Home Cookin’

For my first 21 years, HOME was School Street, North Stelton, Piscataway Township, New Jersey.  Then came wives, kids, jobs, careers, and other life adventures in different towns, cities, and states.  There was no place like HOME.  Over the next 50+ years, I have tried to keep HOME in focus. I proudly wear tee-shirts from Piscataway High School, New Brunswick High School, Rutgers University, and the New Jersey Devils NHL Hockey team.  I have ball caps from Rutgers and from the USS New Jersey, America’s most decorated battle ship. 

Now I am as far from HOME as I’d ever want to be.  The climate is different.  The language is different.  The government is different. The culture is inexplicably different.  The people are different.  But I have come HOME…or a casa.

Retirement means different things to different people.  Some folks travel.  Some have a vacation home to vacation in.  Some move to Florida or wherever their kids and grandkids live.  Then there are those whose failing health has forced them to convalescent or retirement homes.  Age does take its toll.  But not on all of us seniors.

I enjoy writing about things I’ve seen and done here in Central
America since I first came here in 1999 with a church group to help build houses for families who lost theirs in Hurricane Mitch and the earthquakes in 2002.  I relish relating tales about my family, my dog, and our chickens.  I live in a place that lacks just about everything you all think you couldn’t live without.  I therefore have learned how to appreciate what I have more, I think, than if I had remained in the U.S.  I write about my daughter Adrianita, the fun we have together and her struggle to get used to having a father.  I write about the amazing woman I married who loves me beyond verbal description.  I write about the simple things we have and do, the trials presented by nature and the culture that we struggle to overcome, and how these adventures strengthen us.

This afternoon is an example.  At 1:30 Margarita reminded me that the soccer game between Fútbol Club Barcelona and Athletic Club Bilbao was on TV.  This would have meant nothing to me a few years ago and it probably doesn’t strike a chord with you now.  At stake was the Royal Cup and the championship of Spain.  Spain, that country just behind Greece in the race to insolvency.  Spain, home of the conquistadores who took over most of the hemisphere treating the indigenous folks rather badly back in the 16th century and didn’t let up until they were kicked out in the 19th.

But it was good to relax in my recliner with my daughter and wife cheering for Barcelona as they scored three goals in the first half and shutting out Bilbao by the end of the game.  Even when our TV lost the signal during half-time we had fun. 

Adriana was frightened by what was described to me as a big animal that entered the kids’ part of the house and hid itself somewhere in the bathroom.  Margarita immediately enlisted the brave warrior, Duke the Wonder Dog, to hunt the critter down.  He sniffed and pawed through a pile of coloring books and toys and found nothing.  The girls insisted something was in there.  I tossed everything out that was on the floor and told them there was nothing living there.  Then I went into the kids’ room.  Adriana was behind me.  On the jalousie window I saw it. 

It was a dark gray blending as best it could with the frosted glass.  A good-sized lizard with a tail that looked longer than its head and body.  Adriana ran out shrieking.  The lizard wasn’t impressed.  I went to do what I knew not to do, grab him by the tail, and a piece came off in my hand.  He jumped to the floor behind some shelves.  I moved them and he fled to the corner next to the chest of drawers.  By then, Duke was at my side.  I moved the chest and the lizard had all four feet on the wall with his tail on the floor.  I did the foolish thing a second time and got my second piece of tail in three minutes.  The lizard went behind the chest while Duke just stared as if he were asking himself what his ancestors would have done.

I moved the chest and he moved to the next obstacle along the wall, a net bag of dirty clothes hanging from a nail by a shoe lace.  I called Margarita for the broom.  She handed it to me the long way letting me know she was afraid.  I goosed the lizard up the wall and forced him to drop into the bag.  I took the bag outside intending to set it free, but it had burrowed itself beneath Adriana’s shirts.  Only the tail showed.  Duke was barking like crazy and we had to chain him.  I knew it would be thrice stupid to try to pull it out by the tail so I dumped the clothes on the patio.  The lizard recognized his release papers and took off down the driveway.

The signal was still lost when we returned to the living room.  I decided to take Duke for a walk and saw the black clouds to the northeast.  Heavy drops began as we returned to the house.  The signal was back so we watched the rest of the game.

