Pudgie was a sullen child, and she liked to eat. She had a mother, and her name was Mari Elena. Like most grown things, they came from the earth. Only theirs was Mexican.
The history of food, the consumption thereof, and such anthropological nicities is not the point. Mari grew up with a cooking father, who made scrambled eggs with onions and served it with a side of chorizo. She also played hookey from school in Mexico City to go visit the museums.
Pudgie grew up as a product of this. She ate dirt, and threw rocks at short boys.
Now they’ve both grown up and make food. Which is the happy ending for which we begin this blog. Together, like a salad in a bowl.
