Since Thanksgiving at least three times a week I drag my long-waisted, big-footed body on to a road or trail for a run. My joints might ache or the ibuprofen regimen may be fully functional. It might be brilliant winter drought sunshine or bone chilling winter drought tule fog. It might be in Golden Gate Park or the Russian River levee in Cloverdale. Aches, weather, and location may vary, but the point is, I do it.
When I started running, I wondered to myself, "Does it ever stop hurting?" For six or seven weeks that question remained. Short runs or longer runs, it hurt every time. My hamstrings, glutes, and calves always felt on the verge of cramp or muscle spasm. My ankles, knees, and hip joints always felt on the verge of surgical replacement. My feet lived under the threat of heel blisters and the occasional cracked and bloody toe nail. Sometime in late January, the pain changed. Each run starts out a little stiff and slow, but ten minutes into it I start to feel better. Twenty minutes in, the slow motion jog opens up and my stride lengthens. As long as the hills are minimal or angling in my favor, I start to feel like I could run forever, or at least the ten miles to the First Street bridge and back.
The amazing thing about my running is that it kills my appetite. I don't walk in the door after a run feeling ravenous. In fact I don't feel like eating much at all.
Until the next morning around 10:30am.
I used to enjoy a scone with my coffee and make it to a late lunch without a problem. I still enjoy my morning scone, croissant, or bowl of granola but it doesn't hold me to lunch. By 9:30am I feel peckish. By 10:00am I feel hungry. And by 10:30am I feel desperate.
For carbs.
And the faster they can be accessed, the better.
Some of these carbs require barely any preparation: Matzoh eaten dry (just bought a box at Costco that could feed a kibbutz); a bowl of cereal, Cheerios mixed with Raisin Bran and Granola (and then another bowl); cold leftover pasta (I can't be bothered to heat it).
And then there are some that take minute or two: Quinoa cooked on the stove, finished with a bit of butter, milk and cinnamon; Tortillas quickly heated in the microwave with melted butter (just one, then two, then what the hell there are only three more left in the package....); a sweet potato peeled, cubed, and quickly fried in olive oil with a bit of manchego melted on top.
Fortunately, this diet and exercise routine seems to be working for me. I've lost close to 30 pounds on the Doctor Tod method. It's easy. And it works. Just quit your job, run more than twenty miles a week, and gorge yourself on Israeli couscous or Girl Scout cookies every morning at 10:30.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Thank Heaven for Little Girls(scout cookies)
Yesterday I gave in to the aggressive sales pitch of a pack of green-frocked bullies and purchased five boxes of cookies. Last night I made one of my favorite desserts, Dirty Drunken Girl Scouts.
Here's the basic recipe:
Two girl scout cookies
Small slice of ice cream, the same diameter as the cookie
Make a sandwich
Repeat with different cookie flavors until you have enough (generally two to three per person)
Place on a plate, cover with plastic wrap and place in the freezer for at least one hour
For serving, place piping hot water in a small bowl.
Pour a shot of your favorite after dinner spirit in a glass
Place glass in bowl of hot water
Serve the shot and the cookies
Eat a cookie sandwich with your hands
Sip the shot
Use the warm water in the bowl to clean the melted ice cream and cookie crumbs off of your fingers
Repeat
Variations:
> Dirty Drunken French Girl Scout (use cognac)
> Dirty Drunken Gascon Girl Scout (armagnac)
> Dirty Drunken White Trash Girl Scout (bourbon)
> Dirty Drunken Puerto Rican Girl Scout (aged puerto rican rum)
> Dirty Drunken Mexican Girl Scout (aged tequila)
> Dirty Drunken Oaxacan Girl Scout (aged mezcal)
> Dirty Drunken Italian Girl Scout (grappa)
> Dirty Drunken Russian Girl Scout (vodka)
> Dirty Drunken Irish Girl Scout (irish whiskey)
(you get the idea)
Here's the basic recipe:
Two girl scout cookies
Small slice of ice cream, the same diameter as the cookie
Make a sandwich
Repeat with different cookie flavors until you have enough (generally two to three per person)
Place on a plate, cover with plastic wrap and place in the freezer for at least one hour
For serving, place piping hot water in a small bowl.
