I haven’t blogged in 3 months. Frankly, I’ve been in a slump. Slump-dom, a veritable Kingdom of Slump, where finishing a bottle of wine on the porch is an accomplishment on par with doing laundry or writing a letter to my senator.
So what happened these past three months? Aside from horrible, horrible things worldwide…. Rephrase: What happened to me these past 3 months? This is a personal blog after all and my unpaid job/hobby/jobby to be a bit self-centered. Anyway, what happened? Well, I accidentally mooned a family of Texans while making paella in Barcelona.
To be fair, I took a wonderful trip to Spain and France. I ate good food, had bread thrown at me by a Parisian, swam with [sat in an inflatable flamingo with] wild dolphins, threw up in the Mediterranean, climbed a mountain and didn’t make any Fleetwood Mac references, narrowly avoided a terrorist attack, and hugged my friends too tight.
Yet this is the story I choose to tell.
Let me paint you a word picture.
I was wearing a dress in a hot kitchen in Barcelona. We sat with a lovely family from Texas, a mother, father, and daughter on holiday. The chef called us round the stove, gave us aprons, and showed us how to “properly” cut an onion.
At the same time, he showed us how to prepare the seafood (you fondle it), and how to mix ingredients in a massive paella pan that could fit three me-sized people. Then, it was show time! We were on our own. Sink or swim.
My anxiety kicked in, and suddenly I felt the white hot gaze of the kitchen lights, and the judgement of the Texans who almost surely knew how to “PROPERLY” cut an onion.
There I was, standing with an upraised knife, sweating, and I had the chef’s voice in my head obi-won style: “There is only one way to cut an onion, Luke. The right way.” I took a deep breathe and started to slice, and honestly blacked out for the rest.
But when I came to and realized I was done slicing, that it was someone else’s turn to experience the onion, I put my hands to my side to remove the apron and realized…
I must have been slicing aggressively because my dress had scrunched up around my hips, and the Texans, who didn’t drink nearly enough Sangria for this, were just standing behind me like, “Ya done with that onion?”
I blushed furiously, yanked down my dress, and returned to our table where I took up the much less stressful job of making sangria from scratch, which actually just involved me yelling, “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cuatro, cuatro, cuatro…” while Sergio poured wine into the pitcher.
Ultimately, it was an awkward meal. Was it my life’s MOST awkward meal? No. Was it the most exciting or meaningful thing that happened to me in the past three months? Nope. But sometimes I need to take a break from searching for excitement and meaning in this fucked up world and just tell a story that might also be an allegory about an onion and my ass.