As I sat waiting for the final signal so I could see the ceremony, the cup, and Prince Felipe, I watched Adriana cheating at pick-up sticks on the floor, Luís on the sofa with his finger longing to go up a nostril, and Juan teasing his little sister.  I realized how much I had and how it has felt like HOME since Margarita entered my life.  God has blessed me much in my latter years.  How many men over 75 have it so good.

I’ve determined to spend as much time and energy as I have to enjoying my family and allowing them to enjoy me.  We’ve still got a few legal things to accomplish.  We’re still waiting for Adriana’s adoption to be completed and I’ll be working on the last pieces of getting my citizenship over the summer.  We dream of a home of our own with a piece of land to farm.  There’s a small house around the corner going for $28,000 that has a nice piece of property with it.  I wish I had the cash or the means to earn it here.  We just put everything in God’s hands.  If it happens, it happens.  If not, we’ve still got this leaky-roof house to keep us safe and happy.  HOME is where your heart is.  Mine is wrapped around Margarita and Adriana.

 

Duke, the Rat Killer

Duke the Wonder Dog proved his worth as a member of the Brown-Olmedo family once more.  His quick thinking and courage saved us from the ravages of a young rat who fled the raging storm for the security of our washing machine.

Last night, he was on the patio barking profusely.  If there were a cat on the roof it would have fled.  If the rooster had flown the coop he would be chasing it and we’d hear his wings flapping and his crow shrieking.  I went out to look.

He was sticking his nose in the little space between the back of the washer and the cement cistern/wash table.  Margarita said there was a rat.  It wasn’t the first that had sought refuge there.  I tipped the machine frontward toward me so Duke would have space for his body beneath it.  Margarita ran for a flashlight so we could see what was going on.

I held the washer against my legs and pounded on the back panel to frighten the rodent who as yet had not been seen.  I must have jarred him loose because suddenly Duke backed out with the creature in his mouth.  The little guy’s tail stood almost horizontally from Duke’s lips.  I was afraid that if it were alive it might bite him, so I told him to drop it.  He did.  It wasn’t moving.  I guess he crushed him to death quickly.  Margarita came with the dust pan and scooped up the corpse to deposit it in the garbage.

“Good boy!” I told Duke.  He was quite pleased with himself.  I reassured him that we wouldn’t bring a cat into the family for the task he had so admirably handled.  To his list of honorifics we have added “mataratas“, “rat killer”.   Our hero.

Jackie Brown Pasquali

My precious baby girl, Jacqueline Kaye Brown

Jacqueline Kaye Brown was born on Mother’s Day, May 9, 1970.  She is the fourth of my natural daughters.  Her birth date has become easier to remember since Mother’s Day in Latin America has a fixed date, May 9th.  There is something memorable about the births of my four daughters and two sons.  Jackie’s mother, Helen, felt labor while we were out riding a good distance from home and the hospital doing some Mother’s day visiting.  And the race was on.

Helen, God bless her, did not do this birth well.  Once we arrived at the hospital, Helen was checked in and I was directed to the waiting room.  Two or other three prospective dads were also waiting.  Having had three kids with my first wife, I was cool.  Anxious for the first son in four tries but cool.  Then it started.

From the other side of the wall or a room down the hall where the women were stored before delivery came a wail that pierced my bones to the marrow.  One mother screamed the most vile curses at the man who instituted nine months of discomfort culminating in excruciating pain.  We men looked at one another before the three looked back at me.  I was the son-of-a-bitch, mother-fucking bastard.  She was letting the world know of my deed.

A long time after the screaming stopped, someone came in to tell me I had a daughter.  Oh, shit!  What’s wrong with my chromosomes?

I don’t remember how long it was before I was invited to face my accuser.  She must have calmed down some because I’m still alive today.  Nor do I remember exactly when I got to see my newly arrived tax deduction in the nursery.  If I noticed anything at all about this baby wrapped just like all the other babies, it would have been that she looked like her older sister Lorene.  These girls, having different mothers, it seemed strange that they should have features in common.  But to this day, no one would question at first look that they are sisters.

