Not this time

I know. The Holidays are upon you, and you’re feeling you have more things to do than time to do them. Right? And you tell yourself that this is the opposite of the point. The point is to be on a holiday, to have time to think, take stock, carefully pick a New Year resolution.

So I told myself: not this year.

In a frenzy that began about two months ago, I made a list of Little Things That Don’t Get Done Until You Put Them Down In Writing; and then went methodically through it. We changed the outdoor sconces, replaced a couple of light bulbs, re-touched the paint in the house. We re-landscaped our overgrown, jungle-like front yard. We had the windows cleaned. We went through our closets, weeding out things we didn’t use throughout the year.

I then reviewed what I had in my pantry and bought the missing ingredients that would turn these random items into actual meals; cooked several dishes and froze them. Then, I restocked the pantry and the fridge with new things. (Yes. I do worry that all my labels face in the same direction, like the demented bad guy in “Sleeping with the Enemy.”)

I went out, bought all our holiday gifts and wrapped them. We ordered our cards, and then requested my friends send me their updated addresses and created labels, which I printed.

Last week, I suggested to Luca that we fast in Thanksgiving, in a gesture of gratefulness and self sacrifice that seems more congruous to me than giving thanks while eating too much. Luca, who until now was putting up with my maniacal obsessive behavior, drew the line. He wants turkey and chocolate coffee pecan pie, thank you very much.

So I shuffled over to my desk to scrutinize my calendar and my “to do” notebook, to figure out what else I could possibly do to get ahead of the elusive curve.

That’s when it hit me.

I’m getting ready for tragedy to strike. It did on January 15, 2006, when Luca had a heart attack, and I was caught completely unprepared. I never want to be that naïve again. It was like being shot in the back.

Is it at all possible to have a plan for whatever life has in store for us? Can we ever truly be ready? Can seven hundred lists make one hoot of a difference?

No.

Well, at least if something unexpected happens, maybe our Holiday cards will be delivered by then. And if you drop in for a surprise visit, there is fantastic Minestrone in the freezer.

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.

I am not alone

My Godmother used to order raisin bread and then pluck out all the raisins, piling them high on the farthest possible corner of her breakfast plate. When people asked why she didn’t just order ordinary bread, she'd just smile and shake her head.

If a dish involves more than a single ingredient, my friend Andy won't eat it unless everything is evenly chopped into very small pieces.

Sam doesn't like "crunchy and soft". Chocolate chip cookies, for example, need to be nut free.

I have never, ever heard my mom order something right off the menu. She needs to make complex adjustments to every dish. Her husband, Tomas, orders fish al ajillo (meaning “with garlic and chile guajillo”) without the garlic – comparable to ordering a ham and cheese sandwich without the ham (which, much like my Godmother’s raisin bread, would beg the question – why don’t you just order a cheese sandwich?)

With the possible exception of my angel-like husband, who is annoyingly close to perfection, we all have our quirks (and, yes. Some of us are quirkier than others. For proof, feel free to read “Stuck with me”.) Don’t even get me started on my ultra idiosyncratic father, whom I suspect to be the root of possibly more than 50% of my own higher-than-average peculiarity.

Do you have an endearing (or annoying, depending on who you ask) food related eccentricity? Does your significant other have one? Come on. Do tell. I know a certain someone who organizes her spice rack in alphabetical order… you know who you are. Come on out and celebrate what makes you be exactly who you are!

Scary

You have never truly experienced Halloween if you don’t live in Montara.

I drove around the Bay Area today, from The Coast to Mountain View to San Francisco. And, sure, I saw a fair number of goblins, wizards and Harry Potters. But, the last day of October doesn’t really start until I get home and run inside to open the door to the first Trick-or- Treaters.

To prepare for the evening, we bought four fifty piece bags of fun size mini M&M packs, and four three and a half pound bags of Tootsie Favorites. I distributed all the loot evenly in 5 big bowls and then asked each kid to take one piece. Sure, some pick more than one – and one or two grab a handful. But, still. That’s around five hundred kids who all ring the doorbell between 6:30 p.m. and 9:00 p.m.

I saw skeletons, bloody knives, dragons, severed hands, medusas, unicorns, ladybugs and lions. Darth Vaders, soldiers, mummies and robots. A princess, a man without a head, firemen, a garbage can, a pink cheetah and a kangaroo. (The scariest part of the day was hands down reading the ingredients in a tootsie roll.)

And, just how much candy did I eat today, considering I have been exposed to buckets of a huge variety of treats? How many, having attended four meetings where chocolate was placed in heaps at the center of the table? What were the consequences of spending the past three hours doling out the goods myself? And, what was my behavior when parents of these hoards of kids made chocolate chip cookies and offered them in gratitude to those of us who stock up so their kids can have a good Halloween experience?

I didn’t have a single piece. None. And when I got hungry, I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea.

Pretty scary, huh?

Easy

Two interesting things have happened to me in the past month or so. What makes them most interesting (to me, anyway) is how they did not require much effort.

The first: I don’t drink coffee anymore. I used to drink a cup a day, in the morning (short nonfat latte), and then it escalated into a second cup after lunch (espresso macchiato). I’m extremely sensitive to caffeine; so going from needing one to needing two and the subsequent feeling of going directly from lethargic to bouncing off the walls subtly signaled to me that I needed to stop. I tried, dealt with withdrawal headaches, crawled back. Then, about a month ago, I had to travel around and was really busy at work and stopping to get coffee and standing in line at Starbucks was just not convenient, and it sort of happened. I’ve switched to tea.

