El Gringoqueño

We were watching CNN this morning.  The morning show gave a brief introduction to Soledad O’Brien’s "Black in America" with a short report and a plug for the series. 

Jaimito asked me,"Daddy?  What means Black in America?"

"It’s kind of complicated, Jaimito, but let me try to explain."  So I ran through a basic primer of just what it meant to be black in America since the days of slavery and why it was still an issue.  Olaia helpfully pointed out that things had gotten better because Barack Obama was elected President.  "I agree," I said, "and I think it says a lot that the majority of America has gotten past color as a qualification, but that doesn’t mean prejudice doesn’t exist."

And that was that.  They asked, I tried to sum up years of legal and cultural discrimination over breakfast.   They seemed satisfied and a few minutes passed until Jaimito, who was obviously still pondering something, asked.

"Daddy," he began, "am I black?"

I’m a whiner.  Anybody who knows me, knows this to be true.  But I really prefer to keep my whining verbal, rather than fix it in written word, so it is only sometimes that it spills out here.  In any case, things have been kind of rough for us here for a while, for me personally and for the family.  I’ve been in a funk, lost my mojo, and been a mofo.  I could blame approaching forty, economic downturn, feeling like I’ve not accomplished what I’ve wanted to, stress, overworked, underpaid, blah blah blah.  It’s just not that interesting.  I’m sure we all have funks, no? 

So here’s the scoop: I just had a really nice dinner made possible by the following:

1. My new super duper outdoor kitchen grill.  It’s an early Father’s day gift, a super awesome backyard propane grilling monster with rotisserie, external gas burner and 36,000 btus of gas grilling power.  Hear me roar.  I like to cook, and this makes me feel useful.
2. Squash and churrasco cooked and grilled to perfection eaten on our patio that we tiled ourselves.  It was a beautiful clear night.  The wine was delicious, the lights added a cozy ambiance, and the dinner conversation with the niños was sparkling.  Javier smacked my shoulder every time he had something to say.  He’s boricua through and through, and it tickles his mommy so.
   
3. Olaia’s iPod, loaded with my music because she knows I like it.  Such a sweet little girl.   Midway through dinner we jammed to the Digital Underground’s, Humpty Dance.  It was a riot.

It just doesn’t get any better than eating under the stars, laughing with your children, cracking each other up, and jamming to the Humpty Dance.

­­Laura said she hadn’t had a tom­ato that good since Italy.

­

Doesn’t that look good?  It was.  I haven’t had a tomato that tasty since the ones we were forced to grow as kids.  I never would have known what I was missing.  Thanks, Mom and Dad.

I finally got off my butt this year and planted a little vegetable garden.  I have always loved fresh tomatoes, and I find the quality of grocery store produce has declined so drastically that you’re basically paying for tasteless fibrous water.  Starting with Olaia’s science fair project on compost, we began our green journey to the perfect tomato.  The vegetable garden is about fifteen feet long by two and half feet wide or so and has been stocked with nearly three cubic feet of homemade soil from compost. 

Our compost is composed of yard waste (green grass and leaves), vegetable and fruit waste from the kitchen, coffee grounds, a bit of ash from barbecuing, some paper waste, and egg shells.  You should not use meat or protein as it is said to attract varmints.   Anyway, all that lead to the creation of this:

­

Lovely, isn’t it?  Isn’t nature cool? 

I planted two varieties, roma and these called beefeaters.  Today, I was surprised to find that a third variety had sprouted from the composted seeds and was bearing a different type of fruit. I imagine that even though they are from tasteless grocery store tomato seeds, homegrown they will taste much better.

I can’t wait to eat it tomorrow on an egg sandwich with lettuce, fresh mayonnaise, and cheddar cheese on bakery bread.

And then I took this little picture for Olaia for a class project as we dined outside next to our garden in the cool night air.

Chee-bow-bow, the moon.

­­

This morning, Laura asked me to pour bowls of cereal for us both.  She was insistent that it be me who does the pouring.  I protested at the oddity of the request but quickly dismissed my hesitations.  I have such a short memory for things like this, and since I was hungry, I went to the kitchen to "make" breakfast.

Hmm, that’s weird, I thought as I took out Laura’s Corn Bran and found my Honey Bunches of Oats stuffed inside.  Who did that?  Who does a thing like that, I thought, my mind’s paranoia engine at full throttle.  Let’s see what’s inside the Honey Bunches of Oats box then.  Well, will you look at that, there’s the Corn Bran.  Someone switched them.  Who does that?  Can’t they read?  

I was seriously shaking my head at the insanity of switching the cereals’ contents.  Was the universe screwing with me? 

Will this mystery haunt me for all the days of my life?  Just as I was set to call 911 and report a cereal "incident," Laura breezed into the kitchen with a wry smile.

"Hey hon, did you notice that the cereals were switched?  That was Olaia.  She wanted to trick you for April Fools."

"Oh that little girl," I said, smiling.  "That is just too cute."  I imagined her sneaking out this morning, carefully switching the cereals, and then informing her mommy.

"Mommy, you have to tell Daddy to pour the cereal this morning, okay.  I switched them for April Fool’s.  You have to make sure Daddy does it, okay."

"Okay," her mommy replied.

And there you go.  That’s how Daddy fell for an April Fool’s joke on April Fool’s Day.  You got me.