The visit with the family was actually quite a lot of fun, despite being hectic at times. We went to Poca Cosa for dinner, fortuitously on their last night in the original location at the base of the Santa Rita Hotel. I am glad for that. I'm not sure what the new space will be like, but I so love(d?) the old place that was simultaneously dark and bursting with color.
My aunt wanted a picture of the lovely plate.
GodDesShivAllaHalleluJah, it was good. Fookin' killer. The family was suitably impressed and near-orgasmic with the food, always a good thing. Aunt and uncle promounced it equal to, and possibly surpassing, anything they've encountered in Chicago with their gourmet club, and we all agreed Rick Bayless should be so lucky as to kiss Susana Davila's beautiful ass.
My primary feeling coming out of the weekend was relief. The last several all-family confabs had been so unpleasant that I was frankly dreading this one, assuming it would be just another in a growing string of clusterfucks. But it wasn't. We sat around the fire Sunday night, eating and drinking, telling stories, laughing. I built a little pocket shrine to my grandpa (picture to the right) and wished as hard as I could that we could go back to what we were as a family before he died. The old man was the glue. Maybe now we're regaining our center.
Maybe I'll stick that picture on t-shirts for my brothers and uncles so we can remember.