Let me be perfectly clear about something right here and now. I am not, nor will I ever be, an All-American kid. I will NEVER be one of those kids that grows up eating nothing but macaroni and cheese, pizza & chicken strips.I don't even know what a Happy Meal is. Where I come from if we got a meal... we were happy. End of story.
This is what I like to eat. Real food. Prepared by middle-aged women with hair nets and no make up on. Food that sticks to your ribs. Food that was made with love.
I know I'm supposed to be eating mashed string beans and puree carrots and creamy spinnach paste... or whatever it is that you Americans grow up on. But I just can't. Mommy and Daddy have tried and tried to convert me, but I refused... and I won. So Mommy now has to pimp my food. That's right. Everyday that she opens one of those American jars of food, that aunt Claudia and Aunt Patricia aka La Fresca very kindly sent us, she has to mix in a little gravy from one of her home-cooked meals... or it's a no-go.
And if we step out for a bite to eat like we did today for lunch... and they think I'm going to sit there and drink milk while watching them partake of Cali's finest cuisine... They've got another thing coming. Luckily... I always bring my own spoon. 
After lunch today we went home and Daddy and I watched a little TV while Mommy napped in the other room. Eventually, the old man passed out as well. I think the lack of REM sleep is starting to wear him down a little. I took full advantage and stepped out onto the balcony to take a few snap shots of the view from our apartment in Cali.
Mommy and Daddy eventually woke up and took me to the grocery store and to the bakery. Something's going on tomorrow, but they won't tell me what. Mommy's planning to cook something special... My girlfriend Adriana and her boyfriend Carlos are coming over... and Daddy bought a cake.
I don't know exactly what's going on, but as long as no one tries to feed me any of that baby food... nobody will get hurt.