Jackie was a good baby.  She had her sleepless, crying nights and I had the pleasure of walking her or sitting and rocking with her until she fell asleep.  She was a happy baby.  She always had a smile or was laughing.  How could a father not help loving this cuddly, huggy little girl?  Her big brother Ray, whom I adopted when I married Helen, was a good big brother.  They were good companions and playmates.  With Baron, our German Shepherd, to keep baby Jackie on her blanket in the grass, life was so-o good.

Ray, Baron & Jackie

Unfortunately, it didn’t last.  Marital problems led to divorce and mom absconding with the kids.  This became a multi-state legal problem that was finally resolved in my favor.  With my new and very pregnant wife Terri and our son Joshua, we moved to California to start a new life.  California is where Jackie blossomed.  She was a good student, a talented actress, a damned good softball player, a lovely-voiced singer, and a fine traveling companion as we motorcycled around California and across the northern tier of states and Canada to New Jersey.  But that joyous trip ended sadly for our family with another split-up.

The rest of the story has a lot of pain in it and I won’t publicize it.  Jackie moved about the country before settling in the San Francisco area.  She took classes and learned the skills of the sailor.  She has a good job.  She’s seen a lot of the world.  She is happy with her life.  That’s the most important part.  She’s still my baby girl and I can still feel her hugs when I need them.  I have often needed them in the many years since I last felt one. 

When I look back over my 76 years at their highlights and lowlights, Jackie is a beacon beaming her inner beauty across the years and across the miles.  She is a joy among joys.  I am so glad God allowed me to be her father and she my daughter.

My beautiful daughter, Jackie

A Good Feeling

I was really blessed yesterday.  The First Baptist Church of Chalchuapa has a little House of Prayer a few doors from our house.  They have a prayer service on Monday evening and a Bible study on Thursday evening.  They have a relationship with the Missouri Baptist Convention who has sent a medical mission team to El Salvador for the past couple of years.

Last year they provided exams and medication for El Refugio at our church.  This year they performed their services at the House of Prayer.  Last year I received a shot and some medication for my arthritic ankle that enabled me to resume running.  This year I needed something for the cough that Margarita lovingly has shared with me.  I also found out that my blood pressure was quite high despite my running and health-conscious diet.  The doctor, who remembered me from their last visit, gave me a bunch of medication and a prescription for the latest blood pressure pills.  Later on, we had some good conversation.  I got to meet his son and daughter-in-law, recent graduates from medical school.

Earlier, I had helped to set up the two canopies they’d brought to shade the nurses taking vital signs and the evangelists who spoke to and prayed with the crowd that took almost four hours to service.  I was happy to help in the translating for my neighbors who seemed to have more confidence in me than my own church brothers and sisters.  Having more medical knowledge than most “civilians” helped me to ask the right questions to determine how best the doctors could help.

I also spent some time with the women who provided toys and games for the kids while they waited for their mothers.  They also had an evangelism program entailing questions and colored beaded bracelets, each color having significance in the path to salvation.  I started by translating questions such as “Do you know Jesus?” and “What does He mean to you?”  God gave me to words to go beyond by asking about their church membership and attendance.  My thirty years of teaching experience enabled me to get kids who were timid or were unsure of their feelings to open up.  For me it was the best part of the day.  I was surprised at what I was able to accomplish in an area I’d never entered before.  A gift of God is a terrible thing to waste.

Another surprise came when I’d circulate among the stations to talk to the missionaries and I learned that people had been telling them good things about me.  I’ve felt rather disconnected from the kids and the community since our church school closed and the current leadership has been ignoring the administrative and educational skills I came here to use. They are more interested in my tithe than in the intangible gifts I brought to freely share.  I am never a seeker of praise and honors but I was blessed after a while when people whom I didn’t know were coming to me for advice or information calling me by name.  Such trust is greater compensation than even the words, “thank you”.

When everyone had been helped, some mothers approached me to help them get vitamins for their children.  I told them they needed the paper work which they’d already turned in to the pharmacy their first time through the process, but they worked on me as only Salvadoran’s can and I asked the nurse if she had undistributed children’s vitamins for a few mothers.  She worked it out and the mothers thanked me. 

