Christmas Tamales and a Naughty Chihuahua

Christmas Tamales and a Naughty Chihuahua

Making tamales right before Christmas is a holiday tradition in the Mexican world.  I’ve been making these husk-enclosed treasures for the past quarter century, and have been consuming them for the past FIFTY YEARS.  That’s a lot of masa.  I probably started helping my father make them when I was a teenager, but I don’t really remember.  It has always been a part of my life and is one of the precious few ties I have to the Mexican half of my heritage.

The tamales of my youth were made with shredded beef—tamales de carne de vaca.  My father made a few sweet ones también, adding sugar and raisins to the masa.  These were identified by wrapping a thin strip of corn husk around the tamale and tying it in a bow.  This allowed the sweet ones to be singled out of the massive population of plump tamales we produced and crowded into the steamer.

When tamales became part of my own nuclear family tradition, Lori made some innovations.  The first were the “vegetarian tamales,” stuffed with cheese and poblano chilies instead of meat.  Of course Dad’s sweet varieties were also vegetarian (vegan, in fact), but their main attraction to us niños was that they were sweet, not meatless.  Lori’s second alteration was to change the recipe from beef to pork.  We now use pork shoulder, and the results are muy delisiosos.  Finally, Lori’s most clever change had to do with our production line.  Part of the fun of this tradition is the “assembly line” mode of production.  One family member separates the soaking corn husks from a tray of cold water, the next persons applies masa to the husk and passes it on.  The third person places a dollop of seasoned meat in the center and wraps it up, and the final person situates them upright in the steamer pan. 

Traditionally, we smeared the masa onto the corn husk with a spatula.  In this way, our assembly line was uneven.  The jobs are individually quite simple, but this slow method of applying masa caused a back-up at family member número dos (picture the I Love Lucy candy wrapping on the assembly line episode.)  One year Lori had an epiphany.  Instead of struggling to plaster on the masa like some corn-based fresco food art, why not use a tortilla press?  It works like a charm.  Set a small sheet of wax paper against each face of the press, place a ball of rolled up masa in the middle, and then crank the press down.  When you open it up, you have a perfect disc of masa, ready for the corn husk.  Our assembly line is now much more quick and efficient, and Lori La Güera has a true story of how her Nordic ingenuity improved on my simple Latino labors.  She has told this story many many times.

Making tamales has its rewards and problems.  One of the problemas stems from the fact that the meat used is so delisioso that it attracts the unwanted attention of sniffing opportunists.  Remember Skippy from a previous blog?  Well, three years ago he got under the table as we prepared to start the assembly line—quietly watching and sniffing like a jackal out on the periphery of a lion kill.  He’s such a ubiquitous presence that we didn’t even notice him.  Everything was on the table; the masa, the corn husks, the steamer, and…the MEAT.  Anyway, something happened outside (snow falling?) and we had to leave for a few minutes.  Now, you’ve heard that cats have nine lives ¿verdad?  Have you heard the one about dogs having three chances?  Like the “three strikes” law, dogs should be allowed three big mistakes before being sent packing.  Skippy’s first chance was getting hit by a car and costing me hundreds of dollars.  The ordeal can be read about here in a meandering essay from an old blog (my drawing is worth a look, however.)  Skippy’s second chance took place on that Christmas of three years ago.

We came back to the dining room and stopped short in our tracks, shocked at what we beheld.  There on the table, I repeat: ON TOP of the table, was our Skippy, face buried in the bowl of tamale meat wolfing down mouthful after mouthful of too-good-for-a-dog carne.  At first we were too shocked to say anything.  But Skippy heard us and sheepishly turned his round little head in our direction. Dogs lack the same range of facial expressions as, say, a chimpanzee.  But there are a few signs of body language that are easy to spot: ears pressed back against the head to diminish size and therefore express submissiveness; eyes opened wide to gather information of potentially harmful situations; posture arched and head bowed to further the reduction in body size and reinforce submissiveness.

