Is Donald Trump Ignorant?

I’m sure that by now you’ve heard what Donald Trump said about Mexico and Mexicans:

“[Mexico] are sending people that have lots of problems, and they are bringing those problems to us. They are bringing drugs, and bringing crime, and their rapists.”

He claimed he would build a “great, great wall” on the Mexican-American border, and accused Mexico of “sending not the right people” to the US.

A great great wall. Sending not the right people.

Naturally when I heard all this, I disregarded it. No one takes Donald Trump seriously.

A few of my friends told me that Trump running for president would make the elections “more entertaining”. That by turning the other way I was tragically “missing out”.

His comments were called “racist tinged”. (What? They were “racist immersed”.)

As I’m sure you’ve deduced, I have gone from “uninterested” to increasingly uncomfortable with the absurd notions he is leaving behind. 

Donald Trump is a rich man living in New York. The city he owns skyscrapers in runs in large part thanks to invisible, undocumented people from Mexico. Chances are really high that the toilets he has used have been cleaned by Mexican workers.

Did you know that Mexicans who come into the United States are known for their work ethic? They start work earlier, work harder, stay later and ask for more. They leave everything they know – their country and family and everything familiar to them, including their language and religion – to risk their lives in an effort to support themselves and the people that they love.   

Don’t call it “The American Dream”. Mexican workers take the jobs no one else would take. (Example: the regular use of strong, toxic chemical cleaners to scrub blood and feces off walls in meat packaging plants). They live in fear of being deported and separated from their families. They work multiple jobs and still can’t make ends meet.

The last thing they need is for someone with a presidential campaign platform to turn them into criminals in our eyes.

Have you heard what Anthony Bourdain, the American Chef and television personality has to say about Mexican workers? “If you’re looking for a line cook who’s professional in his work habits, responsible with your food, dependable, a guy with a sense of humor, reasonably good character, and a repertoire of French and Italian standards, and who can drill out 250 meals without going mental or cutting corners too egregiously, chances are you’ll go to Carlos, your grill man. And ask him for a recommendation. Carlos will have a cousin or a brother for you.”

“The bald fact is that the entire restaurant industry in America would close down overnight, would never recover, if current immigration laws were enforced quickly and thoroughly across the board.”

Which reminds me of the satirical movie A Day without a Mexican, in which the entire state of California grinds to a halt without the labor of Mexican workers. In real life, other regions (such as Arizona) have found themselves in situations comparable to this when immigrant workers are “relocated”.

In the meantime, Donald Trump will continue to take for granted the shiny, clean windows of his golden towers. The fruit and vegetables gracing his table. The views of immaculately maintained golf courses.

I read people called Donald Trump “ignorant”, which makes me want to paraphrase Morgan Freeman. Please don’t call Donald Trump “ignorant”. It’s not that he doesn’t know. It’s that he’s an asshole.

Alluring stranger

I'm in Mexico City for work. A client asked for a training for their Latin America team, reserved a hotel room for me, and had me picked up at the airport. The driver pointed out landmarks on the way and from my room I have a gasp inducing view of this insane, throbbing city. 

It's surreal to become an unintended visitor in the place I grew up in. Like discovering the person you have been sharing your life with is a mysterious, alluring stranger.

Oh, Mexico City

Oh Mexico City. I owe you so much and owe you nothing. I love you and despise you and you captivate and frustrate me. I swear you off and keep coming back and look out the window of the plane when I leave and feel desolation in my heart and cry.

You are by far my unhealthiest relationship.

Ni madres

"Ni madres!" I say to Boyfriend.
Him: What does that mean?
Me: It's kind of like "no way!"
Him: So it's like "not even my mother".
Me: No. Mothers have nothing to do with it.
Him: but you said "madres".

You can't explain Mexican slang.

Library

Among many other things, my dad gave me my love for books, reading and writing. This is his library. When I conjure an image of him this is where I see him. I know the memory of the two will be forever intertwined.

