As I’ve mentioned before, for two people who love food, there is nowhere our cultural differences are more apparent than in the kitchen. Last night we decided to have salad for dinner. We cut up some tomato and threw it on top of lettuce. But that was where the similarities ended. He wanted raw onion. I wanted avocado. He wanted olive oil, vinegar, and salt; I wanted a vinaigrette made with mustard (so similar, and yet so different – the story of our lives!). He wanted mozzarella cheese; I wanted croutons. Basically, we ate the salad side by side, but each with our own little bowl where we could do our own thing. This is not so dramatic, except it represents every step of the huge transition we’re going through, living together for the first time in the U.S. and trying to figure out who and how we are here.
Going to the supermarket was hard too. Because I realized that while I was in Argentina, I was ok with adapting to how things worked there – no real difference between organic or not, no silly concepts like raw milk or hormone-free grassfed meat. Here, where I can make those choices again, they are so important to me. But he’s wondering when the heck I got so crazy. That said, he made himself veggie burgers and broccoli for lunch today, and I wasn’t even there. So I’m taking it as a sign that things will get easier; the challenges are all part of the adventure. In this particular adventure so far I think we’re equal parts blissfully overjoyed to finally be together and lovingly desirous of throwing each other out the window. But mostly we just laugh about it and then chow down on the one thing we do agree on: alfajores.