Like a kid and his green ball

Have you ever watched kids playing and thought "If only I could be that carefree again!"

Well, my friends, as tempting as that sentiment might be, I really think it's crock.

Were we ever carefree? I think not. In fact, I remember being really bothered as a kid by the implication that my life was sooo simple. As if I didn't have my stresses, my problems, my heartaches too? They seemed important to me then. And "seem" is still about all I've got.

Exhibit A:

My host nephews playing ball this weekend:

Alberto, age two.

Santiago, almost four.

At first, everyone is trying to play together nicely. It doesn't last long.
Berto is a little shy around his older cousin.

And Santi is not only ignoring the rules of soccer (or, as his Dad suggests, playing some form of rugby) but also does not care to share.
Grandma swoops in to defend little Berto. "Santiago you play with one ball over here, and Berto will play with the other."

Santi is unimpressed by the idea.

He wants the green one.

As for Berto, even though he eventually ends up with the soccer ball, which is too heavy for his little feet, he is thrilled with the replacement of Scary Older Cousin for Kindly Old Grandpa.

And then I put down the camera and play with Berto myself, and eventually Santi sees what fun we're having and decides to play nicely himself.

And all is right with the world. Until they try to play with the puzzles.

It's fun to watch them light up when they play, and it's amusing to watch their little faces fall at the loss of a green ball. Children's joys and pains are so beautifully open and honest. But I think underneath, though as adults we dress it up with a lot of fancy words and straight faces, we're all kind of like that. I keep right on laughing when things go my way, crying when the things I'm attached to are taken from me.

In the end, aren't we all silly little boys and girls?

I'm not sorry to have this new set of frustration, laughter, tears, and joy.

I wouldn't go back if I could.

Pumpkin-tasting memories

Around our house, the dessert my nana was always most famous for was crustless pumpkin-cheese pie. The crustless came about because as kids, we never wanted to eat anything but the center. At the time, I thought Nana was really going out of her way to make the pie in the special way, without crust, for us. It wasn't until I was much older that it occurred to me...

It also later occurred to me that: Pumpkin cheese pie - crust = not really pie. But who are we anyway, Webster's?

My brother and his friend apparently tried their hand at the pie in her honor earlier this week in Pennsylvania, and tonight it was Kara and I's turn to try it in Lima. (But admittedly with a significant amount of ingredients that immigrated from Pennsylvania.)

Pouring and stirring all at once.
It seemed impressive at the time.

This is my, "Quick take the picture before this spills!" face.
Okay, so we went with the crusty version.

Leftover batter is meant to be eaten.

We thought it might taste like a pumpkin milkshake.

But ended up down the drain.

I don't trust people who don't make messes when they bake.

We bought milk to drink with it.

And toasted my nana.

As we enjoyed a couple episodes of Gilmore Girls!

It was delicious.

Not exactly like Nana used to make it, but maybe it's better that way anyway,

Thanks for the recipe and the family tradition, Nana. We'll miss your desserts, though not as much as we miss you.

Turning down my 15 minutes of fame

OMG, isn't it like, so annoying when people like, stop you cooonstantly on the street and are like "OMG, are you a model?" Its like, seriously people, should I be annoyed right outside my own house just because of these great looks and perfect hair!!? Right? Like, you know?

Like this guy today on my street, who was like, "Do you do commercials?" and I was all like, "What? Commercials?" So then he goes, "I know this place where they pay you 600 dollars for commercials." And I thought Commercials? This bod is waaay too hot to sell insurance. So I was like "No," and I just started to walk away. And he was all yelling after me to give me the address and I was all "No, thank you" and sorta whatever.

I knew that sexy face would come in handy again. Huh. Same sweater too.

Only real, high-fashion modeling gigs are worth my time. Thank you.

Actually, I just listened to a podcast on scams, so I was on the lookout for people who were offering something for nothing. Also my, "You only want me because I'm white" radar is never off.

I'll leave it to you smart ducklings to figure out which parts of this are true.


Happy Wednesday!

The shoe envy of the house

Boot season is in! Yes, while reliable sources tell me that it's getting sunnier and warmer in the northern hemisphere, down here I'm afraid Lima is once again passing into its cloudy all the time, shivering in the shower, curse the lack of temperature regulation, season.

I have not actually pulled out the fingerless gloves that were my best friends last year. Did I even bring them?

The consolation prize is that I can now justify stuffing those winter clothing into my overweight suitcases.

My boots aren't exactly the style here. They're pretty big into the heels in Lima, I think in Latin America in general, and so you're more likely to see boots on wedges or heels than not. Maybe because no one in Lima ever has any actual weather-related reason to wear boots. I prefer mine chatas, definitely. They're snow-bound, after all.

Which is why I was a little surprised about the compliments from my host mom this afternoon:

HM, looking admiringly at my feet: I like those boots! I like the color.

Me: Thanks, me too! People here often wear them with heels, but I prefer them flat.

HM: Me too. What size are you?

Me: Umm...well I'm not sure in Peruvian sizes, but 6 1/2 in American.

HM: Oh, I'm about a 38 in size here, so I think that's more or less the same.

Me: Oh, hmm.

Awkward pause.

HM, still eying the boots: So you know, if you don't want them when you go, you can sell them to me.

Me, laughing: Oh yeah. Haha. Well I think I'll be taking them.

