Chapter 11
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
February 11, 1992
Paris, France
Bonjour Fair Kate,
Greetings from the Land of Learn Something New Every Day! Barrel racing? Qu’est-ce que c’est? I’m sitting here at Chez Lisette with Kirby, and he just filled me in. He says rodeos are a big thing in Washington. Your mom sounds cool. I can’t imagine my mom racing a horse around barrels or water-skiing! When she was twenty-nine going on spinster – her words not mine – she married Dad who was forty-seven AND a widower AND had two daughters in their early twenties! If that wasn’t scandalous enough in the antiquated 1960s, Mom’s Scandinavian – the Danish variety – but not bottled-up – and Dad’s family hailed from Mexico a couple generations ago.
Nothing like a youngish white mom and oldish Mexican dad to make gangly brace-face Frida stand out like a sore thumb. Plus Mom did these crackpot things like when my junior high had its annual culture night and parents were supposed to bring food – she brought sushi and wore a kimono. Same song second verse the year she brought samosas – she wore a sari! I told her she was supposed to bring something from OUR culture like aebleskivers or chiles rellenos but she said where’s the education in that? She already knew about those foods. Then there are my half-sisters from Dad’s first marriage – can you say overachievers? Dolores is a pediatric surgeon and Carmen is a public defender. People always think they’re my aunts.
Geez I hope I’m not making it sound like we don’t get along. Mom and Dad are still in love-love which is nice except sometimes when they kiss in public. People freak out a little even in this day and age when they’ve seen Jimmy Smits make out with a white woman on L.A. Law – unless they’re in our neighborhood where we’ve lived all my life so people know us. He worships her and she’s so nice she goes with him to the cemetery every year to put flowers on his first wife’s grave. But imagine what it’s like when you have friends over and your dad’s playing Schubert on his violin while your mom dances in the middle of the living room wearing one of her floaty Isadora Duncan getups. Then when it’s time for a snack she serves deviled eggs with capers and little blobs of caviar. Delish but just once I would have liked pigs in a blanket.
Speaking of therapy! It’s like our letters are some kind of analyst’s couch sucking me in. I was just telling Kirby how we barely know each other but for some reason I want to tell you everything about me. Don’t worry. I won’t. At least not now. I’m signing off. We have places to be. Kirby’s a hybrid like me except not like me since he blends in with his green eyes and Kevin Bacon circa Footloose hair. His mom was born in Vietnam and he read about this grocery store called Thanh Binh in Place Maubert and wants to check it out. There are a few Vietnamese spots around the city but good luck finding a Mexican place. The other day I would have given up exclamation marks for a real taco! Alas I had to be satisfied with a bowl of chile con carne at Birdland.
You almost – but not quite – convinced me to read MFK. Ha!
Have a Nice Day,
Frida