domingo, 14 de novembro de 2010

Bastardizing Culture through Baking

Las salteñas son las mejores,

me dice Luana, se las sirven

con ají picante y la carne molida-

es un belleza. She kisses

the tips of her fingers and explodes

them into the air.

No, no, says Mauro, seguramente

a ella le va a encantar las de

Cordoba. Llevan una pasa de uva

y son dulcecitos. El azucar cristaliza

un poquito allí encima y te hacen

cosquillas a la lengua.

Once at a dinner party

I made empanadas

from honeyed black beans

and tomato and no one

said “these are good.”

The repulgue, lo que normalmente indica si sea

carne, queso y cebolla, pollo,

les mentiró como la gringa

sonriendo, diciendo por favor,

toma una empanada.

For the Argentines

I tried to feed that night

an empanada verdadera

does not stray from grandma's

recipe. I've learned from the grimaces

of colleagues and friends

that experimental cooking is mostly

accepted on college campuses where

Americans bang pots and pans together.

It's like God dumping grape

concentrate into freshwater

or Maradonna (also God) snorting

himself into a pudgy, cocaine oblivion.

Why ruin a perfectly good thing?

Sometimes creative culinary flair

shouldn't be shared with the traditionalists.

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