The pie crust story

The Beatles are over right now. They come over on Monday nights for football and dinner.

You remember, they live in our other house. My husband asked Paul if he’s gone into the market on the corner. There’s a Mexican deli in the back. “Have you had the beans from there, or the chips? They’re the best there is.”

I had to tell my story about the time I did my grocery shopping there.

This place is straight out of Mexico. There are pinatas hanging from the ceiling and polka music piped out of speakers above the pan dulce.

I’ve never heard the employees speak English.

I was looking for pie crust, which I didn’t know the word for. No big deal. Just like when I spent my semester in Guanajuato, I talked around the words I didn’t know.

I grabbed an hombre, “Perdon, estoy buscando la cosa en que pones la fruita quando estas cocinando un pastel.” (I’m looking for that thing you put the fruit in when you’re cooking a pie.)

The guy looks at me like I’m an idiot. He can speak English. I can see it.

He lifted an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth. “Crost?”

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