My cousin sent this to me today. It’s certainly a comical way to end an otherwise stressful week.
I grew up in a household…
- where coffee, milk and sugar were part of a balanced breakfast.
- where my ADD and ADHA were treated with en cuanto te coja te voy a partir la cabeza instead of Ritalin.
- where all it took was just *ONE* look.
- where we loved white rice and fried eggs.
- where lentil soup was considered comida de presos.
- where Spanish was my primary language.
- where Spanish was my *only* language.
- where I had to go to school open house to translate for my parents.
- where music or TV were never played on Good Friday.
- where we ate bacalao on Good Friday because all other fish were too expensive.
- where we at lechon at Noche Buena, New Year's Eve, birthday parties, and every other social function.
- where malanga and manzanilla were the remedies to end all remedies.
- where I was not allowed to sleep over at anybody's house, but they could all come over to our house.
- where the carpool was el ride, the lunchman was el carrito, and the lunchbox was la lonchera.
- where la carne came from la carniceria.
- where meat and potatoes was literally carne con papas. And it was served over rice.
- where oxtail stew had the colorful name of rabo encendido or translated - fiery tail.
- where people were either blanco, negro, indio o chino.
- where los perros was te dog track, las maquinitas were slot machines, and el juego was anything related to gambling.
I grew up in a household run by Cubans.
I survived in a household run by Cubans.
Happy Friday to all, and especially to my mom and all the other Caridades - Feliz dia de la Caridad!