Pour a shot of your favorite after dinner spirit in a glass
Place glass in bowl of hot water
Serve the shot and the cookies
Eat a cookie sandwich with your hands
Sip the shot
Use the warm water in the bowl to clean the melted ice cream and cookie crumbs off of your fingers
Repeat
Variations:
> Dirty Drunken French Girl Scout (use cognac)
> Dirty Drunken Gascon Girl Scout (armagnac)
> Dirty Drunken White Trash Girl Scout (bourbon)
> Dirty Drunken Puerto Rican Girl Scout (aged puerto rican rum)
> Dirty Drunken Mexican Girl Scout (aged tequila)
> Dirty Drunken Oaxacan Girl Scout (aged mezcal)
> Dirty Drunken Italian Girl Scout (grappa)
> Dirty Drunken Russian Girl Scout (vodka)
> Dirty Drunken Irish Girl Scout (irish whiskey)
(you get the idea)
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Mullahs of the Mission
Ten days ago I was soaking up the cultural and culinary offerings of Mexico City. Since returning, the reality of my unemployment has hit. I awake every morning to a blank slate. I can exercise, or not. I can fill my day with chores, or not. I can network with colleagues and potential clients over breakfast, lunch or cocktails, or not. Today, my focus has been on exceeding my running distance in Golden Gate Park (up and back without stopping!), delivering a donation of clothing to the thrift store, and finding a decent place to write.
At the moment I am in the midst of a Goldilocks-like quest to find a cafe in the Mission District where I can comfortably create. This morning I checked out Ritual on Valencia and 22nd. I liked the coffee and the instrumental loungey background music, but the space was a bit drafty and cold. I returned to Lundys Lane and attempted to write in the studio, or as I am going to start calling it "Ridgeback Cavern." Surrounded by three occasionally fussy but mostly dozing dogs was conducive to napping, but not to writing. At the moment I am at Four Barrel at Valencia & 15th. It's still a bit drafty and cold, even though the sun is shining. The chairs are flat, wooden and uncomfortable and I am sharing a table with two chatty women who are alternating between their conversation and texting a recently pregnant friend. The music is a bit loud and grungy and includes vocals. The coffee seemed watery. This one is definitely not "Just Right." My search will continue.
As I sit here, it is impossible not to notice that one, by one, there has been a steady stream of fully bearded men in their twenties and early thirties. More than half of the men fit this profile. The same is true at Ritual. Their haircuts are relatively trimmed-- they are not going for a hippy look -- but their beards are full, bushy and flowing. No goatees or flavor savors. A disturbing number of the beards have the unfortunate gnarly appearance of facial pubic hair. Many of them are wearing stocking hats. They look like members of the Taliban, only hipper.
As I sit here with my relatively new full beard, I am faced with a crisis of personal aesthetics. I have never been one to attempt coolness, but I wonder if my decision to grow a beard was a subconscious effort to appear younger and hipper? Given the distinctly silvery nature of the beard, one could argue that I look older, but maybe my inner hipster wanted to fit into the cafe culture of the Mission. With this realization, maybe my anti-hipster instincts are going to lead me to reduce the beard to a goatee. Or maybe remove it completely and grow my remaining locks into a flowing Ben Franklin. (Not going to happen.) Or maybe, I'll continue to tour cafes and just sit back and enjoy the show. A man just walked in with a heavily waxed handle bar moustache...
Saturday, January 14, 2012
I may not be cool enough for this town
This morning I moved from my apartment to the Hotel Condesa DF, an Australian-owned, impeccably deigned property in an old belle époque building across from the Parque Espana in my favorite neighborhood, La Condesa. Thanks to ten nights of business and personal travel, my night here at the ultra chic Condesa DF is 100% free. I am currently sitting at the hotel bar situated at the edge of the hotel's open atrium. I am currently surrounded by some of the best looking and best dressed, in a casual way, people to whom I have ever had proximity. Since 1:00pm the hotel's open air bar, on the 4th floor terrace with a view to the tree-lined hipness of La Condesa, has been hopping with youNg, gorgeous locals. The pounding music interrupted my siesta plans, but encouraged me to venture to the downstairs bar where everyone took refuge after a sudden rain shower. I feel exceedingly old and gringo, but thanks to a beer, spiced peanuts, and a shot of tequila anejo, I am very content.
Content. Contento. Enchanted. Encanto. These are the words that have entered my vocabulary the past week.