For the past four weeks, I’ve been drinking two cups in the morning (usually green tea, one at breakfast, the other midmorning) and two after lunch (with no caffeine). I’ve had a total of three cups of coffee in a month’s time and have not once felt that “aaaaaaah” release I reveled in when trying to quench the squeezing headache abstaining used to give me.

I’m free.

I don’t know if I’ll eventually slide back into the steamy, fragrant black depths of being a coffee drinker but I’m amazed at how it went from being a nearly impossible feat to an almost accidental one. (I’m sure there is a life lesson in here somewhere.)

The second: for the first time in my life, I have drastically reduced my considerable sugar intake in a sustained manner. I have an (formerly) irrepressible sweet tooth and am used to having some type of dessert every day after every meal (and am no stranger to snacking through the afternoon). Here again, in the middle of being distracted, I just never stopped to look for whatever would feed the craving. Then I suddenly realized I felt so much better: less hungry. I guess what they say about not letting your sugar levels spike is really true. One thing is to read it, the other to live it. (Yet another life lesson lurking here.)

This luxuriously smooth, glossy feeling of not being ravenous mid afternoon has made me strive to not go back to my churning, serrated, sugar-loving ways. For example: the last three times that Luca stocked up on the ultra dark chocolate he consumes while he watches soccer, he’s asked me if I wanted my usual ration of milk chocolate, and I declined. (And, he didn’t look at me in shock, which is in itself quite interesting. I mean, what if someone tries to impersonate me one day? He’d never notice!)

I know enough to realize these series of remarkable incidents might very well be fleeting. But for now, without caffeine and without sugar I am feeling pretty even keeled. Even keeled is good. I think I’ll hang on to it.

Pedro is getting married

Wow. My brother Pedro is getting married.

This statement is incredible to me (literally) since somewhere in my subconscious I still think he’s eight years old. His true age is more like 29 – almost 30. (When in the world did that happen?)

In my defense, I’ve never met the incredibly fortunate woman he’s going to marry, so it’s not like I was eased into this news.

The exhilarating announcement of his impending nuptials filled me first with a benevolent sense of shock (“But, you’re a BABY!” is what passed through my head, but fortunately I didn’t say it out loud) and then with pure delight. He sounded so happy (and perhaps secretly pleased that he had made my jaw drop.)

When he was just a boy, he became the first (and possibly only) person I’ve ever seen win an argument against my father, who is a professional arguer. Not because Pedro was louder or more assertive but because he tends to make unequivocal sense. He has a sharp intellect, a goofy sense of humor and a big heart. (Which he’s given away! Oh. My. God.)

Pedro is a terrific writer. One Christmas, declaring he had no money, he wrote for each of us a priceless poem. He read every one out loud over dinner and reduced us all to tears, a trait he inherited from my father but then claimed as his own with that unique gentleness and appalling, exposing sense of insight.

For inexplicable and varied reasons every member of my family is convinced they are fluent in Italian. Pedro is the one who comes closest to this actually being true. He calls Luca fratello (brother) and Luca really sees him as one.

I believe Pedro is, of my entire family, the one who has spent the most time in school. My little brother is an academic, with a Masters Degree from the London School of Economics. Listening to him talk about politics or the environment renews your hope for the future of this world.

I know that Lorena is an extraordinary woman, because my brother wants to marry her. I’ve never met her, but I already love her like a sorella.

Welcome to the family, Lorena Zapata.

Perplexed

I’m swimming laps, back and forth, back and forth. I stop sometimes to adjust my goggles, stretch, catch my breath and lean against the far side of the pool. I see a man and a boy about twelve enter the pool area. From the way they walk, their shoulders close together, heads turned in, I know they’re in this alone. They are foreigners.

The man walks his boy to the edge. The boy, keeping his eyes down, gets in using the ladder (I half expected a cannonball). We end up sharing the lane. He’s small and skinny and ultra careful not to graze me as we cross paths again and again. He’s a good, disciplined swimmer, has nice, even strokes. He doesn’t play with the stream of bubbles his body makes as it cuts through the water, nor does he do summersaults or back flips between laps. His body language seems too clipped – un-expansive - to belong to someone so small.

A (very) pregnant woman arrives, adjusts her swim cap, pulls at the bathing suit already tugging tight across her belly, studies the people who now populate every lane. Despite my superpower mental message (not here not here not here not here) she leans over and asks if she can share our lane. I make an effort to sound inviting because she’s going to come in anyway, so why make her feel uncomfortable?

“We can swim in circles,” she suggests. Her tone is easy. “It’s three of us, so back and forth is not going to work”. I nod and reach the boy. I touch him lightly on the shoulder. He stops, whips up, looks at me with wide eyes. “Let’s swim in circles -” I start. He stares. I realize he does not understand me.

His father swims up beside him. “Yes? Can I help you?” his accent is heavy, but his English is crisp. He speaks it well.

“We need to swim in circles so she - ” I point, “can join us”.

The man turns to the boy. “Swim in circles” he says to his son. But he does not switch to their language, does not even signal with his arms. He continues, still in English, arms at his sides. “Don’t swim back and forth on the same lane”. He swims away.

I look at the boy. The boy does not look at me. I want to help, but I don’t know how. I swim, making the circles as wide as I can, willing him to catch on.