Acento Cubano

A lifetime ago, my husband and I went to a show featuring local songwriters performing in the round at Nashville's famed Blue Bird Cafe. We walked in late and missed the introductions.

When one of the performers began to speak and sing, I got goosebumps. His voice was beautiful and it also was familiar. I turned to my husband and said: "That guy sounds Cuban to me.''

Turns out he was. And my husband once again was amazed by my strange ability to pick out Latinos before we know for sure they are Latino. I can smell it, I tell him. It's a bit of a joke, for sure, but there is a definite "knowing.'' In the years it was rare to meet Hispanics here in Tennessee, it helped me spot "my people'' and make new acquaintances.

The singer, by the way, was Raul Malo, Cubanito crooner from Miami who fronted the wildly popular band, the Mavericks. He lives in these parts now and has one of the most soul-moving voices I've ever heard.

I'm sharing this story because I heard this story on NPR this morning. It's about the new series Cane and the quest for the correct Cuban-American accent. They wanted the actors, some of whom are not Cuban, to sound cubaniche, not Puerto Rican or Colombian because so many of us can tell.

Personally, I cannot wait for this series to start. Can't help but wonder whether it will be more than a caricature with a correct accent. But also hope they throw in a few chusmas for fun and color.

Ju know?

Enough about me...

I've added a poll on the right-hand side of the Boonie Blog.

I know some of you have found me here, a little dot on the map in Whereinthehellisthat, TN, by Googling "tickle feet'' and "spanish onesies'' and of course, my personal favorite "spank Latinas.'' I also know some of your madres and primas told you about me and a few others stumbled here via a generous link posted anywhere between Little Havana and Sicilia.

When I worked for Gigantic Media Corporation they used to give us all sorts of data on who our readers were. (I use huge font because I still think my readers are 65-year-old newspaper reading Grannies. It's ingrained.) And given that my telephone number and e-mail were printed below just about every story I wrote in the last decade, my phone would ring and I'd get feedback. Everything from: "You are a talented, gorgeous genius. The next chick lit star'' to "You know what I'm doing with your story today? Training my dog on it, you talentless hack.''


Good or bad, I love feedback.

So, I think the polling will become a regular feature here. Some may be silly and some will be serious, as I need the information to become a Gigantic Baby Tee Shirt Corporation. And mostly because, I like you and want to get to know you better.

So, talk to me and go hit that little button to the right.

Even you spankers.

It's Hot. I'm Hot. You're Hot.

Title this: El Santo better not make a move

As my brain continues its disintegration due to heat and drought and the overwhelm that occurs when one's only child is gone 8 hours a day, five days a week, I have taken to watching the continuous action going on outside my windows.

While I move like a slug and confine myself to a/c, the animals that live in our woods are busy and active providing a bright dose of cheer and thorough entertainment.

Four resident hummingbirds dive bomb each other for pole position on the feeders, a mother deer and her twins are regular visitors and I expect the birds -- of all shades and sizes -- to leave us a thank you note for the cool bath water.

So, while you're fighting traffic, or hoping your boss doesn't see you spending time here, this is what I'm doing.

Not a bad way to pass the time until we all melt into the fabric.

But maybe I should get some work done?

Sweetness has spots

A rare glimpse at sharing

Title this: Napoleon Complex or Bad Ass Chickadee

Gourmet goes Latin or Latin goes Gourmet?

A quick stop at the grocery store this afternoon yielded the September issue of Gourmet Magazine. The issue is dedicated to Latin Food "America's Fastest-Rising Cuisine.''

I've only skimmed it, but what I saw made my mouth water. Guanabana sorbet, arepas, chimichurri burgers, ceviche, chile blackberry syrup...ay, Dios Mio!

Fabulous fact from the Miami/Cuban food story: La Caja China people make more than 2 million bucks a year, selling all over the world. We've got one sitting in our garage, still trying to figure it out.

From the Gourmet/Epicurious site: Top Latino Restaurants in 14 Cities

They also rated my favorite thing about the Latinization of Nashville: Taco Trucks! Second best food trend since walk-up cafecito windows in Miami.

A few national Taco Truck favorites here.

But, sadly...they missed Nolensville Road and my crockpot-loving cubanita friend Marta.

Gourmet, call me next time, OK?

Big Tease

It might just be that one particular crazy, old bearded man is the biggest tease in the history of the universe.

My cell rang in the 2 o'clock hour. The voice on the other end was in Miami and whispering the intel that was swirling around the hot streets, intoxicating and inspiring la gente.

A few hours later, nada.

Jipped again.

Tease, I tell you.

Crazy tease.

Multilingual Living

The September/October issue of Multilingual Living published by the fine folks at the Bilingual/Bicultural Family Network is out. If you are raising a bilingual child, and you don't subscribe, you are missing out. It's beautifully presented in a downloadable PDF and it has wonderful stories and resources.

