Fatty Gets Mexican, Part I

I have to start off by explaining myself.

One of my good friends is of "Hispanic" ethnicity. That means she is Mexican. She grew up in Dallas but doesn't have big hair and her family's roots are in Mexico. She readily calls herself "Mexican," which I absolutely love because (1) that is what she is, (2) she is proud of her ethnic background, and (3) she isn't screwing around with words like "Hispanic" (which could mean a person from any country south of the US, thank you Mr. Nixon) or "Chicana" (which, when I was little and living in South Texas where most people are "Mexican," I used to think meant "from Chicago"). She is blunt and honest and she is who she is. I love that.

And I want to be like her, celebrate the huge part of my culture that came from growing up in South Texas. I may be white but I am damned proud to be a little Mexican, too. How could I not be a little Mexican, with Yo Mama feeding me beans and rice out of a bottle with the nipple cut off, TC teaching me to count to 10 in Spanish before I could do it in English, and all those Christmas Eve dinners of tamales and beans and chili?

So this summer, now that Goozie is one year old and blessing me by sleeping until 8 AM or later most mornings, and I don't have to get childrens ready for school and all that, I have a little more energy for adventures. This isn't necessarily good news to Bumpus, who then has to put up with my adventures.

What to do with an adventurous mind and no money? Accomplish some of my cooking goals! That and find an embroidered Mexican dress for Goozie (like those I used to have when I was 10-13 years old). The latter will come in good time. So we're off to the kitchen for my adventures...