Wake Robin yogurt pumped fresh from happy local cows, and a few goodies like raspberries or other fruits that look promising.

Even though it's still early, I gush to my mom at least a hundred times about how much I love to go to the Farmers' market.  The flavors, the farmers, the Amish ladies who bake like there's no tomorrow, the freshness of their products, and knowing I'm doing something a little better for the world.  My senses take it all in and then… crash: I get home and take a four hour nap. 

Since last night I've been craving "something buttermilk."  It turns out to be these fabulous flaky buttermilk biscuits (which couldn't be easier to make, or eat).  We had them hot out of the oven with homemade peach-vanilla bean-apricot jam, and some of that delicious roasted tomato soup.  These are not sweet biscuits; they are tangy, so if you are looking for something sweeter, seek out a cream biscuit recipe.  These, however, will not disappoint. 

 

Buttermilk biscuits

Makes 18-24 biscuits, depending on size

Adapted from The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Recipes From an Accidental Country Girl

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ tsp salt
2 ½ tsp baking soda
1 ½ tsp baking powder
⅓ cup shortening
⅓ cup cold butter (5 ⅓ TBSP), cut into pats
1 ¼ cups buttermilk

Preheat oven to 450F with the rack in the center.  In the bowl of your stand mixer (or in a large mixing bowl), combine the flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder.  Stir together with a whisk until well combined.  Add shortening and cold butter pats and, using the paddle attachment, cut them in until they resemble coarse crumbs, with some small pea-size lumps.  Alternatively, you could use a pastry blender or knives and do this by hand.

Pour in the buttermilk and mix gently with a fork until just combined.  The dough should be slightly tacky.  Flour a clean work surface and place the dough on it, gently incorporating the crumbs and making it a somewhat uniform mixture.  Do not knead or mix too much.  Roll out the dough to a ⅓ to ¾-inch thickness, depending on how thick you like your biscuits to be.  Cut the rounds with a biscuit cutter (I used 2 ⅝-inch) and place them on a cookie sheet with parchment or a silicone baking mat.  Bake for 11-14 minutes, until golden brown (I only did about 10).  Do not under-bake or the biscuits will turn out doughy. 

5 things. Friday things.

1. Copper pans, especially if they are vintage.

2. My fluffy and fat kitty, Mrs. Newt LongJohn Bacon Squeegie

3. Summer food.

4. Baa-ing like a sheep.  I think I'm close to perfecting my baa.

5. Enthusiastic eaters.  Especially when it comes to what I make ;)

Boycotting Fedex (Roasted tomato soup)

 

Only a foodie could truly understand the heartbreak I felt as I unpacked my Fedex boxes on Tuesday morning.  After four weeks of having been in transit, they showed signs of what my mom called "World War III" on the outside, displaying holes in the cartons, which were so dirty it looked as if they had been dropped out of the plane as it landed, and then rolled around in the dirt and dust some more.

I cried in dismay as I pulled out the shards of the broken ceramic that had gone through warfare either on the planes or in the warehouses, searching for a survivor.  There was none.  The cherry red Emile Henry pie dish my sister had lovingly given me for my Bachelor's graduation was in pieces, along with the Le Creuset ramekins (basically indestructible!) that she and her family had bestowed upon me last Christmas, and the countless beautifully-designed Ting Denmark plates that you can only find in Costa Rica- all smashed to smithereens. 

The shards of broken pottery had scratched my prized Cuisinart pans, the ones I carefully scrubbed after each using.  Some pans were bent, others bruised.  The packaging, which my mom and grandma had worked on for days to protect my beloved goods, was a mess.  Bubble wrap was not where it was supposed to be; papers and plastic were strewn among the damage.  It was a sad sight.

Then I unpacked my KitchenAid stand mixer.  I was already having a fit, so when I went to turn it on, realizing that the pulleys on either side that you use to adjust the speed and lock the head, were not working, I screamed.  They had been bent downward and would not move from their place until my dad took pliers to them. 

The plates, pie dish, pans, ramekins and mixer are not just things to me; they symbolize my happy place, my kitchen, my passion.  They have been gifts, memories, and irreplaceable expensive kitchenware.  A big company like Fedex might not care about their customers, but this was beyond the normal wear and tear that I expected from shipping my belongings internationally.  This was just plain disrespect, incompetence, and lack of caring. I had paid a high price, both literally and figuratively, to entrust my prized posessions with these people.  I had selected my most special items to take back to the states, and sold the rest.  I know I'll be able to buy more beautiful things at another time, but I will never forget how poorly my belongings and myself were treated- Fedex NO MORE. 