I wrote a column this issue about the Cuban colloquialism for coconut or "coco'' -- as in how many cocos we are spending to send our daughter to a fancy Spanish immersion program.

There's more than that, of course. But, you'll have to subscribe to read it.

It's only 12 cocos a year.

GOOALLL!!!!

How delicious are those moments when you find something you've long wanted. You know, those moments when you must cheer loudly, but you're alone, and sharing joy with a complete stranger will have to do.

"Oh my god! They've got condensed milk in a squeeze tube!''

That was me yesterday scaring the young woman who happened to be passing the Hispanic Foods section of Wal-Mart. (Yes, I shop at Wal-Mart and lucky thing!)

I care not the woman thought I was a boring freak with a simple life and no friends. I have scored and made my summer wish come true.

I haven't felt this lucky since I won a bike in a raffle at the age of 12.

The fantasies of a stay-at-home wife

My daughter is now attending school five days a week.

What the heck to do with myself?

I’ve been telling everyone for months now I am going to be a spa mommy. I want “mom arms,’’ a term introduced to me by a friend from NYC, describing how chiseled, fabulous shoulders and arms give one away as a mommy who spends a whole lotta time in the gym. I’d like a mom butt too, please. And not a Tennessee one. A tiny Southern California one. Or maybe a Miami Beach tanga-ready one.

So many choices now.

And, I’d like to sit in a coffee shop with my laptop, high on caffeine and fantasy, pumping out the novels that run through my head like hamsters on speed.

And, I’d like to sit on my porch with a cup of tea and read a magazine. A trashy one.

And, clean out my attic. It’s still the ’90s in there.

And, learn to make hand-made books. Finally. My 4-year-old supplies are gathering dust.

My list could go on for pages because as I begin this new chapter of my life -- more stay-at-home wife than stay-at-home mom -- the ’burbs are my oyster.

I am one lucky mujercita.

Do you hate me? Don’t. I am dreaming.

The reality is I have unearthed my desk from under un-filed paperwork and I have massive lists of things to do to promote and sell these sweet little Spanish t-shirts. I’ve also accepted a freelance contract so the dabbling in journalism begins again.

I have feared this week. Worried I would crumble when I let my child out of the car, but the child turned to me on her first day and said “Bye, Mom. Love you.’’ She walked away, happily chatting up the teacher who held her hand and walked her inside.

She is brave and independent and I could not be more proud.

When I picked her up and asked her if she had a great day she reported “Yes, I did!’’

Whatever I do to fill my days now, all will be done by the time I head to the car line to pick up my girl.

Our daily time together is shorter now, but I suspect it will be richer as we’re both learning, growing, feeding our souls. Spreading our wings.

Que fortuna.

Learning to espick espanish

My dad is visiting. He's here to watch his granddaughter go off to school. He's also watching the birds, watering the plants, cooking, vacuuming and washing my windows...A lot..."Mira que polvo!" I think I fail the Cuban Cleanliness Standards.

So, on the way out the driveway this morning (and, more about school in a coming post), Maria says:
"Mami, I saw abuelito's pee cup.''
"What? You saw what?''
"His pee cup.''
"What's that?...Papi?''
"In the driveway. Right there.''
"Oh, do you mean his pick-up?''
"Yes, his pee cup.''

Say it fast "peecup" equals "pick-up" in Cubano.

Yes, indeed. My daughter is learning lots of new words from her abuelito.

The problem with being the crunchy sister

A conversation with my brother...

Me: "At Maria's new school they take a walk in nature every morning, rain or shine. Then they do some yoga, then they come inside and talk about what they heard on their walk.''

Hermano: "Does the school supply their bongs?''

Que llueva, que llueva

How incredibly boring of me to complain about the weather, but allow me a little, por favor. You'll get a song at the end.

It feels as though we are living in the devil's anus. So crude, but really, it's the only thing that truly describes the never-ending heat and mind-melting sun that is upon us. And people, I have no ocean.

The thermostat on my car read 107 yesterday. It hasn't rained in weeks. Feels like years. The grasses are dead, the trees and animals are suffering and here in the woods, I find myself in constant need of a nap, so sapped I am.

This sloth feeling comes at a mucho bad time. The kiddo is getting ready to start school, so that means paperwork must be filled and supplies must be gathered; there are baby t-shirts to pack and ship and, as always, floors to mop and toilets to swish. I can't be napping now.

So here's a traditional Spanish song about rain we've been singing for days. It has become incantation.

Que llueva (Bring the rain)

Que llueva, que llueva
el quetzal esta en la cueva (sing twice)
los pajaritos cantan
las nuves se levantan
que si, que no
que caiga un chaparron. (sing twice)

In English:

Bring the rain, bring the rain
the quetzal is in the cave (sing twice)
the little birds are singing,
the clouds are now rising
oh yes, oh no
please bring us a big storm (sing twice)

Switch out "quetzal" and sing about animals such as condor (el condor), llama (la llama), turtle (la tortuga), deer (el venado) and snake (la serpiente.)

