grapefruit_FeedMeDearly

I was 24 when a Mexican bird pooped on my face.

How did I know the bird was Mexican? Because we were in Mexico. In all fairness, he could have been an ambitious American bird who’d flown too far south for the winter. But for the purpose of this story, I’ll assume that he was Mexican. And that he was a he because aim was a factor.

It happened during my first trip to Mexico with the man I now call my husband. We’d been on a family vacation with his parents, and had made the last-minute decision to extend our stay. Both of us were in the midst of job transitions and were lucky enough that our calendars overlapped.

Initially, our spur of the moment hotel/apartment search was a flop; nothing was available. His parents weren’t happy that poolside Margaritas had been replaced by a frantic search for a strip mall hotel or kindhearted landlord who would take us in.

Towards the end of our planned vacation, we found ourselves apartment-hunting in downtown Acapulco when a bird, possibly a Condor or a Falcon, pooped on my face.

We didn’t actually see the bird, but Rodney, combining his high school biology and college-level math skills, made some rough estimates based on the poop surface area. Thankfully it had missed my eye, but covered a broad swath of my right cheek. Although I never actually saw the wreckage, I distinctly remember the sensation. Like a mug of hot chocolate had been splashed in my face.

These discussions happened after the fact of course. Rodney’s immediate reaction was to slip into a mild shock, recover, and then attempt to clean it off. A little too quickly I might add, because instead of wiping it off my cheek sideways, he barehanded it down over the corner of my mouth. Our Cat 4 problem had now escalated to a Cat 5.

We needed water. And not your standard issue garden hose as that would have increased the likelihood of a second gastrointestinal flesh-eating disease.

The hunt began for a bodega and bottled water. It wasn’t long before we found one and in that same back alley where the Condor had made me his personal latrine, we washed our tainted bodies.

cincodemayo

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Grapefruit

I eat a lot of grapefruit – sectioned with a dollop of honey-sweetened yogurt or sliced into salads. I figured that the flavor might be  too intense for the kids, but they’ve surprised me before. Grapefruit didn’t have a chance though – too sour for their little palates.

 ME: Ok guys, what is this called?

SAM: Tomato sauce?

ME: No.  Smell it.  Can you tell what it is?

LAUREN: Stuffing.

EMMA: Watermelon.

ME: It’s not a watermelon.

LAUREN: Grapefruit?

ME: Lauren thinks it’s grapefruit.  What do you think Sam?

EMMA: I want to eat it.

ME: Emma wants to eat it.  Here you go.

SAM: Is it grapefruit?

ME: Yeah.  Here, I’ll cut it in half for you. Do you want to eat it with a fork?

LAUREN:  I guessed it right…, I guessed it right… I guessed it right… [singing].

LAUREN: Is it any kind of grapefruit?

ME: It’s a red grapefruit, actually. And that’s a really smart question because there are many different types of grapefruit.

EMMA: I don’t like it. It’s spicy.

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