Meanwhile, I've had to get to know another kitchen: my parents'.  It's like using someone else's car, but I believe that if you are able to do so, it makes you a better cook.  This delicious soup is best now, at the height of tomato season.  Use fresh, local tomatoes (from your garden, if you have one!), and organic ingredients.  Also, I'm coming up with a theory that if you make fresh vegetable soups, the veggies really shine most when you use water, not broth.  If you are feeling adventurous, try this soup made with water. 

Roasted tomato soup
Adapted from Sprouted Kitchen
Makes about 3 servings

1 ¼ lb ripe tomatoes (about 4 large), cut into wedges and seeds roughly removed
½ onion, cut into wedges
3 garlic cloves
1 TBSP extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp sea salt
Pepper, to taste
1 ½ cups organic vegetable broth, low sodium if possible
1 TBSP organic tomato paste
¼ cup half-and-half (or heavy cream if you wish)
Fresh chopped parsley and/or basil for garnish
Slices of your favorite crusty loaf of bread, for serving

Preheat the oven to 350F with the rack in the middle.  Spread the tomato and onion wedges on a rimmed baking sheet (I find covering it with parchment or foil helps with the cleanup!).  Drizzle them with the olive oil, sprinkle with salt, add a lot of pepper, and toss gently.  Tuck the garlic cloves into tomato wedges so that they don't burn.  Roast for 30-40 minutes, until the tomatoes have broken down and are reduced to about half their original size.  Remove from oven and cool slightly.

Just before the tomatoes are ready to come out of the oven, warm the broth and stir in the tomato paste until it dissolves completely.  Add all of the ingredients from the roasting pan, including the juices and oil left behind.  Let the soup gently simmer 5-10 minutes, then purée with a blender, immersion blender, or food processor.  Blend until just smooth, but not so much that the soup loses texture.  Return the soup back to the saucepan and add the half-and-half or cream.  Adjust seasoning.

Serve with parsley and/or basil, along with the crusty bread. 

5 things. Friday un-favs.

Foods I don't like (at all)

1. Ice cream cake.  They kind of make me want to gag.  Especially if they are icky-sweet.

2. Anything pickled or in brine.

3. Condiments such as ketchup, barbecue sauce, mayo, relishes, store-bought sour cream, mustard and some store-bought salad dressings, especially the creamy ones (I like homemade salad dressings and vinaigrettes!).

4. Fast food.  First of all I'm a vegetarian.  But if I weren't, would I really want weird mystery products in my "meat?"  And what about all the sanitary violations, exploitation, and grossness?

5. Peanut butter and jelly together (I like each one individually!).

P.S.  There's more… Butternut squash.  And olives.

Learning to let go (Big, Fat, Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies)

Why is it that most people know someone in a troubled relationship that won't leave? 

 

I, unfortunately, know too many women in this situation.  They fight too much for the relationship, trudging on with a huge burden on their backs, unsatisfied, but yet believing (consciously or subconsciously) that their partner will someday change. 

The answer seems obvious, but most of the time they don't change.  I'm not trying to simplify this; I've been studying it for quite some time and I know, because I've been there too, that it's not easy to pack up and leave, whether it's emotionally or physically or both. 

The reasons behind this phenomenon are complex, but the idea remains the same: some women just love too much.  We don't know how to give up, resign, stop fighting.  We believe, because we've put so much into this relationship, that someday we'll see interest on what we've invested.  We subconsciously enjoy the challenge, idealize our partners, and are convinced by our minds and our man, that there is hope. 

But sometimes, there isn't.  Sometimes in life and relationships we have to know when to stop fighting.  As the Argentine psychologist and writer Walter Riso says, if we aren't being loved how we deserve, what does it matter if our partner loves us?  Why sacrifice ourselves and lower our self-value if the other person doesn't appreciate it?  Why fight for someone who doesn't want to fight with us?

I, for one, have gotten tired of coaching friends.  A lot of the time I direct them to two books that have helped me, along with therapy, to become a woman who is strong, independent, and values herself.  They are Women Who Love too Much, by Robin Norwood, and Manual Para no Morir de Amor by Walter Riso.  I can see a situation like this from afar, and it hurts me to see my friends go through these situations, desperately hoping their partner will change, and trying to help them do so. 
 

