Paloma Cruz

Recipes & Food Posts, December 6

I’ve actually been in a cooking and baking mood lately. So, don’t be surprised to see that I’ve made a few of the recipes I’ve featured here.

Apple Pie

I like apple pie, but I’ve never made it. This recipe from Moms Confession looks easy enough that I’m going to try it. I also want to see if I can modify it to make mini-pies.

Broccoli Cheese Patties

The recipe for these is very similar to one I make with tuna. I’m definitely going to make these broccoli cheese patties.

Candy

Sweet and salty seems to be the flavor combination of choice these days, and this Salted Pistachio Bark recipe hits the spot. It’s tasty and easy to make.

Horchata

I have never made horchata, but I’ve drank it a lot. This recipe by La Vitamina T looks easy to make, and it includes Jim Beam! Defiitely something to try.

Tortillas

Ever wanted to make homemade flour tortillas? Muy Bueno Cookbooks has a recipe plus a video to get you started. I’ve helped my mother make tortillas before, but I’ve never made them on my own.

My Sex and the City Lunch

Along the way we realized that the two good looking guys in the table next to ours were quiet, riveted by our conversation. Of course, we were a group of women discussing breast size and boob jobs without using our indoor voices. I think we can forgive them.

This was my semi-yearly lunch with what I call my “brunch friends.” We almost only ever get together for lunch or brunch, and the occasional drink. More than acquaintances, but not quite “visit you when you’re sick” friends. I think we average two or three lunches a year. Amazing how little it takes to keep a friendship alive.

Our conversations are lively, varied and often unforgettable. We have shocked many a waiter by being in the middle of a talk about sex, relationships, cheating, our bosses, our exes… our lives in general. On this particular day we were discussing, in a crowded restaurant, my friend’s recent lift. Or rather, we were discussing one friend’s sudden realization of another’s boob job.

“Oh my god, when did you get those?!?!” The Exclaimer asked, loudly. All our mutual friend had done was sit down at the table and take off her sweater. Underneath she was wearing a fitted blouse that looked great on her. And this resulted in having her business announced to the whole restaurant.

I hadn’t realized anything was different until the outburst. I don’t look at other women’s boobs that closely.

The Denier tried to play it off. She pretended not to know what The Exclaimer was talking about. She smiled coyly. She gave token resistance to our friend’s insistence. Then she talked. The lunch was, after all, an unveiling.

“I actually got this done last year,” she said. “But I wasn’t comfortable enough to dress showy.” Which of course means that she got a boob job but didn’t want anyone to notice it.

And thus proceeded an hour-long conversation on how much it cost, how she chose her doctor, who she chose, how she decided on size, what the recovery is like, what the impact was to her partner, etc., etc. And I sat there for an hour, bobbing my head from one side to the other following the interrogation: question, answer, question, answer, question, answer… and so on, and so on.

Through it all my friends seemed to have forgotten we were in a restaurant where they place the tables so close you almost couldn’t walk between them. And the tables around us got quieter as the two of them became more involved in the conversation.

Eventually, I put a stop to it. I mean, there’s something just wrong with talking about your friend’s boobs over lunch. And everyone around us was paying way too much attention to the conversation I was inexplicably roped into.

And I realized that I was in an episode of Sex in the City, or the closest thing I could imagine to one. I think that says a lot about my life.

Wine Spectator’s Top 100 of 2012 (infographic)

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Latino Thanksgiving

This is a repost, from 2001. I honestly don’t know where I got it at this point. I don’t think I ever knew. Read below and, being honest, own up to how many actually describe your family.

Top 25 Signs You are Having a Latino Thanksgiving Dinner:

25. Your tíos are drunk before giving thanks.
24. There’s a keg of beer and a cooler filled with ice and soda.
23. There are more dishes of food than people.
22. Your tíos do a grito after giving thanks.
21. Abuelita falls asleep at the table.
20. ‘Apa is doing a Bar-B-Que.
19. There are more than 3 turkeys.
18. There are 7 people in the kitchen, all cooking.
17. There’s dancing.
16. Everyone is talking so loud, you can’t even hear yourself think!
15. You are with the family at the campo/rancho.
14. They’re roasting a pig outside.
13. One of your tías is wearing sequence and tacones.
12. One of your tíos is wearing a cowboy hat.
11. There are limones on the table.
10. There’s pan dulce
9. There’s a smell of chicharrones and/or chuletas.
8. There’s potato salad.
7. There are tortillas but no rolls.
6. There’s salsa verde y roja pero no cranberry sauce.
5. There are tamales, cabrito and barbacoa next to the turkey.
4. There’s a bottle of Tapatilo on the table.
3. There’s at least one person named Maria, Carlos, Papo, Juan, Jose, Tony, Tito or Luis at the table.
2. All the men eat at the table first, then the kids, then the women.