Last night, I had an echanating experience at a restaurant called Lampuga (Mahi Mahi). In contrast to today's overwhelm of hipness, last night was like being transported back to some bygone age. My friend David surprised and delighted me by coming down From Los Angeles for a quick break this week. On the recommendation of the web site Chilango.com we wandered our way to Lampuga. We ate very well. Grilled octopus for a starter. A fine bottle of Syrah from Argentina. Filet mignon with Roquefort sauce for me, a beautiful piece oF grilled fish for David. For desert, coconut flan and apple tart, topped off with aged rum and port. The food was exquisite. The service was warm, inviting and attentive. All of this would have made a great evening, but the kicker was that for the nearly three hours that we sat at our table, we were entertained by a quartet of musicians: a singer who reminded me of a Latina Adele, a talented (and cute) bass player, a guitarist, and a virtuoso on the contralto sax and flute. They performed a mix of bossa nova, classic salsa, Cubans, and jazz. And they NEVER stopped.
I have paid to hear music with my dinner in the United States, but never have I had such a beautifully relaxed musical dining experience. It might have been an experience that was easily accessible in some bygone day, but these days I think I need to cross a border to have this anachronistic adventure. Last night, I might have been a fuddy duddy, but I felt cool.
Content. Contento. Enchanted. Encanto. These are the words that have entered my vocabulary the past week.
Last night, I had an echanating experience at a restaurant called Lampuga (Mahi Mahi). In contrast to today's overwhelm of hipness, last night was like being transported back to some bygone age. My friend David surprised and delighted me by coming down From Los Angeles for a quick break this week. On the recommendation of the web site Chilango.com we wandered our way to Lampuga. We ate very well. Grilled octopus for a starter. A fine bottle of Syrah from Argentina. Filet mignon with Roquefort sauce for me, a beautiful piece oF grilled fish for David. For desert, coconut flan and apple tart, topped off with aged rum and port. The food was exquisite. The service was warm, inviting and attentive. All of this would have made a great evening, but the kicker was that for the nearly three hours that we sat at our table, we were entertained by a quartet of musicians: a singer who reminded me of a Latina Adele, a talented (and cute) bass player, a guitarist, and a virtuoso on the contralto sax and flute. They performed a mix of bossa nova, classic salsa, Cubans, and jazz. And they NEVER stopped.
I have paid to hear music with my dinner in the United States, but never have I had such a beautifully relaxed musical dining experience. It might have been an experience that was easily accessible in some bygone day, but these days I think I need to cross a border to have this anachronistic adventure. Last night, I might have been a fuddy duddy, but I felt cool.
Un viaje con Bea la Fea (a journey with Ugly Betty)
Instead of instruction, for my final day of class the school planned for us to go to Xochimilco, the maze of gardens and canals in the south of the City. Maria Luisa stayed at the school for students who wanted to stay in the classroom and Hector called in sick, so Maria Luisa recruited Aurora, a substitute teacher and university student. Alessandro, Malcolm, Charley and I waited patiently in a classroom, chatting with Maria Luisa when the 4' 11" Aurora made her entrance. I had to suppress my giggles. Either Aurora had deliberately studied the personal style of America Ferrara's Ugly Betty character, or the Ugly Betty character was based on Aurora. Her hair was clean but flat, a little past shoulder length with a well-defined and probably-too-short bangs, accentuated by purple framed glasses. Her smile sparkled with a full rack of silver braces. She wore a lavender down vest, over a turquoise t-shirt, accentuated by a hot pink wool scarf, tightly wrapped around her neck. On her back was a small backpack with a Mexican version of Hello Kitty embroidered on the front. On her feet were white track shoes with lavender racing stripes. You could tell she was thrilled with her assignment for the day. Her enthusiasm was like that of a kid sister tagging along with her brothers for a day trip. I wanted to hug her. I also wanted to ask her if she knew that she looked like Ugly Betty, but I am happy to report that I was able to control that impulse for the whole day.
