Macaroon Rain

Paris, France, summer of 2011

C’mon, hurry up! It’s almost 5 o clock and I’m sure they’re going to close soon.  This was the cry of a desperate person. A woman in need.   A hard working professional that had no time to waste.  We gotta get them, or else…  this was war…

My first cousin, more like my little sister I should say, came with me to one of my business trips, to nowhere else but Paris.  Day after day I woke up early, got ready for work, and she stayed in, licking her wounds, sleeping over her past. Waiting for me to go out and discover together new places and stories, taking pictures – both mental and digital- of a city that had so much to offer. After a full week of bonding, laughing, weeping, spending long nights not really sleeping but holding real deep conversations, we knew that we will remember this week forever.

What is Paris if not a gourmet extravaganza of all sorts?  Wine by the bottle?  Check! Croque monsieur on demand? Check! Grand Marnier soufflé? You bet! Every day a new restaurant or café, Walking off the calories and sucking in the love. It was a week that tasted like a life time.

Right around the corner from our hotel in gorgeous St Honoré, there was a little jewel – a Pierre Hermé Macaroon shop… for those who are not familiar with the concept, a macaroon  is a French (some say British actually) biscuit that is soft as a cloud and smooth as an angel (like I’ve ever tasted or touched an angel or a cloud, right?). Anyway, in this place, they have the most amazing macaroons not only for the perfect crispy yet melting in your mouth meringue, bright multi color array of round marvels, but for the unique fillings: from classic pistachio to sweet rose petal, green tea, jasmine, passion fruit & chocolate, lavender, coffee, guava, Tahitian vanilla.  I’ve tasted them once, my cousin bought a sampler box as a midnight snack and then I was hooked. We got to buy a box for the folks back home (ok fine!  And for us right here).

Friday afternoon of our last day in town… too many things to do, too little time!  Left the office and got to the room. Cousin was back from her shopping spree – the bags around gave the room the look of a Harper’s bazaar photo shoot. I’ve changed my working clothes, took her by the hand and left the place like there was no tomorrow (because there wasn’t for us in Paris!). Once we arrived to the hotel front door, there it was: a super gray sky and a super heavy storm pounding the sidewalk like bullets. Oh my, what are we going to do???? The front door bellman told us: Mademoiselles, you wait, raining much, you wet (maybe his English wasn’t that bad, but that was all I could hear between my desperation and the sound of city rain). I took a deep breath, along with a glance at my watch, and made up my mind: Do you have umbrellas, monsieur? We are taking off! You sure, madam? Just wait and it will slow down… yes, I AM SURE! The macaroon place was not going to shut its doors on me!! So there we went, one big umbrella for each other, me taking the lead and cousin walking as fast as she could to catch up with yours truly – little frantic me, short as I can be but determined as much – power walking thru the curtain of Parisian water falling  from a crying Napoleonic sky. 

It was only two blocks from the hotel indeed… two LONG, WET blocks looking like distance looks like in dreams; the faster we walked the further it went. I never looked back, I was sure cousin was right behind… it never occurred to me how this rushing thru the rain holding a huge umbrella was hysterical for the viewers, especially for the one in front row (yes, cousin back there). Every step I took, bouncing the huge cover up I was holding with all my strength, she was getting twice as wet: once from the rain, twice from the water flowing from my umbrella!!  My little feet were soaked of course, and that was making me even more frantic. I was moving my short legs faster by the minute and the huge umbrella was covering pretty much my whole self – it was like looking at a video game, I was the Super Mario Bro’s mushroom rushing thru one of their strange world being chased by a carnivorous flower.

Finally, we arrived! Pierre Hermé was still open, we pushed the door so hard it hit the wall and got in dripping and laughing… crying-laughing actually… do you know the feeling?  It took us a good full minute to realize that the nice French employees were there, observing these crazy foreigners in awe.  After recovering from the laughter attack, 5 minutes tops, we started to explain ourselves, to justify our desperate journey in the rain, perhaps looking for a slight sign of empathy, when suddenly… the rain… magically… STOPED!!! Just like that, not even slowed down, oh no. The rain was gone. Gray clouds opened up to a crispy clean almost sunny afternoon. “This is Paris in the summer, madam” they said… this is how stupid must look like in French, I thought.

