Many people know that I have a sense of humor that can best be described as “curious.” And at worse, “idiotic.”
Nobody has said that to my face –unless you count Facebook. It is what I tell myself in social situations when I find myself babbling on about … “oh god, what was I just saying? Idiot!”
This unfiltered tendency is why I prefer the company of quill pen, blueberry ink, and parchment in a windowless monastic cell to high tea with the queen.
God save her.
The point is, I owe some of you an apology.
Yesterday, as I was on the overhead crosswalk to La Comer supermarket a truck passed by beneath me with what looked like an open load of neatly stacked chicharrones — the sinfully delicious deep-fried pig skin.
I described it as such on a Facebook post. (“Idiot.”) As we all know, humor on Facebook is open to interpretation, especially as to whether it is humor at all.
I can see why some might not have picked up on my humor. (“Idiot!”)
Chicharrones, in their natural state, are huge.
A family of four can sleep under a single slab of fried skin. Though I dare say, they would eat themselves out of house and home before the night is over.
It is just that addictive a treat.
The truck made a u-turn through the Pipila Glorieta and headed back up toward me. I was able to snap the picture, above.
A word about Pipila
Just an aside, The statue in the center of this roundabout, pays tribute to the revolutionary war hero “El Pipila.” Juan José de los Reyes Martínez Amaro is usually depicted with a large slab of rock on his back.
That is not a chicharron.
It is a great story. At the beginning of the Mexican revolution, Spanish soldiers, merchants, and aristocrats barricaded themselves in a fortress-like granary in Guanajuato. From the soldiers’ position on the upper floor, rifle-fire rained down on the revolutionaries and the building seemed impregnable.
The revolutionaries were in a spot because reinforcements could come at any time and rescue the trapped Spanish citizenry, slowing the revolution, if not stopping it altogether.
El Pipila was a humble miner from San Miguel de Allende. But he had a solution.
He strapped a large flat rock on his back and slowly made his way to the main gates. The rock deflected rifle fire. He smeared the wooden gates with tar and lit them with his torch.
Soon enough the gates were open. The revolutionaries poured in. And a significant victory gave the uprising a major push.
Why anyone would think he’s carrying a chicharron, I’ll never know.
The big truck is not filled with chicharrones, either.
It was a load of stone — maybe Travertine marble or sandstone or creamy shale.
Whatever, I’d want it decorating my house.
Which brings me to a real truck carrying chicharrones. This pickup.
It was parked around the corner from my house early this morning, waiting for a neighbor who presumably would be delivering chicharrones like we used to deliver newspapers as kids.
So, here’s what I’ve learned: the difference between chicharrones trucks and trucks carrying decorative stone.
- Chicharron trucks are smaller. Trucks hauling sandstone slabs are bigger and heavier.
- Chicharron is generally wrapped in large plastic bags. Stone is not.
- You can eat chicharron right off the back of the truck. I wouldn’t advise trying that with stone.
- Chicharron smells better than slabs of stone.
- Slabs of stone last longer than slabs of chicharron.
- They are not interchangeable.
Spread the knowledge …
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