It was a day of good feelings.  This is why I left the U.S. and came to El Refugio.  I came not to send someone to the university, although I help kids get through the National Institute.  I can’t send some sick person to the Mayo Brothers Clinic in the U.S., but I can provide medicine and first-aid supplies to families who haven’t the cash to buy them.  I can’t save anyone.  Only accepting Christ can do that.  But I can plant the seed or nurture the seedling by citing scripture and by the example of my life.  I can’t finance all the desires of the various ministries and projects of my church, but I can teach the leaders how to reasonably manage the funds we have.  As slash and burn agriculture is self-defeating for the farmer, earn and spend is disastrous for a small church. 

There is opportunity for more good feelings, ones that could be shared by people with good intentions but who lack the skills and experience to organize and implement them in a practical, logical manner.  May God bless those who seek to serve God before serving themselves!  May He remove from authority those who prevent others from His appointed service!

Adriana, My Daughter

When a man marries and his wife bears him his first daughter, there begins a novel relationship completely different, completely overwhelming, completely unpredictable.  He’ll never forget the first time he held the almost weightless package to whom he has given a name to replace “the baby”.  In every gurgle and spastic gesture he’ll interpret a message that says, “I recognize you.  You’re my daddy.  I love you.”  He’ll be a bit jealous of mom, who gets to stay at home, because she’ll be the one to mark the firsts.  She’ll be the one to see his daughter roll over, sit up, crawl, walk, hold the rattle, the bottle, and the spoon.  Most likely, mom will hear her first identifiable sounds and meaningful verbal communication.

But dad will have his share of walking the floor with his colicky daughter, changing her soiled diapers, coaxing her to sleep, and trying to get the spoon and the food into her moving mouth.  He’ll have his time just holding her in a chair, on his bed, or going for a walk.  Every minute is a joy.  Every minute seals a relationship that is like no other.

The milestones offer new opportunities for father and daughter to bond.  She can now walk to him and with him.  She can ride a tricycle.  She can go to day-care or pre-school and he is part of each new plateau.  Oh, she has her trying days.  She’s been through the “no” stage and has her temper tantrums.  He tends to spoil her much to mom’s dismay.  But she’s always his bundle of love.

The school years pass quickly.  He’s watched her in the class talent show.  He’s coached her softball team.  He’s seen her talk to boys.  “BOYS!  Oh, my God!  Don’t panic!  What do I do?  What do I say?  I know about boys.  I was one not long ago and I didn’t get friendly with girls to exchange cake recipes.”  But no matter what, she’s his little girl and she knows it.  He’s not always been “Father Knows Best” but he loves her.

That’s a fair if brief picture of a normal relationship between a father and a daughter…or four daughters.  But not all such relationships begin in the maternity ward.

Adriana is my daughter.  I’ve known her since she was four and she was a pre-school student in my English class.  She was a little doll among other little dolls, both male and female, whose laugh or a gesture would melt the hardest of hearts.  Her smiles and post-class hugs may have been no different from those of some of her classmates, but there was something special about her that I can’t put into words.  If I could pick a daughter, it would be Adrianita. 

I didn’t know her mom well.  She was just another mom at first.  Pretty, graceful, always smiling.  I knew she was as poor as any mother in El Refugio and, if she didn’t have a man, she’d probably be just as anxious to catch an American as any other mother with no legal husband.  But that was not like Margarita.  All the mothers worked hard.  Walked long distances to and from school with their kids.  Did what they had to do for their children.  In time I got to know many of them enough to know when I might be suckered into some kind of dependent relationship because of my relationship with their student child.  But not Margarita.

I needed a new woman to wash my laundry and offered her the job.  She dropped the kids off at school and would come once a week to do my wash before going back to pick them up again.  When I wasn’t teaching and her work was done, we’d talk.  No flirting.  We just talked about our lives.  I told her of my dreams for the kids in El Refugio.  She talked about her dreams for her kids.  She never pled hardship.  She never suggested I could help her financially.  She never asked me for anything.  That made me respect her.  Her patience with my Spanish made her my friend.  In time, and with some help from God, we realized that we loved each other.  We talked about marriage.  We talked about her four kids and their respective fathers.  The older three had at least some relationship with theirs.  Adriana’s had left without knowing Margarita was pregnant with his child.  She’d never had a father.

