A mean Patìn

I almost killed a precious child on Saturday. I was standing on Mildred's doorstep when I rocked back into the street, taking a small step down and catching just enough of a sprinting doll's toe with my heel. She entered a flight parallel with the ground, challenging Guatemalan Olympic long-jump records before she skidded across stones on her forearms and face. I felt awful, especially because I'm useless at comforting kids in Spanish. A teen sitting on a moto who'd witnessed the collision transpire grinned at me.

Sunday's lunch was typical San Pedronian fare called Patìn. A hunk of flank steak marinated and cooked in a tomato salsa with lime juice was served beside a multiple avocados-worth sized mound of perfectly mashed and seasoned guacamole. Tortillas and tomalitos served hot from the comal were provided as modes of plate-to-mouth transport for mountains of the lumpy green, onion-studded condiment-turned-side. Patìn is pushing rellenitos for el mejor comida tipica.

Completing a delicious day, I spanked out my first few tortillas, several using less common but more durable (and thus more resistant to beginners' blunders) blue corn masa. For dessert, school-and-housemate Ricardo baked a killer, cumpleaños commemorating strawberry-peach cobbler. The suspense: will my birthday strike unexpectedly again?