after many hours of travel. Unable to interpret most of the menu, we were assisted by her fluency and ordered several plates for the table, as familystyle was the the custom there. When the server placed a platter of rice and beans before us, it looked different than I had expected. Taking my first bite, it tased different than I had expected. I took another bite. “Hmmm. This tastes like organ meat.” My husband concurred around the same time my mother suspended her lower jaw, mid-bite, unsure of how to gracefully extract its contents. My daughter flagged the waitress and asked if she had brought the right dish, which she had. It’s just that the word for black beans and rice— Moros—was similar to what was on the menu—Morro. Or, pig snouts. My mom made a sound of distress upon this news. I shrugged. My daughter and husband finished the snouts.
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We spent the following week traveling the lower regions of Spain; just a southern American family pointing out the car window at everything older than the Ravenel Bridge. We explored cities, stood in the Mediterranean, toured mosques and Cathedrals, and doublechecked each menu item. Breakfast was always my favorite. I enjoyed a spread of pig jowls and rabbit “parts” on my morning toast, though I admit that drawing a reaction from my mother was part of the pleasure. Final exams meant my daughter had to leave us in Granada and head back to school. For our remaining days we all relied on my husband’s high school Spanish and our best manners to survive the physical exhaustion, abundance of wine, and each other. We landed in Charlotte on Easter Sunday; I remembered to thank Jesus for forgiving my sins of the previous week, which were visible in my bloated face. We all deboarded the plane, grabbed our luggage, and went our separate ways with minimal goodbyes. After all, our family beach trip was in less than a month. I’ll be watching “The Royal Tenenbaums” until then. AM Summer 2022 AZALEAMAG.COM
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