Banana shampoo

I found this shampoo, which I used when it first came out. Its banana smell took me back to family beach vacations. Swimming in the open ocean. Walking barefoot on pebbled streets wrapped in colorful striped towels. Sand in my bathing suit and salt in my hair. Room service; loud, opinionated kids talking over each other. My dad ordering we not stay up late. Whispering past midnight. All mine again for an $8 bottle of shampoo. What a steal.

Cinco de Mayo

Most people I talk to in the United States believe that May 5^th is Mexican Independence day. In fact, it's not even a national holiday. It’s regional, observed in Puebla, in honor of the battle against the French that took place in that city in 1865, when Mexicans defeated a powerful, much more numerous, better equipped French army who had not lost in nearly half a century. 

From a military perspective, winning did not mean very much for us. We lost another battle with this same army the very next day, and the French were not stopped as a result. However, the news of this brief, short-lived victory filled a poor, demoralized Mexico with a sense of place, enthusiasm and hope.  The French intervention resulted in other countries across the American continent to sympathize with our cause, and the Spanish, English and even (select) French media declared that retreating would be the right thing for the French to do.

This battle played a philosophical role in strengthening Mexican’s love for our country and solidifying our national identity. The experience of being invaded by the French contributed to determining many of the basic principles that to this day define a foreign policy I am proud of: respect for sovereignty and territory integrity, no-aggression, no interference in matters pertaining to other countries; conciliating differences through negotiation and not through force, and peaceful coexistence. Maybe this is why this day has become a celebration of Mexican heritage outside of Mexico. (Or, more likely, because it's a perfectly legitimate excuse to drink Coronas and hang out with friends.)

Our Independence Day is September 16, and it is of legendary proportions. I have never met a Mexican who does not observe it. We call it the day of the “grito”, our “cry for independence”. Every year, on the eve of September 16^th (the night of September 15^th) the President of Mexico rings the bells of the National Palace in the Zocalo, the historic center of Mexico City (one of the largest in the world, so it fits quite a crowd).  He then repeats the “Grito de Dolores” from the balcony of the palace to the hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of people assembled below. It goes something like this:

 "Mexicanos!”

(Imagine the simultaneous shuffling to attention of at least half a million people.)

“Viva Mexico!" (to which everyone roars back in unison “Viva Mexico!”)

Que vivan los heroes que nos Dieron patria! (Long live the heroes who gave us our fatherland!)

Que vivan los heroes que nos dieron libertad!  (Long live the heroes who gave us liberty!)

Viva Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla!
Viva Guadalupe Victoria!
Viva Ignacio Allende!
Viva José María Morelos y Pavón!
Via Doña Josefa Ortiz de Domínguez!

Que viva México!
Que viva México!
Que viva México!

Attending one of these events should be on the list of things everyone must do before they die. You don’t have to go to the one in the Zocalo: on that day, similar celebrations occur in cities and towns and districts and homes across the country, and in Mexican embassies all over the world. The following day is a national holiday. Perplexingly, it goes by practically unnoticed north of the border. (Another perfectly legitimate excuse to drink Coronas and hang out with friends, wasted.)

Mexican Independence Day is, hands down, my favorite holiday of the year. You can keep Christmas and all the gift giving and New Year’s with its long gowns and champagne and all the chocolates and red roses typical of Valentine’s day. Take the bowl of guacamole and the tequila you drink on May 5^th and leave me, in the company of my family, under any available balcony, calling out “Que Vivan Los Heroes Que Nos Dieron Patria! Que vivan!” any day.

Photo: http://www.picturejockey.com/

 

 

Pandemonium

Because I’m a Mexican living in the US, many concerned, thoughtful people have asked my opinion about the swine flu and the general situation in Mexico City. I thought I’d share with you some flu related data I’ve been collecting. I am no expert, but tend to favor facts, particularly those which contribute to a general sense of perspective (as opposed to drama and speculation, which contributes to a general sense of confusion and chaos.)

The flu virus (not swine flu, just flu) mutates to a worldwide epidemic two times every 100 years. In other words, we are not dealing with anything we have never seen before.

Based on existing data, this is not a superbug. This new strain of "swine" flu is not any more virulent, contagious, or deadly than other forms of the flu, and the forms of contagion are just like regular flu (wash your hands.)