Macaroons we bought, oh yes. A box for here and some more for the go. Wet pants and soaking flats made me feel super uncomfortable. But it was totally worth it. From that day on, cousin and I developed an intense love for sweet treats, a huge need for accomplishment, and above all, a superior sense of urgency for the things that matter the most:  the small, crazy, unplanned things that make you laugh your guts out, the ones that create stories, those small details that make life worth living.

To my beautiful Paola, on our Paris trip's first anniversary (almost!) 

Love you to hell and back, and that's far!!

Fortunately, Unfortunately - by Ryan Osmond

Ryan Osmond

Fortunately, one day Kyle won a lottery ticket. Unfortunately, it was in Japan.

Fortunately, there was an airplane in 20 minutes. Unfortunately, the time he got there, there was a thunderstorm.

Fortunately, the clouds lowered, so the plane could lift off. Unfortunately, it started to hail.

Fortunately, he parachuted into Japan. Unfortunately, he landed on a fire.

Fortunately, the fire got put out. Unfortunately, he fell in an open manhole.

Fortunately, there was another manhole near by. Unfortunately, there was a giant troll ready to attack him.

Fortunately, it was only a statue. Unfortunately, now he was a mile away from the lottery ticket office.

Fortunately, there was a taxi. Unfortunately, he was short on money.

Fortunately, there was a bank. Unfortunately, by the time he got back from the bank the taxi was gone.

Fortunately, he brought a phone. Unfortunately, the new taxi ran out of gas.

Fortunately, it was right at the lottery ticket office! 

THE END

About the author

Ryan is an amazing  Canadian-Mexican 8 year old boy. His creativity is beyond limits. Used to have an imaginary friend called Guga. He loves  snow boarding, surfing, camping, rocks and backyard science. Ryan lives in Vancouver, BC with his parents, He is my best friend's son and Godson by heart...he is my beautiful, beautiful boy.

A year in images… an itinerant 2010.

2010 is almost over. The last day of the year is always full of memories, wishes, hopes, feelings, reminders; it has a mix of excitement for the things to come and melancholy for the things left behind. This year was intense and honestly, kind of short! There are not enough days in one year to accomplish everything, especially when each year we have a long list of “to do’s”, changes, adjustments, new requirements, old vices to shed, new vices to share, decisions to make, places to be, people to love.

January 2010 – Las Vegas, Baby!

What a way to start a year, in Vegas with my one and only, a sea of people, fireworks and a view to kill!!

Mid January 2010 - Argentina , mate and red wine.

On a business trip, enjoying great red wine, sharing good mate and its ceremony, leaving me shaking and eager for more!

February 2010 – Vancouver and the Olympics!

A cold scenery, my best friend and her family in a city ready to celebrate the glory of winter sports.

March 2010 – Hawaii, Venezuela…and his departure.

A month full of contrasts – the departure of my dear father in law, followed by back to back business trips to Hawaii (one day after we said good bye) and Venezuela. March was for sure a month that changed my life.

April 2010 - Brazil

April was my first trip to Brazil for the year and the beginning of an exhausting project that left me with an unidentified finger wound, 10 additional pounds and lots of Portuguese words in me!

May 2010 – Welcome to Miami and an interleague baseball game in Philly

Miami and its mojitos, Latin flavors, white sand and humidity followed by a weekend in Philly watching my beloved RedSox, an almost no-hitter by Dice-K and the streets of Philadelphia.

June 2010 – Brazil for the World Cup

Back to Brazil during the world cup, experiencing soccer the way Brazilians do…including the loss of the Brazilian national team against Holland.

July 2010 – in a New York state of mind

New York during restaurant week, drinks and music at Elaine’s, Sinatra’s musical “Come fly away”, Central Park walks and martinis to celebrate my husband's 40ed birthday – next day the world!

August 2010 – Panama City and Washington, D.C

A quick business trip to Panama followed by a weekend in Washington for a baseball outing - the Cardinals and Pujols completed the night!

September 2010 – Colombia and its flavors

A new project in Bogota full of challenges, Andres D.C with a magical ambience and the last stretch of the 2010 baseball regular season.