Skippy’s body language said it all.  If he could speak, he would have stammered something like “I know I am doing a bad thing. I could not help myself because I am a carnivore, and the aroma of the meat was too tempting.  I expect to be punished now, Master.”  Shouting must have followed, scrambling for cover, perhaps a swat or three, yelping. All I really remember is what Skippy looked like when he adopted his “I am as submissive as possible” belly-up position.  He is normally a trim little canine with an impressively thin waist.  But so greedy were his gulps of tamale meat that he was actually distended, gorged to the point of visibly changing his physique.  I’ve never seen him like that again, and hope there’s no repeat performance.  That would, sin duda, be the unforgiveable third strike.

Zafiro Añejo

Zafiro Añejo

I don’t watch a whole lot of television, but have, like millions of other clean and sober Americans, become severely addicted to Breaking Bad, the popular series about a chemistry teacher who turns to making methamphetamine when he learns he has lung cancer. All it took was one euphoric episode. Actually, I held off for several seasons before the peer pressure got to me. Knowing that the main character was a chemistry teacher, I was naturally interested in how a brother science teacher would be portrayed. But as I quickly learned, his role as a teacher became progressively irrelevant to the storyline. Part of the purpose of the Walter White character even being a teacher, I think, was to provide an unsettling juxtaposition of identities: a role model who works with our children and a manufacturer of an illicit soul-stealing blight of society all rolled up in a cancer-suffering puzzle of a man.

               

Aside from that, I found that watching BB had the nice little side benefit of having some Spanish in the script. The setting, Albuquerque, New Mexico, and the fact that producing and selling meth puts one in the same arena as Mexican drug cartels, provides for occasional Spanish dialogue. Probably the two episodes with the most español are Hermanos and Salud, both from the fourth season. At this moment I feel obliged to announce SPOILER ALERT if you, by some milagro, have not yet watched BB.

Both of these episodes focus on the character of Gustavo “Gus” Fring.  For the uninitiated, Gustavo is a very charismatic bad guy—someone who shamelessly provides the poison of meth to a growing population of human refuse, but does so with such professionalism and such exquisite manners that it’s hard not to admire him to some degree (guilty pleasure # 32: grudging admiration for fictitious and murderous drug lord.) Gustavo is played by the American actor Giancarlo Esposito.  Esposito was born in Denmark to an Italian father and an African American mother while in BB he plays a mixed-race Chilean who runs a Mexican fast-food restaurant.  He’s a champion of cultural and ethnic diversity whether he’s selling you meth or pollo asado.

In Hermanos, Gus witnesses the close-up murder of his close associate (“close” in both a professional way, and in an ambiguous way that has led to much online speculation.) This occurs in a flashback from 20 years in the past and provides us viewers with a little insight into Gus’ motivations.  It also sets up the action for the Salud episode, when Gustavo makes a vengeful revisit to the Juárez Cartel.  For those who want to know the full details, watch the Fourth Season of Breaking Bad, or read the fan-page Breaking Bad Wiki. Here’s the website:  http://breakingbad.wikia.com/wiki/Zafiro_A%C3%B1ejo 

Suffice it to say that Salud brings Gustavo back to Mexico is to have a fateful meeting with fellow drug kingpin Don Eladio, for the culmination of a blood feud that was established in the Hermanos episode. The real drama starts at the 34 minute mark, when Gustavo stands by the pool in the same spot where his associate (played by James Martinez) was killed.  He opens a small pill box and takes a couple of tablets that we, later in the episode, surmise to be some sort of antidote (activated charcoal?)  When Don Eladio and his entourage of well-fed henchmen enter the scene we learn what Gustavo’s weapon of choice is.  A box with a ribbon on it rests on a nearby patio table, catching Eladio’s attention. ¿Un regalo? he asks.  He lifts an ornate bottle out of the box and spouts with admiration “Incluso la botella es una obra de arte.”

In one of the cleverest sequences I’ve ever seen, Gus uses the contents of that bottle to poison the entire cartel, reducing his competition and exacting his revenge in less than ten minutes.  It was one of those scenes I had to re-watch several times. The bottle was a liter-sized container of a fictitious tequila called zafiro añejo. Efforts were made by the producers to have some actual product placement with a real brand, but once the tequila companies learned the scene would involve imbibers dropping like moscas, they declined.  It was decided to create a BB original brand, inspired by the rare and terribly expensive 140 year old cognac called Hardy Perfection Fire.