In a normal flu season, children, elderly and ill people die from the flu. In fact, 36,000 people die from it in the US every year. 13,000 people have died of normal flu in this country since January, 2009. Not swine flu. Just flu.

In the US, symptoms of swine flu have been mostly mild. In Mexico, swine flu has not been mild, at least not in every case. My personal opinion -my personal inexpert opinion - is that poverty might be a factor. People living in close quarters, undernourished, who have no way to get to doctors or hospitals, who can't afford healthcare or even taking time off to recover.

Here is a good time to add, in the interest of sharing honest, unbiased data, that other pandemic flus strike young, healthy people the hardest. In light of this, wouldn’t it help tremendously to know how many mild cases of swine flu Mexico has had? Just so we’re not feeling that everyone who has gotten it South of the border has died from it (which would be inaccurate?)

I realize influenza is never to be taken lightly. I worry more, however, about the extreme measures the Mexican government has taken. All public places have been closed (I tweeted about soccer games with no audience allowed, a mark of a crisis in a futbol loving country.) Bars, schools (and universities – nation wide), movie theaters, galleries, sporting events have been shut down. A friend said that just walking down a half empty street fills you with an apocalyptical sense of doom.

I am lucky not be in a position where I have to make these types of decisions. From my cushy seat, I think these measures have been over the top.

More concerning of all is that the Mexican government has "given itself power" to search private homes for sick people, intercept them on streets, and force them to get treatment. How would you like it if a government with an iffy reputation could search your home at any time without any kind of warrant? Don’t you think this lends itself to all kinds of abuse?

Fears of abuse aside, I think measures this extreme cause a great deal of panic, and panic contributes to aggravating the situation. Just one example is it leads people to take medicine they don't need, which in turn makes the virus resistant to it. (Speaking of facts, there is no lack of medication - the vaccine industry is strong.)

To answer your (deeply, deeply appreciated) most common question, my family is, thankfully, safe. Up until today, I am not any more worried about swine flu than I am about normal flu. I don’t entirely agree with how the Mexican government has handled it. And I’ll be very happy when this is all over and people can travel to my country again, because Mexico is going through a terrible, scary, disconcerting, awful time (difficult economic conditions + virus + earthquake) and needs all the help it can get. I’ve booked a trip to Mexico for my next vacation, and I hope you do the same.

Photo: flu virus, www.nationalgeographic.com

Whispers

In my (inexpert) opinion, there are two types of archeological sites. The first one is rigid, monumental, imposing, interesting, reconstructed. It’s become a contemporary statement of a past civilization, largely zapped of its whispers. Chichen Itza, gorgeous, grand, trampled, is a good illustration of this, my first category.

The second is crumbling piles of rocks under dense vegetation. Due to a perpetual lack of government funds, reconstruction is minimal, so that it still stands, but barely, a defiant example of time’s utter lack of mercy.

Tall trees grow on the pyramids, the tangle of centenary roots proof that the elements that destroy a structure are often also what hold it together.

During a visit, as you scramble up hundreds of steps, you silently refute the guide’s explanations because you have your own secret hypothesis of what that room was once used for.

In this second category, you feel a gust of fresh breeze on a hot, humid day and hear, beneath the rustling of leaves, the faint echo of footsteps, the unintelligible whispers of former inhabitants.

Campeche is, inexplicably, the least visited of the Yucatan states. Among other things (fantastic food, lovely people and a town so beautiful it’s considered a World Heritage Site), it holds perhaps hundreds of Maya ruins that belong squarely in my second category, which Luca and I explored in utter, complete, absolute solitude.

Calakmul, the largest of the sites (a 72 square km expanse that has been minimally restored due to ecological regulations), is found a few miles into Mexico’s largest biosphere reserve, in the middle of the low jungle.

Maybe you can go visit one day, and hear for yourself the whispers I speak of. With any luck, you'll make out the words and come back and tell me what they are saying.


Photo by Luca
Calakmul

Brain lag

Last week, Luca and I almost had a car accident. It was about 7:00 a.m. and we were driving along Highway 1, with the Pacific Ocean on our left and the mountains on our right. It was slightly foggy and the road was deliciously silent. Suddenly, a deer leaped out in front of us. Even before Luca swerved, it was out of sight.

