I don't like to whine, so I will leave it at this: last week was extremely draining and long.
Thursday I was basically racing on my feet from 7 am - 7 pm, and on only about 2 hours of sleep (insomnia). In the late afternoon, I called Scott to explain to him the urgency for a post-day margarita, outside somewhere, I didn't even care if Jimmy Buffett was playing. Just come and get me in an hour and lets go. I had an ovewhelming need for an evening breeze, conversation and the salty, strong sensation of a...... vrrrrrt! Oh, no. I forgot. He had booked a dinner with some of his work clients last week. Knowing the day I had, he tried to cancel, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. I took in the news on the phone, and felt my knees & tired heels buckle. Noooooooo.
I totalled 4 cups of coffee but, still, when I left the office at 7:15, I was pretty foggy. I teetered to my car, drove home, parked, and robot-like walked in the door. I pet Bo flatly on the head, and walked back out with Scott, already late for our dinner.
Now, what is special is that they are a husband and wife doctor-duo and had invited us to their house for dinner. Not a restaurant. Even more special is that he is from Syria and she is from South America. As Scott and I careened down the highway, he explained that he had been told it would be very casual, that they have kids and it will be short. And maybe they could make me a Syrian margarita? I put my day behind me the best I could and applied lipstick.
The last leg of the directions were unclear and we got lost. The sun started to disappear. We were lost and late. Scott called our host's cellphone. Turns out, he was at the supermarket 10 feet away. We waved to each other. Selfishly, I thought, he just bought the groceries?
Not even. He encouraged us to head into the store with him, as he grabbed his 5 year old daughter's hand and headed in. So, we did. I almost sat in my bird-poop splattered car instead, maybe slept for a few minutes. Alas, there we all were combing the freezing cold GIANT aisles together. He was friendly and his daughter was precious and very excited. We picked out tomatoes, lemons, assorted other vegetables, canned tomatoes and a huge watermelon. We waited in line as I wickedly surveyed the items on the conveyor belt: A sauce that needs preparation still? Watermelon? I felt my pulse in my heels, tired.
We followed him to their house, only a mile away, up in a quiet, clean neighborhood. The little girl came with me in the car and told me all about her birthday party. Suddenly, I wanted to go to her birthday party and never, ever think again about advertising. She is going to have two pinatas and balloons in the shape of doggies. She wasn't afraid to say how much she loved things. Adorable.
The door flew open and we were greeted by delightful spicy smells and the enthusiastic, cute Latin wife. Her mother was in town who spoke no English, but was helping out with the children, and obviously the cooking. She smiled and stirred a large pot. The kitchen was tiny and chaotic with the three adults weaving about.
I was super hungry and thirsty, but with all the commotion, I said nothing of course. All at once, the Syrian produced the huge watermelon, hacked it up into enormous chunks as Scott, the daughter I lined up on stools on the teensy counter top, eating watermelon in bowls with a fork. It tasted good. Really good. I helped myself to another hunk.
Dinner was becoming elaborate, I saw veggies being chopped, fish being seasoned, 2 rices being cooked, and I was met with a large 20 oz. Mountain Dew for refreshment, followed up by a glass of Tang. I watched the commotion as it grew later and later, and continued to inhale watermelon and Mt Dew, in lieu of my margarita and my ability to converse energetically.
OK: here's a helpful hint. If you are really hungry and thirsty for an adult beverage: do NOT eat 1/4 of a large watermelon. Sweet jaysus. All at once, my stomach felt like I'd quickly inhaled a barrel-sized sponge. Or a marshmellow suitcase. Ouf.
Dinner was eventually placed on the table, hot and fragrant, in several bowls and dishes around the circular table in the kitchen. The proud, smiling grandmother sat down and waited for me to take the first bite, which I wasn't sure if I should do, as I noticed everyone was present except the host couple. It appeared that now the Latin dishes were complete, it was time for some serious Syrian culinary action to take place.
Scott and I eventually just went for it, and dove into all delicious, divine seasoned plates while the doctors cooked and sliced and opened large cans of things, having us sniff various spices and compare them to American spices. We chomped and talked loudly over to the continued stirring and splattering of falafel cooking in the kitchen. I didn't stop once with what was already on the table. These Colombian women knew what they were doing. This food was unreal. More than before, I was speechless. I washed it down with some more tang.
Now, the little girl had not eaten 1/4 of a watermelon, too much tang and large servings of dinner, and she was now ready to show me her paintings. She lept up, and tugged my hand to come with her. The only problem was, I couldn't stand up. I was so full with fruit and tang mainly that I truly couldnt stand all the way up. Agony. I crouched past Syria and I looked at the second feast being prepared again, and nearly felt a tear build.
I didnt look at her paintings, really, I tried to walk in circles to remedy the stomach situation. "Oh. Look at those colors." I blandly encouraged, trying to breathe. I did the best I could in her tiny, lime-green bedroom that smelled like plastic Barbies.
I returned to the table to find that finally, all were seated. Spreads, tahinis (2 kinds), breads, pickles, olives, vegetables, falafel, leaves. It was all there. Scott had already finished a serving. The second I sat down, he hastily prepared me one. It was 11:20.
The Syrian's cellphone rang and he went in the other room to get it. And returned with it to the table, and talked on it in Syrian for the rest of the meal. I ate a little more and I don't really remember it. I know it was good, though.
Thinking things were perhaps slowing a bit, the phonecall ended, but at once he insisted that Scott come upstairs with him. “Do you like exotic things?” He asked, bushy eyebrows raised. “Come. Come with me.” He is a collector, it would appear. I was so uncomfortable with the full-factor, I could barely stand it. But the mother and daughter were so sweet, and all their native dishes they wanted to share with us. Apparently, they work so much, they don't know many people here. But ohhhhh, the weariness. And ohhhh, the frooooot.
At long last Scott reappeared, and we were both urged to come look at his favorite car. I wasn’t sure what to expect, as their driveway was filled with smaller looking economic rigs. Scott knocked over the recycling as we shimmed through the toys and storage to see him unveil his car. I would have never guessed it: a Cadillac. But not your typical collectors item from say 1967, but a more recent one. 1985 or so. FanTAStic. "Yes," he said in thick accent, "the years from 1983-1991 are the best for American cars." When have you ever heard that before? I noticed his necklace for the first time. He leaned against the car proudly. It was a shimmery rust color, enormous in size, the grill? A parthenon in chrome. The seats were the same burnt orange shade, but all in leather. Spoked wheels. The fact that this man from Syria had an appreciation for the same exact years of American cars that I grew up in blew my mind. Those cars are ones most people would like to forget. Its beautiful.
Of all the dinners I’ve been to, that must be one of the more interesting and colorful. We both climbed into our car, turned the corner and at the first stoplight just looked at each other for a good, long minute in complete disbelief. I dont think I could make up anything this good.
