We are SUCH a bunch of gringos.

You know, I pride myself on the quarter part of my heritage that is Mexican.  And no, I don't call myself Hispanic, of Spanish descent or any of the other indistinct monikers.  My family is from Guadalajara, Mexico.  We are Mexican!  Every time I have to fill out an ethnicity box on a form, my eyes roll back in my head.  They always want me to choose between Caucasian, Not of Hispanic Descent OR Hispanic.  Ummm, have you seen me?  Pasty redhead with freckles.  But yeah, Mexican blood does run through my veins.  So I always choose Other, because apparently in the eyes of statisticians it's who I am.  Square peg, round hole. Let's just say I'm familiar with the concept.

Tonight though, around our dinner table, we all discovered just what gringos we are.  Bill's friend from work, Big Rey, had given him some homemade Mexican sausage awhile back.  I've had Big Rey's salsa, so I knew this sausage was going to be hot, hot, hot before I even laid eyes on how red it was from all the peppers in it.  Whew.  It scared me.  So I did what I always do with something I don't know how to cook right away,  I put it in the freezer.  Well, don't you know that last week Big Ray clapped Bill on the back and asked how the family had liked the sausage.  And Bill, being The Most Upstanding Person I Know (including me), admitted we hadn't eaten it yet.  Big Rey was...disappointed.  We had let him down.  It was time to cook the sausage.

So tonight I broke that sausage out of it's casing, fried it up, and served it alongside scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, and fruit.  You know that long, slow, afterburn really good, really hot, Mexican dishes have?  Yep.  Quadruple that, and you have this sausage.  The sensible females of the household sprinkled some atop our eggs like it was black pepper, buried it in cheese where it was quite tasty and still really hot.   But the males, oh the males.  They got a little cocky.  There was a little boasting and strutting going on.  A wager or two might have been made.  Always a good time for us women folk when the men break out their peacock feathers.  You just know it's there's going to be a show.  Big bitefuls were consumed.  Faces contorted and turned red.  Brows beaded with sweat.  Strange sounds were squeaked out.  Large glasses of milk were consumed and refilled.  But sadly, in the end, most of the sausage didn't get eaten.  Because we are pretty darn gringo.  Sigh.

At least nobody complained that the biscuits were a little too done.

From your gringo blogging friend...have a good one!!!
~S