It's not easy to change one's way of being, especially because most women aren't totally conscious of this type of behavior that leads to many a co-dependent relationship.  There are many socio-cultural, psychological, and biological factors that come into play here, and others that keep us in these vicious cycles.    In the end, it's this kind of woman who suffers; if this sounds familiar, do yourself a favor:  Ask yourself if you are really being loved the way you want and deserve.  Obviously, no relationship is perfect and all take work.  But sometimes, we need to learn how to recognize when to stop fighting. 

Looking for another therapeutic activity?  Make these chewy-gooey cookies!  They are simple-as-can-be, with no need to refrigerate the dough or let the butter reach room temperature on its own (it's melted!). 

 

Big, Fat, Chewy chocolate chip cookies
Adapted from All Recipes via The Girl Who Ate Everything
Makes about 24 cookies

2 cups All-purpose flour
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
1 cup packed brown sugar
½ cup white sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg plus 1 egg yolk
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 325F with rack in the middle.  Grease cookie sheets or line with parchment or silicone baking mats.

In a mixing bowl, stir the flour, baking soda and salt together to combine well; set aside.

In a medium bowl, mix together* the butter, brown sugar and white sugar until well blended.  Beat in vanilla, egg and egg yolk until smooth and creamy.  Mix in the dry ingredients until just blended.  Stir the chocolate chips in.

Use a cookie scoop to plop mounds on the baking sheet, I put 6 on each half sheet pan.  Make sure to leave enough space between the cookies, they might spread a little! 

Bake for 11-14 minutes, until cookies are light golden brown and edges start to harden yet centers are still soft.  Do not over-bake.  Once you take them out of the oven, leave on the baking sheet a few minutes longer to harden them up a little; they keep cooking.  Transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

*Note: Usually I use my handy-dandy KitchenAid stand mixer to make cookies and the like.  However, due to the fact it's been held up in customs for 3 WEEKS (ugh), I've been making things by hand!  I've found that making these cookies by hand has helped them not to spread as much, and the melted butter surprisingly had the same effect.  They are thick and chewy, just how I like 'em!

5 things. Hump day things.

 

1. Clothes fresh out of the dryer.  Warm in my arms as I carry them up to my room.

2. Fresh, clean sheets on my bed and the slight static as I pull them back.

3. Taking walks after dinner as the sun goes down and millions of beautiful colors take over the sky and reflect on the lake.  It can only be summer.

4. The smell of red bell peppers roasting in the oven and wafting through the air. 

5. Our amazing local library, and the book nook where I've been stocking up on one-dollar cookbooks.

 

What's on your list of 5 today?

Creamy roasted red pepper ravioli + how to roast red peppers

 

 

I sit here, on the leather sofa in my bedroom that my parents bought for me for a birthday years ago.  Next to me lies Cookie, one Tom and Ya's Yorkshire Terriers that has come to spend the last few weeks of summer with us.  He is shaking, still not quite used to our country way of life that deeply contrasts from his city life in the Big Apple.  And it makes me wonder how I've made the change so smoothly… less than a few weeks ago I was packing up the remainder of my big city life, with such urgency, yet already with a deep and premature nostalgia.

I keep reminding myself that humans are much stronger than we believe we are; and we are also creatures of habit.  I've happily sunken back into a slower way of life, taking leisurely walks after dinner as the beautiful sun goes down and floods the sky with a million colors.  I've devoured various Ruth Reichl books and am still thirsty for more- the library here is spectacular.

Best of all, I've gotten back into the kitchen, a lot of the time cooking nightly meals alongside my dad, the "sous chef" of our family.  I've grown patient waiting for my kitchenware to be delivered from Costa Rica, all 100 kilograms of it.  But I guess what's surprised me most is that this change feels natural.  I never thought that Costa Rica (and to a lesser degree, Guatemala), and my 4 years and 7 months in these two countries, could feel so distant.  It's like they turned into a far off dream, compressing themselves into just a story, no longer years.

Here, the kitchen helps me cope by becoming my happy place once again.  Tonight I made a roasted red pepper sauce to accompany delicious balls of puffy gnocchi, only to realize that I had forgotten to buy the pasta.  So I happily subbed in some spinach and cheese ravioli I was saving for another dish.  Choose either pasta- they will both be fine players here- the real star is the sauce. 