October 2010 – Colombia and the World Series

Second trip to Bogota in the middle of the Baseball World series, with the Giants and Edgar Renteria, “El Barranquillero”, winning and celebrating!!

November 2010 –Colombia and Venezuela

Back to back trips to Bogota and Caracas; no thanksgiving for me this year, but getting ready for an intense December!

December 2010 – Colombia and Christmas in Mexico

Final stretch of the Colombian project, a 20-year high school reunion full of surprises, friends and music, a 3-day Christmas celebration with tons of delicious multinational food, drinks, family, friends and karaoke!

2011 seems promising; it is always interesting to know that we can start all over again with new and improved energy and positive attitude. We have the challenge of balancing: the reasoning side makes us feel the need to have goals, timelines, schedules, specific tasks and improvements that we MUST accomplish; our sensible side makes us dream, hope, feel and enjoy each moment, even the ones spent planning the near future. A very good and wise friend of mine said:

“ I am seriously analyzing the convenience of adjusting my list of resolutions for new year; I am changing the title to “list of desires” and will flush every single thing representing a sacrifice. 2011: a year to pay homage to life. Enough said!”

And I am seriously joining her! 2011: a year to live fully, deeply, intensely…because 2012 may not be an option!

Happy New Year!!!

A motherly state of mind...a Magpie Tale

What is the secret behind a maternal embrace…do you have to be a mother to know?

The warmness of this place, the feeling of safeness, it marks us forever.
A mother love is unconditional, is eternal and is grand…but do you have to be a mother to love like that? Does it come instinctively as an on/off switch you activate the moment of giving birth?

I see images of daily news with so called “mothers” neglecting their children, hurting them… using them…destroying them.

Looking back to my younger years, I was hugged, was loved…but also see me being alone…alone but safe. What a thin line there is between protecting with love and overprotecting with fear.

In my dreams I am a mom… in those dreams my children are perfect, smart, happy, healthy. Four girls and a boy – future leaders, ballerinas, baseball player. I feel them, smell them and something inside me grows like a hurricane so powerful that nothing could stop me. But they are not real; they are just in my head.

Do you have to be a mother to feel like one? Are there different levels of motherhood? Life has some mysterious ways of showing your path, of letting you know what your objective is.

Having a child must not be an obsession. It is not an obligation. We have the choice…do we? Do we really decide when and where? What drives our state of mind to make us find the right moment? Parenthood is a huge commitment, not a trophy, not a must do. Am I going to be a mother one day? The concept comes and goes. It gets clear then it vanishes again. Is not a matter of wanting or choosing… for me is a matter of believing and trusting.

In my heart I am a mother… I am already one. I have five Goddaughters and one Godson…they are all perfect, smart, beautiful…future leaders? Baseball player? Ballerinas? It is all up to them. I know they are not mine… I know they can love me or not. I want to believe they feel the same way I do, that there is a bond somehow greater than simple blood; and who knows, maybe one day they will be sharing with their little brother and sisters, my future children, the same kind of love.

To my children...present and future.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 45 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie Tales

For the first time...a Magpie Tale

It was a Christmas Season, a week ahead planned
A family getaway, a log cabin in Pine Top.

The place was quaint and cozy, pine trees and a frozen lake
And then one day after arrival, snow was falling
…for the first time.

A white morning awaited, the kids excited rushed out to play
It was fantastic to watch all the cousins
…including the one and only Verdell.

Verdell geared up with purple jacket and snow boots
… all four of them
Like a precious ballerina, skipping his way towards the lake.

Inside the cabin a non-stop fire, embracing us all
Don Luis telling his stories, Christmas related…scary as well
Wearing brown sleepers and drinking good coffee
…freshly brewed, no sugar, just plain.

It was a holiday to remember... a Christmas away;
The family together, with no rush or other commitment
Than enjoying the moment
…for the first time.

Don Luis is the glue that sticks us together
Our cornerstone, our guide, our center.
Year after year preparing his Cod fish and special tamales
Year after year sharing his peace and love
Teaching us lessons with a single saying

This year will be different
This year he is no longer here
A December that is starting to feel strange.
A Christmas without his physical presence
Without his hugs and “God Bless you”
…for the first time.