Taking a field trip with four men -- an Italian, a Brit, and two gay Americans -- may have been a new experience for Aurora, but she handled it well. She took charge and guided us through the first decision, whether to take a forty minute cab ride or the Metro. We decided on the Metro (subway). Two hours later, we arrived at Xochimilco. The ride demonstrated the absolutely vast nature of this city. After a transfer, we rode to the end of one Metro line, then transfered to a light rail line. We rode through the unbroken urban-ness of Mexico City, bustling with cars, people, billboards, and the occasional Walmart. The walk through Xochimilco to the canals reminded me a bit of my experience in smaller cities of Mexico, like Oaxaca. No building was more than two stories high and a uniquely Mexican smell of dust, diesel, ripening fruit and burning wood was prevalent.
The embarcadero (launch) for the canal was packed with dozens of wide, covered flat-bottomed gondolas called platineras, each topped with an arc like sign with its name, always a female. We were guided to our platinera, Maria Elena, took our seats and faced our second decision: how much were we willing to pay for a trip around the canal? Maria Luisa had told us not to pay more than 400 pesos for the whole boat, about 30 dollars. The opening bid of the operator was 500 pesos per person, 800 for the full tour. Some people treat bartering & haggling like a game. It makes me embarrassed and anxious. I decided to keep my mouth shut, hoping that Aurora might take over. Despite the fact that she was our guide and obviously had the more fluent language skills, the operator, in what was likely a combination of typical machismo and experience of dealing with tourists, ignored Aurora completely. This worked out well for us, since she was willing to cave at 350 pesos per person. Fortunately, Malcolm would have none of it. He organized us to initiate an exit of protest from the boat that moved the operator to 250 pesos. At that point, I stepped in, asserting that I only had two days left in Mexico and did not want to spend more time haggling over the price. The group relented, we paid the 250 and embarked on our tour of the canals of Xochimilco.
The canals are a remnant of how much of Mexico City was organized in Aztec times when the Valle de Mexico was a series of large lakes, connected by causeways and organized around man-made islands where people lived and farmed. There are floating mariachis and marimba bands. There are floating vendors of pulque, beer, tacos and tchotchkes. There are islands with nurseries selling roses, poinsettias, and lilies of all colors and sizes. There is an island (la isla de munecas) where for years people have attached dolls to trees in a creepy display that relates to the song, la llorona, which tells of a ghost searching for her murdered children. On paper, I could make Xochimilco sound compelling and romantic. In reality, it's a kitschy tourist trap. A tourist trap mostly for locals, but a trap nonetheless. As
a group, we embraced the kitsch. Allesandro bought a muneca (doll). Charley paid mariachis for songs and then sang along, in full voice. We all took our turn at navigating the palinera with the long tree branch used to push the boat through the canals. Aurora got a little tipsy on pulque and beer. And maybe I did too. I dared Malcolm that I would buy him a poncho with an embroidered Mexican flag if he could haggle the vendor down from 800 pesos to 300 provided that he wore it the rest of the day. 30 minutes later, Malcom was wearing the poncho (and continued to on the subway home).
By the time we returned to the embarcadero, all of us were happy for the experience, but relieved that it was over. We grabbed lunch at the vast food market, where I enjoyed a huarache (grilled tortilla shaped like a sandal) with huitlacoche (corn fungus). Standing in the crowded trains, slowly, but surely, a warned side effect of pulque began to emerge. I wish the side effect was intense hallucinations, but it was intestinal bloating. A living organism, the pulque continued to ferment in my stomach. By the time I arrived at my apartment, I felt like I was 5 months pregnant, just starting to show. I was happy to be home.
Taking a field trip with four men -- an Italian, a Brit, and two gay Americans -- may have been a new experience for Aurora, but she handled it well. She took charge and guided us through the first decision, whether to take a forty minute cab ride or the Metro. We decided on the Metro (subway). Two hours later, we arrived at Xochimilco. The ride demonstrated the absolutely vast nature of this city. After a transfer, we rode to the end of one Metro line, then transfered to a light rail line. We rode through the unbroken urban-ness of Mexico City, bustling with cars, people, billboards, and the occasional Walmart. The walk through Xochimilco to the canals reminded me a bit of my experience in smaller cities of Mexico, like Oaxaca. No building was more than two stories high and a uniquely Mexican smell of dust, diesel, ripening fruit and burning wood was prevalent.
