Notes from South of the Border

And we are not talking Taco Bell. Last week Mr. McMichael and I went on vacation. VACATION! And we stayed at the most incredible place ever. Ever. Let me just say that everyday should begin with fresh squeezed orange juice on the deck of a bungalow with a breakfast that includes refried beans (REFRIED BEANS!) and end with a dip in an infinity pool under the moon and stars.

There was so much goodness on this trip. So much. We warmed up our cold, soggy, Seattle selves, we learned how to surf, we ate and ate and ate. Mmmmm, guacamole. But I cannot tell a lie, not everything in Mexico was perfect (although the poolside cabana was pretty darn close).

Mr. McMichael and I decided to have a "fancy" dinner at the hotel. He ordered the pescado (fish), and I ordered the filet. We were hanging out on the deck while they were preparing the meal, and we heard pounding, a lot of aggressive pounding. Mr. M made a casual joke that they were tenderizing the steak. Ha, ha, ha, it's funny because you don't tenderize filet. Oh, but they tenderized the filet flat. And then cooked it well done. STOP THE MADNESS! Which makes me wonder if I could have communicated with the cook more in Spanish, than in the language of charades, could I have saved that poor helpless filet? No tenderizo. No pummelo el steako. Alfredo, el hammer es muy bad.

Note to self: Learn Spanish.