“Aquí vino...

y se fue

Vino, nos marco nuestra tarea

y se fue.

…Aquí vino

y se fue

Vino, lleno nuestra caja de caudales

con millones de siglos y de siglos.

nos dejó unas herramientas...

y se fue.” Leon Felipe

For you my love, for us. It hurts, it hurts a lot.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 43 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

My mother the brave

Today is September 4th. It is my mother’s birthday. She turns 69. Let me tell you a little something about this woman.


She desired me for 5 years, yet she couldn’t get pregnant; back in the 70’s fertility treatments were more like trial an error experiments. She suffered and yet kept trying every single option – from fallopian tubes blockage treatment (yes, the painful gas-injection-old fashion one), surgery to remove ovarian cysts, to herbal teas and prayers. Finally, she was with child – with me to be precise.

She worked in her trendy boutique (the first one of its kind back then in her Mexican home town) and expected me with hope and joy…and 6 weeks before my arrival, she find out the hard way my father was cheating on her…she cried out of deception, broken trust; and I felt it, of that I am sure…it left me an ultra sensitive and apprehensive heart.

A fling it was, he said… and she wanted to believe. I was born in a December night, as small and pink as I could be. Marriage continued, difficulties increased, she kept working non-stop... and yet, after five years from her first baby girl, my sister was born: baby of the year – it was barely past midnight on a January 1st. . I remember her arrival, I remember my jealousy. But mostly, I remember her big green eyes.

Two little girls completed her world. Two little girls were all she kept after the husband (my father) vanished. No, he didn’t die. He just decided to leave. She started a new life in a different town, she gave us all she could for us to be safe and raised us as good as she humanly could. She was alone. She was a 34 year old young woman (now I see it), with a huge responsibility and nothing else. I remember her working, almost never around. I can see her arriving after a long day at work and sitting at the kitchen table to eat her favorite dinner: a bowl of frosted flakes… spoon after spoon…so quiet.

My sister and I learned to do everything by ourselves: from cooking to homework, from shopping to cleaning. I was a 12 year old adult taking care of a 7 year old kid. Mom was always busy, but expecting the best from us. I was always afraid to disappoint her. .. She was terrifying. Good grades and perfect behavior was not an option, it was the only way. No prizes, no encouragement, but the mere idea of letting her down was enough.

Year after year, work after work… town after town… school after school; we moved a lot, she was always looking for the best opportunity for her girls. No matter what it took, she never cared: housekeeper in a popular hotel (frequently visited by her former high-society Mexican friends), a cook at a student’s cafeteria and an overnight shift as a caregiver … everything so the girls could afford a better life…but she was never there… the girls were always alone taking care of themselves.

We grew up to become two independent-strong and determined women. My sister married his best friend and has two beautiful perfect girls. I married the love of my life and have been just the two of us (plus our dogs) for the last 21 years (11 married). My mother lives near my sister, still works and takes care of her two granddaughters. It took me a long time to see the things I see today. It wasn’t easy to accept that no one’s life is painless (one way or another). It took me a lot of years to understand that, my mother, as a young and beautiful woman, back then had a choice: and she decided to stay with us. She did what she thought was best. Out of love, out of courage, she made us become what we are.

Even though we sometimes -more often than desired- fight, or despite the fact that she doesn’t react the way I think she should, or the three thousand door mats she places all over the house carpet (oh, because god forbid the carpet might get dirty) I love her with all my heart, respect and honor her for her accomplishments and even more for her sacrifices… and how blessed and lucky I am to realize it in time.

To Olga: the Mother, the Tita, the fighter… but foremost, the woman.

The feeling of absence

What is the deal with it? I thought we were living alone, separate from all the influence and bitching about all the stuff that made us feel attached to something. But no. the moment your influence is gone, the moment that person is no longer with us, you feel lost.


It is hard to continue when it strikes you. It is difficult to explain since sometimes it makes no sense at all. You feel right, you feel complete, but one single smell, the smallest sound, even a word or an inside joke, brings everything back; and then it kicks you: is no longer here.

He was not my dad. He was not even blood-related to me. But he treated me like he was. His words, his presence, even his worst moments formed me. I was part of his family since I was 17. I can remember his moves, his legendary phrases, his way of cooking and most of all, his principles and rules. It formed me to the bone.

