Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Nkosi Johnson   - South African AIDS Advocate, he died of the disease at the age of 12 Ebony Heroes Mandela, what did you touch, tact, tack, touch in prison all those years? Biko our skin is slightly lighter in our history’s memory than in our mirror.  Excuse me?  What language do, or did, you speak? The one we still refuse to acknowledge:  trust, the mirage we call the root of culture.  The one we defend with loud slogans when our knees stop shaking. Biko, what did you touch, tact, tact, touch as they cracked your head open in detention? My Mexican brother touched a bat while walking back home from work.  You ask:  Where are their prisons, their torture chambers?  I answer: on our streets. Nkosi, what did you touch, tact tact, touch before you died of AIDS? Where was your fear at twelve? Why didn’t you walk away? They call themselves Old Christians yet spoor the touch, the tack, of ebony heroes that show us the way. 

Adobo Criollo Use four teeth of garlic; make sure they’re not too sweet.  Joe walked home last night, brought the mangoes, their taste blends well with lemon adobo.  Be careful when you mince the onion, Elegua does not like the crying. Don’t forget the sour milk, ask a girl from Marrakech to sell you some warm goat milk. If her mother has mustard butter, buy three pounds, but don’t you even think of sticking your fingers in any of it.  I fear you'll fall asleep and perish on your way back home. Dig a hole in the backyard of the house, clean as if you had the midwife’s hands. Find mesquite and set the fire.  Wait until the breast begins to brown before you start to drink the home brew. Mimic slaughtered pigs: front feet tucked and tied, back feet spread, then glaze with leftover marinade.  Look back, and don’t forget last season.  Put down the beer and when the pig is done, untie, untie  and  dance all night