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.

The living dead

There are many ways of dying. I’ve learned that soon enough as a child. When someone dies, you make your peace by mastering the idea of having our own time, our own cycle of life. Getting over the ones leaving voluntarily, by choice, by just walking out of your life is a little bit more complicated than that.


Keep living after death, soon the calm returns, melancholy remains, keeping them alive by usually remembering just the good times; we start turning them into heroes, supernatural beings, who are always by our side, watching our sleep, or so it seems. In our head they are perfect, nothing bad to recall, no horrible mistakes made all because they are not coming back.

The toughest to recover from are the ones alive and kicking, the tangible, audible, yet dearly departed ones. Looking for themselves, for their individuality, for their true self they left, unpredictable actions, morphing, making a new life. Leaving us in shards, emptiness and pain; trying to find comfort in a justifying lie or the bitter aftertaste of our sugar coated pride.

The stages of grief mutate when that presence re-appears every once in a while; in a comment, at a glance, in a picture seen by chance. They are still here, you know and feel. Yet not the same, not with you, not even near.

It is not easy to deal with the living dead. How to find peace and balance again? Time reveals: we screwed up by giving or asking for way too much; that protection was not needed on the contrary was bad, overwhelming, even castrating, nursing rotten feelings inside. Should we keep waiting for the right time for them to rectify? Do we really stand a chance or is just another lie? That love remains intact to eventually upraise. Is it really even possible to recover what has been broken inside?

November 2nd, day of the dead, reminiscence applies. Missing them, feeling them near and missing me with them as much. To the afterlife, to the new life, or wherever you guys are: I love you… in my own selfish way, in my own imperfect terms. The love remains, can you see the light?


...oh where are thou?

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

1 4 7

In the darkness of an early Monday morning, his presence I felt. He was getting ready for an anticipated and most feared procedure, based on several studies, hundreds of allergic episodes and three closed-relatives respiratory failure deaths. He was as ready as someone can be to check in to a hospital for a severe deviated septum surgery.

Paperwork was done. The kind receptionists made us sign all the documents and consents and gave us further instructions along with the “welcome” package: a plastic bag with a pair of sleepers, a pillow, small soap and shampoo, a box of tissues, one bottle of water and a universal TV remote…it felt so depressing to receive some sort of primary need items in a “gift” bag; I wonder how difficult could it be to arrange an “all-inclusive” room instead… a matter of taste, I guess.

It was 7: 30 AM sharp and he was ready to go – fully prepared in his butt-less gown and blue elastic hat. He was not scared, he was confident and we said good bye. The surgery was going to last approximately 4 hours; I let him go… he took half my heart and soul with him.

I had a lot of plans, very good mental plans to spend my waiting hours in a productive way; it was good at first: replied a few emails, held one conference call while drinking my first cup of coffee; all that took more or less 1 hour out of the 4. Family arrived to check on him, no news were good news we all concluded. It was in the loneliness of a cold room 147 where we waited… and waited for the next 3 hours. It was room 147 the place assigned by the hospital for his recovery. In my mind, I was going to use those long hours to write a magpie (I had lots of ideas for last week’s prompt: from a grandma tribute to an art dealer tale; a chocolate factory medallion to a time travel charm), to catch up with my reading, to find the cure for cancer. It is amazing how hard our mind plays us when we try to use it in a productive way. All of it good intentions, nothing really happened; I couldn’t concentrate, I had no head to think or to reason or to settle down. I was nervous in a non-obvious way. There’s no such a thing as a routine procedure when it comes to general anesthesia.

Finally, I heard his name thru the speakers – he was in the post-surgery recovery area. I flew there as fast as I could. His face was the face of a tender little boy; he was still coming out of the chemical-induced deep dream, his eyes were watery, his nose was covered with a bloody bandage and he was mumbling; I was relieved yet my heart was melting for seeing him like this… so vulnerable, scared, and almost helpless. He was back to me. I was there for him. I felt like crying. The surgery was a total success, said the doctor. Nothing went wrong, he fixed everything. After two hours of monitoring, we went together to room 147, our home for the next 24 hours.

No magpie, no reading (my apologies to all my dear fellow bloggers for being absent) or working on paperwork and emails for me these days. We are back home now, living day by day until his full recovery. It is a matter of patience and self-control. I admire him, even more. His face is swollen, his nostrils completely blocked with nasal packing, his eyes red and constantly tearing; I wish I could take his place this week, I know it is not physically possible. But I am going to be part of his process as much as he wants me to be. I am grateful with the wise doctors for doing a good job, for the opportunity given to fix and improve his daily living; I am as proud as I could be for his determination and self-control. But mostly, I am amazed with the fact that we take for granted small natural things like breathing… and how easily it could be damaged.

For my brave one... always with you... forever.

Broken links.. a magpie tale

“Some things are meant to stay together because once broken, they cannot bond back again”. I remember this phrase like it was said yesterday. You told me that when we first met as part of a casual conversation that was flowing from baseball to music. It didn’t have much sense then but somehow it gave me the chills.

What happened next is now history: many days of love, joy, laughter, plans…tears, suffering, pain and more. You told me we were going to be together forever…you promised me that. And here I am now, burning inside, so mad, no, not mad… so furious with you and your broken promises; the first out of many other broken things you left me with.

