An Unexpected Dinner Party

Rosalia Cabrera pressed a freshly manicured finger against the Crawford’s penthouse doorbell. But before Rosa could readjust her hubby, Adriano’s dinner jacket, Cassandra, the stunning beauty from their elevator encounter, answered the call, throwing the double doors wide open. Her smile, broader, more honest, and more welcoming than Rosalia remembered. 

Rosa hated and loved how effortless Cassandra’s long golden curls ran past her shoulders and how her youthful bangs framed the softness of her round face.

Rosa also couldn’t help notice Cassandra’s subtle makeup scheme—a touch of shimmering peach gloss across a pair of full lips and a thick smattering of mascara that accentuated a pair of already seductive lashes. It was just what Rosa needed: a night bursting with women batting sexy lashes at her man to diminish her own makeover efforts.

Before crossing the threshold through the penthouse doors, everything in Rosalia’s body warned her. The sweaty palms. The clenched teeth. The heavy boulder-like sense in her gut. The nausea. All tell-tale signs she should turn around and run, not walk, as fast as she could away from this dinner party.

But Rosa ignored her gut and entered Crawford headquarters in the name of new beginnings. Act Two here we go!

Despite his wife’s transformative makeover, Adriano couldn’t stop staring at Cassandra’s short black cocktail dress and the way it hugged the contours of her figure. It covered her arms with three-quarter length sleeves for added elegance, but the plunging V-neck showcased the entirety of her cleavage. Adriano and Rosa tried not to stare and failed. The short designer dress revealed a pair of long legs on an eight-hundred-dollar pair of Yves Saint Laurent ankle strap sandals, featuring black suede and gold metallic trim. Adriano was afraid that Rosa had been right: these two were “dangerously gorgeous”—in the case of Cassandra the emphasis was on the “gorgeous” part. 

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An Unexpected Dinner Party – Part II

“I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of selecting a wine to go with our steak tonight,” Lee grabbed the wine bottle then reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a Swiss Army knife. “This 2010 Argentinian Malbec was a gift from a buddy on the second floor that just returned from a trip through South America. He told me he stumbled upon Trapiche,” Lee had a unique storytelling gift that transformed even the most mundane incident into a mystic folktale.

Perhaps it was his thick East London accent? Or maybe it was the way the word Trapiche rolled off his lips? Either way, Rosa and Adriano listened on with great interest.

Lee continued. “This winery was in the foothills of the Andes Mountains in the Mendoza region of Argentina, and it was the specifics of the altitude that give its wines the ripe blackberry and plum notes you’ll be tasting tonight.” He let the word tasting linger a while.

“Geography lesson aside, this full-bodied red is the perfect match for Lee’s bloody filet,” Cassandra slid past her husband and snatched the uncorked bottle from him to poured four glasses before sliding into the booth. “Okay L, you’re on,” she lapped his ass again—his cue to make his way back to the kitchen and fire up the steaks.

“Medium rare, good for everybody?” Lee verified.

The others hummed in the affirmative then Lee lifted his glass for a toast, “Here’s to good wine, rare meats, and new friendships.”

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Me & My Cuban Dilemma

Every year on Hispanic Heritage Month, I connected with a few Cuban-American writers and friends on social media venues. That was my first clue something was off. Why was I doing this only during Hispanic month? Am I not Cuban 365 days a year? So, why wait for some arbitrary calendar date to act on my hispanidad or Cubanidad?

Still, we got to talking about many Latinx topics affecting our people in the current political climate – from children in cages to colorism within our own homes & communities- and I got to thinking…

Am I Cuban enough? Should I wave the metaphorical flag of my people more? Should I be louder?

Am I too Americanized? Too assimilated to remember the pure joy of a strong cafecito, the addictive sweetness of pastelistos de guayava, or a Noche Buena feast and its Cuban staples?

And, if I don’t dance salsa anymore, am I Cuban enough? If I don’t speak Spanish regularly (except for the time  with my mom), am I Cuban enough? If I don’t cook our Cuban food, and instead make chicken Parmesan, am I Cuban enough?