And the #1 sign you are having a Latino Thanksgiving Dinner . . .

1. Dinner starts at 9pm, if you’re lucky!

I know I’m getting old

It happens to the best of us. One day you become a “ma’am.” You go from being the youngest in the group, to “normal,” to being the oldest. And, suddenly, you are the grown up in the room.

Yes, it’s even happened to me… though “grown up” might be a stretch. Here’s a list of ways you may know that you, too, are getting old:

The men in the “most eligible bachelors” list all look like children — and much too young to date. (Notice that I didn’t write “women.” Somehow, this doesn’t seem to happen to men — to them the 18-25 year olds always look old enough to date.)

You no longer qualify for any of the “under” awards (ie., 40 under 40, etc.). I got one like that just a month or so before I turned 40. And that was the last one of that, ever.

You only get invited to the “Young Professionals” groups as a speaker or mentor. And when you do get invited you look at the people in attendance wondering if you were ever that young.

The weather decides how you feel. I have an ankle that hurts when it’s cold, allergies that act up when it’s humid, and a head that hurts if the weather changes too fast.

The doctor has used the “a” word… “arthritis.” I have arthritis in my shoulders, and my back. So far, I’ve been lucky that I’m not in chronic pain, but it’s in my future.

You start having conversations about bodily functions. Yeah. This one is a little bit disconcerting. I never thought I would be one of those people who discussed… well, let’s leave some mystery here. Suffice it to say that I’ve entertained many a friend and family member with more information than they ever wanted to know about what keeps my body relatively healthy.

Your friends have started discussing plastic surgery as something they are actually going to do. I remember having conversations about cosmetic surgery like it was this silly thing other people did. Now I’m having to keep track of which friend got what done. And I’m wondering, in the privacy of this blog (with the dozen or so readers), whether I would want to have something done as well.

You never ask “am I too young for this?” Unless, of course, it’s about retirement or yearly checkups. And every once in a while you ask, “Am I too old for this?” (The answer to that should always be “no.”)

What would you add to the list?

The first choice (college) — the good news and the bad

My niece got into the school of her choice! It’s great news, really… until you realize that it will cost her an estimaetd $54,000 a year to go there. Yes, you read that correctly: fifty-four THOUSAND dollars. That’s a little more than $200,000 for a four-year degree… assuming she doesn’t have any extra expenses.

I’m happy for her, and scared. If she doesn’t get really close on the funding (through financial aid and scholarships) I don’t see how she’s going to be able to go. 

I don’t want to be the person to tell her that. I don’t want to be the sole voice of reason (and doom) in the chorus of well-wishers. I want to believe that we’re going to find a way to send her there. I want to believe that it will all work out.

But I’m me, and historical data doesn’t lend itself to my being hopeful about something this big.

Join me in holding your breath for the next six months… 

Different types of wine (infographic)

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Taking over the world through food

It’s an interesting experience when you see that Real Simple magazine posts 3 Easy Ways to Heat Tortillas. Are tortillas so mainstream now that a magazine has to provide instructions on how to heat them up? Are there really so many people out there buying tortillas and taking them home who have never had a tortilla in their kitchens (ever) that someone at Real Simple said, “hey, we really need to teach these people the way to heat a tortilla”? I guess so.

I can find Día de los Muertos sugar cookies at my neighborhood Kroger store. Tortillas outsell hotdog buns and burger buns. Salsa is the best-selling condiment in the country. Latino food cookbooks sell fast. When did Latino food take over the world as we know it? (And I’m not counting the spinach whole wheat things they sell at the local grocery store as “real” tortillas, though I’m sure the food industry doesn’t care about my opinion on that.)

Nowhere is this more evident than in Houston’s foodie scene. We have every kind of Latino food restaurant you can think of — from taquerías and churrasquerías to Tex-Mex and fusion. Pupusas, baleadas, tostones, maduros — these are all words I learned when I moved to this city. Yes, they’re all food.

