Domingos de Dulce de Leche #10: Happy Mother’s Day, Toonces.

I love traveling. I love laughing. I love my mother. In honor of Mother’s Day, I will tell a story about all three.

I can be pretty uptight. I stress over things I can’t control. I worry about minute details. And when I wind myself up over these things and details, I become an ugly person. I’m impatient, I am unnecessarily cruel to people, and I’m an all out terror to be around. I’m like a blonde, sharp-tongued troll. When I’m like this, I’m best left alone, under my bridge. To most, I know all of this is obvious, but I need to state this upfront before I begin my story so that I can best depict how grouchy I can be and how funny my mom can be.

My mom is my favorite person to travel with, primarily because she knows how to handle me. She knows when to let me stress and she knows when to say, “Shut UP” or “You’re being a bitch” or “Shut up you’re being a bitch.” She’s low key yet adventurous. She’ll eat anything and always appreciates a cold beer. We like making fun of others and yet can laugh at ourselves; therefore, we are forever entertained while traveling. We both need coffee in the mornings, and chocolate at some point in the day. She snores, but so do I. Although I LOVE to travel, I get reeeeeeeal uptight about it sometimes. Making sure you catch your plane or that your luggage is exactly 50 lbs. or that a taxi driver doesn’t rip you off can be stressful. Not to mention I still have a mild to moderate phobia of flying. Dramamine and wine have been two welcome travel buddies. So imagine traveling across Argentina (catching planes, meeting tour guides, making hotel-airport transfers) with three of your favorite family members and YOU are the only one who speaks the language. YOU are the sole communicator to every waiter, hotel receptionist, cab driver, tour guide, museum docent, gelato scooper, flight attendant, and person you meet. This was me during our Patagonia trip last November. [Insert stress here]

To say that I was sometimes an ass to my mom, aunt, and cousin during that trip is a gross understatement. Even though I was overwhelmingly grateful and happy to be on the trip of my dreams with my favorite family members, I occasionally lost my patience, got wound up, and acted like a 5-year-old. No joke. In the middle of Buenos Aires (a city of 9 million people), I threw a tear-filled temper tantrum and stormed down the street away from my family. Why you ask? Because my mom and aunt had waved at a motorcyclist giving them catcalls. In retrospect, I may have over-reacted a bit.  As the translator/ resident South American, I also felt like the protector of my family. I knew the culture better, which meant I knew what was socially acceptable and what was dangerous. In my experience, answering a sketchy motorcyclist’s catcalls is not “safe.” A gentle “Hey guys, don’t do that” would have been more than sufficient in this situation; definitely not my Chernobyl-esque meltdown complete with “You guys NEVER listen to anything I say! I’m not talking to you the rest of the trip!” (Note: this tantrum occurred Day 2 of the trip). I’m not proud of this uptight character trait or the way I treated my family, but it’s me and it happened.

So let’s fast forward a week or so to Ushuaia. It’s the last leg of our trip in Argentina. And although every leg of our trip was fantastic in it’s own unique way, Ushuaia was the one place I was MOST excited to visit. On our first day there, we had a whole day of trekking in Tierra del Fuego National Park. We were boating all morning and hiking all afternoon. I was psyched!! I was also mentally exhausted from translating every utterance from/ to my family for the past week or so. As luck would have it, our boating guide spoke no English. Ugh. That meant that he was going to yell instructions on how to navigate down the river in Spanish from his boat to ours (We were oddly segregated all Spanish speakers in one boat and then the 4 gringas in the other. Weird. It was like they didn’t like us or something J). I then in turn had to relay the instructions to my mom and aunt who were steering the boat. Commanding my mom and aunt’s attention was going to be an uphill battle. Let me set the scene for you:

Mom and aunty are steering in the back of the boat and cousin and I in the front.

Pablo and company are in a boat down river ahead of us.

Mom and aunty are giggling in the back while I am fruitlessly trying to hear Pablo shout rowing instructions to us.

I relay the information to mom and aunty. They laugh in my face and say they don’t need instructions. They’re boating pros. (Of course they are)

I sigh in exasperation.

This situation was prime for another temper tantrum. My mom and aunt would ask me a question about the flora or fauna of the National Park, I would translate it, shout the question to Pablo, but as he was answering, mom and aunty would start laughing and I couldn’t hear Pablo’s answer. They would ask me what he said, and when I told them to quiet down so I could hear, they just laughed even more at my frustration. No more than 10 minutes into the boating excursion, I was ready to explode, when in stepped Toonces.

Toonces had been a running joke from the beginning of our trip. My family, not knowing Spanish, would hear lots of Spanish words spoken around them and then pick out the ones that they liked/ sounded familiar. Their favorite word? Entonces. The word entonces means “well” or “then” or “OK”. It’s a place filler and is used all the time in spoken language. It’s pronounced ehn-tohn-ses. But, to my family, it sounded like Toonces, the cat from the SNL sketch. Toonces the cat has lots of different adventures and does lots of different wily things. Therefore, every time my family heard the word entonces (approximately every 5 minutes), they would giggle because they would think of Toonces. This also happened every time we saw a stray cat (approximately every 5 seconds).

Toonces, no matter how idiotic, had been our inside joke the entire trip. We imagined him flying our plane, driving our bus on your 20 hour cross-Argentina bus trip, and he even made guest appearances in our hotel. I realize it’s not funny as I’m re-telling it, but Toonces was our continual comic relief during the trip.

Anyways, back to my exasperation. As we were boating down the river, we saw a beaver dam. Mom and aunty asked what kind of beavers were in South America. I translated this question to Pablo and he said the beavers were originally North American. Mom and aunty in turn asked how they got to Ushuaia, the southernmost point in the Americas. But, before I could hear the response from Pablo, mom and aunty blurted out, “Toonces drove them down here!” I lost it. Maybe I was mentally dead from translating so much or maybe it was genuinely funny, but I laughed so hard at this comment that I could barely breathe. Tears were streaming down my face. I’m pretty sure I peed a little too. All I could visualize was Toonces driving a truck full of beavers to the end of the world. Now that I’m writing it out, it sounds so stupid, but that’s exactly why it was funny. I’m laughing now just thinking about it.