If I don’t pass down my Cuban-ness to my kids, if they  don’t salsa or speak Spanish or know their heritage, how do I call myself a real Cuban?

At first, I thought myself open-minded, allowing my kids to make their own traditions; likes and dislikes. But, in doing so, have I stripped them of their heritage? Their sense of place in the world? Their roots? Granted, my kiddos are mixed babies (their papa is a black man from Philly) so they share another history too; one he hasn’t foist upon them either.

Don’t get me wrong, my children know they are half Cuban and half black, but as cultural traditions go, they know very little about what it’s like to be either. only in recent memory, now that they are in their early twenties and starting to engage with the current political, environmental and socio-climate around them, have they started asking questions and become more curious about their origins.


Have I shed too much of what  defines me? That which defines my family? My children? As a Cuban, born on the island and raised in Miami (who has lived all over, from Connecticut and NYC to Hawaii) , I sometimes feel I am very far from what I was supposed to be. So far from the world I was born into. As I continue this identity quest, I will explore these and many other deeply personal questions. It is time I had the testicular courage to embarked on this difficult journey of self discovery and figure out how Cuban I really am? Or at the very least, how Cuban I am comfortable being. (TO BE CONT.)

A Latina’s Cultural Education Continues

I am sadly aware of the misconception that the term Latina/Latino or LatinX is believed to be a blanket descriptor for all latin cultures around the world.

Unfortunately, this one-size-fits-all approach or perspective leads people to misinformation like “all Latinos eat tacos” or “all Latinos dance salsa” and one of my absolute favorites, “all Latinos are undocumented” and on and on.

While these misconceptions are unfortunate, and avoidable with a few minutes spent searching the Internet or wikipedia for (even the most superficial) of cultural facts – I find that a greater problem exists within our own Latin communities and the lack of knowledge and awareness we have of each other’s cultures, beliefs and points of views.

As a Cuban immigrant, I know very little about the countless Latin cultures around the world. I am most acquainted with Puerto Rican and Dominican culture because I grew up in Miami and was welcomed into the lives of many of my Puerto Rican and Dominican friends. I ate their food, danced to their music, played their games, heard their concerns, and often times, even listened to their prayers. But there are so many other pockets of Latino culture I am complete ignorant about and have recently felt a sense of responsibility to continue my education in all-things Latino.

I am starting today with this post because it so happens it is the third day of the Day of the Dead.

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Zen Master Bob – Walking the Path

A year ago, when Julian was in the dumps about Lucas’ workplace affair, his then bestie recommended he see a renowned Zen master who was said to work miracles in the area of self-discovery and healing. After just a month, Julian managed to forgive Lucas and make a full recovery from the emotional trauma. Julian called it “untying knots.”

It meant reflecting and identifying the cause of stress, suffering or negative Chi and consciously working to let go of that emotion through acceptance and forgiveness—thus facilitating the untying of such knots. 

Julian continued to visit the Garden Center for Healing and Mediation every Saturday, even after his relationship was mended. Now Julian was about paying it forward—sharing his Zen success in order to help those in need. So, after some shameless gossip and too many cocktails, Julian proposed that Samantha, a fellow knot-tying-stress-monger, visit the Zen master. Samantha, Julian’s newly acquired BBF, followed Julian’s lead and agreed to call Mishka, the center’s appointment goddess. Sam would lie to Mishka and say she was Julian’s sister, a kinship that allowed her to take his appointment the next morning.

Sam accepted the invitation and inspected the appointment card from The Zen Center for Healing & Meditation. The front was beautifully printed in white script contrasting against a delicate mint green backdrop. Below the center’s name was a semi-transparent Zen garden path creating a peaceful effect. On the bottom of the card, in a flowing white ribbon that seemed to glide from left to right, future Zen-ers could find the address and phone number and begin a path to healing.