Want a torta? There are many places you can find that, with at least one restaurant offering a torta/burger specialty.Want tacos? There’s a taco joint or food truck in every neighborhood in the city (it seems), with a few 24-hour options thrown in for those of us who go looking for them at 2am. (I know this from personal experience.) Cuban food, Honduran food, Colombian food, South American food — you can find it easily. And when you do go, you’ll see at least a few brave souls who have ventured outside the lines of “normal” (
Tex-Mex) into other kinds of food.

“Can you recommend a good Mexican food restaurant,” visitors will often ask me when they come in to Houston for a meeting. And I baffle them with my response, “What kind of Mexican food do you want?” When they ask me to explain what I mean I tell them, “There’s authentic, Tex-Mex, fusion, coastal, taquerías,

Target sells piñatas (they’re small, but they’re still piñatas). In Houston, even the mainstream museums and art organizations celebrated Día de los Muertos this year (which a few years ago was an almost unheard of holiday in this country). Sofia Vergara has design collections in every store in the planet, it seems. So, it looks like cultural tourism is “in.” The people who matter have decided that you must consume comida Latina and celebrate Latino holidays to be somebody, to count. And the world is listening to them. That’s a good thing, I think.

And I’ll be glad for this while trying hard not to wonder on how anyone could not understand the way to heat a tortilla: you microwave it. Wait, wait… is that just me? Nope. Even the people at Real Simple mentioned it as an option.

A Central Market Experience

It turns out that I have an entire series of stories about my friends getting into, well, physical fights. The bar fight story, the time my friend greeted the police while literally sitting on someone to subdue her, the “I almost threw down with the sorority girls” story, the I got jumped while taking pictures story, etc., etc. A few of these are about fights that didn’t happen and a few are about fights that did. I am going to point out that none of them are about me. I will share these one at a time over the next few months. To protect the innocent, and the guilty, I am not including names. (Yes, mostly because I didn’t ask permission before sharing the stories.) And I start with the story of a verbal fight in the main Central Market store…

Reading this very entertaining account of a writer’s visit to Whole Foods reminded me of a story from a friend about a very public shouting match. This happened at Central Market near River Oaks:

In a shopping trip to Central Market, my friend was dropping in to pick up some last-minute items with her baby en tow. Have you ever tried to shop for anything with a baby? It’s a thing that requires practice and talent. I know from watching others try it; I’ve never actually done it myself.

She’s finished shopping and has her bags in a cart and is headed out. She’s manged to get what she needs and is ready to head out in the time allotted. Then she gets attacked verbally by the ecology police. (She used the word “ambush.”)

“She comes up to me and says, I can’t believe you’re using plastic bags. And with a baby! What kind of place are you creating for your child? Don’t you know better?”

My friend has never seen this woman before. Was just unlucky enough to be standing next to her in a grocery store. She admits that she did, in fact, have her groceries in plastic bags. And, truthfully, she’s usually conscientious about making sure she using paper bags (or reusable ones), but that day she was busy and not paying attention. Not that any of that made it to the conversation.

But my friend counters to the unknown woman in a very fast retort, “Don’t you know better than to go up to strangers and bother them with your opinion? This is Texas, you’re likely to get shot here.” I’m not sure what reaction the unknown woman was expecting, but this was probably not what she was hoping for. The conversation went downhill fast from there. It became a very public, very loud shouting match, in Central Market.

The incident ended when staff got involved. And the other woman was still yelling at her that she was destroying the world and condemning her child to a horrendous future. And this all happened as here son looked upon them, serenely.

I never knew the upscale grocery store experience could be so vicious.

* * *

Recommend reading: Surviving Whole Foods || The Huffington Post

A question of taste, in wine (infographic)

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Even though they’re imaginary, the bruises still hurt

You told me where to stand, what to say and when to smile.
I did that.

You told me what the goal was, where the line in the sand was being drawn, and what the finish line was.
I surpassed it.

You wanted the red redder, the blues bluer and the golds to shine.
I made that happen.

And I did it while you were gone, concentrating on other things.

I expected a pat on the back. I expected a “job well done.”

Today I had to take a deep breath and tell others that the reds and blues were wrong. That we weren’t supposed to use gold. That the finish line they thought we had reached, in fact, was somewhere else.

Today I had to scramble and rush and make things up to justify tossing dirt on clean floors. And the words sounded false and stupid even to me. And I looked stupid to others.

I stood there and took the hit for doing what I was told in exactly the way I was told to do it.
I took the hit that should have been yours.

I think I might be done.

