My brother brought home a surprise for me last night (I won’t explain why here) – tamales.  A couple were beef and the rest were chicken, cheese, and pepper.

My nephew was excited to try this new (to him) food and he alluded to such many times over the course of the night.  He then hinted that he would like to try this new delicacy again this morning.  Although his father told him they were called enchiladas (I think) or tamales, he called them totitos (toe-tea-toes, his word and pronunciation).  He then asked me how to spell totitos and proceeded to give it his best shot.  Amazingly, he spelled it like I did, so I guess the phonetic simplicity of Spanish is starting to sink into his language challenged brain (he’s in his first semester of Cultural Spanish in the 7th grade).

During the course of warming, serving, and eating the “totitos” I made fun of him (as is my uncle-y duty and prerogative).  I sang a song about totitos, as I am apt to do, and was accused of being mean.  Was that the first time for the day?  I can’t remember, as I am so often accused.

Unwrapping his tamales he evidently noticed a smell that was different to him and commented that it smelled like vomit.  I told him that he didn’t have to eat it, and that he was smelling the corn meal that encased the goodies inside.  “That’s the smell of corn.” I said.  Being the human equivalent of a garbage disposal helped him to get past the smell, which now smells good.

Spotting a long slice of pepper (mild, green) I suggested to him it was a worm, and promptly ate it.  It was good.  He mulled that over for several moments, apparently caught in some other brain fart, and then suddenly exclaimed, “that was a worm?  They put worms in this?  I’m eating worms?  This is good.”  Note:  I just asked him if I ever told him it really wasn’t a worm and he said that I hadn’t.  I explained that it wasn’t and made some disparaging remarks when he replied, “Really?”

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