 

Ravioli with creamy red pepper sauce
Yields 3-4 servings

1 TBSP olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, chopped
3 roasted red bell peppers, directions follow
¼ cup- ½ cup heavy cream, or to taste
Generous salt and pepper, to taste
1 (20 oz) package spinach and cheese ravioli, cooked according to package instructions

In a medium skillet over medium heat, warm the olive oil and then add the chopped onion.  Sauté a few minutes, until translucent and a bit soft.  Add the garlic and stir for about 30 seconds, being careful not to let them burn.  Add the onion-garlic mixture, along with the whole roasted red peppers to the blender.  Purée until smooth, then add the heavy cream and generous amounts of salt and pepper to taste.  If you like, you can heat the sauce back up over medium-low heat. 

Put the hot cooked ravioli in a serving bowl and cover with the sauce; toss gently to mix.  Serve hot.  Easy peasy!

To roast the red peppers, preheat the oven to 375F with the rack in the middle of the oven.  Line a half sheet or other large baking sheet/ dish with aluminum foil.  Place the peppers on the foil with some space between them.  Bake in hot oven for 1 hour, rotating the peppers every 20 minutes,s carefully using tongs to flip them over to sides that have not cooked.  After baking, let cool for 10-20 minutes.  Remove skins using fingers (they come off easily), as well as the seeds.  Use only the roasted flesh. 

Another year

It's hard to believe that a year has passed:

 

On July 1, 365 days had passed since I started my "101 things I want to do in 1001 days" list.

pão e queijo turned one year old on August 1!

And… today is my birthday! 


First things first:

On my 101 list, I actually got quite a bit of things accomplished.  A few months into the list, I decided I wanted to set my sights higher and decided to rearrange a few things.  But the general feeling remains the same.  Here are a few of the things I've done so far:

• Make pecan pie (see my post here for the recipe I made last year for my birthday)
• Go to my ULACIT Bachelor's degree graduation ceremony
• Make cheese (see my ricotta recipe here)
• Get baptized
• Make a tarte tatin… This must be one of my favorite desserts.  I made it with homemade puff pastry (see the recipe here)
• Visit Mexico
• Take baking classes
• Start a food blog
• Make a layer cake (see yellow cake with chocolate frosting here)
• And just recently I was able to check off going to my Licenciate's degree graduation from Unibe!

I'm currently working on reading 10 books for pleasure (I'm on number 7 and just devouring our awesome library here!).  I also have on my list going parasailing, taking a wine course, eat a French macaron (I know, how is it possible this has not happened already?), running a half-marathon, growing a successful herb garden, and making sourdough bread, along with a ton of other fun stuff!

As for pão e queijo, although we've been in a kind of externally-motivated rut for some time, I'm quite pleased.  I feel like we've gotten "into the groove", the photography has improved at least a little, and I'm very much enjoying myself.  I have a lot of goals for p&q so we'll see where this year takes us!

 

 

As far as my birthday goes, I'm grateful for another year of life and blessings.  This year has gone pretty quickly; I feel like I entered to get my Licenciate's degree just yesterday or last week.  A year ago I was in a totally different place, both geographically and emotionally; I was in a sinking relationship, attending patients for my professional practice, and had begun to worry about "what I was going to do with my life."  It's incredible what I've learned in this past year about relationships, life, friendships, God, and most importantly myself. 

I've learned how to be alone and enjoy it.  That means more independence and emotional freedom; not depositing all of my needs on someone else.  I've learned some about forgiveness and our inability to change people- we can't teach others right from wrong, we can't ask them to be something they aren't.  I learned that once trust has been torn, it can never be pieced back together.  I learned to love myself on my own, and that it truly is better than to give yourself and share the best of yourself with someone undeserving.

I learned that it's never, ever to late to start over.  And that God is closest in the hardest moments, we just have to trust.  I don't deeply regret anything that I've done or that has happened to me; they have been stepping stones and classes to prepare me for the next steps to come.  To be able to move on and clear your heart for another you must first clear the slate for the next person, and that takes time.  I've understood the importance of letting people go at the right time.  And that living in a drowning relationship that only one person is trying to save is not worth wasting time on. 

But mainly I learned that God has a perfect purpose and time for everything and that He will be my everything and never let me go.  He is the one who fills in the empty spaces, the gaps, the places humans can never fill.  And He is the only one who knows the full story, and the hearts of men.  

