Torta-ahogada

Artwork by: Dulce Soledad Ibarra


Sabores Que Amamos


I love her like mole.

She loves me like pozole.


Our bond is orgasmic

like the green heaven

of guacamole.


This love takes us home

where she becomes my tamal

and I her atole,

a warm combination

for a cold morning.


We melt like flan

on our lips, like crema on hips

and lick

our labiodental dreams

until dulce drips

on our skin

like leche, like cajeta, like miel.


We get messy

like burritos mojados,

dirty

like tortas ahogadas,

sinful

like nachos con todo.


This love reminds us of

Duvalin, Masapan,      

conchita crumbs

on our tongues.


It is filling like sopes,

nopales, bistec y frijoles.


But sometimes this love,

this love is a struggle

like weenies con huevos on pan,

like leche sin cereal,

like tortillas with butter y sal


Unless we whisper,

pillow talk, learn

how to make it hot

like salsa roja del molcajete,

hot like jalapenos

and habaneros,

pura lumbre.


This love is the last drop

of tequila y mescal

dancing on our tongues.


It is priceless,

not found

at any taco stand

or marketa, not sold

at a deli or troca lonchera.


This love is sacred

like Guadalupe on tortillas,

like the hostia de Cristo,

like 7 Up y Vapuru bendito,

sagrado como pan de muerto,

como salvia, hierba buena,

y maize,

maize,

el lindo maize

that raised our ancestors,

a blessing we share

in our lives,

in our mouths,

in ourselves.


Poem By: Eric Eztli (frommyblood.tumblr.com)

Soy México

Soy los ensayos de Octavio Paz, los poemas de la condición humana de Jaime Sabines, los voladores de Papantla y el Sol Azteca. Soy el Pig de Xavier Velasco, el humor ácido de Jorge Ibargüengoitia, una torta ahogada, una caguama familiar, la marihuana de Michoacán. Soy un Nocturno de Xavier Villaurrutia, el peyote de Real de Catorce, la sabiduría de María Sabina, el humor de TinTan, el amor de Pita Amor. Soy ese morro de la secundaria con playera del TRI, un poemínimo de Efraín Huerta, el desierto de Sonora, un guerrero olmeca. Soy el amante de la Informante en la novela de Cristina Rivera Garza, un cuento de piedra de Carlos Fuentes, un águila que traga serpientes. Soy un indio en los cuentos de Juan Rulfo, un orinal en un relato de Fernando Nachon, un Detective Salvaje de Roberto Bolaño. Soy los consejos de Alberto Chimal, una bestia de Juan José Arreola, un transeúnte de Alfonso Reyes, unas enchiladas con pollo, un tequila. Soy un Olvidado de Luis Buñuel, un caifán de Juan Ibáñez, un pinche amor perro de Alejandro González Iñárritu, un cuento de Francisco Tario. Soy el maguey del mezcal, el nopal del cerro, el pulque de los dioses, el inframundo Maya, los poemas de Ramón Martínez Ocaranza. Soy Simón del desierto siendo seducido por Silvia Pinal, el ángel exterminador, los tres huastecos, los taquitos al pastor y la charanda. También soy todos mis muertos, todos mexicanos, todos enterrados en esta tierra y como dice Gabriel García Márquez, en las primeras páginas de Cien años de soledad, uno es de donde tiene enterrados sus muertos.

Sabores Que Amamos

 I love her like mole.

She loves me like pozole.

This bond is orgasmic

like the green heaven of guacamole.

This love takes us home

where she becomes my tamal

and I her atole,

a warm combination

for a cold morning.

We melt like flan

on our lips, like crema on hips.

We lick and slip

into our labiodental dreams

until dulce drips on our skin

like leche, like cajeta, like miel.

We get messy

like burritos mojados, dirty

like tortas ahogadas,

sinful like nachos con todo.

This love reminds me

of Duvalin,      

like conchitas crumbling

on our teeth,

like mango pieces stuck

on our cheeks.

This love is our smiles

from the first time

we bit into a raspado.

It is filling like tortillas

recien hechas, like sopes, arroz rojo,

nopales, bistec, pollo rostisado.

But sometimes this love,

this love is a struggle

like weenies con huevos on pan,

like cereal sin la leche,

like tortillas with butter y sal.

But this love always grows

like our hunger,

it always grows like our desire.

And we communicate, talk,

learn how to make it hot

like salsa roja de King Taco at 1am.

Hot like jalapenos

and habaneros,

pura lumbre.

This love is dangerous and fun

como mescal y tequila

dancing on our tongues.

It is priceless,

not found

at any taco stand

or marketa, not sold

at the farmer’s market

or troca lonchera.

This love is sacred

like Guadalupe on tortillas,

la hostia de Cristo

on the lengua,

agua bendita, bendito

pan de muerto,

salvia, hierba buena

y maize

maize

el lindo maize

that raised our ancestors,

a blessing we share in our lives,

in our mouths,

in ourselves.

7

Mercado San Juan de Dios (Mercado Libertad)

A spare Saturday morning led me here to one of the largest indoor markets in Mexico hosting around three thousand stalls heaving and hawking a wide variety of wares; electronics, blackberries, watches, shoes, jewelry, birds, bunnies, octopus, jugo de la caña de azúcar, wigs, saddles– seemingly everything housed on three cramped floors.

Though the heat, human multitudes and merchandise were considerable it never seemed stuffy or hot in San Juan de Dios, the crafty 1958 architecture insures at least a handful of redemptive breezes.

My fellow sightseers and I spent time winding through each floor but to see it all would be a feat worthy of a more Herculean group. At the outdoor central courtyard I sampled sugar cane juice with a spoonful of salt (too much-it was seawater by the end) which was a delicious pick me up after all the walking. The food court hosted dozens and dozens of smaller eating establishments, a lot of torta ahogadas stands (a Guadalajara specialty- sandwiches drowned in sauce), taquerias and goat meat stews. We settled in at the neon green, steel counter, bar stool bedecked Taqueria Urupan littered with different salsas and toppings. I got quesadillas de maiz, the only vegetarian option on the menu- so far I’ve been able to try some really interesting dishes but the usual meat-free fallback is bean tacos or some variant of cheese and tortilla.