Mexican Gorditas

Mexico finally gets ahead in the race and is now number two, only behind the U.S. Oh, wait. Number two fattest nation in the world. I guess that's good, right? That means we're well-fed people. In old times extra weight was a sign of affluence and wealth. Now it's just a sign that you can't keep from shoving stuff in your mouth for more than an hour.

I suppose the fact that the terms such as Gordito(a) or Gordis are terms of endearment in Mexico doesn't really help the issue. I remember growing up there how the culture calls for consuming as much Coca-Cola as possible in a day, not to mention the chicharrones with Salsa Valentina, and without forgetting to fry and re-fry everything on the menu for dinner. I'm not one to debate it. I grew up with it. I fucking love it. Like a fat kid loves churros. Oh wait.

"People don't eat right anymore," said Garcia Garduno , mixing a drink of strawberries and pineapple. "Instead of coming here and purchasing a fruit drink, they prefer to walk across the street and buy fried pork chips. That's why so many Mexicans are obese." [Yahoo! News]

I feel that. Nothing like the smell of a pot of Queso Fundido con Chorizo, a fat stack of tortillas to push it in, and a cold Sidral Mundet to wash it down. It's almost as though even Mexicans have adopted the the American phrase "Don't drink the water" and put it to practice. No one in my family drinks water these days. Soda, coffee, beer, liquor, or aguas frescas. La Virgen nos salve de tomar agua.

As in the U.S., Mexicans are living more sedentary lives. Studies show that they're eating more fat and processed foods, and fewer whole grains and vegetables. Foods— healthy and unhealthy— that once were unavailable now can be purchased at new modern supermarkets. In some areas of the country, it's easier to get a soft drink than a clean glass of water. The vast majority of Mexico City's public schools, and many private schools, lack drinkable water, Popkin said. [Yahoo! News]

In any case, way to go Mexico. Let's keep going and try to sink the city back into the lake it was built on.

Flashback: Cereal

This definitely took me back to '91. Had just arrived to the States and after school I would race home to watch the Super Mario Bros. Show. Back When Super Mario 2 was revolutionary game play. Man, I can almost hear the ice cream truck driving by.

Sadly, my fingers no longer bleed.

"Guitar Center, Hello" Answers the voice on the other end of the telephone, as I sit and stare blankly at my computer monitor. Eyes red from the glare of the computer and the fluorescent lighting combined. A bit irritated with the day, I reply, "Hi, I'm looking for Carl, the repair guy" "Uh, Carl is out for the day, he's gone home and will be back Monday" "Ok, thanks a lot, I'll try him then". Shitfuckballs! I've tried getting a hold of this guy for about two weeks now and he's always either at lunch, on the phone, or out sick. wtf!? What does this guy do? How does he make his money?! I really need an estimate or a price for a job I need him to do and no one in the store but him knows the prices of repairs. I have a guitar, a gift from a good friend, that needs fixing and I can't get a hold of this guy. A gorgeous blue piece in a small attempt at recreating an Ovation, only my dream guitar. Ugh. I'll try again Tuesday I guess.

The best birthday present of 2006.
It's time I take the guitar a little more seriously, It sits there, looking beautiful in it's own right, collecting some dust, and feeling neglected. There are days when I come in from a long day at the office and all I want to do is play it, but alas, it needs repairing.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I love music. LOVE IT! I love listening to it, I love watching it be performed, I love dancing to it, and I most definitely love playing it to the best of my abilities.

I miss the feeling of learning a new song. Of listening to something that later on came back in my head and my fingers deciphered the cryptic message hidden within. Most of all, I miss the soreness of fingers that have been hammering down on metal strings for hours. Blisters. Calluses. The burning and shaved down nails. It's about as gratifying as the soreness you get the day after a good work out.

I am a really good procrastinator. Good enough to get paid for it. And as such, I have been putting off taking Starla (that's right, she has a name) to get looked at and repaired. So now, when I finally have the time and money and having putting on the effort, I try to reach the man who will solve my problems repeatedly, to no avail.

Not only that, but now, with the new acquisition of my super-powered-mega-computer-center-hub capable of dominating worlds, and a couple of music production and editing software programs, I have no instrument to play them with. Granted, I need an interface to input glorious sounds into the applications, but that's the least of my worries, as I have one in sight! (remember to donate!).

I come from a long line of musicians, bohemians, and life lovers and deestroyers. My family has influenced me I think in both their good and bad deeds simultaneously, for the better, and I thank them for that. Because without all their experiences, and mine with them, I probably wouldn't be where I am now, and I probably wouldn't have lived all the things that I've lived up until now which I wouldn't change for the world.


My uncles in line, at our kitchen in Chihuahua, circa 1992,a t what would appear one of numerous celebrations spent at that house.


The house I grew up in (orange), in a now more developed Chihuahua.
It is now the weekend, I doubt Carl will be in on Monday as it's the celebration of Dr. MLK, so I will shoot for Tuesday to try again. Starla's neck and bridge will get straightened out. In the meantime I'll focus on getting the software set up and start shopping for a new amp. Undoubtedly, I will create music this year.


I got started at an early age.

I sprinkled bacon on bacon and time traveled

I was having a conversation about old school Disney cartoons with someone who clearly did not have a childhood. Goofy cartoons. There were so many good ones.

Two particular ones I was referring to, due to a conversation about defensive driving classes, randomly came up through the blog roll today. boy did these take me back. Back when Disney was full of ideas and wasn't yet owned by Satan. It really is funny how some of these, although far fetched now, much more then, some of these are actually options in vehicles now and the Goofy character embodies every DC driver (including myself every now and again) I cross paths with on a daily basis. One of those, it's funny because it's true things.

