Horchata de Chufa

When the thermometer reaches 25 Celsius in the sun at 8.30am, you just know what kind of day lays ahead.
It’s actually too hot to anything. Too hot to even masticate foods. Salads, fruits and anything liquidly is the only alimentation I can bear.

A few years ago, I discovered horchata, the prefect summer ‘food’. Technically, it’s not a food, its refreshment. But for me, it’s my elixir of life during the hot summer months.
Horchata is tiger nut milk. High in calories, carbohydrates, fat content, protein rich, jammed packed with vital vitamins and minerals. It is the perfect alternative food.

Yesterday's breakfast & lunch consisted of 1 litre of fresh horchata. Though after exhaustive packing heavy boxes in the warehouse, I resigned myself to pass by the supermarket on the way home. Dinner was an improvised occasion but turned out to be quite an affair. Thinly sliced pig’s liver swallow fried with abundance of onions with turmeric, paprika and pine nuts. And just to add a bit of bite to counter-balance the liver, few drops of balsamic vinegar & ½ teaspoon of brown sugar. Served on a bed of spinach and rock salad. All nicely garnished with a handful of cherry tomatoes. It was worth half a Michelin star if I say so myself.

Today’s lunch was ½ litre of horchata and 1 kg of cherry. Dinner was some what poorer than yesterday: mixed tuna salad, and 2 glasses of gazpacho.

Right now, two heavenly peaches are sitting on the coffee table awaiting my first bite. But I fancy a nibble of dark chocolate.

Don't Push Me

The baby decides when it wants to be born. How the baby decides is a complete mystery. It’s probable that they emit signals that says: ‘I’m mature. I’m ready. I want to be born’. This would explain why in induced births, even though the baby has reached full gestation period of nine months, some babies adapt badly to life. They have difficulties breathing.

In premature births, the baby who didn’t want to be born will not emit these signals. Even if the mother suffers complications which forces an induced birth, before exiting, spontaneously the baby will choose to die in the womb. It will not be born.

However, 7% of all births are premature. A 40% increase in the last ten years. Eighty percent of babies omitted to neonatal are premature. This is a consequence of mature mothers on fertility treatments resulting in twins, amongst other factors like poor diets during gestation.

The less the gestation period, the greater the risk of suffering in development, specially that of the nervous system. A premature child with gestation period of 23 to 25 weeks usually has learning problems at school, cannot follow the level which corresponds to his/her age, and is slow.

New borns have inflamed eyes and lips, covered in sebaceous fat, wet, red and sometimes slightly bruised. If it’s very premature, it’s born immobile.

At the moment that the baby opens the lungs and starts to breathe launches an indescribable ahhhhhhhhhh. It’s an immense sensation of life, powerful, exciting, and energetic. The new born eagerness to live is tremendous.

Eighty percent of mothers cry at birth. The moment of stress and happiness. Humans are like that: what gives us happiness makes us cry. We like this combination. The birth produces great release of endorphins, leaving mother feeling like she’s on a good trip. The baby also hallucinates. Magic!

Butterfly

I’ve always described love as a butterfly. It flutters in; you pause, hesitant, where it will land? if it lands at all. If you’re lucky it settles a short distance from you. If this happens, your astonishment is followed by an up lift of well being. Nervously you tip toe towards it, initially to observe it, to marvel at its beauty and instinctively for some innate urge, you want to touch it.
As you close in………….it flutters away.

Off My Bike

I didn’t blink an eye lid. My heart didn’t miss a beat. No expression on my face. This was the moment when I discovered that my bike had been stolen! I simply turned the corner and went on my way, by foot.

This is the seventh or eighth bike I’ve had stolen, I’ve lost count. I’m immune to being upset or expressing any feelings normally associated to being robbed. Bike robberies are a natural phenomenon in Barcelona. I’m just a just another victim.

As I walk to my destinations, I reminisced about all my previous bikes. My first bike was a present. A yellow dual mountain/city bike. I still recall the childlike happiness when I received the bike. It was 11.30pm, and I couldn’t wait to test it out. I bombed down the Gran Via and then all the way to my friend’s house. I pounded the buzzer from street level, and hysterically called my out to my friend to come down and see my bike. I was like a kid with the best present ever and wanted to share my happiness with my friend. We rode in the plaza in front of the Macba museum, taking turns on the bike, riding with wide smiles on our faces. It was pure bliss.

