World Cup, Food
I've been absent from the blogging world for the last few weeks since the World Cup began.
I get more involved in the World Cup than the Bachelorette does in the guys she dates. The World Cup is one of the events that makes summer really special for me. It is my lemonade on the beach. I remember when I was a little girl, I would spend the summer in my grandma's big house in Mexico and all of my cousins would come over to watch the World Cup. Every summer my life would be contrasted for a few months from living in the US where everything is identical: Target, Wal-Mart, the mall, the movie theater, repeat. To going to Mexico City and living the dream of the World Cup in the living room of my grandma. She would peer with one eye as my grouchy bickering grandpa would stroll off to manage the family business, then she would corral the little kids into the living room with bowls of potato chips covered in lime juice and hot sauce and cups of frothy cold coke.
The World Cup was one of the only times we could have food in the living room. It was one of the only times we could scream and jump in the house. So, naturally, we took full advantage of it. "Who do you want to be?" my cousins would yell. We would have to stand by the team we represented. I always chose teams I knew nothing of, "Where is Chili?" I would ask, "You ignorant idiot!" my brother would exclaim. He is the master of all countries in the world and is even getting a masters degree in something incredibly culturally interesting. And he would pull my arm to the map of the world to show me where my country was located.
The World Cup would bring us to scream and dance in the living room. Sometimes the nice grandmas on the street would invite us to their living rooms to take turns. La Senora Chavez had the best livingroom, it was like a ball room she reserved for special events. The World Cup was a very special event. We would join forces with the other dozens of children on the block to watch the game.
Before the game you could hear people talk about it on the street. Flags would wave from every shop. Men would talk about it with the same intensity of a Mexican soap opera like "La Impostadora". Men would cry...real men would cry when their team would win or loose.
The last World Cup I saw in Mexico was in 1994. I was 12 and almost too cool to yell. I was walking in the market with my mom when I heard someone yell "They are going to penalties!" and I knew then, penalties were no bueno. Italy lost. Mexicans cried for their Italian brothers.
This World Cup in many ways has reminded me of my childhood world cups. We started the tournament by stocking the fridge with Coke. It is a necessity when watching the games. I'm super happy to have someone in the house to cheer with me. The chef knows much more about soccer than I do yet doesn't hold it against me when I don't know all the rules. We have watched every match together cheering for teams. My favorite teams have been in this order:
1. Ghana. Don't ask me why but I would LOVE for Ghana to win one day.
2. Mexico. Who wouldn't love the Mexican team with such a great goalie like Ochoa and team players with names like Chicharito? The Mexican team played with honesty more than any other team I saw. They really should have made it to the quarterfinals. I feel like the Dutch cheated them. After they lost my husband couldn't cheer me up at all. I was mute in fury for the evening.
3. Italy. I couldn't believe what happened with the player from Uruguay biting the Italian player.
4. USA. I would cheer much more for the USA if more people here in the USA stood behind their team. It is like we are a nation of unbelievers in the soccer (not just religious) sense. The USA will never win unless they have a country who will cry and scream for them to win like all the other nations do for their dudes. Dempsy did a great job.
5. Chili. I cried when they lost at penalties. I am not a big crier, but when people start bawling it has the same effect on me as a yawn. Lots of people were crying and next thing you know I was there with them. My husband laughed at me without mercy.
Some things have helped me deal with the World Cup. For the game with Mexico it was tamales, strait from the kitchen of my grandma. We ate them in solidarity with our loosing team.
When the US lost, the same week as Mexico, I couldn't take so much loss and went into the kitchen in 95 degree heat and made ratatouille. I fried the scallions and thought of the Belgians stealing the ball. I sauteed the zucchini and thought of how Mexico didn't deserve 2 yellow cards. I stirred in my eggplant cubes and thought of how great it would be if at least Costa Rica could win. My ratatouille was delicious. We had cold left overs the next day and it was even better. I got the recipe from some french girl's blog which I translated to English.
When Brazil lost 7 to 1 it was like watching them get beat up in their own home by Germans. Actually, that is exactly what happened. There was just one option for comfort food: pizza. We flip flopped our way down to eat one pie each.
Yes, pie. I have been in Jersey for two years and everyone calls the pizza a pie and now it stuck in my vocabulary. "I ate an entire pie" in Jersey means pizza. If you said it in Maryland it would mean an apple pie. "Whatcha wannon ya pie, doll?" means do you want muzzarell, gahlick, fresh bazil and parm oah the works? Don't ever get "the works" on your pizza pie in New Jersey. They will cover that thing with all the old olives, meats, and smelly cheese they have and your intestines and toilet will curse you for a few days. On the other hand, getting a pie with "the works" is one way to loose a quick 5 pounds.
That is all. I really hope Argentina wins. I think Thiago Messi is about the most perfect baby I have seen and I would love for Argentina to win for his little fat face.
Plus I really didn't like how the Germans scored 7-1 against Brazil. It was like kicking their A** in their own back yard with their own belt. Ouch!