Getting back to Spanish, more relevant to this blog than drug lords or tequila, let me reiterate that it was enjoyable to encounter its occasional use in this series.  Sometimes the phrases are spoken slowly and deliberately, as when the Mafioso-like Eladio intones “los negocios son los negocios.”  At other times, the actors are demonstrably native speakers, as when the articulate Martinez rapidly fires his lines.  Gustavo is supposed to be Chilean (although “Fring” isn’t exactly a Latin apellido.)  He does pretty well with his Spanish, though it’s obvious he is acting and experiencing some difficulty.  Then again, he’s challenged to do Spanish with a Chilean accent, so that’s perhaps another reason it sounds odd.  I’m sure I couldn’t have done any better, so I won’t criticize the actor any further.

So now, having finished all that NetFlix® has to offer at the moment, I wait with baited breath for the final eight episodes to become available.

Your Perro pooped on our Césped

Perro pooped on our Césped

The time has come to introduce Skippy. He’s reclining with his back against my thigh as I sit on the couch typing this. Yes, Skippy is the family perro, a long-haired Chihuahua. He’s of the deer-face variety, a much more handsome animal than the apple-head breed—the freaky little shivering wimps typically portrayed in entertainment venues such as the Ren and Stimpy cartoons. That’s my personal opinion, por supuesto, but I bet most real hombres would agree. 

Both varieties of Chihuahuas, however, share the characteristic lightbulb round forehead. This is a textbook example of neoteny—the retention of physical or behavioral traits reminiscent of infancy. In the case of the selective breeding of domestic dogs, neoteny shouts out from the large round forehead, bulging eyes, and reduced snout of the Chihuahua—all bringing this descendent of a timber wolf closer, in appearance, to a human bebé. These qualities, along with a constant need for contact and affection, allow Chihuahuas to fill the void felt by nurturing ladies bereft of actual children. Happy and spoiled is the Chihuahua owned by such a woman. Sigh.

Anyway, it wasn’t my idea to get a dog, much less a wee parody of a dog that demonstrates the humorous side of artificial selection.  And this is ironic because Skippy has adopted me as his human of choice. When I come home and plop down, he is immediately on my lap. And I’ve begrudgingly grown fond of him, and not just to connect to my heritage through Mexico’s famous dog. Yes, Chihuahuas truly are from the state of Chihuahua. In fact, as a child I thought they were a species of wild animal caught in the Mexican desert, like a kit fox or a jackalope.

So one day, about six years ago, I came home from work and there he was, purchased off of Craigslist-Seattle by my wife and daughter sin permisso. For years I maintained, as the hombre of the house, that I didn’t want a dog— not even a cute Mexican one with a diminutive body that entices rodent-hunting owls to swoop closely overhead  (true story.) I just didn’t need another pet, even if his ancestors once warmed the laps of Mayan royalty.

But Lori La Guëra was trying to do something special for our daughter Summerlyn.  As a young teen, Summerlyn really wanted a Chihuahua. Not because she was trying to connect to her one quarter Latina heritage, but because high-profile celebrities were making tiny dogs quite appealing, like little canine accessories. Paris Hilton had Tinkerbell, Britney Spears had BitBit, Hilary Duff had Chiquita, and by golly, Summerlyn was going to have…Skippy. $400 later and our family grew by one undeniably cute young Chihuahua.

Within a year it became apparent that Skippy was an alpha male—or so he thinks. Whenever he’s on a walk, he asserts his dominance over any dog that listens. GUAU GUAU! But he reserves most of his verbal venom for Hunter, the big German shepherd across the street. Owned by a family of Mexicanos, he is black and massive and apparently understands Spanish. I have heard Regino, the hombre of the house, bark orders (sic) at him in Spanish and Hunter dutifully complies. Regino speaks English perfectly, but his wife Alicia does not. Her English is as bad as my Spanish, so she and I can only communicate on a perfunctory level.

Anyway, Hunter spends his days behind a sturdy wood fence. Whenever Skippy gets loose in the front yard, he immediately charges across the street and barks through the bottom of the fence at Hunter, who is maybe twenty times more massive, but is safely confined. Their shouting match exudes great enthusiasm on both sides, and after a few seconds Skippy proudly strides back home with his chest puffed out. The neighbors, thankfully, don’t seem to mind at all.

