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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