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Hunting for More

The young woman set out for her customary morning ride after a cup of French Roast and a few forbidden drags of a cigarette. The grass wet from the previous night’s rainfall, splashed up as her horse raced forward. Tall furs lined both sides of the dirt road, forming a straight path toward the seaside cliff. The woman rode for the enjoyment, the beauty, and the tranquility. The day held the promise of serenity. Rain had a cleansing quality about it, as if to wash way all that which needs washing, she thought.

The woman continued to ride, unaware of the darkness the island’s winds had carried in on a cold westerly breeze.

Just past the heavy foliage, the edge of the cliff beckoned. The perfect vantage point for catching the sunrise. 

The woman’s ride was interrupted by a silhouette standing in a clearing in the woods. Intrigued by the rare occurrence, she dismounted and tied the reins around the trunk of a nearby pine. She crouched and tiptoed in an effort to remain unnoticed. The wet grass soaking her sneakers. The squishy noise startled some birds pecking for sustenance on the forest floor, and in turn they startled her. Her heart beat faster with excitement and anticipation. And as she got closer, she was able piece together the fuzzy picture.

Standing just a few feet away from the male figure, she realized it was a hunter. The fifty-something man was abnormally tall and wore the usual hunting gear. A bit disappointed her surveillance didn’t garner anything more interesting, the woman turned to walk away but something felt wrong.

She decided to stalk a little longer. Observing. Spying.

Ready for the hunt, the man stood in plain sight. He was pointing his gun at something, but he was trembling with fear. The woman saw that at the edge of the cliff stood a powerful creature. Majestic, it stared into the horizon. The curves of its beautiful horns seemed to pierce the clouds. She watched them both attentively, the man and the beast.

She was still hiding behind the abundance of multi-colored shrubs undetected when the hunter aimed and shot the steel-like monument off its pedestal. As if in slow motion, the creature’s limp body fell over the edge. Down it went. Crashing against the rocks at the end of a long abyss. This once mysterious and astonishing forest dweller was nothing more than scraps for scavengers and vultures.

Without a single effort to collect his prize, the hunter turned away from the cliff ready to move on. In search of another kingdom to destroy, the woman thought. She was still hidden behind the tall shrubs when she saw the man turn back in the direction of the abyss and looked into the sun. He took a few slow steps to the edge of the cliff where he looked down to what must have been a bloody scene.

Then, with grace and determination, he made one last move. The man turned the riffle on himself and with a long steady right arm, he pulled the trigger to execute his final hunt. And, as if in slow motion, the hunter’s limp body fell over the edge. Down it went. Crashing against the rocks at the end of a long abyss. This once mysterious forest dweller was nothing more than scraps for scavengers and vultures.

Still Stressing About Which Story to Write?

Figuring out what to write can be quite messy and time-consuming when you have drawers and drawers & files, upon file folders of story ideas you’ve collected over the decades. I promise myself (almost on a daily basis) I will commit to a project/idea and see it through to the end – hence the whole commitment thing – it’s about staying with it, persevering and not flaking out when 10 other great story ideas come calling. Still, I waver, I fail at this commitment thing. I think I’ve become my own enabler – I entertain these cool, out-of-the-blue sparks of imagination and allow them to hijack me away from my current project.

This act becomes a very convenient way to tell myself, “You’re still writing, brainstorming, plotting, whatever….you’re still engaged in that which they call the “writer’s life” right? After all, you are breathing life into this tiny spark of an idea with every character sketch, every plot point and every metaphor you invent.

In short, I have become my own worst roadblock. I don’t suffer from “Writer’s Block” – instead I am perpetually infected with the “Me Block.” Instead of doing what the great Margaret Atwood advises me to do in the afternoons as I listen actively to her Masterclass (on repeat almost daily) – instead of sticking to it….instead of listening to her words: “A word, after a word, after a word, is powerful,” I digress.