The only problem with doggy communication is that it is sometimes accompanied with the exchange of bodily excretions. Often when Skippy finishes his barking performance, he accents it by raising a hind leg and anointing the neighbors’ grass with his urine. This is undoubtedly enraging to Hunter who can smell the puny interloper’s deposit. “How dare that little runt to mark his territory on my turf,” he thinks. What’s worse is that dogs, when possible, leave feces rather than urine. I have witnessed Skippy squat in sight of Hunter for just that reason. It’s usually followed by a gesture whereby Skippy kicks his hind legs forcefully behind him, scratching up fragments of grass to rain down on his droppings.

All this is turf war using chemical tools we short-muzzled humans just don’t get. Scent glands near the anus add chemical signals to the doggy poop that are meaningful in a canine sort of way. Glands are also present in the paws, so when Skippy scratches grass behind him in that insulting manner, he’s releasing pheromones into the area that proclaim his presence. These are identification markers, attempts at social dominance.

Fortunately our neighbors are better at keeping their perro where it belongs than we are. But once in a while Hunter does get out. When he does, he understandably rushes to give Skippy a taste of his own medicine. I don’t mind—Skippy deserves it. The only problem is that if Hunter decides to leave a solid calling card in the yard, his deposits are pretty much as big as Skippy himself. This happened the other day, and luckily I saw the land mine before anyone stepped in it. Regino told me that if Hunter ever does this to let him know—a neighborly gesture I appreciate—but as I gazed across the street I could tell he wasn’t home. I could see Alicia, along with Regino’s padres who were visiting from the old country, so I knew that if I were to go over there I would have to communicate in Spanish.

But how do you say “your dog pooped on our lawn”? I decided to march over before I chickened out and just say the first thing that popped into my little Pocho cabeza. I started with a Buenos días to the anciano, to which he replied in kind. This was followed by a “¿Regino no está aqui?” (to which I already knew the answer.) The old man responded with a sentence I didn’t really understand. And then I delivered the finale to Alicia, “su perro usó nuestro césped como un baño.”  Everyone laughed, and that’s always a relief. Alicia came over with plastic bags on her hands saying “where’s the poopy”, an cross-lingual effort as glorious as my own. Amazing how a little doggy doo can be the catalyst of both foreign language practice and neighborly communication. 

El Rey de las Llantas

El Rey de las Llantas

Can’t remember what movie it was, but I recall a scene in some action flick where the main character drives south of the border while his radio blares out a jingle for “El Rey de las Llantas!” He ends up conducting business with some shady character, the author of said radio commercial, who is using his tire business as a front. Despite the shortcomings of this character (whoever he was), his radio commercial must have been quite effective—it’s the only thing I remember about this película.      

It came back to me the other day after a little ordeal with my car. One evening I noticed a slow leak in my driver side rear tire, so I grabbed our bicycle pump, filled up the tire, and placed the pump in the back seat.  Yes, I confess, I’m that guy that walks two miles through downtown Seattle to avoid a $5.00 parking fee, or who uses a bike pump on a car tire rather than spend a dollar for compressed air at the gas station. I view such instances not only as moments of frugality, but as exercise opportunities as well. Last summer I literally dragged a suitcase five miles through Anchorage partly to avoid a taxi fare.

Anyway, two days later I came out to my car after work to find the tire completamente desinflado. It was time to take it in. As suspected, there was a tiny nail impaled into my relatively new tire. This diagnosis occurred at the same tire vender where I bought it three months prior. I won’t reveal the identity of this franchise, but let’s just say they’re named after a rather large vowel. They claimed they couldn’t legally fix it since it was near a corner and that the patch could fall off. Regulations prevented them from repairing a puncture that was either on a sidewall or near a shoulder.

As a result of these strict guidelines, they could only sell me a brand new tire. The tiny hissing hole rendered the still young tire, with all its sexy deep tread, unfixable. It seemed extraordinarily wasteful. It reminded me of an old Mad magazine satire about dishonest mechanics where the greasy shyster says “your spark plug wire was unfixable so we had to replace the engine.” They showed me the only matching llanta in the shop which, after taxes and insulation, would cost $100.  I said “no gracias” and decided to keep my bicycle pump handy until I found a better deal.