As I caught my breath, I realized that this boat of cackling gringas looked insane. Pablo had just given me some legitimate explanation about the migratory patterns of beavers and we erupted in laughter. Hmmmmm. How to translate Toonces and his hilarity to Pablo? I couldn’t. It also didn’t help that he kept using the word entonces. Pablo’s boat of Spanish speakers just looked at us quizzically. What in the hell was going on with those dumb Americans? And finally, I stopped being so uptight and realized somethings just can’t be translated. Yet again, mom (and Toonces) prevailed as a quality travel partner by checking my trollish attitude. The rest of the boating trip I chilled out and enjoyed the company of my very silly family. Now whenever I think about Ushuaia, I don’t think about my humiliating tantrums, but about laughing in a boat in the middle of Tierra del Fuego National Park about a dumb cat. ¡Feliz dìa de Mama! May your Mother’s Day be filled with idotic laughter.

DDDDL #9: Smile!

I can’t turn my brain off. I know this is a good thing, but I wish it would simmer down for a few hours a day- at least while I’m sleeping. I’ve been so busy/ stressed/ insane at work that I find my mind won’t slow down even when I’m asleep. All the minute issues or situations that arise during day that I don’t have time to address are creeping their way into my dreams. I’m not kidding. I’m problem solving in my sleep, except they are the most inane problems you’ve ever encountered: my boss’s question about our fundraiser BBQ, the price difference of avocados at Harris Teeter as opposed to Food Lion, the fastest route between my class sites, the best place to buy bathing suits online (buying them in person has become just too depressing). All of these are insignificant issues, but I have woken up every night around 3 or 4 am mumbling and/ or yelling, “I know! I’ll send her (my boss) an email!” or “Food Lion’s always cheaper” or “Stop driving down Hillsborough St., Caroline. You’ll hit a college student.” But none of these mumblings are as weird or bizarre as, “It’s all so clear! The Ten Commandments!” WHAT? I know I’m a busy gal, but last time I checked I wasn’t leading anyone to the Promised Land nor have I parted any seas lately. I consider myself a faithful person, but God hasn’t handed me any stone tablets. So, what’s up with my early morning Ten Commandment rants? I dunno, and I’m too exhausted to figure them out. I did think, however, they would make a good blog post. So here we go.

Now, I’m not God, or anywhere close, nor do I want to be. But, when I started thinking about the Ten Commandments I would write, I was at a loss. What am I THAT knowledgeable about that I could write commandments on it? That’s easy: nothing. I do, however, have my point of view and my passions; both of which have led me to a very transient life filled with lots of interesting people and weird experiences. As a disclaimer: my commandments won’t make you a better person, nor a happier, more fulfilled, skinnier, saner, nicer, richer, more centered, prettier, smarter, healthier person. Mine will help you keep a smile.

My fellow travelers, teachers, gringos in South America, working 20-somethings, and really all humans have found themselves in unpleasant situations. Sleeping in a bus station, teaching a class of twenty high school football players, arriving too early to a party, sitting through a meeting with a horrible boss…life is filled with unpleasant situations. I’ll illustrate my Ten Commandments of Smiling through an Unpleasant Situation with one of the most unpleasant situations of my life: Montezuma’s Revenge (aka horrific gastrointestinal problems/ food poisoning/ explosive diarrhea….I mean if we are going to get unpleasant, let’s go all the way) during my study abroad home stay.

1. Thou Shall Smile. I studied abroad in Mexico 6 years ago, and it’s a gentle assessment to say that my Spanish sucked when I arrived. As I walked down the stairs of my Mexican host family’s home one morning, I realized I didn’t have the linguistic capability to articulate in Spanish what was going on in my GI tract. Somehow I had to communicate to my host mom that I couldn’t go to school because I might vomit on the way there. I walked into the kitchen where she was making my breakfast, and since I didn’t know what to say, I smiled and pointed to my stomach. She said, “Entiendo. Súbete al cuarto. No vayas a la escuela.”/ “I understand. Go upstairs. You’re not going to school.” This was obviously not her first rodeo.

2. Thou Shall Continue to Smile. Instead of going to my room upstairs, I went to the bathroom and emptied out all of my insides (something I thought I had done for hours the night before). When I finished, I crawled in my bed. I grinned a very, very small grin. At least I didn’t have to sit through Spanish grammar class.

3. Thou Shall Breathe in Through the Nose and out Through the Mouth. That morning, every time I got the urge to empty my insides into the toilet bowl, I told myself to hold off. Just breathe and maybe the awful pain would pass. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It rarely worked, but when it did, I was happy for this very small victory.

4. Thou Shall Say “Thank You”. Later that day, my host mom came up to my room with crackers and what I thought was water. She made me sit up and poured me a glass of a clear liquid. She told me to drink the whole glass, but the moment the liquid touched my tongue, it was very apparent that it was not water. It was some horrible Mexican Pedialite cousin. She looked at me, smiled, and said, “¿Es fea, no?”/ “It’s ugly, right?” Ugly is putting it nicely. My vomit tasted better than this horrid, viscous, bitter electrolyte drink. But, I smiled, drank it, and said, “Gracias”.

5. Thou Shall Remember Everyone is Human and all Humans Screw Up. As I laid in bed between trips to the toilet, I wondered, “How did this happen?” I was so careful. I never used water to brush my teeth. I closed my mouth in the shower. I ALWAYS washed my hands. And despite how wonderfully scrumptious it smelled, I never ate the food from street vendors. Where did I go wrong? Was it my host mom’s meals? For a fleeting moment, I got angry with her. Did she forget to sanitize a piece of food? Was she the reason for the worst abdominal pain of my life? But, even if it was her fault, I ate the food. I was ultimately to blame. I screwed up. I’m only human.

6. Thou Shall Wallow (but only for a minute). The next day I mustered the strength to walk to my study abroad office to see what I had missed from the day before. I also figured the fresh air would do me good. Wrong. Mexico has lots of smells- both good and bad. I struggled to keep my Mexican Pedialite down as I walked by butcher shops, street meat vendors, and the multitude of panaderìas/ bakeries (usually a welcome smell, but not with my hypersensitive gastrointestinal system). I vomited AND emptied my bowels upon arrival at the office. Gross AND embarrassing. After I hugged the toilet at my office for a while, I bought a calling card and called my mom. Long distance, I cried on the phone to her about how horrible I felt and how badly I wanted her to take care of me. It was pathetic. After I let it all out and made a complete spectacle of myself at the public telephone booth, she told me I wasn’t going to die. Get it together Caroline. People get sick even if they steer clear of the street meat. I let out a sigh, dried my tears, and my wallowing was finished.