We sing the version written in the awesome Diez Deditos by Jose Luis Orozco.

Now, sing it with me:

Que llueva, que llueva
por-freaking-favor
Mami esta quemada,
que si, que no
que caiga un chaparron.
ño!

Sleep deprivation and school

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the hell that my child hath put upon me with her whining and freakoutamientos. Let me tell you what my investigative skills have helped me uncover: The child is sleep deprived.

My bombillo went off as I realized the non-napper she is never really went back to her early bedtime when we came back from all that late-night dancing in the plazas of Catalunya. Summer schedule and all.

Soon after that 6 p.m. bedtime event, we started putting her to bed early...like by 7:30. I suddenly did not need to dress her in her "Candela'' t-shirt daily.

Then, we went to Miami and she was up late partying with her primos. De pee pee otravez.

Back home and sleeping...Easy child.

Then, the last two nights, we had outings and today, she kept telling me how tired she was.
It's 7:30 and she's knocked out.

It is a good thing the genius that I am has finally figured this out because in little more than a week, my only child will start attending school five days a week. We'll be getting our butts out of bed at 6 a.m., something neither one of us much enjoys. Sleep will be essential to both of us. I am my own version of evil without sleep. The saying...like mother...

Speaking of school, we met some classmates, their parents and her teacher at a pool party yesterday. It was held way out in the countryside, about an hour from the city, on a gorgeous farm surrounded by fields and cows and horses at pasture. Making the drive in the golden afternoon glow was awe-inspiring. This state is beautiful. Seriously beautiful.


While I was not thrilled to meet these people for the first time while exposing my tuna-white flesh, they were cool and welcoming. The conversation was easy. Given that this is a Spanish immersion class, it was great to learn that some of the parents speak Spanish too. The crowd also loved the platanitos and mojo we brought and everyone flipped at a taste of Maria's teacher's flan. The caramelo was the best I ever have tasted. It was thick and buttery. She's a native Catalana and firmly stated she would not be sharing her recipe. No gway.

I've decided I need to put my investigative skills at work again to get her to divulge the recipe to me, even if it is off the record. This thing was heaven. Pero with my rusty skills in evidence, it is likely I will not be eating Catalan flan anytime soon.

Romancing the store

Speaking metaphorically, Los Pollitos has gone to first base with a major national retailer.

The kiss came yesterday afternoon. They tell us they will be ordering a decent amount of “units’’ and will sell them on their Web site. I am shaky and sweaty as I write this. We did not go looking for them, as major retailers scare the stink out of me. They found us through the holy power of Google.

Now, this is big. Very big. And we are grateful they even took a first look.

Our elation is tempered a bit because last year we let a major manufacturer get completely up our skirt - the promise of licensing - and then we got the equivalent of “Yeah babe, it was great. I’ll call you.’’ Y nada.

It was, to the say the least, a learning experience. While it was a letdown, it showed us we are on the right road and we ended up with a kick-butt revised business plan.

I have to tell you, running this business is a delight. I love sending the tees and onesies across the country and the thrill is even bigger when customers write a note of thanks, or send a picture of their pollito wearing our designs. Melts.my.heart.

Plus, I get to use skills I learned as a reporter: persistence, deadline, detail, follow-through. And this makes me believe all those years reporting on fires and freaks was training for a new path. (And, I get to work with the most talented, funniest and dearest friend, Oscar.)

This is not to say I don’t have days when I am completely exhausted and freaked. We ride a roller coaster often. Like, hey five people asked for wholesale information this week and like hey, no one has ordered yet. Or, hell it is July…time to start the Christmas push.

So, it is possible that working with this chain will give us exposure in the equivalent of gazillions of dollars in marketing and advertising. The roller coaster would climb very high. Very high, indeed.

When our first kiss with this national chain turns hot and heavy (like when we actually ship out the goods) you all will be the first to know for whom we are waiting anxiously by the phones.

And then maybe please go buy some over there.

We want these people to love us long time.

Scene from Mi-jami

In the grocery store check-out line. The lidded flan pan I want won’t scan. Checker can’t read the small UPC numbers.

“Ño! Pal carajo! Esto nadie lo ve. Pal carajo.’’

Rough "nice'' translation: “Damn. Hell. No one can read this. Hell.’’

Me thinking: “Ay, I can’t believe she’s cursing in front of me.’’

Pal carajo. I must not be used to this anymore.

We just returned to Tennessee from Miami, where we celebrated the landmark 40^th year with mucho primos and tios. Bocaditos and pastelitos were served. Sweet merengue was consumed. The beach was supremely enjoyed. My kid played -- and fought -- with her third cousins and my 92-year-old great uncle was clearer than the rest of us.

Pictures to come.

Right now, I'm just enjoying the silencio.