The next day I took my wife’s minivan to work as she took my car to various tire merchants to inquire about either fixing or replacing it for a more reasonable cost. Every store she went to recited the same mantra about regulations preventing them from repairing a puncture too close to the corner. She went from store to store until finally Lori la guëra ended up in the Mexican part of town.

To hear her tell the tale is hilarious because Lori speaks little Spanish, and she does a funny version of a Mexican accent when she attempts to imitate someone with a Latino speech pattern. From what I gather, Lori asked the guy (I’ll call him Raymundo) if he could fix my tire. He replied “chure, I feex them alla’ time.” She asked him if he was worried about regulations to which Raymundo said “pfft, regulations. You theenk my costumers care?” I could almost hear him saying “Badges? We don’t need no steenkin’ badges.” Raymundo was a model of practicality, unencumbered by the trámites burocráticos of the larger American society. Why waste a new tire for such a tiny, and truly fixable, problem? We were both very thankful.  The cost?  Ten bucks.  No receipt.

Raymundo is, in my humble opinion, El Rey de las Llantas!


Palabras Profundas

llantas: tires
trámites burocráticos : bureaucratic paperwork ("red tape")


Linkos

There really is a Mexican tire company with the name "Rey de las Llantas"
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ButrdVLwZRo

Say ADIÓS to the Summer

Say ADIÓS to the Summer

As another summer comes to a close, we in the Pacific Northwest are painfully aware that it's time to say goodbye to our life-giving globe of warmth and light. This inspired me to republish a review I once wrote of a children's book called: 

La Lagartija y el Sol (the Lizard and the Sun)

By Alma Flor Ada 

Illustrated by Felipe Dávalos

This beautifully illustrated children’s book delivers a Mexican folktale in English and in Spanish.  The story takes place in the pre-colonial days of the Aztec empire.  It begins with a crisis: El sol no salía y todo estaba en tinieblas.  It’s not really explained why the sun doesn’t want to wake up (he’s bored with his job?), but all of Monteczuma’s  horses and all Monteczuma’s men couldn’t get a rise out of ‘ol Sol.  Actually there were no horses in Mesoamerica in those days, but el emperadodoes employ a woodpecker with a rock-hard beak and a tenacious little emerald lizard to help resurrect the sun and end the darkness.  I won’t give away their trick, but I will say the book ends (spoiler alert) like a Rudyard Kipling “just so” story—Y desde ese día, a todas las lagartijas les encanta dormir al sol—which explains why it is that lizards love to bask in the sun (of course, we could consider reptilian ectothermy, but that would diminish the story’s charm.)

The colorful paintings of this book are very captivating.  They are based on the Aztec style of picture writing, the 2D glyphs seen on ancient ceramic vessels and ritual codices painted on deer skin.  I first saw these stylistic images, where all the figures are seemingly drawn in profile, in my sixth grade history book.  Growing up in Southern California, we learned an appreciable amount about Mexican history.  I recall the Aztec soldiers in jaguar and eagle suits wielding their ornate battle clubs bravely, but futilely, against the firepower of the Conquistadores.  I’ve since seen the stylistic art of the Aztecs in countless Mexican restaurantes, especially the famous Aztec calendar stone (that amazing disk-shaped sculpture comprised of a series of intricately detailed concentric rings that draw your attention to the sun god Tonatiuh, who sticks his tongue out at you from the center.*) But the paintings of this book are rendered in a fully 3D fashion, as if Quetzalcoatl pulled his creations out from the world of flat glyphs and into the 3D world.

There are floating chinampas, oversized headdresses, plazas and pyramids, and authentically gargantuan ear piercings (but no obsidian lip plugs thankfully).  And despite the focus on an Aztec style, a little Diego Rivera influence makes its way into the art—making it a truly Mexican production.

*Actually, what appears to simply be a tongue dangling from the god's mouth is an obsidian knife--a reminder of the god's thirst for human sacrifice. I thought I'd leave that little detail out of a children's book review.