HM: But you could buy another pair just like it when you get back!

Me, realizing she's actually serious: Oh. No, these were actually very difficult to find!

HM, still looking wistfully at my feet: Oh...they were difficult to find...

Nice try lady! I'm picky about my shoes. My Mom and I walked around the freezing outdoor mall for hours solely to find these. Ain't no way I'm leaving without them.

Hmm...I think this makes me sound a little jerky. Now I'm feeling guilty. Should I be feeling guilty for not selling her my precious boots?

Where's the clowns and whimsy?

I've mentioned at least once here that I'm not really a frequenter of the whole party scene. But this weekend I went out not one, but two nights in a row. To places with dancing and alcohol, not just popcorn and pajama pants. Are you impressed?

So obviously after that long, intense study on the practice of festejando, I'm an expert.

Now the sage shall share her new found wisdom with you:

1. Drunk people are funny.

2. Drunk people are stupid.

3. Sometimes, drunk boys/overly-eager boys need to be ditched. Apparently, the rules of etiquette are somewhat suspended in large parties of people you don't know, and you need not feel rude when taking off for "more drinks" or "a trip to the bathroom" and never coming back. I probably still will, but you shouldn't.

4. Drinking at parties is a delicate balance. Shoot for somewhere between this-whole-event-looks-really-ridiculous and everything-here-looks-wonderful-if-slightly-topsy-turvy. Or, that's what I imagine that extreme end looks like. I've never really been drunk-drunk, so who knows? It might be transcendent clarity. But based on #2...

5. Though the invite decidedly does not specify, apparently any large event in Peru that starts after 9 is more of a 4-inch heel, skanky dress thing than a boots, comfy blue jeans thing. Even if it's in a field. Although, my boots ended up being quite the commodity by the end of night. And really, even if I had known...

6."Circus party" need not imply that there will be anything very circus-like about the party, apparently. We need to tighten up the regulations on event nomenclature.

Yes, I did spill my drink on myself. How rude of you to mention it!

For about an hour or so after midnight they were releasing steam into the air until you could barely see. Do they do this at circuses these days?

Sunsets

Some walk

And scorn the dirt trampled by other feet

And see the wilt in flowers on the road

And fear the coming sunset in the dusk

That might bring only darkness to the garden

She walked

And blessed the paths smoothed by the steps of saints

And gloried in the roses by her side

And welcomed night with hope and open arms

For He will yet bring sunrise to the garden

She walks

My nana once, in response to hearing that someone had learned of someone else in the church's birthday on the internet: "Why would anyone put that on the internet? How many people need to see that?"

My Dad: Well Mom, it's not just like a big newspaper with one page. There's lots and lots of different sites. This was probably only posted on the church website, so not everyone in the world will see it.

Nana: Ah, I don't know. It just seems like you wouldn't need to put that up.

So, she may or may not be approving of this message from Heaven right now. :)

Rest in Peace.

Peruvian food fights

Ok, I haven't flung a single plate of mashed potatoes in anyone's face (which is really a shame!) but I do definitely have a full-blown war on my hands.

First off, I really like my host family this semester, I do. They've been great to me, and we mostly get along smashingly.

But the one thing that is increasingly driving me to desperate measures is the constant pushing to eat more, more, more! My poor stomach just cannot handle it!

For example, I have this battle on a weekly basis:

Host Mom: You don't like bread/mandarins/bananas etc. (Not in question form, you'll notice.)

Me: Yes, I do like them!

HM: Well they're here, and you haven't been eating them.

Me: Yeah, it's just that I eat so much at meal times, that I'm not hungry in between.

HM, with a disbelieving, disapproving look: But you eat early in the morning, at around 11 o'clock you could come down and eat more.

Me: I know, thank you, but I'm just not hungry!

And really Hermi, do you eat at every second that you possibly can? I don't say that. But I want to.

This battle on a nearly daily basis:

Host Mom: You didn't eat your salad/dessert/bread. (Or: Take more salad/dessert/bread!)

Me: I already ate the soup and rice and chicken and potatoes. Everything is very good, I just can't eat any more!

That response usually only gets a very worried, incredulous, or even slightly hurt look. Sometimes a strange mixture of the three along with a chuckle, which somehow does not diminish the disapproval.

When I'm vulnerable or tired I lose that battle and just eat. And then feel like I'm going to explode.

And really, no one else eats what I'm expected to eat. But I've found this question/excuse to be an ineffective tactic. Apparently my youth means I ought to be a bottomless pit of insatiable hunger.

I even often resort to going out in the evenings and telling them I was eating dinner en la calle (in the street) or at whomever's house I was going to, just so I can have a break from the force-feeding!

Last night we had three different kinds of sausage as an appetizer and a different kind of pork as the main course. And they desperately wanted to give me seconds. I couldn't brave it.

Could NOT. In fact, the wine at that meal was definitely my life-line in terms of getting the meat taste out of my mouth!

I won that one, but they did not look very pleased with me.

As I was typing this a full plate of food and soup and dessert was brought in to me (8:30 actually being a very usual time for a Peruvian dinner.)
HM: Here's your food hijita! Me: Oh, ok, but umm...I'm really not very hungry. HM: Just eat! And she leaves it. Looks like another win for Hermi. I have absolutely no appetite.