I didn’t have a paternal figure in my life – my dad was gone (by choice) since I was 7 years old. I remembered him, somehow with love, somehow with idealistic thoughts. But the truth is: he left us. I struggled with abandonment issues and dealt with them as good as I could; it marked me (somehow for good). And then I met him. He was the most generous and righteous person I’ve ever met. Stubborn as he could be, but loyal to his moral and concept of life. He taught me the importance of listening to my conscience and to pick good over bad. He was noble, kind and real. He made me believe we could pursue our dreams and to have the courage to come back after a setback.

Now he is not here. I know he is in a better place. He left me with a piece of him, his son and the love of my life. His blood is my family, I am one of them. I made a commitment, long before our goodbyes: always to do what is best for the family, but not in a closed non -rational way, but using my brain and my own judgment to come up with the best middle term. I miss him, miss him a lot. He is forever in my heart; he is continuously in my thoughts. Every day I forget I’m not able to share my experiences, or the new flavors we discover in one of our trips, or the plans for next Christmas. There is no day I don’t feel like he will call home and ask “how your trip went? I am glad you came back with good”.

Sometimes, people don’t know what they have when taken for granted, when it was given to you by birth, as a non-negotiable right. He was my father by choice, by heart. He knew it; he made me feel like that. Even though I won’t be able to hug him or hear his sweet words and repeated old jokes, he is forever with us, he made himself transcendental, immortal, part of our lives… and I am lucky and grateful for that.

America for the Americans

July 4th, 2010

Independence Day is a colorful holiday, summer time and fireworks, barbeques and lemonade (or beer). A day to remember we live in the land of the free home of the brave. To feel proud of being part of a great machinery of citizens that make this place the land of opportunities, a place where the dreams are possible and where hard work, honesty and spirit counts.


The 13 American colonies declared its independence from the British Empire back in 1776, in a document written mainly by Thomas Jefferson and John Adams and with the main objective, besides stating the obvious separation from England, to ensure "that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with inalienable rights," and "that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed." Equal. That is one strong word.

The United States of America is a country built mainly by immigrants. People from all around the world were welcomed to settle in a country in need for inexpensive labor force and offering hope for those getting away from hunger, religious persecution and political instability. European immigrants mainly from Ireland, Germany, Italy and Poland along with millions of Afro-Americans already in the country during colonial times started it all. Diversity in all senses: creed, ethnicity, culture, language. Asia made its great contribution of people along with Mexican agriculture workers. Scandinavians were lure to the other side of the Atlantic by the promise of free land in America. Nobody arrived uninvited. They all wanted a piece of the dream. A dream described mainly by the letters from their own relatives already living in, by exaggerated descriptions of the so called opportunities.

Historically and cyclically immigrants had been discriminated by the native-born –and most likely garnished by surnames such as Fitzpatrick, Bauer, Rossi, Roosevelt, Murphy and Garcia – with unfair acts ranging from verbal and physical abuse to burning their homes and deporting them for taking the American’s jobs. Immigrants have been taking turns in the path of discrimination: African-Americans suffered the most by slavery and denial of human rights; Irish treated as second class citizens, carriers of diseases and filth. Mexicans treated as criminals, ignorant and second-class human beings. Stereotypes applied without further reasoning or logical foundation.

I am an immigrant. I was born in Mexico. I was naturalized American therefore became Mexican-American. My family lives in Arizona. I pay my taxes; we contribute to the great American economy. I am as proud of my background as I am loyal and grateful for the opportunity to be in the United States. My two beautiful nieces are half-Mexican, they will always be. I was told, more than once, I don’t look Mexican… neither do my nieces. I don’t take that as a compliment…it insults me and my heritage to the bone. Nobody should have the right to decide who is good or bad, who has the right to live or should leave by the way it looks, the ability to speak more than one language, an accent or the amount of spices you can tolerate in the food. Arizona’s government is enforcing a state of fear and encouraging the ignorant idea of supremacy based on racial profiles.