Palabras Profundas

resplandecer – to glow

resplandeciente - glowing

trono – thorn

descubrimiento – discovery

pájaro carpintero – woodpecker

despiértate – wake up!

florecer– to bloom

alumbrar – to light up

Linkos

http://almaflorada.com/the-lizard-and-the-sun-la-lagartija-y-el-sol/

If you're a fan of wonderful Mexican art (mucho más mejor que mío), then check out:

http://felipedavalos.com/

¡AH! La Serpiente se Escapó

¡AH!  La Serpiente se Escapó

Part of my high school Spanish experience required the listening to and repeating of dialogues performed by enthusiastic, if goofy-sounding, actores. Usually we considered them to be a little corny. I remember part of one in particular, where a concerned mom (la Señora Gómez) wonders what her little boy is carrying in a bag. The 40 second exchange ends with:

Sra. Gomez: ¿Qué tienes en esa bolsa?

Roberto: Una culebra.

Sra. Gomez: (GASPS loudly)

Roberta: ¿Por qué haces esa cara mamá?

Of course, the attempted humor of this dialogue is based on what is, unfortunately, a pervasive and seemingly instinctual fear of snakes. It’s the same sentiment that allowed Indiana Jones to growl “I hate snakes” without creating much of a social backlash (imagine if he said “I hate dogs” and then doused a room full of cute puppies with gasoline before sending them to a fiery end.)  Last week I got to see this fear put into action in a big way.

My classroom is the biology class with all the critters. I have two little tortugas (red-eared sliders to be precise) named Pedro and Rosadelia, two fancy-tailed goldfish that belonged to my son until he lost interest in them, a golden axolotl (a strange salamander naturally found in only two lakes in Mexico) and, up until four days ago, a ball python named Hamilton. Unfortunately, my three foot long snake decided to test his boundaries and successfully pushed his way out of his tank. Apparently the screen cover was no longer heavy enough to resist him.

When students and I discovered that he was missing, I felt obligated to tell the other teachers on my floor. There was a slim possibility (pardon the pun) that he squeezed under a door and, in the middle of the night, entered a different classroom. My fear was that someone would discover a serpent under their chair and launch into an explosive panic. A few emails later word spread como un reguero de pólvora. By lunchtime I had two assistant principals, a security guard, the dean of students, and an animal control guy all in my room helping me search high and low. The atmosphere was a mix of giddiness and a nervous case of the willies. By the late afternoon, my cluttered room had been thoroughly inspected. I had even removed countertops to search in hidden spaces. Alas, Hamilton was nowhere to be found.

On the next day, my principal popped her head in and asked if I’d like to be interviewed for the news. I declined without hesitation. Nonetheless, by lunch time a news crew from Seattle’s channel 13 arrived to create a story. This was followed, an hour later, by two other news crews that simultaneously interrupted my 5^th period biology class. The cameraman roamed my room taking shots of stuffed specimens and live critters while my giddy pupils tried to get into the camera’s view. Others took cell phone pictures with the reporters they must have recognized from T.V. I still refused to go on camera and further embarrass myself. The whole thing was mortifying. Was this really a news-worthy event? And it wouldn’t end. Even an hour after school was out I got a surprise visit from a reporter of a local newspaper. It was truly a media circus.

I was embarrassed by my own potential negligence and felt exploited by the media. I told them I preferred to remain anonymous, and yet one reporter filmed his animated commentary right outside my door with my name plate clearly in view (and balancing out the rule of thirds as one observant student pointed out.) Students were accosted after school as they left the campus and were asked for comments. One of my kids told me her car was stopped as it was leaving the parking lot by a reporter darting in front of vehicles asking for students who had Mr. Robles.

By the end of the week I was emotionally exhausted. I couldn’t walk down a hall without having to field questions from concerned colleagues. A running email exchange throughout the school took a humorous life of its own. The story reached across the state and into Oregon and, as of this afternoon, a Google search for “python in Issaquah” brought up 25 separate news stories over the reach of five pages. All the while, my students are mystified as to why this made the news in the first place. It’s just a pet snake for crying out loud.

The best part of this story is this. After almost six days of worrying, searching, gossiping, and the whole media circus, I returned to my room after making copies at 6:20 in the evening and, lo and behold, guess who’s lying on the floor right inside my room.  That’s right, El Señor Hamilton. He had emerged from his hiding place, seemingly tired of the ordeal, and was waiting by the door like a faithful dog awaiting his master’s return. I could have kissed him. I settled for letting him wrap around my arm to absorb my mammalian warmth as we reclined in my teacher chair and reunited. I’ve never been so glad to see that stupid snake.