7. Thou Shall Laugh instead of Cry. I walked home from the office feeling a bit better. I still felt incredibly weak and the smells de Mexico still were making me want to upchuck, but I had heard my mom’s voice and somehow that made things OK. My mind, however, was still wondering how I got sick when I was so meticulously careful. I thought about my fellow study abroad classmates. They ate street meat ALL THE TIME, and none of them were sick. Not fair! I actually had to laugh at this though. I was the one who always carried antibacterial spray and only drank bottled water, and yet I was the first one to get sick. This would be my luck. Hah!

8. Thou Shall Imagine How the Situation Could Be Worse. Also lifting my spirits was my caring host mom. She knew exactly what to feed my very sensitive stomach- BRAT: Bananas, Rice, Apples, Toast. And gross Mexican Pedialite. She treated me like one of her own children. She made sure I was staying hydrated even though we couldn’t communicate very well. I don’t know what I would have done without her. Really though…what would I have done? What if I was alone? There would have been no way I could have communicated myself in order to buy Mexican Pedialite or to tell my professors I was missing class because my bowels were having a fiesta. What if my host family didn’t have running water? What if I couldn’t call my mom? As horrible as my situation was, there were plenty of ways it could have been worse.

9. Thou Shall Be Thankful It’s Not. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so grateful for my host mom, BRAT, Mexican Pedialite, international calling cards, and a flushing toilet.

10. Thou Shall not Forget to Smile 🙂 I got back to my host family’s house and I still felt like crap (pun intended), but knew it would soon pass (also intended). I took a nap and made myself smile. For my condition, I was in a very forgiving environment. I was in Mexico where naps are sacred and where everyone at one point in time or another has had a nasty tangle with Montezuma’s Revenge.

I’m no Moses. I’m no Lord. I am well-reversed in unpleasant situations. I also really like smiling. Perhaps after writing this, my mind will simmer down and I won’t have any more early morning brainstorming sessions. I will have flushed my mind of these unresolved problems. If not, at least I know how to smile about it 🙂

Crazy, horned, Mexican study abroad student at the running of the bulls....smiling of course

Domingos De Dulce De Leche #7: Wedding Season

“It was a nice small wedding. You know, only 400 people.”

SAY WHAT?! This was my Uruguayan friend Silvia’s response when I asked about her wedding. Apparently Uruguayans and people from the States have different definitions of “small”. If 400 is small, damn, I am scared what one might consider “large” or even, dare I say, “extravagant”.

Last weekend I was in a friend’s wedding (it was absolutely wonderful!) In the last year, 6 of my friends have gotten married. AND since we, in the States, are rapidly approaching “Wedding Season”, I decided to dedicate this post to weddings- primarily the key differences between Uruguayan and State-side weddings.

Difference #1. The ceremony.

Uruguayan: The actual church ceremony is small….by any standard. Only close, close, close immediate family is invited- mom, dad, bro, sis, period. The ceremony usually happens at night, like 7 or 8 pm, well before dinner 🙂

States: Everyone is invited to the ceremony. It could be in a church, on the beach, in the park, a Vegas chapel or at the courthouse. There could be 10 guests or 400. The ceremony could be at 11 am or 7 pm. 10 minutes or 2 hours. You get it. Ceremonies vary.

Difference #2. Bridesmaids/ Groomsmen.

Uruguayan: None.

States: I would say the average bridal party has about 5 bridesmaids. But if you have 10 sisters or 10 sisters-in-law or 20 sorority sisters that you just can’t let down, this could be a very small estimate.

Difference #3. Reception.

Uruguayan: Starts at 9 or 10 pm and goes until 4, 5, 6, or 7 am. The sun rising is everyone’s cue to leave. Needless to say, there are no post-wedding brunches in Uruguay.

States: Regardless of start time, most are done by 9 pm…..11 pm if you get crazy. Don’t want to miss that post-wedding brunch!

(Now let’s cut the boring stuff and get to the real entertainment)

Difference #4. Throwing people in the air.

Uruguayan: This is standard. Hoisting the bride and groom into the air at the reception is common practice. But it doesn’t end there, after the happy couple, any one is fair game to be lifted into the air and tossed over the crowd of merry wedding guests.

Uruguayan Bride and Groom being tossed above the crowd....the usual.

States: None that I’ve ever witnessed, but I wouldn’t put it past my friends. I’ve also never been to a Jewish wedding.

I wouldn't put anything past these crazy ladies.

Difference #5. Costumes.

Uruguayan: This is an integral part to the reception. I was a little perplexed when I discovered the Uruguayan tradition of bringing Mardi Gras-type costumes to the reception. Beads, oversized glasses, hats, feather boas….it’s Fat Tuesday in NOLA. All the reception guests look like they belong on Bourbon Street, but without the showing of certain body parts.

States: None that I’ve ever witnessed, but again, I wouldn’t put it past my friends.

Who doesn't love a sequinned/ feathered headband and oversized sun glasses at a wedding?

Difference #6. Size.

Uruguayan: As mentioned, 400 is a small guest list. In fact, my Uruguayan mentor told me that if you have 400 guests, then you are obviously offending someone because you’ve left people out. EVERYONE has to be invited- cousin’s cousins, the local butcher, the girlfriend of your sister-in-law’s son. EVERYONE. I didn’t believe this at first. I don’t even know 40 people let alone 400. But, in my first weeks in Uruguay, I was invited to a wedding. Ok. Point made. If I’m invited, then EVERYONE must get an invite. Not only that, but I was invited to this wedding by a person I had met once for 5 minutes. And when you’re invited to a wedding by an almost stranger in Uruguay, what do you do? You ACCEPT THE INVITE. Duh.

Glow sticks, cone hats, and a sea of wedding goers

I was a little apprehensive about going, especially because the wedding was in a very ritzy part of town (think the Beverly Hills of Montevideo), but I was WAY too curious to pass up this opportunity to crash a Uruguayan wedding. Let me tell you what: this wedding was so big I could have gone unnoticed (could have being the key phrase). There was a parking lot the size of two football fields, two dining/ ballrooms, multiple bars, an ENORMOUS dance floor, an outside lounge, and about 800 people. I could have gotten lost in the crowd of hundreds of party guests if I had been dressed appropriately. It should shock no one that I didn’t pack a formal dress to Uruguay, and did I mention this was like the Beverly Hills of Montevideo? Every woman there was in a designer dress and heels and salon-styled hair and manicured nails. I was wearing a gray, cotton dress with my hair in a bun. I looked like a cat had dragged me in from a grungy library. I stuck out like a sore thumb. But, I had no other choice but to own my disgusting look. Plus, by the time we arrived, it was 1 am and most people were under the influence from the multiple open bars. I eventually blended in as much as possible although I’m sure some guests were wondering who the gross gringa was on the dance floor.