The embarcadero (launch) for the canal was packed with dozens of wide, covered flat-bottomed gondolas called platineras, each topped with an arc like sign with its name, always a female. We were guided to our platinera, Maria Elena, took our seats and faced our second decision: how much were we willing to pay for a trip around the canal? Maria Luisa had told us not to pay more than 400 pesos for the whole boat, about 30 dollars. The opening bid of the operator was 500 pesos per person, 800 for the full tour. Some people treat bartering & haggling like a game. It makes me embarrassed and anxious. I decided to keep my mouth shut, hoping that Aurora might take over. Despite the fact that she was our guide and obviously had the more fluent language skills, the operator, in what was likely a combination of typical machismo and experience of dealing with tourists, ignored Aurora completely. This worked out well for us, since she was willing to cave at 350 pesos per person. Fortunately, Malcolm would have none of it. He organized us to initiate an exit of protest from the boat that moved the operator to 250 pesos. At that point, I stepped in, asserting that I only had two days left in Mexico and did not want to spend more time haggling over the price. The group relented, we paid the 250 and embarked on our tour of the canals of Xochimilco.
The canals are a remnant of how much of Mexico City was organized in Aztec times when the Valle de Mexico was a series of large lakes, connected by causeways and organized around man-made islands where people lived and farmed. There are floating mariachis and marimba bands. There are floating vendors of pulque, beer, tacos and tchotchkes. There are islands with nurseries selling roses, poinsettias, and lilies of all colors and sizes. There is an island (la isla de munecas) where for years people have attached dolls to trees in a creepy display that relates to the song, la llorona, which tells of a ghost searching for her murdered children. On paper, I could make Xochimilco sound compelling and romantic. In reality, it's a kitschy tourist trap. A tourist trap mostly for locals, but a trap nonetheless. As
a group, we embraced the kitsch. Allesandro bought a muneca (doll). Charley paid mariachis for songs and then sang along, in full voice. We all took our turn at navigating the palinera with the long tree branch used to push the boat through the canals. Aurora got a little tipsy on pulque and beer. And maybe I did too. I dared Malcolm that I would buy him a poncho with an embroidered Mexican flag if he could haggle the vendor down from 800 pesos to 300 provided that he wore it the rest of the day. 30 minutes later, Malcom was wearing the poncho (and continued to on the subway home).
By the time we returned to the embarcadero, all of us were happy for the experience, but relieved that it was over. We grabbed lunch at the vast food market, where I enjoyed a huarache (grilled tortilla shaped like a sandal) with huitlacoche (corn fungus). Standing in the crowded trains, slowly, but surely, a warned side effect of pulque began to emerge. I wish the side effect was intense hallucinations, but it was intestinal bloating. A living organism, the pulque continued to ferment in my stomach. By the time I arrived at my apartment, I felt like I was 5 months pregnant, just starting to show. I was happy to be home.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Building confidence
Every morning before class, I walk out of my neighborhood, la Zona Rosa, across a hectic intersection of Sevilla and Chapultapec, and meander my way through Colonia Condesa before arriving at class. Along the way I pass a dizzying array of architectural diversity. Sleek modern towers. Ugly concrete boxes filled with offices. Former mansions with fading belle epoque facades. Buildings that tilt slightly from sinking land. Classic mid century modern apartment buildings. Sexy newly constructed condominium towers. As a fan of architecture, my morning walk, as well as my daily wanderings, have been filled with visual delights. Yesterday afternoon, I added a visit to the museo de arte moderno to my afternoon tour and much to my delight there were exhibits of two Mexican architectural masters, Felix Candela and Max Cetto.
Check out: http://mam.org.mx/exposiciones/actuales.
Candela is famous for dramatic, elyptical structures. Cetto designed, among other things, breathtaking homes that rival Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water. He was also born in Frankfurt and had to flee Nazi Germany after writing Himmler a letter criticizing the Reich. His work made me want to transport myself magically inside the photographs and models, including an exquisite home built directly over a lake, with the lake fully integrated into the design.
Typically when I travel, I am in a bit of a desperate vacation mode, attempting to squeeze as much relaxation, enjoyment, entertainment, and stimulation as I can out of each experience. This past week in Mexico City, not book-ended by 10 hour work days, has been a revelatory experience. Although the trip is finite, I am not rushing about trying to take it all in. Having an afternoon to do nothing more than revel in modern architecture truly moved me. As I develop a new life outside of a full-time permanent job, I need to remember and tap into this mood and pace. I don't think I need to be immersed in another culture to find it. I just need to find it in myself.
