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September 2005 Collaboration Weston Rose Mother Makes Guacomole By Weston Rose Mother taught me how to make guacamole! She's not Mexican. Neither is Dad. And I'm not half, I'm whole. Mother says it is not nice to say things like this. Mother learned how to make such good guacamole because she worked at a Mexican food restaurant--"Sabrosas". The only job she ever had. Dad was a frequent customer, as Mother puts it when I ask for "the umpteenth time", even though spicy food doesn't agree with him. Anyway, if you want to make excellent guacamole, listen carefully and watch closely because that's what I had to do and it's only fair you do the same. That way it's equal. Like things should be. First, Mother and I climb into her big car. Big for me, anyway. It's just Mother's size. Then, Mother honks at all the maniacs that drive faster than her and all the idiots that drive slower. We get there--the Supermarket, I mean. We glide slowly and menacingly (Dad told me what this word meant) up and down the aisles, looking for a good parking spot. Other people drive, looking, too. They try to steal my Mother's spot, even though she saw it first, because they have no manners. We screech into the spot and I scream--but the good kind of scream because I'm excited. Although the thieves have no manners and they don't smile, they do wave. But it's not like any wave I've ever seen. I grin and repeat the wave. Mother gasps, "Don't you dare do that! It's rude! Little girls shouldn't be disgusting." "Waving's wrong?" I ask. "That kind is and if I catch you doing it again, no dessert for a week!" Mother can be harsh sometimes. We walk through the sliding glass doors that slide all by themselves. They always do it, too. I know because when Mother goes to get the silver shopping cart, I run back and jump on the mat to check. Sure enough, the doors part. "Get over here!" Mother yells, pointing at the floor beside her. So I do. She pushes the cart over the gleaming linoleum floor, gleaming from the lights and the wax, toward the Fresh Fruit aisle. My favorite aisle because hoses dangle over the rows of lettuce and celery and carrots, misting them every now and then. I like to watch. Besides, the Fresh Fruit aisle isn't nearly as cold as the Dairy aisle. You need a coat just to buy milk. We come to the avocados. They are in a pyramid. If you've never seen one, an avocado is round, but not really. It has purplish black skin, which is kind of bumpy. On the inside, it's green. Mother showed me how to tell if an avocado is good. You squeeze it. If it's good, you can feel it mush with your fingertips. If it's hard, though, it isn't ready. Mother chooses four and the pretty pyramid collapses. Tall boys in long green aprons rush over to restack the avocados. Before we leave the Fresh Fruit aisle, Mother rips a clear plastic baggie off the roll and drops the avocados inside and weighs them in the metal bowl part of the scale that hangs from the ceiling. How heavy the baggie is tells you how much you have to pay. We buy some other things and Mother pays with a hard plastic card. Maybe it is her driver's license. I don't know because I was staring at chocolate bars while Mother did it. Now we're back home. I sit on the counter and my feet dangle off the edge. Mother gets a bowl, a knife, and a fork. She cuts the avocados right through their middles. Inside their stomachs are large, brown pits. Mother puts these on a napkin and tells me I can hold them, which I'm happy to do. Mother easily scoops the avocado meat out of the cup-shaped skins. Now Mother puts the light green avocado meat into the bowl. She salts it and peppers it "to taste". This means she doesn't know how much she put in there or if it's the same amount every time. Dad calls this "guesswork". I don't know what that means, so if you want to know, you'll have to look it up in the dictionary. I would do it for you, only I can't read. Then, a pinch of garlic powder. Mother squishes the salty, peppery, garlicky avocado meat with the fork until it's good and mixed. Then, she opens the fridge. It's really bright in there. I wonder if that light stays on all the time? Mother gets a lime. She didn't have to buy it at the Supermarket because she already had one. She halves it like she did the avocados and squeezes both halves real tight so that the lime juice drips into the avocado dip. After she trashes the cup-shaped skins, the tired-looking lime halves, and the pits (because I'm done looking at them) in the trashcan, which is in the pantry, she whips up the guacamole so that every bite tastes the same for everybody because equal is fair. Mother puts a top on the bowl and puts the covered bowl in the fridge, saying, "We can eat it when your dad gets home." This may be fair, but sometimes fair isn't fun. I ask again and again and again how long before Dad gets home, until Mother tells me I'm driving her crazy. Dad finally gets home. I hug him while Mother gets out the guacamole and opens a package of tortilla chips. Mother had to buy these at the Supermarket, too. We scoop guacamole on the chips and eat them. The dip is so good. Oh, before I forget, one more thing you need to know: double-dipping is bad manners, so don't do it because when I did, after Mother told me not to for "the umpteenth time", I got no dessert for two days. Please remember to give the author feedback. |