When tortilla – loosely translated – means serape.

Mas tarde with los bloggings I’ve become so. Realized yesterday I posted Memorial Day munch dos semanas late. If only it were like my Mexican co-workers claim “You’re more Mexican than we are” and I been getting a serious manana on. (Though I heed to the call of the caguama often and am forever picking machaca out of my teeth.)

Si solamente.

No no no…the raison de slacking is El Nino: Oscar. This mighty little despot of 9 months dictates what content his parents can or cannot provide every second of every day.

Too, The Spittin’ Image puts a WWF-sized mandible claw on the contents to his padre’s stomach. It’s all-hands-on Oscar all the time. Adios to tostadas and hard shell tacos to say nothing of chicken wings from Buffalo, fried chicken from The South Loop and hot buttered popcorn from the microwave; the shrapnel of the crunchy tortillas a formidable choking hazard, the slick grease and incendiary sauce of the fried and the nuked a lethal lotion and/or lubricant.

So I’m stuck. Not with discontinuing to feed my inner Mestizo, rather at how to transition from the myopia of new-Dad drivel (diapers, drool, sleep deprivation) to happily happening upon a tortilla on the grocer’s shelves in the Barrio Nuevo that I want to share with all new parents.

photo 5


A analogous segue coming to mind confounds same said Mestizo (a palabra) unrecognized by MS Word spell-check) which is that of me the conquistador who discovered gold in the New World, or in my case, Lakeview/Halsted/Boystown crossed by Quixote (a word recognized by MS Word).

Then there’s the second option of taking the name of these near perfect tortillas as a starting point and the fact that the family has taken to attending church smacks both of blasphemy and cultural insensitivity. Neither the Lord nor La Primera Madre appeared on a tort before me. Though, it is something, to my narrow-mind, of El Milagro that at long last, actually about 10 months, flat, floury, foldable, formidable, fabulous, functional, fun. what the “f” (yes, a toddler brings out the cornballer in me).

On a scale of 1-5, El Milagro “burritos” fall right at 4.7. .3 points off for chewy texture and a starchy finish both of which I forgive as this loss is made up for in circumference and diameter. (Size matters in the new hood (adults only link) and El Milagro is the super-heavy-weight chompian ’round these, er, parts.) These blanca beauties are the gigantest. What this means for this new Dad is a return to carne adovada, chile verde, and margarita. With a tighter seal than a face lift (and flyer than a space ship) one can now lose the “itto” and mow through burro after burro without risk of dripping or dribbling piping hot cheese/grease/mole/tequilla onto counter, arm, floor and/or Oscar.



Nuevo parenting also causes mild cognitive impairment. I so want to recall the name – or link to – a book detailing the advances of pre-Columbus Day Americans. We all learned how the OAs (Original Ancestors) created calendars, experimented with human flight and human cuisine – cut off from Western influences AND Daniel Bourdain. What I wonder is, is if the author uncovered, as I have, how pre-Columbians also invented the edible diaper.





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