This week I’m in Mexico City. Forget all the words you just read above – from “driving along” to “Pacific Ocean” to “Mountains” to “calm” to “quiet”. I assure you there will be no deer interfering. This place is surreal, even to my Mexico City born eyes; a live wire of people and color and smog and cacophony and energy. A boy is juggling balls at the stoplight, then asking for money.

If our bodies need time to adjust to jet lag, what about brain lag? We weren’t meant to move so quickly from one location to another. What are the side effects of this sudden, dramatic change in surroundings?

Strange dreams, for sure. Waking up completely disoriented (a condition that in my case often lingers for the rest of the day). Being just a tiny bit out of touch with reality (another lingering condition). Feeling as alive as this place. Looking at the world with wonder.

"For my part” said Robert Louis Stevenson “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move."

Am I not here?

Once I tell you about her, you’ll start to see her everywhere.

She is the Virgen of Guadalupe, and protects all Mexicans. She belongs, of course, to the catholic religion, but Mexicans who aren’t catholic adore her too.

I guarantee you will see her beautiful image wherever you see someone from Mexico. In the corner restaurant (behind the cash register), a cab (hanging from the rearview mirror), the gas station, a picture over the doorframe, a small gold medal hanging around someone’s neck. You’ll see her in a small shrine at the side of the road, on a screensaver, even on someone’s bicep, in a full color tattoo.

The Virgen of Guadalupe is the mother of all Mexicans. She is often called a Queen. You will, in fact, occasionally see her depicted with a crown, but I don’t think she likes that, as she’s the Virgin of the people. Her favorite flowers are roses.

The first time she appeared, in a miracle officially recognized by the Vatican in 1745, she did so in a cloak that you can see today, protected between two panes of bullet-proof glass, in a church built especially for her. This basilica was erected in Tepeyac, originally a site of an Aztec temple dedicated to Tonatzin (Earth goddess, mother of the gods and protector of humanity). Today, this Basilica is the most visited Catholic Church in the world, next to the Vatican.

The Virgen of Guadalupe is one of the factors that made possible the assimilation of the Aztec and the Spanish cultures, quite possibly the reason why I’m in the world today.

Today, December 12, is her birthday. Millions of faithful gather for processions, prayers, songs, dances, and fireworks to honor "La Madre de México". If you want, you can buy red or pink roses and put them at the foot of anywhere you see her image. Or, even where you don’t. She’ll know they are for her.

Chile, frijol y tortilla

I can't believe I haven't written about this before.

Here it goes: There is nothing Mexican about Taco Bell.

Mexican food you eat in California is not Mexican food. Burritos are not Mexican food. Nachos are not Mexican food. The yellow cheese you see on Nachos is not cheese. (But, I digress.)

Mexican food has soul. It’s restoring. (Chicken soup? Add dry chile ancho to the broth. Now you’re talking.) It will breathe life into you. It cures hangovers, but is also known to aid in the mending of a broken heart. Mexican food is not to be confused with Tex-Mex. This is not judgment on Tex Mex - I'm not saying it's bad (or good.) It's just not Mexican.

Mexican food is vital and the triumphant result of an assimilation of very different cultures. It’s old world (corn, zucchini, beans, avocado, cacao, potatoes) and new. We do not glob sour cream on everything. We do not use shiny liquid processed yellow gook. We do not encase whole meals in a fluorescent green flour wrap.

Mexican food is 2,500 different types of chile (you've heard about jalapeno, habanero and chipotle, but there is also poblano, guajillo, chile de arbol, and another 1,494). It’s cilantro, corn, tamarindo, epazote, frijoles, huachinango, papaya and corn tortillas instead of bread. Huevos rancheros, sopes with potato, chalupas with beans, chicken tamales, tacos al pastor; but also carnitas, nogada, tinga, chicharron and even chapulines. Pipian, adobo, sopa de tortilla, caldo de pollo, quesadillas, carne asada, barbacoa, pozole. Bud negro, albondigas, guacamole, nopales. Jicama, tuna, ensalada de naranja, mango with chile piquin, lemon on everything. Arroz a la mexicana, pescado a la Veracruzana, mole poblano, cochinita Yucateca, camarones al ajillo. For dessert not just flan, but platanos al horno, cocada, rompope, pina dorada, nieve de sandia, and capirotada. And there is so much more. To really know Mexican food, do yourself a favor and travel across Mexico.