One of my best friends, who is also one of the smartest human beings I know – which happens to be Mexican – once told me “Illegal immigration is a social phenomenon not a crime”; by treating illegal immigrants crossing the southern border of the USA as such, and granting the authorities the right to apply subjective criteria to determine who is not an American, a greater evil is encouraged: racism and superiority. A few clarifications for the record: not all the darker-skin, short height, dark-hair, Spanish-spoken aliens trying to cross the border are illegal; neither are all Mexican – Guatemala, Salvador, Honduras and the rest of the central and south American places are, in fact, different countries (it might come as a shocker to some, but America is not just the United States). Not all “Latinos” look alike.

The United States of America, as well as any other nation in the world, has all the right to regulate immigration; nobody should live illegally in a country, without paying taxes and without basic living conditions. But one would think that a first-class country should have the capability to find better means of control; criminalizing an act of desperation and self-preservation goes against human nature, against the nation’s ideals and foundation. Yes, it is against the law and should be treated like that; but no, it is not a crime. Yes, it is something that should be regulated; but no, it does not give the right to become human-hunters.

Some of the greatest contributions to the American culture came from immigrants: from literature to food, from financial institutions to music. Immigrants willing to work hard and become part of a new generation of people open for change and respectful of each other’s right for freedom, to equal rights, equal obligations, and equal opportunities . Call me naïve and romantic, but I still want to believe in America for the Americans – whatever the background, whatever the country – but willing to be free.

To Mia and Amy - always feel proud of who you are.

Heredando la tradición

Hermosillo, Sonora, Abril 3, 2010.

950ml. de aceite de oliva, bien nivelado en la paellera. 36 dientes de ajo, doraditos pero nunca quemados para que no se amarguen. Se fríen las carnes en orden, de las más duras a las más blanditas, sazonando individualmente con sal y pimienta y retirando en los útiles insertos para continuar con el arroz, el cual se debe mantener en constante movimiento para que tome un color blanco perla – “no le tengan miedo al arroz, que se ponga blanco parejito, que si se ponen más prietitos unos que otros no le estorba”. La salsa de tomate para limpiar todos los restos de carne y sabor del fondo y el caldo de pescado sazonado con romero que le da el toque especial. A devolver todos los ingredientes previamente fritos para culminar con los pistilos de azafrán, un toquecito de colorante vegetal, pimientos multicolor, chicharos, ejotes y las almejas. Ya para terminar se agregan el chorizo español y salchichas polacas que se posan sobre ese carnaval de colores y sabores.

Esta es la tradicional paella familiar. Un platillo especial, tanto por la combinación de ingredientes y sabores, como por lo que implica elaborarlo: es un trabajo de equipo. Lo primero, es encontrarle pretexto al evento, que por lo general redunda en cumpleaños, aniversarios, navidades, semana santa, festejar éxitos, o simplemente, una ocasión donde se vayan a reunir más de 20 personas (mismo número que se logra sin esfuerzo con la pura familia y amigos cercanos). Una vez puesta la fecha, sede y hora, se inicia el rally de buscar todos los ingredientes, en supermercados, pescaderías y en la bodega familiar para recabar todos los trastos, hoyas, cucharones, espátulas, insertos y demás aditamentos que son indispensables para su elaboración.

Los pasos, método y ciencia de preparación fueron transmitidos por un mago de la paella, quien la aprendió como parte de las actividades que hace ya más de 40 años se hacían de recaudación de fondos para causas loables. De forma generosa y paternal, nos fue involucrando en dichos eventos y demás reuniones en donde se preparaba la paella como tema central de la celebración, permitiéndonos poco a poco tomar las riendas, pero El siempre a nuestro lado observando y dirigiendo de forma discreta pero contundente. Cada quien fue aportando elementos para enriquecer y mejorar el sabor y el procedimiento, siempre conservando los pasos principales como eje de la receta; las ricas costillitas de puerco para complementar los trocitos de carne, camarones con cabeza para dar sabor al caldo, pulpo en trocitos sancochado en el aceite ya penetrado con el sabor de todas las carnes, vino blanco directo sobre el arroz frito para provocar su explosión e intensificar su consistencia; langostinos y corazones de alcachofa, cuando hay. Cada una de las aportaciones fue avalada por su paladar, diciéndonos: “este año les salió más buena que la anterior”…mismo comentario que siempre era repetido en la siguiente ocasión, no sin venir aderezado con la famosa frase: “el secreto del sabor es que no te lavaste las manos…”