I get more involved in the World Cup than the Bachelorette does in the guys she dates. The World Cup is one of the events that makes summer really special for me. It is my lemonade on the beach. I remember when I was a little girl, I would spend the summer in my grandma's big house in Mexico and all of my cousins would come over to watch the World Cup. Every summer my life would be contrasted for a few months from living in the US where everything is identical: Target, Wal-Mart, the mall, the movie theater, repeat. To going to Mexico City and living the dream of the World Cup in the living room of my grandma. She would peer with one eye as my grouchy bickering grandpa would stroll off to manage the family business, then she would corral the little kids into the living room with bowls of potato chips covered in lime juice and hot sauce and cups of frothy cold coke.
 |
| Papitas con valentina sauce |
The World Cup was one of the only times we could have food in the living room. It was one of the only times we could scream and jump in the house. So, naturally, we took full advantage of it. "Who do you want to be?" my cousins would yell. We would have to stand by the team we represented. I always chose teams I knew nothing of, "Where is Chili?" I would ask, "You ignorant idiot!" my brother would exclaim. He is the master of all countries in the world and is even getting a masters degree in something incredibly culturally interesting. And he would pull my arm to the map of the world to show me where my country was located.
The World Cup would bring us to scream and dance in the living room. Sometimes the nice grandmas on the street would invite us to their living rooms to take turns. La Senora Chavez had the best livingroom, it was like a ball room she reserved for special events. The World Cup was a very special event. We would join forces with the other dozens of children on the block to watch the game.
Before the game you could hear people talk about it on the street. Flags would wave from every shop. Men would talk about it with the same intensity of a Mexican soap opera like "La Impostadora". Men would cry...real men would cry when their team would win or loose.
The last World Cup I saw in Mexico was in 1994. I was 12 and almost too cool to yell. I was walking in the market with my mom when I heard someone yell "They are going to penalties!" and I knew then, penalties were no bueno. Italy lost. Mexicans cried for their Italian brothers.
This World Cup in many ways has reminded me of my childhood world cups. We started the tournament by stocking the fridge with Coke. It is a necessity when watching the games. I'm super happy to have someone in the house to cheer with me. The chef knows much more about soccer than I do yet doesn't hold it against me when I don't know all the rules. We have watched every match together cheering for teams. My favorite teams have been in this order:
1. Ghana. Don't ask me why but I would LOVE for Ghana to win one day.
2. Mexico. Who wouldn't love the Mexican team with such a great goalie like Ochoa and team players with names like Chicharito? The Mexican team played with honesty more than any other team I saw. They really should have made it to the quarterfinals. I feel like the Dutch cheated them. After they lost my husband couldn't cheer me up at all. I was mute in fury for the evening.
3. Italy. I couldn't believe what happened with the player from Uruguay biting the Italian player.
 |
| Moments after the bite. |
4. USA. I would cheer much more for the USA if more people here in the USA stood behind their team. It is like we are a nation of unbelievers in the soccer (not just religious) sense. The USA will never win unless they have a country who will cry and scream for them to win like all the other nations do for their dudes. Dempsy did a great job.
5. Chili. I cried when they lost at penalties. I am not a big crier, but when people start bawling it has the same effect on me as a yawn. Lots of people were crying and next thing you know I was there with them. My husband laughed at me without mercy.
Some things have helped me deal with the World Cup. For the game with Mexico it was tamales, strait from the kitchen of my grandma. We ate them in solidarity with our loosing team.
When the US lost, the same week as Mexico, I couldn't take so much loss and went into the kitchen in 95 degree heat and made ratatouille. I fried the scallions and thought of the Belgians stealing the ball. I sauteed the zucchini and thought of how Mexico didn't deserve 2 yellow cards. I stirred in my eggplant cubes and thought of how great it would be if at least Costa Rica could win. My ratatouille was delicious. We had cold left overs the next day and it was even better. I got the recipe from some french girl's blog which I translated to English.
When Brazil lost 7 to 1 it was like watching them get beat up in their own home by Germans. Actually, that is exactly what happened. There was just one option for comfort food: pizza. We flip flopped our way down to eat one pie each.
 |
| There is a neapolitan wood oven pizza across the street from us. A dangerous distance for the pizza, if you ask me. It is like putting a tuna factory in front of the cats. |
Yes, pie. I have been in Jersey for two years and everyone calls the pizza a pie and now it stuck in my vocabulary. "I ate an entire pie" in Jersey means pizza. If you said it in Maryland it would mean an apple pie. "Whatcha wannon ya pie, doll?" means do you want muzzarell, gahlick, fresh bazil and parm oah the works? Don't ever get "the works" on your pizza pie in New Jersey. They will cover that thing with all the old olives, meats, and smelly cheese they have and your intestines and toilet will curse you for a few days. On the other hand, getting a pie with "the works" is one way to loose a quick 5 pounds.
That is all. I really hope Argentina wins. I think Thiago Messi is about the most perfect baby I have seen and I would love for Argentina to win for his little fat face.
 |
| Leo Messi's baby, Thiago. That double chin is so cute! Let Argentina win for that fat little chin. |
Plus I really didn't like how the Germans scored 7-1 against Brazil. It was like kicking their A** in their own back yard with their own belt. Ouch!
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