Will I think less of you if you eat at Taco Bell? No. Just don't judge Mexican food by tasting something that isn't.

At peace, with you

The word "homesick" does not exist in Spanish. You can say "I miss my home" or that you are feeling "nostalgia", even "melancholy", but it's not a handy, right on the mark, single word like it is in English. Which is odd, since Mexicans are world known to miss their beloved Mexico when they're away. (And is, furthermore, proof that you can indeed feel what you don't have a word for.)

What exactly is "home"? When you leave your country of origin to go to another, when does the place you go to become home, if ever? Are immigrants destined to feel forever incomplete, harboring a vague sense of loss, of not belonging, a disorientation that lingers for years? Do these people dream of one day returning only to realize that ten, twenty years have gone by, that their lives have been accidentally built elsewhere, that what they knew as "home" no longer exists?

Many years ago, when I was living in Paris, I called my father on the eve of September 16th (Mexican Independence day) wailing for my family, Mariachis and Mexican food. Aside from that single sleep deprived dramatic exception, my personal experience is that I tend to make home wherever I am. I don't mean that I have no roots, but rather that I grow them quickly. Personal space is important to me, so I swiftly create and inhabit it. I seldom suffer from homesickness (unless I'm traveling on business, in which case all I want is to return and walk around the house touching my things, doing laundry and making soup.)

In a recent family reunion in Mexico, the subject of "homesickness" came up, as Kathia, my brother's wife, seems to be afflicted by it. In the middle of the conversation, my father turned to me and said with finality "you are never coming back to Mexico". It was an unmistakable statement, but I wondered if he hid a question in the folds of its certainty. I shook my head. "While I don't think it's impossible" I responded "I think it's unlikely. Home is California". This is incredible to me, as I grew up feeling for my country almost the same way I felt about my parents. It has happened, though: I'm homesick for California when I am in Mexico. (I tell myself that California used to be Mexican territory. Can I be blamed for circumstancial political geography? Am I not, strictly speaking, on Mexican soil?)

I must make a reference to two songs here - an Italian one, where Jovanotti raps "Voglio andare a casa - e la casa dov'e’? La casa e’ dove posso stare in pace con te" (I want to go home! And where is home? Home is where I can be at peace with you.")

And a Mariachi song that I can't help but cry to:

Mexico Lindo y Querido (Sweet Mexico Dear)
Si muero lejos de ti (If I should die far from you)
Que digan que estoy dormido (Have them say that I am only sleeping)
Y que me traigan a ti (And have them bring me back to you)

When I die, I'd like my ashes strewn across Montara Mountain, which I know in my heart to be Mexican territory, with its dry brown earth and grassy patches that overlook the Pacific Ocean. In the meantime it's home - casa, dove posso stare in pace con te.

Secret Ingredients

I don’t remember who it was who said that she chopped onions whenever she wanted to get away with a good cry. Attributing the tears to the chopping, people would let her be. (I think it was Laura Esquivel in Like Water for Chocolate.)

When I’m upset, I like to make things that require mashing. It helps me channel the energy into something constructive. I like to think the resulting dish carries an additional fire that will assist the recipient through hard times.

Granted, you won’t find this tip in recipe books.

Mexico lost to Argentina today so I thought I’d provide two recipes that require both onions and mashing. I know I’ll be needing them when I make dinner tonight.

For traditional home-made guacamole, you need avocados, tomato, onion, garlic, jalapenos, lemon and salt. Quantities of each ingredient can vary according to preference. In mine, I like just a touch of onion (but I’ll chop a lot and then set it aside for my next dish), a few drops of garlic squeezed through a garlic press, and generous amounts of lemon and jalapenos.

