That’s how it feels right now. That I am just keeping my head above the water. I spent a huge part of yesterday working with Alan to deep clean the kitchen and reorganize the pantry. But with this new exercise regime, #CampNaNoWriMo, and just trying to keep current with things, treading water is the best I have mananged when it comes to writing. But I am managing to get those daily chapters out. And I suppose that is what is important.
We’re back in Los Angeles today. And trying new foods. There was this wonderful little place in Montebello (East LA). A real Mexican restaurant, where a taco is soft corn tortillas, almost paper thin and white. The only filings are meat and pico de gallo or salsa verde. No cheese or crunch. I usually went for the carnitas (pork). But one time my then-partner just handed me his and told me to give it a try. I asked what it was and he replied ‘beef.’ I ate a couple of bites. It tasted slightly different but not that much. But it was incredibly tender, more so than any beef I had ever eaten. I said so, at which point he informed me that it was lingua. Tongue.
All cultures have their ‘unusual’ foods. I grew up with my Nanny eating fried pig’s brains with scrambled eggs. Of course, in the South, chitterlings were common. My Cajun friend offered us boudin. And here in the UK, we have black pudding, haggis, and faggots. (That’s their name long before it was a derogatory term for gay.) I have never been brave enough to try any of those things. One of the fun bits of many alien-romances is the unusual foods that the writers think up.
But obviously, the lingua experience has stuck with me. What’s the most unusual thing you have eaten?
But watching the almost constant stream of red shirts coming and going from that apartment with noticeable bulges had him reconsidering this decision altogether. “Why don’t we go back to the hotel? Or maybe look for another of those little Mexican restaurants you love so much?”
Although he still had trouble watching her eat. Lingua was just not in his comfort zone. He only hoped that the craving did not imply that Freedom’s tongue would be as zealous as her mother’s. Aww, hell, her grandmother’s, her aunts’, her great-grandmother’s. He might as well get used to the idea. His daughter was going to speak her mind.