I grew up with the same two parents.  I’d known kids who had little or no relationships with their dads, but it wasn’t my experience and I couldn’t imagine what it might be like just having a mother.  A brother twelve years your senior may be the “man” of the family but he’s not your dad.  He may have shared some of the experiences I noted in my first paragraphs, but psychologically and sociologically it’s not the same.  I realized that although most of my pre-school kids enjoyed loving bear hugs at the beginning or end of class, when they came on campus, or when we’d meet on the street, I couldn’t expect Adriana to respond to her mother’s new husband as “daddy” even though I’d been her teacher for two years.

It’s been a slow process that’s far from complete, these past two years.  She has been so incredibly attached to Margarita and the female teachers she’s had that for months, getting her just to sit next to me was extremely rare if her mother were there.  At first, she had to learn that I wasn’t going to take an ounce of her mother’s love and attention from her.  Once she felt comfortable with her relationship with Margarita, she very slowly opened up to conversation and play.  It was somewhat painful for me since I remembered how affectionate were my four girls and three boys at her age.  But I knew I had to be patient.

When we walked to school, Adriana would never walk between Margarita and me.  She’d always place her mother in the middle.  It was the same in church.  She’d always be on the other side of her mom.  Adri would monopolize the conversation leaving no space for my comments.  She was the princess and I wasn’t going to usurp her rank.

Even at mealtimes, when I’d be at the head of the table with Margarita to my right, Adriana would sit on the other side of her mother.

Bed time used to be a bitter-sweet moment. She’d tell me “Pase buena noche.” and run to her room. Luís, her two-years older brother, would give and accept a hug and a kiss from me.

I don’t watch TV much.  Certainly not children’s programs in Spanish.  Nickelodeon and Disney programs are mental mush.  I wouldn’t recommend their silly premises and ridiculous characters to English-speaking parents who should know better.  So try to imagine how they must come across in Spanish to kids growing up in poverty.  But I must have been looking for something appealing to my taste one night when she asked me to put on “iCarly” on Nickelodeon.  I did and she climbed upon my lap.  I know I cried.  Pavlov would have been proud of her.  The thought of my little girl and I watching TV together was my salivation and salvation.  She has gotten comfortable with me and by now she knows she doesn’t have to bribe me with a tease of love to get to watch her shows.

She’s learned to walk with me to the corner store.  We’ve gone shopping in nearby Chalchuapa and had fun doing it.  We spend more time together playing on the computer, engaged in horseplay, or just talking about what interests her.  She surprises me by doing the kinds of little but loving things her mother does.  She’ll sweep and mop my room while I’m working at the computer and even make me sandwiches or quesadillas.  If she sees I’m watching an interesting video or power point, she’ll climb on my lap and we’ll watch together.  I love explaining things to her and listening to her as she imitates my English words.

Last week, I reminded her that her mother’s birthday was coming up on the following Wednesday.  Her eyes lit up as she described the cake I should buy.  I told her I wanted her to help me shop for a gift as well as the cake.  We could go Monday afternoon.  She was obviously excited.  So was I.  It would be a two-bus trip to Santa Ana.  Our first opportunity to spend so much time together, just the two of us.

On Monday, we had a minor crisis.  She wanted her mother to come  along.  Margarita can be like a little girl when it comes to going places like the mall in Santa Ana.  It’s basically a different world for her.  Here’s where cultural understanding came in to save the day.  First, I had to explain that a birthday present should be a surprise saved for the party.  Therefore, the honoree shouldn’t come shopping and be with us while we look and choose.  I thought that would be the hard part.  But when I saw the disappointment on Margarita’s face, I knew I’d fallen short of my understanding.

I thought for a moment, then asked my wife if she’d ever gone anywhere special with her own dad.  No siblings.  Not to cut coffee together.  But to do something fun, just the two of them.  She silently shook her head.  I told her that Adriana and I need this time together to build our relationship.  If she came, it would be just like it always is.  Adriana would be talking with her and I’d be walking two steps behind.  Thank God she understood.

So, Adriana and I walked to the microbus and rode it to the highway bus stop.  There we got waited in the sun for the bus to Santa Ana.  We chatted about people and what we saw out the window.  I bought her a gelatina and we both enjoyed the ride.  She insisted on holding my sombrero when I wanted to put it on the overhead rack with my backpack.  She remembered how it blew out of the bus to Ahuachapán a few weeks earlier.  The driver stopped the bus and his fare collector must have run 1/4 of a mile to retrieve it.  She was doing what her mother would do. 

