Bitches and hoes, my father always said. Actually he never said anything of the sort, and if he read this I would probably be eating my food with a straw. I actually brought you here to tell you some more about my culinary influences when I was a child. And my very first blo-never mind. As I said in my previous post, I loved being around my mom in the kitchen. It was an aura I felt like no other. Something holy and otherworldly that made me feel like there was magic in this world. She continued to teach me that without love, food would taste terrible. It would just be food and you would eat it for survival only. I mean, I'm sure cavemen had kick ass times killing dinosaurs for food, but that was in the 1900's. We live in the 40th century now, with flying cars and talking horses.
She would pour her heart into family gatherings. Nothing tasted bad, unless she attempted at something non middle eastern, then it would be very......funky. I was always grateful for us being very family oriented. We always had gatherings, back in the day they would be as frequent as every week. Now, it's much less but we still have the occasional barbecues here and there aside from holidays. I loved how everyone was a part of the food production process, like how my aunt would help on certain dishes because of her ability to make that dish taste better. Sure my mom was the Wonder Woman of cooking in my eyes, but there were things my aunts made better. And if she heard this, she would definitely abort me. Although family oriented, we're competitive. And I guess that's what makes me being a cook all the more sensible.
I remember one time, however, my friend invited me over to his place for lunch and video games. Also we wanted to talk about which girl had better tits and who we would love to make face licking with. So I went with him and met his family, all awesome people. His brother, probably the most spontaneous mother effer around, greeted me with no pants on. I laughed a hearty man laugh for an 11 year old. So as we turned on the glorious N64, we played to our hearts content. Both of us just recently got Pokemon Stadium, and it blew our minds and our pants. So my pal, Patricio, started the girl questions and put me in the fryer, because man I had the crush for just about anything that had a heart beat. "Who's hotter, Barbara or Georgina?" I froze, and simply said, " Both." I was too shy to say anything more, simply because I was the nerdy kid in school. If I could go back in time however, I would have gladly made some changes. Like my boyish, immigrant hair cuts and baggy sweaters. I was the spitting image of all things arab.
So after much chatter and talk about boobs, his mother called us for food. I smelled the aromas and started to get excited. It was my first time having authentic spanish cuisine. The only thing spanish before this was Taco Bell. I sat there, and looked at this bowl, filled with a steamy soup. I was puzzled. Soup? For lunch? What the hell. Where the heck are my tacos? I don't see a fries supreme! So I dove around this soup with the big silver spoon nestled beside it, and boy was I finding some weird stuff. What I think was artichokes, swimming in this broth with bacon. God knows what else was in there. I just knew, it tasted good. I looked over to the middle of the table and saw these golden semi circles of pastry happiness. I thought they were pizza pops. Lo and behold, my mind was frazzled once again. Steamy, spicy, beef with potatoes and cheese and all the likes of things not in a pizza pop. But I loved it. I ate more than any one at the table because this was like finding the treasure of One Eyed Willy. I didn't know what I was eating. But boy, it tasted good.
Sure, my memory is somewhat boggled and cannot remember every detail, but remember exactly what happened after that meal. I burped. Loudly. I thanked his mother and everyone at the table as I excused myself for the washroom. This is where spanish food met my bowels. I was pooping out the 4th of July, singing the National Anthem and reciting the Lebanese version of Our Father in my head. Holy chipotles batman, my ass HURTS. Anyways, after much needed love in the washroom, we continued to play until nightfall, and after a night of laughs, talk about how hot Celia looked last week when she was reading that Goosebumps book ( yeah, we were kids, we read anything with a cool cover), and tons of punches to the arms, I left. I experienced a world of some other level. South American cooking was a new window for me. Something that stayed open even though I attempted to shut it with super glue due to the many washroom breaks it caused me. Now I'm trying all sorts of different regional cuisine from South America to Spain. Still, nothing compares to the otherworldly scent of that dinner table. It was magic and I know it.
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