Macarrones, yum yum! (late 1990s/2000)

Pedro and I once took a trip to the Basque Country, we were round about Guernica way when we decided to stop for lunch. We were passing through this wittle town, so we parked and found a place. Just a normal, garden-variety, this'll-do-fine type of place. They had a set menu of the day, and macarrones (which is what the Spanish insist upon calling macaroni, along the same lines as espaguetis), which we both ordered. The woman brought out an absolutely enormous PLATTER of macaroni cooked with tomato sauce and spicy chorizo sausage. Large became our eyes at the sight of all that pasta. What did she think we were, construction workers? It was Saturday, for crying out loud!

Seeing our faces, she hastily assured us that should we desire any more, there was plenty to be had! Just as hastily, we assured her that this ABSOLUTELY ENORMOUS PLATTER would do the TWO of us just fine, but thanking you very much.

Well ...

They were SO DAMN GOOD, we ate the whole thing and probably would've asked for more if a second course hadn't been coming. She obviously knew the talents of her chef. To this day, I wonder what they did to them to make them so good, but good they were, indeed.

La vache! (1990)

One post from Wheylona has prompted two memories. Hope I'll remember the second tomorrow.

The first time I came over here to the old continent, it was with a big group organized by my best friend Connie's mother Sue, which I was generously allowed to piggyback on: Connie and her then husband, her brother and his then girlfriend now wife, Sue and Connie's stepdad, and a friend of the family. Yes, sir, that's eight Americans, some of us very tall, in a van tootling around France (other stops included London, two days in Italy, some in Switzerland and a very brief HELLO LIECHTENSTEIN! I think it was Connie's brother Tim who started it when we first hit the countryside, but soon the "kids" (all over 20) were all merrily shouting "La vache" everytime we saw some. (They, however, did not laugh, as we had been led to expect might occur in Le France.) Now, this is clearly grammatically incorrect, as cows rarely hang scenically about in fields solo, but there we were IN FRANCE, speaking THE FRENCH! It was all good. And annoying it must have been, as well. Still today, views of cows from cars containing two or more of the members of the group will often provoke the joyous peaen to bovineness.

Flavia was once very small (1999)

Pedro and I got Flavia because the cleaning lady at his office found her in a vacant lot when she was just the wittlest thing. Her eyes were just open or not even open yet. She brought her to work and Pedro came to pick me up from the school in the car, which he parked a few blocks away, leaving her in it. When we arrived, he opened the trunk. (Yes, I was appalled, but whattya gonna do?) There she was, nestled in a shoe box, the tiniest little thing that would fit in your hand. Now she's still a relatively small cat, but enormous compared to then. This must be how real parents feel, amazed that their "children" grow.

Thai dancers (early 1970s)

My father seemed to travel abroad a lot during this period. He went to Thailand, which I had no idea about at the time. Zip zero zilch knowledge. This was before yummy delicious and wonderful Thai food had invaded. He sent me a postcard with these Thai dancers with incredibly long fingernails. I found them incredibly fascinating. Pack rat me surely still has the postcard somewhere. (Kathryn's basement would be my guess!)