Holy Guacamole

Guacamole

I love Carmen, my Mexican wife, to bits, and I would never consciously make fun of her. But I can’t help laughing whenever we visit my family at Christmas, and Carmen gets so excited after a few glasses of punch that her tongue turns furry, her usually perfectly acceptable English becomes muddled, and she tends to say the funniest things ever.

The other day, my mom was preparing her famous spinach and cheddar casserole with Carmen watching closely and writing down the recipe. Mom stirred the stew, squirted some extra-heavy cream into it, and scooped some onto a wooden spoon to taste it.

"Mmmm…Needs more pepper,” she said.

Unfortunately, Carmen had already drunk that punch, which made her slur her words.

"Jenny, you have some spinach on your teat," she said.

Mom quickly glanced down at her blouse and chuckled. "Well, I guess my soup is sticking to me today!"

But she then added, "Can't see any spinach on my blouse."

Carmen shook her head. "Not on your blouse. On your teat!"

I was wrapping presents in the living room while Dad was drinking beer, but I heard the conversation that called for a "John to the rescue!" mission.

"She means you have some spinach on your teeth!" I shouted, and my dad laughed uproariously, spilling the beer in the process.

The whole thing was entirely innocent and ended in shared laughter. It was the same when we visited the funfair in Gloucester, Massachusetts, a few days before.

It was late afternoon, and the setting sun flooded the sky with a beautiful crimson flare, lighting up the clouds. A massive rollercoaster swirled, coiled, and sped up and down the track like a gigantic metal snake. People screamed excitedly as Carmen and I watched in awe.

"Want to try some real fair fun?" I asked, taking her by the hand to one of my favorite childhood games. You know, the kind that goes well with slushies so cold they set your teeth on edge.

Carmen asked what the game was called.

"Wack-a-mole," I said, explaining how to play it.

It was not until we got home that my wife, excited and cheeks flushed from the cold, recounted her experience to Mom and Dad. She couldn't stop talking about the rollercoaster and how much fun we had playing… guacamole…

But it was a different kettle of fish when we started our pre-wedding sessions with Father O'Brien, an old-school priest who must be nearly a hundred years old. You know, the kind who still wears a traditional cassock and prefers to say mass in Latin with a heavy Irish brogue.

We talked about how Carmen and I met, about our vows, and how we imagined our life together, confirming that we wanted three kids and the "till death do us part" kind of marriage.

Until Carmen opened her mouth—this time, punch was not to be blamed.

"I’m Mexican, father, and proud of it. And I know that John wants to fuckus here, in America, but he needs him to understand our cultural differences and respect my wishes because I don’t want to fuckus exclusively here but also spend time in Mexico.”

The priest's nose tip turned pale, and his jaw literally dropped, I kid you not. He had not expected such a blunt statement during our pre-wedding counseling session.

"What she means, father, is that I want to focus… Get it? Focus on living in the United States."

I’m still not sure I convinced him that Carmen's words were inoffensive, that we had nothing kinky in mind, and that it was just my future wife’s, well, let’s say, alternative pronunciation.

But Carmen got her own back when we went to her sister Rosario’s wedding in Guadalajara, where she effortlessly navigated between English and Spanish, leaving me in awe of her bilingual skills.

It was "Carmen to the Rescue" now, especially when I managed to spill a whole bottle of the finest Valle de Cholula Olive Oil on her sister's wedding dress at dinner.

"Lo siento. Estoy tan embarazado," I mumbled.

Rosario blinked a few times, looked at her ruined dress, and responded in perfect English.

“I can see that you might want to lose a few pounds. I mean, you do have a rather large beer belly. But I doubt you are pregnant.”

Carmen roared with laughter. Because "embarazado" doesn’t mean embarrassed but pregnant.

So that’s it, folks. I will never again scoff at Carmen's blueberry “pancays” or the way she whoops joyfully at the Yankees' "honron." I have eaten my humble pie, busted my misconceptions, and fully embraced our cultural differences.

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