If you need more specific instructions, I'd go with four mashed, but not creamed avocados (restraint is a vital ingredient in guacamole), two small tomatoes (chopped), an eighth of an onion (diced), two jalapenos (finely chopped), a whole lemon (squeezed), a few drops of garlic and a pinch of salt.

Please, whatever you do, do not add cream or yogurt to the Guacamole. Trust. Trust the creaminess of the avocados.

You can serve guacamole with either chips or warm tortillas.

For chiles rellenos, you need eight chiles poblanos (they’re not hard to find. Safeway or Whole Foods carry them.) Set them on a dry, hot frying pan and turn them occasionally, until their skins blacken. Drop them into a plastic bag for a few minutes; they’ll be easier to peel. After you do, open them, de-vein them, and take out all the seeds. I suggest you embark on this process with gloves on, unless you need further motivation to just let go and wail.

Chop one whole onion. Put it into a frying pan with a bit of oil in it and sauté until soft. Take 450 grams of cooked black beans, spoon them into the onion mixture and mash them as they get warm. Add a can of diced, unsalted tomatoes. Mash some more. Then sprinkle with salt and a pinch of oregano.

With your hands, stuff the bean mixture into the chiles until they’re nice and fat; then, line them up in a pre-greased oven dish with a cup of evenly distributed cotija cheese crumbled on top. If you want, you can add a bit of cream to the crumbled cheese so they glisten when you’re ready to serve them. 30 minutes in a 400-degree oven should do – keep in mind queso cotija is quite resilient and doesn’t ever melt.

If you open a couple of cold beers, you’re ready to sit back and serve a Mexican dinner. You know your secret ingredients. Fire, restraint, trust, and resilience, in honor of a valiant, generous team who I’m certain will win the next world cup, four years from today.

Salud por esa.


(Irresistible photo by Arne Müseler.)

Mi otro amor atávico

Yo creo que mi amor por ti fue parte de mi diseño original. Cuando me dibujaron el arco de los pies, el pelo rizado y la falta de paciencia, ahí fue cuando te marcaron en mis entrañas con una solución indeleble que a pesar de mis esfuerzos no puede borrarse. Sí, a veces quiero borrarte.

Sé que te acuerdas de mi. Sé por cierto que vivo en tus sueños de colores. Como tú, me pregunto si ya terminó nuestra historia, o si nos espera a los dos un destino resignado y circular, inevitable.

No te perdono esta visión atemporal que me dejaste, donde todo permanece idéntico a como lo dejé. Mis amigas de oro en casa de sus papás, mi recámara intacta con mi enciclopedia de mitología, mis ganas de no ir a la escuela. Mi mamá que me lleva de viaje a lugares de arena. Mi papá en su biblioteca y con una mano en la frente.

No es que me hayas dejado con miedo. Es que eres el misterio azul de lo que pude haber sido, lo que ya no tengo tiempo de ser. Es que me inculcaste todo un sistema de paranoia, perverso, que pasa de diminuto a todopoderoso sin dar a conocer el origen de esa fuerza que me recuerda al mar.

Me escapo a una casa de techos altos y muros blancos, y aunque veo a la luna por el tragaluz me arrastras de regreso a un mundo impenetrable y totalmente convincente - como la lógica de una pesadilla - donde cada incidente secreto toma el sentido de un mensaje divino, de un códice que solo podemos leer tú y yo. Nadie adivina lo que voy armando, este rompecabezas inevitable que es mi condena, donde selecciono cada detalle irresistible, lo modifico, hasta que el resultado expresa y confirma mi terrible hipótesis original.

Me dejaste con este hechizo, con un recuerdo de tardes largas y obscuras sin nada que hacer, con el sabor salado de placeres que jamás me dieron placer. Pérdidas amargas que tal vez sufrí, tal vez no, pero que se repiten, como un error del que no aprendo, como un eco vacío y sin poesía, infinito, como esos discos viejos que se rayaban.

Si me distraigo, si me alejo de mi sillón rojo y de la isla que cabe en mi cocina, así me siento porque no estás y porque fui yo la que se fue. Así me siento, con esta constante sensación de que las cosas se quedaran para siempre sin terminar. Con una vida en las manos bella, rica, afortunada, que sin aviso se vuelve ansiosa, rasgada, enredada.