Now, at this transition time, I know that in another year I'll be in a completely different place with a whole set of new lessons.  I'm excited for the changes to come, albeit a bit scared, but I want to welcome them openly into my life.  It's exciting.

 

The Breakfast Buffet: A comparison-reflection

I: Costa Rica

 

I’m staying at a Barceló hotel with my mom and grandmother and it’s the morning of my graduation.  We’re up early considering we’ve been slaving away at my apartment for the past week, trying to sell my belongings, clean the two-bedroom to perfection to get the security deposit back, as well as tying up loose strings.  I have an appointment in a couple of hours at my favorite beauty salon where everyone knows my name.

 

I groggily pull on a turquoise button-down formal shirt, the only one that my mom packed for me, and stay in my black leggings that I slept in.  Without brushing my teeth or bothering to change from glasses to contacts, I hobble down to the hotel’s restaurant on crutches alongside my family.  On the way, various staff greet us, including the bellboy (man?) who has been politely hitting on me since the day we arrived, the friendly employees at the front desk, and a rather disagreeable and flustered waitress with short hair and a temper. 

 

The breakfast buffet emits an inviting aroma and the hotel, bright yet professional, is full of happy morning people, families, a group of travelers from a destination I cannot identify, and couples ready to start the day. My mom offers to help by holding the plate while I choose my food; I decide upon an apple-filled pastry, a fruit parfait, and an apple yogurt.  Later I go back for fresh-squeezed orange juice and fluffy cinnamon pancakes that the cook makes right in front of me. 

 

After indulging and feeling full, we leave our ceramic dishes and cloth napkins on the table to go attend to the day’s duties, without realizing exactly how blessed we are to have a fresh meal, be attended by real people and be able to relax and chat as we start the day.

II: Charlotte, North Carolina

 

It has been an incredibly long day.  We’ve been up since around seven with our million bags packed, un-showered, and groggier than ever.  My eyes are still puffy from the long goodbyes last night and I’m slightly pissed that we have to go wait and do nothing at the airport for five hours. 

 

In slow motion we go from the warm, inviting, accommodating hotel, to my beloved apartment where the amicable driver carries our 5 overweight suitcases down my two flights of stairs and is still smiling when we return to the van.  We are dropped at the airport, hand the dude a nice tip, and are hustled by greedy workers who want their share for pushing me in a wheel chair.  They dump us at the check-in counter, which won’t be open for another two hours, and get an attitude when we tell the two guys to split a twenty. 

 

Finally we get to the gate and I get a 6-dollar Cinnabon roll.  We are boarded on the plane and I get to sit next to a 10-year old whose shirt says “Los Jiménez somos tuanis”, and he proceeds to stare at me during the rest of the trip.  I order an eight-dollar fruit and cheese plate that only has one passable cheese on it, and I wonder where the fruit came from and why the strawberry is so plump and red.  I also order a “nap sack” with a fleece blanket, eye mask, earplugs and a blow-up neck pillow and think to myself that this stuff used to be free on the airlines. 

 

We touch down way too late, run through the airport like O.J. Simpson, and think we’re almost going to make it.  But we don’t, and are put up in the Windgate by Wyndham Hotel.  To cut to the chase, they don’t give us a handicap room or complimentary toothbrushes, but indicate that the buffet breakfast is from 6am on.  We sleep nice on the puffy mattresses in the air-conditioned room, and wake up five hours later with the same clothes as the day and night before.  Un-showered and without anything to primp our greasy hair, we stroll into the breakfast area at the hotel. 

 

This time we’re talking Styrofoam plates and packaged cereals, no greeting by friendly hotel staff, just serve-yourself American goodness.  Here we toast our own bagels and cream cheese them up ourselves.  The pastries were probably once processed in China, not made fresh that same morning.  Who knows where the scrambled eggs came from, because there’s nobody serving them and no kitchen in sight.  The bright illumination of the breakfast room and the cold metal tables are a stark contrast in comparison to the tastefully decorated carpeted restaurant with natural lighting and tablecloths. 

 

We eat; yet we are not satisfied.  We engage in little small talk, mainly about the news that shows a plane that split in two on the big-screen TV.  There aren’t much options for my gluten free mom, and the hotel isn’t exactly accommodating.  We throw away our Styrofoam waste, feeling sugared-out and full of carbs.  Then we push in our metal chairs and go back to the room for our bags.  Welcome back to America.