our daily bread -- and cucumber

This morning was a special day.

The young daughter of a Mexican acquaintance was graduating from kinder, and I had been asked to play the role of padrino -- a role I have played only once before.

When Enrique asked me to step into what is considered to be a great honor here in Mexico, I gladly accepted. But I also asked him what would be expected of me for this particular event. Because I was completely new to the custom the last time I acted in the role, I made plenty of mistakes because I simply did not understand the custom.

Enrique was initially evasive. That may be because I immediately fell into my northern culture mode and cut to the bottom-line question of what the fiesta would cost without first effusively thanking him for the honor.

After all, being asked is about relationship, and I was degrading it to a shoddy financial transaction. But I am lousy at being "effusive" at any time. He reluctantly settled on a figure.

He then told me the graduation ceremony would be this morning at 9 at the school just a bit west of my house. I knew the place well.

So, I hopped out of bed, dressed in white linen with a black shirt that made me look more like the attendee of a Truman Capote ball than the padrino of a child's kindergarten graduation, and headed off to the festivities. Where I waited at the gate for entrance. And waited. And waited.

I messaged Enrique. He apologized for failing to tell me the ceremony had been canceled due to the lingering fear of the omicron variant, but that the fiesta was still on.

And thus arose my dilemma, I had told Enrique I would attend the graduation, but that I really do not like attending parties. I suppose I thought by handing over the money to finance the party that I had fulfilled my obligation. But I know that I have not. To not attend would be an insult. After all, to be a padrino is an honor -- even though another Mexican acquaintance describes padrinos as "fairy godfathers" who wave wands and magic things happen.

So, I will do what must be done and I will do my best to enjoy myself -- or, at least, pretend that I am enjoying myself. After all, the extended family is not only my neighbors; it contains the owners of two restaurants that I once regularly patronized. I will find plenty of people upon whom I can inflict my painfully-inadequate Spanish.

I do have some vague ideas of what will be expected of me at the fiesta. I believe it is tomorrow at a place not yet determined.

Because I would not be spending my morning at a graduation ceremony and I was certainly dressed as if I were going to town, I went to town. At least, I went to centro Barra de Navidad.

Last night, I set some yogurt in the refrigerator to make yogurt cheese for tzatziki. My first stop was La Tanda bakery to buy some rustic bread for dipping in my sauce when it is finally combined.

I then did something I have not done for years. I sat down at the local coffee shop (La Bruja) with a cup of peppermint tea and watched life pass by on the street -- and, of course, eavesdropping on other people's conversations. I found myself thinking of Walter Kirn's authorly confession.

A writer is someone who tells you one thing so someday he can tell his readers another thing: what he was thinking but declined to say, or what he would have thought had he been wiser.  A writer turns his life into material, and if you’re in his life, he uses yours, too.

When I finished my tea, I wandered off to la tienda de abarrotes to buy a cucumber for the tzatziki, and to my favorite butcher (El Tunco) to buy thick-cut bacon for -- well, almost any dish imaginable.

I now sit at my computer in the patio of the house with no name, dressed like a cut-rate Steve Martin impersonator, waiting for word about my next appearance as El Padrino de la Fiesta.

The show must -- and will -- go on.