But here’s the kicker. Three television stations and over a dozen newspapers covered the story of Hamilton’s escape, addressing the incident with the same earnestness required of a true natural disaster. But now that he’s returned, how much news will that generate? What reporters will pop into my room to see Hamilton safe and sound?  Is good news newsworthy? 

Palabras profundas

La serpiente

La culebra

El pitón

Linkos

Here’s just a taste of the story:

http://www.king5.com/news/local/Pet-python-on-the-loose-inside-Issaquah-High-School-223558331.html

Do Mosquitoes prefer Mexican Food?

Do Mosquitoes prefer Mexican Food?

A little family joke we have is that “mosquitoes prefer Mexican food.” This came about over years of observable differences in the amount and the intensity of mosquito attacks that I would endure while my esposa smugly stood by seemingly invisible to the little blood suckers.

One instance painfully stands out in my memory. We had just moved to Washington from California, 25 years ago, and were exploring all the cool outdoorsy places in the vicinity (this was before niños.) While hiking in one of the many areas within Mount Rainier National Park, we came into a particular meadow that was swarming with mosquitoes—flimsy little brown kamikazes that instantly were attracted to me. This was before we knew the necessity of DEET in the Pacific Northwest. Unprepared to chemically fend off the cloud of parasites, we had no choice but to run, which we did for about a quarter mile. When we surveyed our bodies for damage, my skin was decorated with at least twelve little reddening bumps while Lori had…..ninguno! Why was she immune?  Or was I just all the more appealing? My wife, la güera, is of German descent, so we concurred that mosquitoes prefer chile verde to Sauerkraut, ja ja.

Last week, during the last vestiges of summer vacation, Lori called me out to the backyard patio one evening. The sun was setting, the air was pleasant, and she was having dinner at the patio table. I warned her that the mosquitoes were out, but she insisted I join her. Well, it was tolerable. She had an anti-bug candle burning, and nothing actually bit me. But I did get those annoying little buzzes right in my ear—the type that make you actually slap your ear. Meanwhile, Lori sat completely unbothered.

As a biologist I can’t help but wonder why mosquitoes are not universal in their preferences. Are there truly different chemical signals that people give off that make them more or less appealing?  Do these differences correspond to ethnic groups? Without wanting to get too serious about researching this topic, I turned to that relatively recent demigod of wisdom: YouTube. I found a funny little video, presented by BBC journalist James May, that illuminated reasons why mosquitos seek the sangre of some people more than others.

It turns out that blood type is one factor. People with Type O are up to 24% more attractive to mosquitoes than others. My mujer is Type A (in more ways than one, ja ja), and so when given the choice, the lovely little flying syringes gravitate towards me: the universal donor. 

Palabras Profundas

Mosquito

The name of our villain is itself a Latin derivative. Mosca is the Spanish word for “fly” (as in those pesky little flying insects), and “mosquito” is the diminutive form. It literally means “little gnat.” Not surprisingly, “mosquito” is an English/Spanish cognate.

Sangre

This lovely word means “blood.” And it’s related to sangria, one of my favorite drinks at Azteca®. The Latin root of this bloody word finds itself distributed throughout the English lexicon. Even in biology, the term “sanguivore” turns up—as a drinker of blood. That would include vampire bats, leeches, and those female (p***a) mosquitoes.

Linkos

This humorous and informative video by James May gives some scientific reasons as to why some people are more prone to getting bit by mosquitoes than others.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCzcIOQ9jMg

That Guy is Wearing my Camiseta

Have you ever experienced that phenomenon where you come across someone wearing the exact same shirt that you were?  It’s not that common.  I have occasionally seen someone wearing a shirt that I own, but it’s exceptionally rare to see someone wearing the same shirt at the same time (exceptions being super generic articles of clothing like denim work shirts or blank white T-shirts.)  I pride myself in being fairly individualistic, and would never adorn myself in a garment of universal commercialism nor slogan like JUST DO IT, or a red Michael Jordan jersey back in the day.