For now, I will march onward with my sketches, and brainstorming and plotting and imagining…but at some point…if I am to be a writer, I will have to choose one of these lovelies and just write, one word after another (a la Atwood) until the entire manuscript is complete – until I can type the infamous two words: The End. Until then, I am just playing at being a writer – and play I shall <3



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THE FARMER’S MARKET on Niagara Street teemed with life. Fresh, earthy smells and vibrant, indescribable colors found nowhere else except amid the splendor of a street bazaar—a true farm-to-table experience. Eva knew nothing matched the sheer enjoyment of an open-air market. The endless rows of vendors under battered awnings and tents formed a multi-colored landscape as far as the eye could see. Tables and crates overflowing with nature’s harvest: the egg-nog yellow of summer squash piled high on wooden baskets, the impressive pyramids of the fire-engine-red plum tomatoes and bell peppers, mounds of vibrant purple eggplants and red onions, the citrus potpourri of a table stacked with Valencia oranges, limes, lemons, nectarines and bright green lemongrass.

Eva’s absolute favorites were tables stockpiling a medley of apricots, peaches, mangoes, gooseberries, and warm summer cherries—these were the fresh delicate summer fruits she would soak in a sugar bath, drizzled with honey or coat with confectioners’ sugar to use as toppings for her iced cupcakes.

“This place is amazing.” Leandro took slow steps to match Eva’s leisurely pace.

“Is this your first?” She figured he must have bumped into many farmer’s markets throughout the years; after all Manhattan was known to have some great ones, from Columbia University’s Greenmarket north of Central Park down to the Tuesday market on Broadway and Battery Place, with offerings from local farms to Lower Manhattan’s Bowling Green plaza.

“No. I’ve seen a few pop-ups in Hell’s Kitchen on Thursdays along the pier. But I’ve never quite gotten over how these places shock the senses.” Leandro smiled and walked beside her.

They strolled past the section of the market showcasing the seasonal fruits and vegetables. At the southern entrance of the lot, a toothless vendor with a propensity for haggling over the price of his fresh produce shouted bargains at whatever passerby happened to be within earshot. Leandro stopped to smell the farmer’s plums and apricots. He felt the warmth of the sun in his palm.

“I’ll take these three.” He decided.

“Make it a whole pound for just five dollars and we have a deal.” The vendor swayed in anticipation of Leandro’s negotiating tactic.

The toothless man seemed almost dissatisfied when Leandro agreed to his price, handed him five singles from his wallet, took the plastic bag full of freshly-picked summer apricots and joined Eva at the next stall.

“How’d you make out?” She asked, admiring his selection.

“Five bucks. Can’t beat that.” He smiled and his irresistable dimples controlled the moment.

“You could’ve gotten them for four.” Eva pointed to a basket of apricots near the Valencia oranges she was inspecting.

Leandro saw a handwritten sign propped by a popsicle stick in the middle of the apricot pile that announced a special deal that would fetch $3.89 a pound. “What can I say, I’m a sucker for sweet things.”

There he was again, Eva thought. Leandro and his metaphors were fast becoming famous. Always flirting, taunting, with his innuendos and cute little dimples. If Eva wasn’t careful her Leandro-free days would soon come to an end. Truth be told, Eva didn’t want any days without Leandro. For someone who hadn’t dated or had the pleasure of a man’s company in eight years, she felt completely at ease with Leandro. Completely relaxed. She could be herself. She felt at home. Home? She freaked and pretended to calculate how much oranges  would cost her. Could Leandro be the home she was yearning for, the home she’d been missing? The home she deserved?

And I thought I’ve found my favorite writer…

I have read tons of YA with sad disappointment. Many which have been hyped and gotten praises and awards but failed to touch me in anyway. But my YA impression has changed. I had lost hope that YA could be lyrical, touching, and life-changing (even for an adult reader like myself). After reading Kathleen Glasgow’s HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE DARK, the search was over. What she does with the narrative voice felt, not just like an intimate conversation with a friend, but rather an intimate conversation with a younger me I had been neglecting for decades. THIS. IS. HOW. WRITERS. SHOULD. WRITE. Full stop!