Do Uruguayans do the cha-cha slide?

Point to my story: Uruguayan weddings are so huge even a random foreigner gets an invite.

Gringa wedding crashers

States: Small= you, me and the judge at the courthouse. Large= 200-ish friends and family doing the YMCA.

Y-M-C-A!!! or more likely, Yeah by Usher.

So there you have it- a nice little run down of Uruguayan-American weddings. Happy Wedding Season and don’t forget your Mardi Gras costumes!

A mid-week, Brazilian pick-me-up

When I was in college, at the end of each semester, I inevitably got knock-down, fall-flat-on-your-face, 102 degree fever sick. I would get so busy with finals, studying, and stress that when I finally took a second to breathe my immune system would crash and I would become so debilitatingly sick that I couldn’t get out of bed for the first few days after finals. I may have had straight A’s but I also had cold sweats, hallucinations from high fever, and bacterial pockets on the back of my throat. SUH-WEET!

So why am I grossing you out with this info? I’ve come to the conclusion that I have been working harder than any all night study session or 40 page research paper for the past month. I haven’t stopped. 3 new ESL classes. 37 new students. A grant review visit to one of my ESL sites. Finishing a Family Literacy curriculum….from scratch. A half marathon. A best friend’s wedding. Easter celebrations. Continual trainings at my 2nd job. Upped hours at my 3rd job. Oh yea, and I got into grad school. And I haven’t got sick….yet.

In an effort to keep my sanity/ catch my breath/ unwind, I came back to my office today from an exhausting  2 classes on opposite ends of Raleigh. I soon found myself laying on the floor, on my back, in fetal position rocking back and forth in an effort to clear my head. My boss walked in to find me balled up like an egg on the ground. Not my best moment. The phrase, “And why did I hire you?” read straight across her face. I may not have bacteria growing in my throat, but I felt pretty ill at that moment.

Needless to say, I needed a pick-me-up when I got home today. Some of the happiest people I’ve ever encountered are Brazilians, and it completely reflects in their music. Whenever I need some happy vibes, I rock out like I’m in Rio. So for anyone else who was caught by their boss doing something stupid (or just in need of a mid-week pick-me-up), enjoy the following:

Delafè y las flores azules: Rìo por no llorar. Not a Brazilian band, actually they’re from Spain, but one of my favorite groups. This video was shot in Rio and it’s impossible not to smile at how ridiculous it is.

Holger: Toothless Turtles. This band is from Brazil, but they sing in English. Theri whole album is awesome, but this song always pumps me up when it comes on my workout playlist.

Josè Gonzalez and Mia Doi Todd: Um Girassol da Cor do Seu Cabelo (The Sunflower of the Color of Your Hair). Ok, these guys are from Brazil AND sing in Portuguese. This is one of the most peaceful, beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. It makes me want to take a deep breath instead of rock in fetal position on the floor of my office.

Marcelo D2: Desabafo/ Deixa Eu Dizer. Impossible not to bob your head to this song from this legendary Brazilian hip-hop artist.

Hope you’ve all enjoyed the mid-week Brazilian jam session. Also hope no one else ends up in fetal position on their office floor.

Domingos De Dulce De Leche #7: Uruguayan Carboloading

As briefly mentioned in the previous post, I’ve been training for a half marathon. In preparation, I’ve read a lot of blogs and articles and had a lot of dialogues about half marathon running. One thing seems to be constant: everyone who runs a half marathon claims not to be a “runner”. Obviously, if you run half marathons and dole out advice on half marathon training, YOU ARE A RUNNER. 13.1 miles is far anyway you slice it. Even if you walk 13.1 miles, you are a runner (or at least a wannabe runner). So, I have a hard time believing anyone who begins a half marathon article or blog, “I am not a runner”. You are. Own it.

Conversely, I really wanted to start my blog today with that very statement: I am not a runner. But, it’s true! I’m not! In fact, I hate running! It’s awful. You sweat, it hurts your legs, I get all red-faced when I do it, not to mention, I’m bad at it. But, since the past few Sundays I’ve been running 11 miles or so, this is no longer true. I am a runner. (ewww. What have I become?) I will say this much, however: when I started training in January, I was not a runner. I couldn’t run for more than 5 minutes straight. I wish that was exaggerating, but it’s true. I would be out of breath in 5 minutes of running. That’s pretty humiliating now that I re-read it in print.

So, why did I decide to run 13.1 miles and torture myself? FANTASTIC question. I set this as a New Year’s resolution back in 2009. What year is it now? 2012. Ooops. I figured there was no time like the present to jump on that New Year’s Resolution from 3 years ago. So, I found a half marathon close by that was a few months away and registered for it. That way at least I felt financially obligated to do it since I’d spent my money on it. Then, I found a training program that would take a long time since I had a reeeeeeeeally long way to go from 5 minutes to 13.1 miles. This one worked out pretty well. Next, train. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, and it wasn’t. With my work schedule, I knew the only time to work out would be before work at 6 am. Gross. Plus, I started training in January. Getting out of my warm bed to walk in the cold, January morning air to the gym in the dark sucked. Period. Not to mention, I LOOOOOOOVE my bed. It has a down mattress top with lots of pillows and a down comforter. It’s like a fluffy heaven. The best part of my day is crawling into bed at night, and my first thought every morning is how soon I can get back into my fluffy heaven.  If it was socially acceptable/ possible to teach while laying in bed, I would do it. My bed rocks, so choosing the gym over my bed was a struggle everyday. (Sorry bed! I really do love you more!)

It’s amazing, however, what fear will make you do. Fear got me out of bed everyday and into the gym. What if I got to the day of the half marathon and couldn’t finish? Or couldn’t run? Or took 5 days to complete it? How embarrassing! This fear of looking like a unathletic moron has motivated me everyday for the past 3 months. I don’t know if that’s a healthy form of motivation, but it’s worked. I got my butt to the gym everyday in order to follow through with this absurd resolution.

I know I’ve described my training as pretty awful; early mornings at the gym, living in constant fear, ditching my down comforter heaven. But, in the final week of my training, I finally came across something I was excited about: Carboloading! AT LAST, an excuse to eat a lot of carbs. Ok, so in reality, you’re not supposed to eat THAT many carbs before a half marathon- just a few more grams than are already in your diet. But, who doesn’t love an invitation to eat some more bread and potatoes?! This is a facet of training I can finally wrap my head around.