La última paella que hicimos fue para celebrar los quince años de mi ahijada, la mayor de todas. Fue como ya es costumbre un evento familiar, en donde todos colaboramos para la preparación de la que fue la mejor paella hecha hasta ahora (como siempre). Todos alrededor del chef que heredó el sazón y la pasión por la cuchara de su padre, cuya presencia estuvo en todo momento ahí, a nuestro lado. Lo podíamos sentir y casi ver con su sombrero, su chamarra de piel café, manos en los bolsillos del pantalón, mirada orgullosa y comentarios reafirmantes de cada paso que se daba… al degustar el resultado final de este platillo, los comentarios generales fueron positivamente alentadores. “Les quedó muy rica…en su punto de sal…no le faltó nada”. Todo se lo debemos a Él, nos heredó la tradición de compartir y ser generosos. Y ese día, en su honor, no nos lavamos las manos.

Gracias por todo, Don Luis!

Mas allá del ritual… la noche del “Sí, acepto”

Hermosillo, Sonora, Noviembre 14, 2009.

Es sábado, los preparativos para este momento han sido calculados y planeados. Todos los involucrados están en sus puestos y listos para empezar la función. Cada uno tiene su labor, ninguna menos importante que la otra ya que es en conjunto que se logra el todo perfecto.

Todo empieza con la imagen perfecta de la novia radiante. Espectacularmente ataviada, pero principalmente adornada con su enorme sonrisa que nos llena a todos. El novio en su papel, serio y formal, entrando confiado a esta aventura de vivir en compañía, no puede evitar hacer sutilmente obvio su encanto al ver a su ángel.

La ceremonia se realiza con un ambiente tranquilo, rodeados de la gente que los quiere y protege. Para quien cree, la gracia del sacramento empieza a hacer su trabajo, llenando todo de una sensación de paz que se confunde con ternura. Para quien no cree, es simplemente un momento que no requiere explicación pero que se siente familiar. Para todos, es el inicio de la celebración.

Y es así como continúa lo que fue una de las noches mas llenas de magia que he vivido, en parte por el ambiente creado a base de detalles medidos y cuidados, perfectamente elegidos e incorporados, pero principalmente por la sensación de euforia, de amor, de compañía, de alegre algarabía, de ser familia. Convivir y vivir ese momento con primos, hermanos, maridos, tíos, padrinos, ahijados, abuelos, padres, madres, sin edad ni tiempo, sin pose ni falsos intentos, simplemente me llenó. Los abrazos sinceros, las palabras que salen de muy adentro, los reencuentros, sentimientos a flor de piel y amor del bueno, del que no se puede esconder pero no siempre nos atrevemos a demostrar.

Entre todo lo que sucedió ese día, principalmente fue la noche del “Sí, acepto”: acepto que soy vulnerable ante la vida; acepto que no soy nadie sin mi familia. Acepto que es por mis carencias del pasado que soy lo que ahora soy y puedo llegar a ser, al verme en los ojos de mi gente, mi sangre. Acepto que el amor lo puede todo, y vale la pena hacerlo todo por amor. Aceptarnos como somos y querernos por lo que somos, no es lo más fácil de hacer; y es en noches como ésta donde se hace tan obvio que es realmente un desperdicio no aprovechar el instinto y dejarnos llevar por la emoción.

Es la emoción de ser parte de momentos inexplicables, como la risa de niño de un hombre gigante al ver a su hija brillando como nunca; de las lágrimas de perla de una mujer hermosa al verse en su niña, su hija, enamorada y plena. Del momento en que esas niñas hoy hechas mujeres nos abrazaron a mi hermana y a mi para compartirnos a su papá, al que se quiere más que a nadie, el viento bajo sus alas, su héroe. La memoria de eso que sentimos, la sensación vivida, me la llevo conmigo; se queda grabada para siempre y me recuerda cada que cierro los ojos que no estamos solos, somos parte de un todo y acepto el compromiso de trascenderlo a los que nos siguen en el camino.