Magic Highway USA


Motor Mania

[EcoGeek via Carectomy]

Does anyone besides me remember these? C'mon people, I saw these in Mexico for Pete's sake, someone here must have seen them too. There were also others. Goofy in the Olympics. Goofy and Music History. Goofy and dance lessons. There were tons.

We built this city on...cold cuts?

Right when I start thinking that the world's gone mad and everybody's going vegetarian, I blink twice and find an underground scene, I never knew existed. Well, maybe not so much a scene as crazy people with too much time on their hands, which technically is what a scene is.

At different points in my life, I believe I attempted scenester-isms. It was disastrous. Poorly groomed, obese, and with the fashion sense of a crab. (!!!)


Me at a rave trying real hard to fit in, circa 2001
Bacon attire. Apparently Bacon is not as lame as those Peta people would make it out to be. It is in fact delicious, nutritious, and delicious (that's right! two times delicious). Who needs a fox or a mink, when you can sport sweet, sweet bacon!?!

One of my favorite dishes to make and to eat are bacon-wrapped shrimp. Well, now during the winter I can feel like one with one of two choices!


[Baconwrapt] $38

[Shopsin's General Store] $35
This next one even SMELLS of bacon!!


[Archie McPhee] $99.95
Hell, you can even build a ginger...err...meat house for the holidays! [Slashfood via Easyjo]



The closest I ever got to food architecture and shocking fashion was Christmas of 1990.


I think my mom shopped in New Delhi for my Holiday attire
People were clearly out to destroy me. Obvs.

So good I forgot to eat

For as long as I can remember, I've enjoyed reading. Sometimes it takes me a while to finish a book. Sometimes I fly through them.

One thing I have noticed in my years of reading is that there are writers out there that like to include meals in their books. Vivid imagery of dinners past. Detailing into even the spices and herbs on plates. food you can smell and taste just off the text.

My most vivid memory of a book's food description would have to be Diego El Rojo, a coming of age, biographical story of a young Diego Rivera (my favorite Mexican muralist, for more reasons than just his art) and his rise to fame and communist idealism. Written by his daughter, Guadalupe Rivera Marin.

She delves into details of Mexican family breakfasts and European meals revolving around bottles of wine. Describes even what seems to be the texture of the cheeses sprinkled on top of the beans and the green enchiladas. Until this point, I had not read anything, I don't think, that talked so much (and so well) about aliments.

I have now finished reading another book, given to me by a friend for my birthday, which reminded me quite a bit of Diego El Rojo. Not by characters nor story-line, but by the foods consumed by the characters.

Catfish and Mandala takes you in a journey through both time and continents. Retelling the story of the author, Andrew X. Pham. Part autobiography, part memoir, part journal. Andrew travels from Vietnam to the United States with his parents after the fall of Saigon in 75, coming to the States as a young immingrant (something I immediately felt akin to), not even knowing how to speak the language. He tells his tales of displaced childhood in a country of strangers.

He also recounts his travels trying to find his roots, biking from California to Washington. Biking Japan and Vietnam, in search of himself and his background. His adventures and realizations of his home country transcend him, his take on life, and Vietnam as a whole.

Through the entire book, Pham describes meals eaten through out his whole trip, from campfire meals in the desert of Mexico to Vietnamese style feasts at family reunions in California to rice cakes and beating cobra hearts in Vietnam.

There's a part in the book, which made me laugh a little to myself as well as take me back to growing up, visiting friend's houses, and roaming through their refrigerators (as well as my fridge in Austin).

Cu-Den banged us a skillet of scrambled eggs, fried Spam, and steamed rice. It was all we could rake out of Cu-Den's sorriest-looking fridge on the planet. The thing was loaded with relish, horseradish, salad dressing, teriyaki sauce, mayonaisse, ketchup, mustard, and not a damn thing to slather the condiment galore on. We doused Cu-Den's special rice with fishsauce and chili paste and gobbled it up. We were going to need full stomachs to fight the Mexican homeboys who were a lot tougher than the redneck football players. [Catfish and Mandala]

The book is no less than a masterpiece. Such a human take it on it all that you can't help but relate to his stories, whether or not you're Vietnamese. So well written, you'll fly through the pages like a hot knife through butter. I feel like I've been to Vietnam and back. Pick it up if you get a chance.

Tacos of the Sea

I came across a list of the best spots to have fish tacos at in Southern California.

Whether kitschy Mexican restaurant or mini-mall taco chain, the drill is the same. Wrap 'em with foil and love. [Serious Eats]

This reminded me of The Fisherman's Cove, my grandparent's Mexican-style seafood restaurant in El Paso, Texas. The place where I spent some of my most awkward years before, during, and after high-school. Where I learned work. Back-breaking work. Everything from dish-washer to server to line chef to buss boy. I ate some fantastic foods, even when, at the time, seafood was my least favorite type of food.

I grew up around the hot stoves and the steamy kitchen. Peeling shrimp. Chopping up produce. Setting up plates. The whole nine yards. I learned a lot of my current culinary cognition from watching my uncles play around with fire and knives. Showering my palate and dowsing my taste buds with the likes of Camarones a la Diabla, Langosta Veracruzana, Coctél de Pulpo, Ensalada de Cangrejo, amongst a million other deliciouis dishes prepared and served by my family, at what seemed to someone be reasonable prices.
That's me at the far left in a puddle of cousins and a faded uncle at the door.
The story of the restaurant is pretty much as clear as it gets when it comes to analogies to the family history. The Rise and Fall of the House of Gamboa. Of sorts. The story is a long one that I hope to recount and start making sense of through a number of posts, being that it is a long one, with many, many characters, and many, many stories.

My grandparents proudly stand before their successful business, still quite ignorant of it's soon-to-come, pre-mature demise. El Paso Times, 1995