Aside from my joy of fluffy, down sleeping accessories, I also love to eat (if you’ve read any of my blog, you know this. It’s like saying, “Cats like to meow” or “Caroline likes to speak Spanish”. It’s inherent). And yes, sometimes I combine the two- eating in bed. Stop judging. You know you’ve done it before too and LOVED IT. But, if I have a culinary weakness, it’s carbs. I love bread, pancakes, waffles, muffins, pretzels, etc. etc. etc. One of my former roommate’s favorite stories is when she watched me eat a whole loaf of bread in one sitting without realizing it. A. Whole. Loaf. I was sitting at the dinner table and started with one piece of garlic bread and before I knew it, only crumbs were left. Woops.  In my defense, however, it wasn’t Wonderbread; it was this yummy, artisan garlic bread with garlic cloves baked right into the dough. Delish! How could I not eat the whole thing? I’m not even ashamed of that story either. I’m proud. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I love bread, hence why I was totally psyched for some carboloading.

Also in my reading on half marathon training, I found that you don’t want to eat any unfamiliar foods the day or two before the half marathon. As odd as it sounds, I don’t eat entire loaves of garlic bread regularly. So that got me thinking: What do I normally eat? What won’t upset my stomach before my big run? The LAST thing I want is a gastrointestinal malfunction on mile 10. That would be truly terrifying and immediately jumped to the top of my list of fears. After a minute or two of worrying about my gastrointestinal strength, I realized my answer: Uruguayans. Uruguayans eat carbs ALL THE TIME. All I had to do was think of my diet in Uruguay and BAM! Problem solved and upset stomach averted.

If I could boil down my diet in Uruguay to 3 foods, they would be lentils, sweet potatoes, and pasta. Now I ate lentils at least 6 days a week while in Uruguay. The thought of eating another lentil doesn’t appetize me in the least; I’m on sabbatical from lentils. Sweet potatoes and pasta, however, do entice me, and I have the two PERFECT recipes to go with my training: Sweet Potato-Egg Mush and Hot Dog Pasta. Carbs, protein, and a Uruguayan flare. (Note: No one in Uruguay eats these recipes. Only me and my roomies when we wanted something easy but filling.)

What’s that you say? Mushy sweet potatoes and hot dogs don’t sound appetizing? You clearly haven’t had my mush and hot dogs. They are scrumptious and super simple to make. Seriously. A five-year old could make them.

Sweet Potato-Egg Mush

Ingredients:

1 sweet potato

2 eggs

1/2 onion, diced

Cooking spray

Salt, Pepper (and other spices)

Instructions: Poke sweet potato with a fork and place in microwave on the “Potato” setting (or for about 5 minutes). Meanwhile, spray cooking pan with cooking spray and saute onions for about 2-3 minutes on medium heat. Once sweet potato is cooked (it needs to be well cooked, but if it has a few hard parts still that’s ok), take potato out of its skin and put into cooking pan. Mix sweet potato with onions; mushing the sweet potato with spatula/ cooking spoon in the process. When sweet potato and onions are well mixed, crack two eggs over the mixture. While eggs are cooking, salt and pepper to taste (I also like to add red pepper flake, chili powder, or mole spice for a kick). Cook the entire mixture until eggs are done. Viola! Sweet potato egg mush! It may look like an orange mess, but it’s delectable and an excellent source of good carbs and protein.

Yummy mush. Don't judge.

Hot Dog Pasta

Ingredients:

1 box of pasta (like bowtie, penne, macaroni, rotini)

5 hot dogs, sliced into 1/4 inch slices

1/2 onion, diced

2-3 cups of marinara sauce

Cooking spray

Salt

Garlic (optional)

Parmesan cheese

Instructions: Bring a pot of water to a boil and then place the whole box of pasta in the pot. Add a few teaspoons of salt to the boiling water for flavor. While pasta is boiling, add onions and hot dog slices to a pan coated with cooking spray. If you want some more flavor, you can saute some garlic with onions and hot dogs. Cook on medium heat for 2-3 minutes. When pasta is cooked, drain and place back into the pot with some of the pasta water. Add the onions, hot dogs, and pasta sauce to the pot of pasta. Serve with parmesan cheese. Pasta and hot dogs….it may look like a 5-year-old made it, but grown ups can eat it too!

Hot Dog!!!!!

(Complete side tangent: I ate hot dog pasta for the first time about a year ago in a hostel in Punta del Diablo, Uruguay as seen in this post. Our hostel had a kitchen and we managed to convince 2, twenty year old American study abroad students to cook us dinner one night. Hah! Suckers! We were pretty lazy, but pretty savvy. But the joke was on us. What did they serve us? Hot dog pasta. It was disgusting looking but completely tasty! So, if two college guys can make this, so can you!)

So, did my Uruguayan carboloading work? Did I make it across the finish line without looking like an idiot? Well, it’s me. There’s always a little of idiocy. But, I finished my half marathon without walking in 2 hours and 30 minutes. Not bad for someone who couldn’t run 5 minutes only 3 months ago. Thank you Uruguay for giving me something other than an entire loaf of garlic bread to eat (talk about idiocy)! I guess better start owning the fact that I’m now a runner.

DONE.

hahahaha! my legs are about to fall off! hahahaa!

Bilingualism is awesome (and Walt thinks so too)

This last week or so has been the perfect storm of craziness from my personal and work life, hence why I’ve been MIA. I finished teaching my first ESL course, am still in the process of starting three new courses in 3 different parts of the county with three different sites to coordinate with, tested 26 new students, helped plan a bachelorette party, and fell in a sewer all while training for a half marathon (that’s in two days) and working three jobs. Oh yea, my car died too.

It’s been loco in Caroline World, but in some weird way, I thrive on crazy. Now, I don’t know why, but I feel like I perform a lot better when I have lots of things going on simultaneously. Oh wait, maybe this article from the NY Times could shed some light on this conundrum. Yep, I knew it! I knew all those years of conjugating verbs to myself would eventually pay off! Finally, a shout out to the crazy foreign language grammar fanatics like me. At last it’s cool to know the difference between embarrassed and embarazada.

Hmmmmm. Despite making you FAR more cognitively adept, I feel like some of you aren’t really sharing my enthusiasm for being bilingual. Well, maybe Will Ferrell can convince you guys on how bad ass bilinguals are.

Not a fan of Will? OK. What about Disney? Apparently Walt thought Uruguay was a pretty cool place even back in the 40s, so much so that he made a whole cartoon about it. Note: The two birds’ names (very clever Walt)

So there you have it: Walt Disney, Will Ferrell and I are bilingual advocates, thus making learning a second language pretty darn cool. What three more awesome spokespeople do you need?

