We were ready to test ourselves in the first tropical depression to pass. So then Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, died. He was the crossover artist of my childhood, that little imp five years younger than me who wowed the world with his musical prowess.
Because of news of the British Final Tour, there had been some discussion about Jacko with my friend, handyman, and beading consultant. Even in a country where paleness of color is fostered with umbrellas, covering babies until they look smothered, Michael Jackson's obsession with cirurgia plastico was seen as leading to his doom.
My purchases last week in Cancun included broccoli and white cheddar cheese. The idea was to stow the cheese for hurricanes and steam and freeze the broccoli, after using some in salads. Instead, we made broccoli relleno, wedges of cheese stuffed among the branches of the broccoli, dipped in eggwash and flour, and friend like a chile relleno. Topped with canned turkey gravy with added mushrooms. On the side, a pancake of more grated cheese mixed with the flour and eggwash and fried. Red salsa, Melinda, as an accent.
"Maybe it started with pain after the facial surgeries." Instantly King of Rock to King of Pop comparisons were made. No one really bought the vitaglio story. Ah ah. At the end of a weekend of reports, the reaction in the autopsy suite to all the scarring that could be seen without makeup.
But no, Deepak Chopra said it went further. Seeking and seeking. Oblivion it seemed. But somehow, it seems from preliminary reports, he left a healthy looking corpse.
During this tragic passing, I was still feeling ill and eating for two, or three. The doctor laughed about it last week. It's synthetic cortizone, a lot of the dreaded side effects are gone: The mood swings, temper, rounding of the face, water retention. They haven't dinged the appetite. Dr Yupit says any weight gain will go quickly.
So as CBS and CNN en Espanol dissected Michael Jackson's death, I was under the influence of weather and not doing much of consequence, except for eating like the King of Rock might have in a tropical depression.