And so, one recent afternoon while surveying the beach at Coulon Park, I was a little surprised to see un paisano sporting my exact same gray and blue sleeveless workout shirt.  It was a sunny August day and I was looking over the crowded beach trying to spot Benji and his diminutive friend Chris amongst the many youngsters playing in the sand and surf.  

As I looked over la playa, I could hear Spanish being spoken behind me.  Not the refined Castilian of instructional CDs, but the rapid and often indecipherable (for me) speak of the campesino.  As I turned slightly, a fellow middle-aged hombre stepped into the sand in front of me, apparently also looking for one of his niños amongst the playful throng.  And lo and behold he was wearing my shirt.

So there we were, two brown-skinned padres side by side on the beach looking for our little ones and wearing the same exact shirts. We didn’t look like each other.  I’m 6 foot 4, and he was about 5 foot 8.  I’m lean, and he was paunchy (yes, I suffer from that condition where my body image is fixed on what I looked like 20 years ago and I occasionally am shocked when I see my reflection—“who’s that viejo in the mirror?”—but I’m still pretty well preserved.)  Bottom line: we would not have been confused for brothers whose mom made us wear the same outfit.

At this point, an opportunity for chit chat presented itself.  Had I been confident, I might have said something like “que buen camiseta tiene usted.”  If he were a standard Seattle white guy, I probably would have said something corny like “Hey, I like your taste in shirts” and we would have shared a chuckle.  But, sad to say, I’m still so darn shy when it comes to speaking Spanish to strangers.  I have the fear that they will assume I’m fluent and start yakking away, only to have me lost in the verbiage.  Qué lastima.

Palabras Profundas

Los Gemelos: 

The twins

Campesino: 

This term refers to the country/rural people of Mexico and other parts of Latin America. The understanding is that they represent a different population than that of the educated urban class, and that the difference is evident in the disparate speech patterns. It's very similar to North Americans contrasting farmers of the south to educated people from New York. I don't mean for it to come across as pejorative. The first time I heard the term was back in the '80s while teaching in L.A. Some of my Honduran immigrant students looked down their noses at the Mexicans whom they called campesinos.

Linkos:

Speaking of Honduras, this camiseta was made in a factory in Honduras. This may alert some to fears of sweatshops and unsafe working conditions. It's hard to get a full picture of what is really happening down there, but if you want to investigate, you may start with this little article:

http://www.waronwant.org/news/265-latest-news/17488-sweatshop-workers-fight-against-garment-company-

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Take the Home Depot Challenge

The Home Depot® Challenge

Have you been to Home Depot lately?  They have made serious efforts to communicate to their Spanish speaking clientele, and it seems that every announcement, advertisement, or aisle is written in both languages. Benji and I were there the other day picking up a window shade, some masking tape, and a drill bit so I could bore through the lock of the tool shed since my loving esposa lost the one and only key.  While there I couldn’t help but teach my ten year old some handy words of Spanish.  Let’s see how many of them YOU get.  Match the two columns and then check your answers.

1. ALMACENAMIENTO                                                  A.  lumber

2. ILUMINACIÓN                                                              B.  paint

3. LIMPIEZA                                                                       C.  storage

4. PLOMERÍA                                                                     D.  garden

5. FERRETERÍA                                                                  E.  cleaning

6. HERRAMIENTAS                                                          F.  hardware

7. MADERA                                                                       G.  electrical

8. PINTURA                                                                        H.  tools

9. ACCESSORIAS ELÉCTRICAS                                     I.  plumbing

10. JARDINERIA                                                                J.  lighting                                             

Answers:

1.C, 2.J, 3.E, 4.I, 5.F, 6.H, 7.A, 8.B, 9.G, 10.D

Palabras profundas

Ferretería
This is such a great word. Not only because it has a twirling rr, but because the Latin roots take us to the Fe of "iron", the material that hardware is made of.

Herramientas
Another fantastic word with a strongly twirling rr.  When spoken correctly, it just sounds manly--as the word for "tools" should, verdad?

Linkos

Although Home Depot has admirable use of Spanish in its stores, it chose to close down its Spanish website:

http://www.thinkmulticultural.com/2009/05/04/home-depot-closes-its-spanish-website-after-just-four-months/