 

 

DDDDL #6: You Speak Weird

I’m going to go ahead and preface this post: it’s gonna be REAL nerdy. If you don’t enjoy a good discussion about language variation, just bow out now. I’m not offended; I’ll see you next week 🙂

This past week all of my students (Hispanic moms mainly from Mexico but there are a handful Argentines/ Uruguayans/ Colombians peppered in there) at all of my sites asked me, “Why don’t people understand me when I speak English?” This should have dismayed me since I’m their English teacher, but this actually comforted me. I was oddly happy about it. The phrase, “FINALLY!!! I’m not the only one!!” flashed through my brain. My students lamented to me that they didn’t understand why people in the community didn’t understand them when they said the correct English word in their best English accent. I explained to them that it’s probably a combination of the “unique” North Carolina twang/ dialect that exists ’round these parts :), some of their Spanish accent coming through, and perhaps some xenophobia from people in the community (unfortunately Southern hospitality doesn’t exist everywhere in the South.) Anyways, this is EXACTLY what happened to me in Uruguay. I would say all the right Spanish words, but only to receive a quizzical look from the person to whom I was talking. Sometimes they would even go so far as to say, “Hablàs muy raro”/ “You speak weird”. Gee, thanks. As if I didn’t have enough self-confidence issues in Montevideo being the only blonde haired, blue-eyed person in a 100 mile radius; I also speak weird. Super Duper.

This question, however, spurred on an even bigger conversation about variations in the Spanish language. Being the language dweeb I am, I let this tangent go on in all of my classes instead of teaching prepositions and the Long O sound. I know, I know, it sounds weird: my students would have rather gossiped than learn about the different ways to spell the Long O sound (my personal favorite being the “silent” e at the end of a word, like wrote, smoke, or stove. I told you it was going to get nerdy). What we came to find out is something that, surprisingly, I knew and my students did not know about the Spanish language (and language in general): it varies. Not only do Mexicans speak a different variety than Argentines or Uruguayans, but there is even more variation within those countries. For example, people from Puebla speak differently than Oaxaca who speak differently than people who live in the DF. Just like in Uruguay, people in Montevideo speak differently than people in Salto. Or, just like in the US, people in NYC don’t say “y’all” and people in Greenville, NC don’t say anything that even references something above the Mason-Dixon line. This type of variation and the socio/ psycho/ economic/ educational-factors behind it fascinate me; however, it makes learning a second language damn near impossible. How are you supposed to learn the right pronunciation when each region pronounces it differently? How are you supposed to pick up on slang when each city has its own version? It’s impossible to know it all in order to reach native fluency levels. I feel for my students because I am there myself in my own language learning. We all speak weird.

Two things specific to Uruguayan Spanish, or Rioplatense Spanish (since Uruguay is on the Rio de la Plata), is the “ll” sound and vos. Let’s digress…

1. “ll”(and “y”) sound: This sound is epically indicative of where you are from in the Spanish-speaking diaspora. In some parts of the Spanish-speaking world, the “ll” is pronounced y- mainly Mexico, Central America, Caribbean and parts of South America. Calle/ Street would be pronounced KAH-yay. In the Rioplatense region (Argentina/ Uruguay), however, the “ll” is pronounces djsh. So, KAH-yay becomes KAH-shay. If you pronounce the “ll” this way, people know instantaneously where you are from/ where you learned your Spanish. It’s like if you walked around saying Harvard and quarter like Havahd and quada. People are going to know where you’re from, and it’s not the South (unless it’s the south of Boston).

When I arrived in Uruguay, almost a year ago now, I pronounced the “ll” the first way: Yo lleguè por la calle ayer/ Yesterday, I arrived by the street would be Yo yeh-gay pour la kah-yay ah-yair. It didn’t take more than a few sentences out of my mouth for my fellow Montevideoeans to know I was not from there (as if the weird gringa accent and cardigan sweaters didn’t tip them off first). In a futile attempt to blend in, I picked up the djsh way of pronunciation. Within a few weeks, Arriving by the street yesterday became Sho sheh-gay pour la kah-shay ah-shair. Sha-She-Shi-Sho-Shu is what it sounded like to me. Pronouncing “ll” this way was completely counterintuitive, but over the course of my stay, I became a She-ista/ Yeista as I think of it: someone who uses Rioplatense Spanish.

So, now that I’m back and am interacting with the Spanish-speaking community in the States, the djsh is no longer existant with the people to whom I speak. Most Spanish speakers (both native and non-native) speak a Mexican variation of Spanish; so no djsh. I’m sure you believe me, but if for some absurd reason you don’t, our Spanish in the US is so Mexicanized that when I arrived in Uruguay, my doorman asked me “De què parte de Mexico sos?“/ “What part of Mexico are you from?” REALLY?! Wow. I am one pale mexicana. But, even if an American is not from Mexico or speak a Mexican variation of Spanish, they speak a Dominican/ Puerto Rican/ Central American variation. EITHER WAY, they are using the y and not the djsh, and in fact, have a stereotype of anyone who does: they’re snobs. Unfortunately, Rioplatense Spanish attaches itself to Porteños/ people from Buenos Aires, and people from Buenos Aires are like the New Yorkers of South America. They’re loud, they’re blunt, they’re a self-absorbed, they’re a little cold, and they don’t understand why you would live anywhere other than Buenos Aires. It’s the greatest city in the world; didn’t you know this? So, Rioplatense Spanish often times gets a stuck-up wrap because of its affiliation with Porteños. Since, as an ESL instructor for a non-profit, I am in the business of seeming as down-to-earth as possible, this presents a massive problem. How do I speak? What accent do I use? Do I use Yo or Sho? Do I walk down the relatable Kah-yay or the pretentious Kah-shay? I feel like the guy below, but all accents muddled into one sentence. (If you are looking for Rioplatense Spanish see 12 and 13.)