The yellow bike lasted eight months, before the chain to which it was locked up with was cut and the bike stolen. I had reacted violently to having my first bike nicked. I reported the theft at the local police station. They laughed at me, and advised me not to buy brand new bikes as they would be stolen in matter of minutes. Defiant that I will not contribute to the racketeering market of stolen bikes, I continued buying new bikes. Usually the best I could afford at the time.

By the time I was onto my fourth bike, I decided to invest in a Monty micro fold away bike which fitted nicely in the lift of my building. I never let the bike out of my sight. It slept in my flat and not in the street. As fate would have it, my apartment was robbed, and my beloved micro red stolen. You just can’t win.

Convinced that I was jinked or that I’m not destined to own the same bike longer than a year. I resisted buying a new bike. However, after some three months, impracticality of not having a bike persuaded me to invest in another one.
I bought my most expensive ever bike costing 650€ and a guaranteed thief proof lock of 65€. It lasted 10 minutes!
So the story of stolen bikes goes on.

After discovering my latest bike had been stolen today, I walked to my three destinations, all within some 2.5km from my home. First stop, my bank. I told the cashier that my bike had been stolen.
Second stop, the concierge of my lawyer’s office to pick up some documents. I didn’t tell the concierge about my bike, only because I knew she was a miserable old bag and didn’t want to share my sorrow with her.
The third stop was at the notary office to complete the sale of my apartment. To my horror, I couldn’t help but tell the buyer, bank manager and notary that my bike had been stolen that very morning. The statement slipped out of my mouth,without warning. I think they were all so stunned that such an insignificant piece of information was broadcasted at such a serious proceeding.

After signing of documents had finished, I walked away, lit up a ciggie. Instead of celebrating the sale of my apartment, which I had fought hard for over the past eight months, I actually thought about how nice it would have been to get on my bike and bomb down the streets, with a big smile of my face. It hit home then that my blue bike was gone and how much I was going to miss her. I snail paced home in the baking sun. Boohoo.

Fear

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light".

Plato

Nit-Picking

My eight years old daughter has head lice, again! This is the second time in about six months.

My immediate reaction is of disgust. The mere thought of the parasitic creatures sucking my beloved one’s blood is just a cry for hasty extermination. This is war; every louse will be eliminated, every nit will be physically rooted out and destroyed. As soon as I had discovered the infestation, I start scratching my head like a mad woman. Paranoid that I too may be infested. Disgusting.

I start to browse through my child’s hair, meticulously removing nits with my fingers and then squashing them between my thumb nails to deduce if they are life or empty eggs.

My daughter is slumped horizontally along the sofa, her head nestling upon my thighs; she jerks her head slightly in accordance as I systemically sweep different areas of the head. She’s relaxed and begins lapping up the attention that I’m giving her head.

“Mummy” she says. “I like getting nits, because you touch me a lot”.

Awwwwwwww…. At this point, the lice and nits are no longer enemies; they are welcomed visitors. Serious quality bonding time here.

Suddenly, my fingers fanatically scramble around a specific area. I have just stumbled upon a louse and I try desperately to tramp it but the bugger is too fast.

Spotting a louse on the head send alarm bells. It raises the disgustingness ten folds. If I’m to win this war, I need super fighting power which will penetrate every notch and cranny: Pediculicide shampoo.

I prepare the shampoo, towels and comb. My daughter sits patiently with a ponderous face. I section her hair into different batches. Vocalising my actions, and announcing that the sections will be treated in chronological order; from left to right, bottom to top. The shampoo bottle at hand almost ready to inject the first few strands of hair. When my daughter asks:

“Mummy, when you put the shampoo, do the mummy and daddy lice go back to where they had laid the eggs and pick the eggs up and run away, with the eggs”.

Woooooooooe…………
“No, the mum and dad do not have hands and therefore cannot pick up the eggs”. I reply
She grabs hold of my bottle held hand and lowers it.
“That mean the eggs will be die too!”
“Yes darling, the whole family will die!”
She pulls an uncertain face. A face that says ‘I don’t think this is right’.
I hesitate. She tilts her head in downward silence.
I’m lost as to what to do next. Then suddenly she says:
“Why can’t we take them all from my head and put them in a box so they can live together”

Ouch ouch ouch.

Now I’m going to be labelled as a mass murderer who wipes out entire families. Alternatively, I could leave the infestation as my daughter likes the idea that she providing a home for these creatures. I could intermittently control check the population by nit-picking. The rewards of the latter option; quality bonding time, makes me ponder as to what a good caring mother should do!