Merav is not really on fire

Merav is on fire. She yells, "It's not funny!" from the kitchen, but it is, and she tries to quench the flames with water. I tell her we fight fire with bread. And milk.

It is my night of making dinner and, faced with a lackluster pasta sauce––thrown out of whack by my choice of unpredictably sweet canned tomatoes––I dash the sauce with chilies. This doesn't do much for overall taste, but creates some sweaty faces 'round the table. Ian rocks back, exhales thoroughly, and says, "Are there chilies in here." Ryan loves the heat; Sally complains how she doesn't have any chilies as I wind up with chili after chili. Merav, however, is different. She gets one and covers her mouth like she is trapping a rampaging alien that comes to life with just enough pasta sauce combined with balsamic––and it is on fire, too; the terror!––and Merav, also on fire, runs to the kitchen, where she tries to wash the chili down with water, saying "It's not funny!" But it is.

Perhaps this is cruel. Well, yes it's cruel, but we have such jokes among friends, and we love Merav. We are on the move, through a country where giant legs of ham––jamón ibérico––hanging from their hooves in shops are as ubiquitous as the Spanish language, and this is interesting when traveling with an Israeli Jew. Yet we are unstoppable. We are headed from Málaga toward the Camino de Santiago and the Ruta Campostela and we are awesome, Ryan and his tapestry of digital pictures, Merav and her half-made didgeridoo in a hand-woven shoulder case, and, well, me, who flies on the wings of words like the mighty pterodactyl.