* * *

NOTES:

• This was written a few months ago and post-published, for my sanity and to preserve the anonymity of those involved. But if this applied to you, you know who you are.
• Photo courtesy of Sander van der Wel via http://www.flickr.com/photos/40803964@N08/4649749639.

Thank you for your service

Today is Veterans Day. It’s the day we take a moment to thank the men and women in the Armed Forces for the service they’ve provided to our country and to us.

Thank you.

My brother is a veteran. He served three tours over seas in areas called warzones. He is now a civilian, but he’s always going to be Army at heart. And I am always going to be a supporter of our men in women in uniform.

A Beginner’s Guide to Wine (infographic)

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Tía to the rescue

I’m writing this from the waiting room of the pediatrician’s office. The kiddo is sick. I got a call from my sister “hoping that you have a flexible day.” Her day, it appears, is not. The kiddo is sick and she has one of those days when she’s not allowed to be a mom. So I’ve called in to work and met her at the doctor’s, with the understanding that I get to be caregiver once we’re done here.

This is not the first time I’ve rearranged work for a nephew (or niece). It won’t be the last.

I expect to update this post throughout the day.

UPDATE, noon — So it turns out the kiddo has strep. We thought it was just the flu. So he’s highly contagious, on top of everything else. The big worry is getting his temperature down (it was 104 point something).

So I’m in charge of the kiddo for the next few hours. My sister had to try to make it to one of those meetings that are written in stone. I did have a flexible day, but I have an event I have to cover this evening. That means we have to switch out late afternoon. She says it’s doable, but we’ll see.

He’s in very good spirits, for a sick boy. We’ll see how it goes.

UPDATE, 2:30 p.m. — His temperature has gone down to 98.1. That’s good. He ate and kept the food down. He seems OK.

I, however, am frantic and worried. There were things I was supposed to do today, in anticipation for tomorrow and the holiday weekend, that aren’t getting done. I have had to rearrange my morning so I can make up some of the time I’m losing today.

But the kiddo is better, and that’s what counts.

UPDATE, 4 p.m. — I made it into the office. The kiddo is once again in his mother’s care. She says she’s staying with him tomorrow.

I hope he feels better soon.

***** Written on my iPad. I promise to proof and edit it later (maybe). ******

Yes, I am wearing underwear

…and I look up to see that I’ve attracted a crowd, all looking at me try to lift my leg over a high obstacle, furiously trying to keep the hem of my dress below my knee, and praying that when I do flash them they don’t notice that my underwear isn’t the kind that’s worn to be seen…

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Edited photo; original photo courtesy of Kris Krug via http://www.flickr.com/photos/49503002894@N01/2348068059.

I should have known something was going to go haywire. I was wearing what I call an “interview outfit” — dressed to be in front of a camera for an interview. Of course, that means I have to spend the day dressed up, from the subtle makeup to the conservative but stylish heels. It means that I’m in my costume. Through all my meetings, my dinner with my mother, driving her to her errands… through it all I’m uncomfortable. I spend my days in business casual; corporate chic is something I can do for a few hours at a time, but all day is a stretch.

My new car isn’t small. It’s as tall as the Ford Explorer I used to own. It’s spacious and roomy and a great ride. It’s not little, but it’s also not a monster truck. The truck parked a mere few inches from the driver side door was a monster truck, I realized, as my mother and I look on in dismay outside the taquería where we had had dinner. I was amazed the driver had managed to park so close without actually touching my car. And I was wondering how the frack I was going to get into the damn thing.

Did I wait until the owner of the monster truck finished and moved? No, of course I didn’t.

I had the brilliant idea that I could get into the car from the passenger side and just… shimmy my way to the driver side. Brilliant {{with sarcasm}} until your realize that the car is set up with a very high arm rest between both seats that also functions as a double-decker storage.

So I’m sitting in the passenger side, in my dress and heels, trying to position myself in such a way that I can end up in the driver’s side… without showing off all my goodies. And it occurs to me that maybe this is not a great idea.

First try was to crawl over, with my butt pointing towards the windshield. But that ended up with me sitting literally on the steering wheel without enough room to… flip into the correct position. And that was a failure on many accounts.

Then I tried positioning myself to scoot over the armrest, one leg at a time. And I look up to see the above-mentioned crowd… and my mother laughing incessantly. Which broke my concentration and made it impossible for me to succeed…

I tried a few ways, getting agitated and irritated, finally succeeding by dumping myself butt-first over the armrest into the driver-side seat. Which I consider a minor miracle.

And applause ensued. Really, applause.

How, exactly, do I get myself into these things?