We had to walk several blocks to the mall and she held my hand every step of the way.  She decided which windows we’d look in.  She wanted to buy her mother a skirt.  I’d already had a watch in mind.  I’d been promising her a good one for two years.  We looked at some until I asked her if she knew her mother’s size.  She didn’t.  I suggested it might be better if we took her to a store and let her pick out one she’d like and could try on.  She agreed. 

We went to the best store in the mall and we chose a watch.  Adriana approved of the color and the style.  Then we went to the kitchen section and bought some new frying pans and a griddle to replace my original frying pans from which Margarita and María had scrubbed the teflon not knowing what it was.  Another cultural gaffe.  Finally, I bought myself a new pair of shorts.  My daughter held my sombrero while I tried them on in the fitting room.

We had fun walking up and down the escalator, which was paralyzed by the workman making some repairs.  She ate some popcorn (something we don’t have in El Refugio) while I had a small sundae from the McDonald’s stand.  We rode the elevator twice.  We looked at books that she’d like and which she’ll get on her eighth birthday in a few weeks.

We bussed back to Chalchuapa and ordered the cake.  She made all the choices for the kind, the icing, the decoration, and the fruit.  We had to go to the post office and I bought her some sliced mango covered with hot chile sauce.  We came home tired but happy.  She had so much to tell her mother and it was a joy for me to just listen to all the things that were important to her.  Little by little she’s been becoming my daughter.

Recently, she drew a family chart in her Sunday school class.  Our names appeared in hearts.  The heart with the title papá and my name as they pronounce it here, Royer, appeared in the center between Margarita and my mother-in-law.  The four kids were on the corners.  That made me feel good.

Whereas before she’d hardly let me touch her or even acknowledge my when we took the kids to school, now I can give her a quick public hug or kiss the top of her head.  It’s all good.

Tomorrow Margarita will call the official in Ahuachapán to see if the adoption papers I’ve filed have come back from San Salvador.  We are all anxious to complete the process to make me her legal father.  When this is done, she’ll have my name.  She already has my love.

Eggscu-u-use Me!

Our hens.

In January I wrote about our new enterprise, chicken farming.  We started with eight chicks then bought six more as the first group matured.  We’ve eaten three and donated one to the church.  Recently, we bought ten more and built a “nursery” for them to grow in.  We’ve been waiting since the beginning of  December for the hens to lay eggs.  We’ve also been watching Big Red, our rooster, as he builds his reputation as a Don Juan.

Big Red, Ruler of the Roost

Last week, Margarita took an old wooden box and filled it with bits of cloth for a nest.  Country girl that she is, she seemed to know that it was about time.  Sure enough, one hen climbed into the box and began arranging it for a nest.  It took a couple of days and some sampling by two of the other hens before we found two small eggs.  One was from the fat red hen and one was from the black one.  Margarita knew from the shell coloring whose egg was whose.

Our first two eggs.

Today we were blessed with a third egg.  It was also rather small but that is to be expected from a first-time layer.  I’ve been applauding and encouraging the ladies with each new egg.  I urge them on to bigger and better egg production with such statements as “Either eggs or the soup pot!” and “Chicks or drumsticks!”.  I think it’s working.  They watched me fix up a sign for the front of the house that reads “Colonel Gringo’s Jersey Fried Chicken”.  They immediately started cackling among themselves while Big Red jumped a smaller red hen as his contribution to the enterprise.

Young chicks in their play yard.

If you happen to be in the neighborhood, y’all come by.  We do chicken right.

Yes, we can all get along.
White, Black, and Brown Hens.

Adriana’s Quesadillas

Adriana and me

I don’t know if you folks who are not from the American Southwest know what a quesadilla is, so I’ll give a brief explanation.  I was taught by a friend from Mexico how to make them modern style.  Take a round wheat flour tortilla and fold in half to make a crease.  Open it and put enough American cheese in it to cover one-half of the tortilla.  Put it in the microwave for about a minute then carefully remove it to avoid burning your hand.  That’s the basic quesadilla.