Check out: http://mam.org.mx/exposiciones/actuales.
Candela is famous for dramatic, elyptical structures. Cetto designed, among other things, breathtaking homes that rival Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water. He was also born in Frankfurt and had to flee Nazi Germany after writing Himmler a letter criticizing the Reich. His work made me want to transport myself magically inside the photographs and models, including an exquisite home built directly over a lake, with the lake fully integrated into the design.
Typically when I travel, I am in a bit of a desperate vacation mode, attempting to squeeze as much relaxation, enjoyment, entertainment, and stimulation as I can out of each experience. This past week in Mexico City, not book-ended by 10 hour work days, has been a revelatory experience. Although the trip is finite, I am not rushing about trying to take it all in. Having an afternoon to do nothing more than revel in modern architecture truly moved me. As I develop a new life outside of a full-time permanent job, I need to remember and tap into this mood and pace. I don't think I need to be immersed in another culture to find it. I just need to find it in myself.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Just call me the bug eater
I had my Andrew Zimmerman moment today. Today at lunch we all went next door to the little Oaxacan restaurant for tacos de chapulines (dried, spiced grasshoppers). Our teacher, Maria Luisa, shared one taco with Malcom (the Brit) and Halvard. Alessandro, Charley and I each ordered our own. Monique, the Australian and Bridget (new today from London) both bailed.
To the giggles of Maria Luisa, when the tacos arrived the other men groaned, laughed nervously and muttered obscenities. I, on the other hand, was starving. I was half way through my taco before the others could open their tortillas to see the dozens of crickets inside. As they squealed like high school sophomores struggling with frog dissection, I calmly added more guacamole and salsa to my second and third mouthfuls. As they collectively strategized about how to take the first bite, "Just don't look at it...add more salsa," I sipped my beer, and struggled to slow down my usual wolfing tendencies. Maria Luisa attempted to coach them through it, "It's like salted peanuts...or crunchy spicy shrimp..." One by one, they began to tackle the taco more confidently, but their faces showed their internal struggle. Charley ate deliberately, but when a chapuline slipped out of the taco and fell on the table next to his plate, he visibly shuddered. Halvar sucked his third of a taco down in one bite and quickly washed it down with a long swill of beer. Malcolm nibbled slowly, like a child struggling to eat a piece of broccoli. Alessandro made a valiant effort, but politely left about 40% of his taco on the plate. By the time the waiter came to clear our plates and make way for main dishes, my plate was licked clean. To my good fortune, before clearing Alessandro's plate, the waiter asked, "Doesn't anyone want to eat these chapulines?" I was quick to reply, "Absolutamente!"
By the end of the meal, I had probably consumed close to 100 grasshoppers. That's 200 grasshopper antennas, and 600 grasshopper legs. I think I also gained a little more respect from Maria Luisa.
To the giggles of Maria Luisa, when the tacos arrived the other men groaned, laughed nervously and muttered obscenities. I, on the other hand, was starving. I was half way through my taco before the others could open their tortillas to see the dozens of crickets inside. As they squealed like high school sophomores struggling with frog dissection, I calmly added more guacamole and salsa to my second and third mouthfuls. As they collectively strategized about how to take the first bite, "Just don't look at it...add more salsa," I sipped my beer, and struggled to slow down my usual wolfing tendencies. Maria Luisa attempted to coach them through it, "It's like salted peanuts...or crunchy spicy shrimp..." One by one, they began to tackle the taco more confidently, but their faces showed their internal struggle. Charley ate deliberately, but when a chapuline slipped out of the taco and fell on the table next to his plate, he visibly shuddered. Halvar sucked his third of a taco down in one bite and quickly washed it down with a long swill of beer. Malcolm nibbled slowly, like a child struggling to eat a piece of broccoli. Alessandro made a valiant effort, but politely left about 40% of his taco on the plate. By the time the waiter came to clear our plates and make way for main dishes, my plate was licked clean. To my good fortune, before clearing Alessandro's plate, the waiter asked, "Doesn't anyone want to eat these chapulines?" I was quick to reply, "Absolutamente!"
By the end of the meal, I had probably consumed close to 100 grasshoppers. That's 200 grasshopper antennas, and 600 grasshopper legs. I think I also gained a little more respect from Maria Luisa.
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