My culture-crash diet

As a cultural attaché representing the southeastern quadrant of Wyoming County in rural New York State, I have failed miserably during my sabbatical here in San Diego. Confused by the appearance of shiny carrots served in an inviting bowl accompanying my complementary chips and salsa, I ignored the warnings of my daughters and bravely sampled this unusual (for me) appetizer accessory before reaching for my water and gasping, "Who makes root vegetables spicy?" Everyone knows bunnies prefer a bland diet.  Nervous about the fried ice cream that Savannah ordered, I was pleasantly surprised by the crisp coating. "The last time I had fried ice cream," I confided between bites, "the outer layer was composed of corn flakes." My daughters were stunned. 

Apparently Sydney had pre-warned her friend Jessica about my epicurean idiocy. "My mom has made us what she calls tacos my whole life," Sydney revealed, "we never had the heart to tell her they were burritos." I stared at my daughter in horror. "You're just telling me this NOW," I hissed as Jessica set a plate of open-faced tacos in warm CORN tortillas shells before me.  Before I could ask, Sydney whispered, "No cheese. No sour cream." Okay. I could do this. I thought back to my brief visit to a Mexican resort but then realized that I had only eaten Nutella while I was there. I hit a jalapeno early but vowed to die before revealing my discomfort. Observing my beet-red, sweating face, teary eyes, and running nose, Jessica pretended to also react to the miniscule amount of pepper in her delicious dish. When I was able to speak again, I apologized, "I have never felt whiter in my life."

Learning of my love of gummies, Jessica treated me to a boba milk tea. "I don't think this is a good idea," I whispered to Sydney but bravely took the cloudy beverage with suspicious-looking pebbles. I tend to keep a keen division between my liquids and solids. It must be the scientist in me. I don't even dunk my Oreos. We enjoyed our treat during our leisurely dusk-time walk back to the apartment. Trailing behind our little group of pups and pedestrians, I would, subtly and systematically, suck a boba pearl up through my straw and then send it catapulting like a cowboy outlaw spitting tobacco juice into a brass spittoon. If this kept up, I was steps away from being kicked out of the culture club.

My words have refused to cooperate this entire visit. My tongue isn't just tied...it's constrictor knotted. Seeing my delight when I was reunited with a familiar tree, Savannah explained that, in the late 1800s to mid-1900s, a horticulturalist named Kate Sessions was responsible for introducing countless flora to San Diego, including my beloved oak tree. Subsequent research revealed that she also forced her seasick horse Charlie to ride a ferry with her every day but I guess everyone has their dark side.  For some reason, Kate's name refused to stick and Savannah would enjoy my linguistic limbo as I attempted to communicate. "What time are we leaving to see the sunset at Kate Spade Park?" I asked. "Kate Spade designs handbags, Mom. Try again." I frowned. "Kate Moss?" Savannah clapped, "Closer. Moss can be categorized as vegetation! But Kate Moss is a model." 

"Middleton?"

"Royalty."

"Winslet?"

"Actress."

"Hudson?"

"Actress again."

By then, the sun had set and my temper had flared. 

"Mom...it's Sessions."

Moment's pause. "Like Jeff?"

Savannah sighed, "Former Attorney General. Doubt they're related."

It's not like I don't try to better wrangle my words. I just can't seem to properly lasso the proper linguistics. "Where's Sydney?" Savannah asked, arriving home from work. "She went with her friends for some Tide Pods," I answered. Savannah frowned, confused. "I mean tad poles," I hastily corrected. Savannah suddenly brightened. "Did you mean Pad Thai?" Yes! That's it! 

My girls have learned, from painfully-excruciating experience, to intervene immediately should I stumble into a situation where I feel the need to order or seek clarification regarding the ordering of acai or aioli...terms that I use interchangeably as synonyms. Additionally, my twisted tongue, adjusts the terms to a more erotic enunciation. "I would like the areola, please," I politely order, my profane pronunciation causing quite a stir. 

That was the tipping point.

I had to face facts. I was a cultural clown. I could only hope that my inadvertent (and hopelessly ignorant) antics would be humorously overlooked. But you can't tell me, that SOMEWHERE, on the face of this planet that we all call home, that areolas aren't served up as a delicacy  at some swanky five-star restaurant (Never mind, they aren't. I also think that I've just been red-flagged by Google.).