Subsequently, I’ve learned to put a slice of lunch meat in it to add to the flavor.  When it comes out of the oven, I’ll slather some salsa picante on the outer surface and roll it so the salsa is now “inside” the quesadilla and it’s now easy to pick it up and eat it.  The name quesadilla comes from the Spanish queso, cheese.

Salvadoran quesadilla is more of a pan dulce, a sweet bread and is nothing like what I have just described.  So it’s taken Adriana a while to get used to the food I occasionally prepare for a snack.  In the past she’s been reluctant to try “my” food preferring to stick to what her mother has been cooking for her all her life.  Namely, beans, rice, and tortillas.

Margarita frequently makes what Taco Bell or Del Taco call a breakfast burrito for my supper.  (Don’t ask.  It’s different here.)  I taught her how to use the soft tortillas and roll them around eggs, cheese, chicken dogs or bacon (when available), peppers, tomato, whatever is handy.  Recently, Adriana has asked if she could have what I’m having when I’m having burritos.  That makes me happy on two fronts.  One, I know she’s getting a variety of nutritional foods into her diet.  And two, as her relationship with me grows, so does her confidence and willingness to try something different.  I have said often that she is much more daring than her older brother.

The other night, I was nearly knocked over when I saw a simple quesadilla on her supper dish.  She was cutting slivers off with a knife and eating them.  I asked who made the quesadilla and she responded that it was she.  Now learn another Spanish word, bayunca.  It’s what you call a silly person, a joker.  That fits my 7-year old daughter, which is good because I’m a bayunco.  I didn’t believe her until she finished and wanted another one.  She went to the fridge and took out another tortilla, a slice of cheese, and ketchup.  The ketchup is part of another story.

Earlier in the day, we shopped in Chalchuapa and I bought the last large jar of salsa picante for $2.53.  I knew it was the last jar because I searched the top shelf looking for a backup jar and there was none.  While she was preparing the first quesadilla, I was in my room at the computer.  She came in with the jar and asked me to open it for her.  I did and she turned to go.  Just as she was exiting, she dropped the glass jar and it shattered on the ceramic tile floor.  Refusing to get angry with my princess, I sat at my desk while Margarita came running.  I asked her to clean it up and not try to salvage anything that might have glass in it.  I don’t know what her experience is with glass food containers.  There aren’t many things here that come in glass.  Being Salvadoran, I was afraid she’d try to save the salsa/money.  I’m proud of myself for not mentioning it at all afterward.

My clever little girl decided to substitute ketchup (in a plastic bottle from Heinz) for salsa.  It’s not like solving pi in second grade, but she is quick to find alternatives to everyday problems that her 10-year old brother will just stare at as if waiting for the comic strip light bulb to appear over his head.  Adriana watches things that I do and picks up on them.  Little things like putting water in your dirty dishes in the sink.  I gently exhorted Luís to do so yesterday with the explanation that it keeps food from drying up and making it more difficult to wash the dishes.  (We have no hot water here.)  It was as if I had explained why the sun is hot judging by the look on his face.  Adriana has been putting water in her dirty dishes since she’s been able to reach the water in the cistern.  They’re different kids and I love them both.

I’m enjoying watching Adriana grow and mature.  It seems to be happening all too quickly, especially now that her older sister has moved out.  She has all her mother’s attention when it comes to the female role in the family and society.  It’s more than being mommy’s little helper.  Since she has no younger siblings to care for as María did and Juan does, that’s one area she has to go outside the immediate family to learn about.  Fortunately, she’s got her 3-year old cousin Nahomy who now attends CDI and Adriana can dote on her.  She also has 1-year old Michel across the street whom everyone adores.

It’s been decades since I’ve had a little daughter to nurture and enjoy.  I often think of my four American daughters trying to recall after so many years what stages they went through and where they were at seven.  It was a different world.  A different culture.  Different expectations and needs.  They all brought me joy and made me proud of their different accomplishments.  They each had their individual life challenges.  Some were overcome easily, some with difficulty, and some have not yet been conquered.  But that’s the human condition.

Now, I’m watching my last daughter grow up.  I’m glad I’m retired and home to be with her for every step of her development.  We pray that her adoption will be approved quickly and I’ll have the most important title, honor, or degree, that of papá.