2. Vos: I’m sure everyone at some point in elementary school conjugated verbs. You know: I am, You are, He/ She/ It is….etc., etc. And if you didn’t, you were straight robbed of some serious fun. Anywho, Rioplatense Spanish has a totally different way of conjugating verbs. So imagine one day instead of You are it’s Ya bes. En español, instead of Tù eres it’s Vos sos. WHATTTTTTTT?! It wouldn’t be so upsetting if I had learned about this variation in school. Never was vos mentioned in my 7 years of formal Spanish education. It’s a completely new way of conjugating verbs, and EVERYONE in Uruguay uses it. It not only changes the actual mechanics of the language, but it changes the intonation. I had been exposed to vos before my stint in Uruguay during my study abroad in Argentina, but I had never taken the time to really learn how to use it. Stupid Caroline. Thus, my first month of Uruguay was a deluge of confusion. I was trying to integrate this new conjugation as well as understand it and deal with all the djsh‘s. AHHHHHH! Let me give you an example: One day I was sitting on the bus in Montevideo across from a mother and her small child. She said to her screaming, misbehaving child, “Sentàte! Callàte!”/ “Sit down! Shut it!” It sounded sooo familiar. I wanted to understand her scolding her child, but just couldn’t. And then I realized she was using vos. The scolding I had learned in the US would be “Sièntate! Callate”. The differences being:

Vos: Sen-TA-tay          Mine: See-EN-ta-tay

Vos: Kah-SHA-tay       Mine: KAH-ya-tay

Say it out loud to yourself. It’ll make more sense.

How’d that go for you? Still confused? Watch this (incredibly nerdy, but incredibly thorough):

So here I am; not knowing when to djsh or say “comes” or “comès”. My Spanish is quite possibly worse than before. It’s like Mexi-Uruguaya-Carolinian with a gringa accent. I must sound like a looney tune whenever I speak español. In fact, I do. Check this comment. This very nice, very well-intentioned person has found the most polite way to say, “You Speak Weird.” Yes, I do and I apologize for all the confusion. I need all the help I can get 🙂

A confusing slice of Pi

It’s Pie (or Pi) Day! You know, it’s 3/14….the first 3 digits of Pi? I really don’t know either, I just know that people like to eat pie today. I don’t follow math trends as much as I follow dessert trends. So, if March 14th celebrates Pi and means I can eat pie, YAY MATHEMATICS!!! But, being the language dweeb I am, all I can think about is the different ways to say “pie” in Spanish and how infuriatingly exasperating it can be to keep up with them all. Let’s take a look:

1. Tarta: this is the first way I learned how to say pie. Pie will always be tarta to me. If you ask me, “Want some tarta?” I will respond with a resounding YES and expect you to give me a huge piece of fruit/ chocolate/ key lime in a crust. BUT, tarta also means cake and sometimes tart (like a fruit tart). It also means a savory pie. Think of something similar to a quiche with lots of eggs, potatoes and a variation of veggies with a crust. In Uruguay, tarta pasqualina is a common lunch: a savory pie with spinach, ricotta, and egg. This is the first step in the confusion.

My original image of pie

Uruguayan pie

2. Pastel: this is the second way I learned how to say pie. But this is also a way to say cake. You can have a birthday pastel, but what would you get? Fruit and crust or cake with frosting? Aaaand the confusion continues.

3. Empanada: this is a savory pie, like a meat pie. There are no empanadas with birthday candles in them. Well maybe, but if you have a sweet tooth, you’ll be sorely disappointed. This one is not so much confusing as it is a salty variation.

4. Torta: this is where the confusion really takes off. Tarta. Torta. Choose a vowel and go with it hispanohablantes. Torta not only means pie, but cake, tart, even flan! Flan is no where close to grandma’s apple pie. And to add more fuel to the confusion fire, in Mexican Spanish torta means sandwich, in Uruguay we have tortas fritas (fried dough sold street side), and in Spain there are tortas (or tortillas….God let’s not even get into this one), which are also savory pies like the tarta pasqualina. And let me throw one more thing in there: in some variations of Spanish torta means a thump, crash, blow, wack or slap. Confused yet? I am, plus I’m starving.

Mexican Pie....or sandwich...whatev

Fried dough...some weird, fatty cousin of pie I suppose

Spanish pie.

5. Queque/ pay: these are lesser used, but obviously derived from English (pronounced kay-kay and pie). Spanglish pie.

So, there you have it. The full on confusion has been laid out. Sometimes I get down on myself for having studied the Spanish language for 10 years and STILL have struggles. But, then, I remember words like tarta, pastel, and torta and how wildly confusing they are, and I am no longer dismayed. I am rejuvenated that I will forever be studying the locura of language. And this evening I gave in to the confusion and for dinner had apple pie with dulce de leche ice cream. A perfect melting of confusing cultures. Feliz dìa de tarta-pastel-empanada-torta-queque-pay!

DDDDL #5: A Year in Review

A year ago I started the blog. Wow. I am impressed with myself for a few reasons…

1) I kept with it for more than a month.

2) Actually, that’s about it. This whole “sticking with it” thing is really impressing me.

So, a year later what have I learned? Have I changed? Am I the same bilingual nomad? Let’s take a look at my first post to evaluate……

Hahahahahaha. Ok I evaluated, and that was a nice walk down memory lane. I am absurd. My evaluation is:

1) Still have the DVD/ VHS combo. Still have a flip phone. Still skeptical on the tablets. (Sorry Steve Jobs)

2) I ate barbecue yesterday. I ate bacon a few days ago. I ate a bag of doughnuts last weekend (Yes, a bag….stop judging). I ate my mother’s cooking today. I heart them all still. Emphatically.

3) I have a crush on Top Chef’s newest winner, Paul.

4) I currently live walking distance of NC State’s campus, was late to work on Friday because I was watching the ACC tournament, and today was Selection Sunday in my house. Let the Madness begin!

Ok, so seemingly not much has changed. I’m still weary of technology, love food (and chefs), and wish I was a Bracketologist. But, in fact, A LOT has changed. I lived abroad for a year, completed my Fulbright, returned home, and started teaching ESL. Thus, in the spirit of change, revision, and March Madness, we’re going to have a 2011 vs. 2012 (pre vs. post Uruguay) face off to truly illustrate the difference a year can make.

1) Hotdogs vs No Hotdogs. Uruguayans love a good pancho/ hotdog. I’ll be honest, hotdogs weren’t my preferred food before moving to Uruguay. Call me crazy, but processed tubed meat didn’t entice me. Well, that was before I encountered the pancho with potato chips on it in Punta del Diablo, Uruguay. WHY aren’t we doing this in the US? It’s genius. In 2011, hotdogs were for 4th of July only. 2012 is the year of panchos and potato chips!!

2) Working Saturdays vs. Free Weekend. Uruguayans go to school on Saturdays, thus teachers work on Saturdays. In 2011, the only thing I did on Saturday was eat pancakes and have a loooooooong date with my couch. In 2012, I work on Saturdays. I gotta tell you guys, not too thrilled with this new development.

3) Open container vs. Don’t Walk the Street with Beer. This one is short and sweet. Uruguay has no open container law. You can walk down the street and drink a beer freely. In 2011, I reserved drinking beer to my home or local bar. In 2012, I forget sometimes and want to walk out of my house or bar with beer in hand. Oooops.

