We were in New Orleans this weekend. The daughter of our dear friends — with whom we have traveled to Greece and Spain — was married to a wonderful young man. The couple — gorgeous, smart and perfect for each other — are 25. I got all nostalgic in my joy for them, as on an April evening in Miami nearly 15 years ago I was the 25-year-old bride.

Stating the obvious: Time flies and chin hair sprouts.

Since we’ve been back, I have been chained to my chair. Fidgeting and freaking over taxes. (Of course, when I’m not trying to do as Eckhart tells me and just chill. Chill? Como?)

When I quit working as a rumpled reporter and launched Los Pollitos I truly believed I would somehow magically transform into someone who keeps up to date with paperwork. (If you listen quietly, you will hear the mad cackling of other disorganized, multi-tasking work-at-home moms who once were under the same delusion.) It is the part of owning a business I like least. Actually, the only thing I don’t like. But, necessary evil and The Man and all of that.

I’ve been working on the paperwork on and off since January. Little surprise, really, since I have been working on Maria’s baby album on and off since 2004.

The good news is, it will be done within 24 hours and I can move on to planning a 15th anniversary celebration, and getting organized for 2009. Or 2010.

Any organization tips, links, laughs, and beignet recipes are truly appreciated.

Mission accomplished, though I was wide awake at 6 a.m., while the other two slept. Thank goodness for Ira Glass on an Ipod. The margaritas were great, the enchiladas divine. It was 80 degrees, a welcome break from snow here just last week. The vintage shopping is as good as that found in NYC and the company I had, the best in the world. Nothing better than spending hang time with two people you love the best.

And nothing better than starting today with “I missed you, Mami.”

Here are some pictures…

Texas Independence Day Parade, Congress Avenue.
See the sweet little girls on the far side of the street?

Hello, Cowboy

My fantasy job. South Congress Avenue.

Most frequently asked questions at Bobalu Cigar Co. on East 6th Street.
(There really are Cubans everywhere)

Now, this was weird. I didn’t mean to take my own portrait. I wanted a picture of the mirror, but I guess because of the mirror’s bent, it caught my face, even though I could not see myself in the mirror as I snapped the picture. I actually got scared when I saw the image because it was so unexpected.
And then I took about five more.

Cadaques

We went to Spain mainly because, having traveled there a couple of other times, we love it. We also felt that immersing our daughter in the language would juice her bilingual brain. But, we did not know that Catalan, not Castillian, would be the primary language she would hear.

We went to Barcelona and the Costa Brava for the first time 15 years ago. I do not remember hearing Catalan as much as we did this time. I do not remember sitting down at restaurants and only having a Catalan menu offered. When we travel, I always try to get some basic words down, so when I stumbled I felt like a bad tourist. And, as I said in previous posts, I really had a hard time getting it. The language is more French than Spanish and my French, which once was less-than-adequate is now at the level of Pepe Le Pew. The locals told us there has been a revival in the language, which once was banned by the dictator Franco.

Now, people did speak Spanish, but Castillian was not what was in the air. Even finding kid-appropriate TV programs in Castillian was a challenge. I think even The Simpsons was in Catalan.

Maria, however, did hear me speaking in Spanish a lot more than she does back home. Folks were very kind to her in shops and bakeries and in parks, asking her where she was from and telling her to practice her Spanish. Toward the end of the trip, we felt she was offering up more Spanish of her own free will, though she continued with “I don’t speak Spanish in Spain.”

A few days ago, back in our own kitchen, she and I were baking sugar cookies. I told her, in Spanish, not to eat the dough. “Porque tiene huevo?” she asked. I threw doughy hands in the air and did a little Sardana.

That was a sentence and it was unprompted. She’s had other moments since. So, the Spanish in Spain experiment helped, even in Catalunya. It just also really shows that if I — lazy ass — keep up my end of it and continue to plug away, she will respond. She is a sponge. Una esponja.

Next Spanish-focused trip, however, maybe we should think more along the lines of Calle Ocho. Won’t cost as much and she’ll get an ear full, and learn a few native inflections. And I won’t end up with fried smelt and blood sausage on my plate.

The butcher and his wife

We stayed in a renovated 18^th century house about two hours north of Barcelona. The downstairs was all arches and walls of brick and stone and it is where owners of old used to keep their animals. In the mornings, we were woken by birdsong so loud it almost felt like we were sleeping in trees. The swallows swooped up and down the street all day long and the fattest sparrows ever nested in the building facades.

We were surrounded by fields of glorious golden wheat, wild poppies, apples, corn and olives. Gravel roads cut through the fields encouraging a slow amble from one tiny town to another. (Ignore the veal cows. Ignore the veal cows. Ignore the veal cows.) In the distance, we could see the Pyrenees, all blue and strong. (The house was restored and is owned by an American expat and his charming Irish wife.) The coast, with long sandy beaches, was three miles away.

There was one restaurant and one little grocery store, where when we bought a chicken the head and feet were stuck in the bag too. So not Publix. The owner made his own sarchichas and the wife was always kind in offering cooking tips, history lessons and directions to local parks para la niña. Though half the time I didn’t understand what they were saying (damn my Catalan), it was a highlight of the trip to visit with these two people. I regret we did not accept their invitation to go country line-dancing. Yes, you read me right. Line dancing in the Spanish boonies. How I regret not going, but the party didn’t get started until sometime between 10 p.m. and midnight. Me in jammies then, even in hard-partying Spain.

Another highlight of boonie living Spanish-style was going to the produce markets to buy gigantic peppers, olives made in heaven, and fat fava beans.

One day, I bought fava beans from a lady who gladly gave me her recipe for fabada. She told me to walk over to the butcher for the chorizo. When I told the butcher I needed enough sausage for a fabada, he told me I needed three different kinds and then he gave me his recipe. But, then he told me to forget what he said and called his wife over. She gave me her recipe. How much water to add, no oil, just a little salt and let this last bit of chorizo just melt into the beans, she instructed. Then, a guy tapped me on the shoulder and told me to add more water than the butcher’s wife suggested. When that guy walked away, the butcher’s wife said no way, don’t put too much water in. She waved a big knife around the whole time.

Well, my fabada was OK. Who knows if I followed the instructions correctly, as I surely missed some words. Our friends ate it. I ate it. It didn’t look like any pictures I’ve recently googled. More than the taste, I loved the experience. That slice of life might just be one of the coolest shopping moments of my life.

And guess what I have in my fridge? Fava beans scored at the local and wacky Hispanic/Asian grocery. I even bought a piece of chorizo in pig casing, something the inside of our fridge never has seen.

Travel makes me brave.

I will be very happy with my Tennessee fabada, for sure…but really, what I most want is some state-side condensed milk in a squeeze tube.