Trust and loyalty … I trusted you, you asked me to! And I wanted to believe. What do I do with your word now that my words won’t reach you? Even if I yell, if I cry out loud, you can’t hear me. Broken trust my dear, is even worse than a broken heart. A heart that no longer beats but only shivers in a desperate attempt to feel alive, to feel something else besides the piercing pain of betrayal.

A pact…yes we had a pact: we would die together…now what? Here I am mourning you with nothing but the frustration and incapacity of not being able to fix the fact that we are no longer together. No matter how hard I try, you are not with me, not even to start a fight, one of those colossal fights driven by our passionate souls that always ended up with such a feeling of inner peace - the sweet sensation of surrendering to our demons and returning from the darkest place holding hands... carrying our hearts.

Time stopped long time ago; I can’t think of anything but many different ways to make you suffer at least one tiny bit of what I’m feeling. If I could only reach you… if you could only hear me… if I could only trade places with you…if you could only see me once again…if life could be in our hands once again.

But death parted us. Loneliness is my companion, eternity my only plan and this cold grave the place you insist to call my new home. This is me, venting out in a futile attempt to ignore the fact that it was ME who left you alone, that I broke our pact… that I let you down.

And yet here you are, like every November, standing by this old tombstone, tidying things up with your sweet and sour new look, wearing all black. Your eye lines are thicker; your tears carved their way. I am so sorry to see you like this. Please dear, don’t comeback. Don’t join the crowd with their music and tacky flowers. Don’t waste your precious energy in fighting for a parking spot or the last buckets of dirty water for the plants. This tradition is way too painful for you and totally pointless for me… I am not here, this is not who I was. Whatever lies underneath this broken stone, is just a sad reminder that at the end we are nothing but dust and worms. What matters honey, what really matters, stayed inside you when I left – in your memories, in your heart, in the familiar smells that rush back our moments, our days, our time. Try to forgive me for breaking apart… for not proving your words… because we are still together, I am always by your side.

To our beloved ones who left us...because this is how I want to remember and would like to be remembered. November 2 - Dia de Muertos (day of the dead)

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 38 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

It happened one night... a Magpie Tale

It happened one night, long time ago. I was young, vibrant. Italy and its magic romanticism. It was more than 21 years ago and I can still feel the crisp breeze of Venice with the small intricate alleys and the multitude walking, dancing, singing, living a carnival night. Masks were mandatory; Bellini the drink of choice. St.Mark’s square was never more crowded yet intimate, sublime. And there I was, believing in destiny and totally willing to make it the night of my life.


Today is my daughter’s wedding, my little girl. I am in my room, in front of my dresser, looking at myself in the mirror, brushing my hair, getting ready for the big event. I open one drawer and there it is: the little mahogany box engraved to perfection… a box that has been with me for more than 21 years…all the memories flashed right back: my long deep blue satin dress, purple and golden mask decorated with peacock feathers, our walk in the middle of the night. He was the mysterious dandy in a perfect black Italian suit, sober gray mask with just an elegant discrete glitter that with the moonlight seemed sometimes silver and others light purple, but all times sexy. His voice was deep, like a caress… his seductive moves gave me no room for second thoughts. He kissed me under Casanova’s balcony… we’ve got lost in an endless embrace, our hands belonged together, we were part of the crowd yet were alone in Venice, living the greatest love affair, my dream.

My daughter comes in to my room looking for her grandma’s broach; she is stunning, a mix of childish innocence and yet such a confident woman. I see her getting in and saw the same 4 year old that used to rush in to play dress up with my shoes, necklaces, makeup; I guess that’s how mothers see their daughters no matter how old they get. The moment she gets in I instinctively hide the box from her; is not the time, nor the place. Today is her day. She takes the broach, gives me a quick butterfly kiss and storms out when her friends, the bride’s maids, are calling her back to her room to continue with the ritual. Then I went back to my box, my memory box...the next morning we were still together, went to a cozy café and ordered two ristrettos with pastries; we talked, we laughed, we looked at the people walking by. He excused himself for a minute, and the nice waitress approached me and asked - “how do you do it?” I didn’t understand her question, so I replied with an apologetic - “excuse me?” and she confirmed back - “yes, I want to know how do you do it, what is the magic, for him to look at you like that, is like nobody exists by you…” I was floating, my heart was pounding, my brain was totally lost in the moment and then he came back, with a box wrapped in quaint paper, almost like the kind used in hardware stores, brown with gondola motif. “This box is for you, for you to remember me by and it is for me, to always remember where I met my angel…and it is for us, and only for us, to never forget that we belong together, just you and me, even if we have other people in our lives, people that may be more important or that may take more time from both, this is a homage to the greatest love affair of all times” - I was speechless …we kissed, he touched my nose, we giggled and hugged once again.

I put on my mother of the bride dress, wear the special pearls and color my lips with a pinkish gloss. I take a last look at myself in the mirror, to see me again, more than 21 one years after …my hair is now shorter, grayer, my face showing some lines… I close my eyes to take a deep breath, my hand softly touching the box, my box… our box… and then I feel his arms around my waist, the same voice that melted my heart  years ago - ” Are you ready, my angel? Our girl is waiting for us… I think you are, you look beautiful” - I open my eyes and look at him in my mirror, his eyes still giving me the same look that took my breath away in Venice - ”Almost my dear, just the final touch”- I opened the box and took the bottle of perfume, Italian cologne to be precise, the same one that sealed our pact after that magic night and that I only wear when I am with him, with the love of my life, my one and only, the only one.

For my husband, my best friend...my everything.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 33 - 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.

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.