4) 2+ jobs vs. 1 job. There was not one Uruguayan teacher I met that had less than 2 jobs. They worked at multiple institutions, with different levels of students, with different ages. In 2011, I had one job, at one institution, with 2 levels of students. In 2012, I have 3 jobs, at 4 different institutions. My students range from babies to 50 year olds and their levels are even more varied.

There is one more thing, however, that hasn’t changed. I am still very much in love with language education. I would still teach language to a brick wall or any inanimate object for that matter, but luckily, with my 3 jobs, I don’t have to 🙂

DDDDL #4: Gnocchi Day

Since we actually had a 29th in the month of February this year, I found it a fitting time to discuss el Dia del Noqui. El Dia del Noqui (Gnocchi Day) is the 29th of each month in Uruguay. What’s Gnocchi Day you ask? It’s precisely what it sounds like: it’s a day to eat gnocchi. Duh. Come on people use your critical thinking skills.The tradition stems from over a century ago when everyone got paid on the first of the month, so money was PRETTY tight at the end of the month (not too different from my current financial status). Luckily, all it takes to make gnocchi is flour and potatoes- PRETTY cheap. This way people had a hearty, family meal at the end of the month even when they didn’t have much dough. And hell yes, that pun was intended.

So on the 29th, in honor of Gnocchi Day (and my favorite show of all time, Top Chef, was having its finale), I decided to make gnocchi. Now, before I get started on my process, I was to clarify a few things:

1. I suck at cooking. In the kitchen, I am a common, everyday idiot with a VERY limited knowledge of cooking.

2. I’m not posting recipes in an effort to share my culinary wizardry with the world. I am posting them as comic relief.

3. I have, however, successfully made gnocchis before (VERY unlike my dulce de leche microwave grenade). This comment could be one I will regret.

The thing I like most about gnocchis is that they require 3 ingredients: 2 potatoes, 1 cup of flour, 1 egg. That’s it. Even I can manage that.

Step 1: Get the potatoes soft. Bake them, boil them, whatever. I baked mine for 55 minutes at 425 degrees (or until fork tender). I suppose you can boil them too, but baking them makes the next step a little easier.

Bakin' the potatoes

Step 2: Get the potatoes mushy. When I say mushy, I don’t meaned pureed or mashed. Your potatoes need to be the consistency of baked potatoes when you are eating them and mashing them with a fork. Does that make sense? Hope so. Lots of gnocchi recipes require a ricer. Well, I’m a normal, 20 something, quasi-broke, fully lazy chica, so I don’t have one. Plus, how many recipes that I make require a ricer? Virtually none. So, I have decided to be resourceful. I used a grater. I halved my potatoes, let them cool for 5 minutes, then grated each half. This worked surprisingly well. You could also use a potato masher, but I don’t have one of those either. Basically, the first two steps can be up to you; boil, bake, ricer, masher, grater. It really doesn’t matter as long as you have a bowl of two mushy potatoes at the end.

Grating the potatoes

Step 3: Add the egg. Beforehand, beat an egg in a bowl and then add it to your mushy potatoes. Mix it well into your potatoes so it’s evenly distributed.

Use your hands to do the mixing. Spoons are for suckers.

Step 4: Add flour (see this recipe is moron proof…kind of). Gradually mix flour into your potato mixer by the 1/4 cup. You need to mix it in with your hands. It’s the only way to get it truly consistent. So don’t be an idiot (like I ALMOST was) and forget to take off rings and jewelry. You should use about a cup of flour but you may use a little more or less depending on the size of your potatoes. Mix in the flour until the dough is no longer sticky.

Non-sticky gnocchi ball

I used whole wheat flour because it’s what I had and I figured it would make a nice, healthy whole wheat gnocchi. Use all-purpose flour. Gnocchi is essentially a potato dumpling- there is no making it healthy, so don’t even kid yourself. Also, whole wheat flour is oddly temperamental. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.

Step 5: Knead the dough. Place the non-sticky dough on a floured surface, and begin to knead it like bread dough by folding it and pressing it down with the heel of your hand. The kneading will heat up your dough a little, and you want your dough to be somewhat warm because it will combine the potato with the flour a little better. Once the dough is well kneaded, make it into a ball and cut it into 6 pieces.

Kneaded and cut

Step 6: Roll it! Take one of the six pieces and roll it into a snake. Roll the dough with your palm then out to your finger tips until you have a snake of gnocchi dough. The diameter of the gnocchi snake should be the size of your thumb.

You see me rollin'

Gnocchi snake: the only snake EVER allowed in my home

 

Step 7: Cut it (and make it groovy)! Cut the snake into 1/2 inch pieces. You can leave it like that or if you are feeling lucky, you can create some little grooves. To create said grooves just take the piece of dough and roll it along the grooves of a fork. That’s it!

Chopped up gnocchi snake

Groovy

 

Ok so until this point, everything was looking good. I had successfully mixed, rolled, cut, and grooved my gnocchi. Nothing looked out of step; I was ChefboyarCaroline. Then, I decided to refrigerate my gnocchi. A normal person would have popped them into a pot of boiling water right then and there but nooooooooo I just had to be different. So, I wrapped them in plastic wrap and put them in an airtight container to save them for the next day.

Not too shabby for a culinary idiot

Well, the next day I opened my container and my perfectly grooved gnocchi were still perfectly grooved, but they were blackish-brown in color instead of the typical light tan pasta color. Sorry to be gross, but they looked like a bunch of dead babies’ fingers. I tasted one and it still tasted the same, so I proceeded to the final step.

Step 8: Boil ’em up! Toss gnocchi into a pot of boiling water. Let them cook until they float to the top. That easy.

My gnocchi tasted good. They had that earthy flavor that all whole wheat pasta has, but they still looked like decaying babies’ fingers. And to add insult to injury, when I put some spicy marinara sauce on them, they looked like bloody babies’ fingers. Super appetizing. I was disappointed how gross they looked even though they were tasty. Oh well. Not a complete kitchen failure, but definitely not one for the record books. My diagnosis is that the whole wheat flour changed colors when mixed with the egg and potatoes and was then refrigerated. Perhaps I should have frozen them in order to maintain their color. Although I stand by my recipe and method, I’ve learned my lesson for next month: no whole wheat in the fridge.

Leftover baby fingers! Yummy!

So I hope everyone has a lovely Gnocchi Day (a little belated at this point) and not a Dead Infant’s Finger Day!