He declarado con una autoridad que no siento, con una convicción falsa, pero absoluta, que vas a ser tú, mi amor, a ganar la copa del mundo. Porque si no soy yo a creer en ti con fe ciega, quién? Quien más lleva a México como una cicatriz, una cicatriz diseñada en el corazón con aquella tinta maldita?

....Culeeeeeeeero!

World Cup 2006. Mexico plays for the first time on Sunday. What do you need to watch this game like a Mexican?

Responses vary, of course (post yours on the comment section). This Mexican recommends you arm yourself with:

1. A Mexican breakfast (or brunch, depending on time zone). Chilaquiles, black beans, and fresh squeezed orange juice.
2. Cold Mexican beer. Some might argue it's too early for beer, but not anyone I know.
3. A soccer blog where you can be opinionated.
4. The proper use of the expression "culero" (spelled c-u-l-e-r-o but pronounced "culeeeeeero".)

1. A Mexican breakfast.
Chilaquiles are easy. You take tortillas and either bake or fry them - or let them harden on the open fire. Then, break them up and place them into good green salsa. They'll absorb it and become soft - if done well, the edges will be slightly crunchy. Add a dollop of cream on top, a sprinkle of chopped cilantro, and dry chile pasilla flakes.

Black beans. (Mmmmm. This is my answer to "what would you take to a desert island?") You can soak them overnight, then cook them in a pressure cooker, adding salt and a laurel leaf to the water. Or, you could buy them canned, rinse them and heat them up with a large spoonful of fresh salsa.

2. Cold Mexican beer.
I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking (my father says he doesn’t know where he went wrong.) I will drink half a beer, though. I recommend Corona, Dos Equis, or (my favorite) Bohemia, icy with a good squeeze of lemon. (Yes. Mexicans do add lemon to everything.)

3. A good soccer blog. I'm biased, but think the best one ever to grace the Internet is this one.

4. Now, for "culero". First of all, make no mistake. It's a swear word. Do not use in front of Mexican in-laws (unless you're watching a soccer game with them.) Let's skip the etymology and jump right into how to insert it into the appropriate context.

When I was in my teens, I went with a group of friends to Teotihuacan, to witness the marvel that is a solar eclipse from the top of the pyramid of the Sun. It was a mob scene. We all stood there at the appointed time, looking up (but not directly at it). The moon, as expected, slowly slid over the sun, blocking its rays. It turned dark. The temperature dropped. A wave of awed, reverential silence came over the crowd.

Two minutes later, a thick cloud moved over both the sun and the moon, effectively putting a damper on the experience. What happened next seemed choreographed. In unison, everyone erupted into "culeeeeeeeero! Culeeeeeeeero!"

"Culero" is like you telling someone "you suck!"; except "you suck" is active judgment, an accusation, and you, the accuser, are invested in it. Culero is passive. The person saying it makes a general – never direct - vaguely appreciative exclamation that implies detachment. "You suck" comes from the gut. "Culero" comes from the shoulders, like a shrug.

When you are faced with something you don't understand or disagree with, you could exclaim "whatever!" or even "whatEVER!" but "whatever" tries too hard to not care. It's deliberate attitude. Culero is in fact discerning, but void of resentment or indignation. It is the absence of hostility. It carries no conviction. It sneers without affectation. It is apathetic, yet celebratory. It's a very clear "I can do better than you", without a trace of superiority. Passionate indifference. It teases, but it's not cruel. "Culero" is the mark of my people.

To say it right you do so by slightly turning up the corner of your lip, as if you were holding back a smile. Then you throw your head back just a touch, and ever so gently, conspiratorially, elbow the person next to you.

Now you're ready. You have a calculated chilaquiles/beans ratio. You're gripping your beer by the neck of the bottle so your hand doesn't alter its temperature. Your computer - with a wireless connection - sits on your lap, and you in turn sit in front of the television. If a referee makes an unfair call, if the other team displays too fancy footwork, or (God forbid) scores, if anyone seems to be gloating, you know exactly the word you’re looking for to use in the comment section of that excellent soccer blog.