Spicy Sriracha Almonds

About once a month I find myself craving something spicy, crunchy, AND salty?! I guess my taste buds are a little demanding. Since going Paleo in September 2014, I've stopped buying and eating the entire bag of chips because I have amazing will power. JOKES. Sometimes I still eat entire bag of chips...I digress. Anyways, I saw that almonds were on sale at Sprouts so I bought pounds, literally POUNDS of almonds so I could make my favorite snack, Spicy Sriracha Almonds. I got the idea for these beauties years ago via  Pinterest and finally sat down to write the "recipe" but these are so easy its not even a recipe its just a bowl of happiness. 

Everybody LOVES these little almonds and I usually burn my mouth because I don't want to wait for them to cool! I hope that you enjoy!

"Recipe"

1. Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Put almonds in a bowl and add Sriracha to desired heat preference. 
3. Mix well, adding in salt, pepper, and rosemary to taste.
4. Spread on oven sheet evenly. 
5. Bake for 10 minutes.
6. Flip almonds over.
7. Bake for 10 minutes
8. Let cool and enjoy!  

Their Stories

These are the stories that keep weighing on heart like concrete—I need to leave them somewhere so that I can breathe. Some will make you laugh out loud, some will make you angry, and perhaps some will leave you asking why.

There was a dead dog on the side of the road by my house. My host mom was all worried about it smelling and exploding and then attracting birds and lord knows what else. For two days the dog was just frozen in its death as she kept asking her husband to remove it, he said he didn’t want to touch it and I don’t blame him. So the third day she confronted him and told him that if he didn’t do something about that dog he wouldn’t get dinner, now it’s important to know that she also cooked his favorite dinner that night. Of course he had to do something so he called my uncle who is our neighbor and they split a beer. Next thing I know they set the dog on fire!!! My host mom was horrified but my host father ate his dinner savoring every bite.

I met a 13 year old who is five months pregnant and almost killed herself trying to self abort (abortions are illegal and highly common in Ecuador). The baby’s daddy is her 22 year old stepbrother—he raped her. Her eyes rimmed with tears keep haunting me. As she rubbed her tummy I kept asking myself, why—why did this happen? What life will this baby lead knowing that it was never wanted? How will this baby beloved within the family its presence destroyed? What future does this girl lead being outcasted as a teen mother when it wasn’t even her choice? From every angle it seems so unfair. 

Bellka is 17 years old and absolutely lovely. Her most striking features are her eyelashes—they are glamorous. She is the only daughter of my host-mom and in her senior year of high school. For awhile she has been harassed by a classmate, he has a crush on her but she likes him the way you would like a wart on your nose. So one day she had told him exactly how she felt and he got a little aggressive. She called her dad. Now my host father is incredibly funny and sells butter for a leaving but Bellka is his world and he is her sun. Within moments of Bellka coming home my host father had his brother, his two nephews, and a couple of his friends waiting. Bellka then had to give a detailed account of what was said and what the kid looked like and where he lived. With that my host father and his army left to confront this kid. Bellka is the only niece and so protected she rarely goes alone anywhere and I often babysit her. I’m sure this kid most have pooped his pants when my host father and all the other men showed up on his doorstep. Nothing was ever mentioned about what happened that night except that everything was taken care of. Than today this kid shows up at our house with his father and a present to formally ask the entire family for forgiveness for the harm he caused Bekla and her family. Bekla and I stood behind the front door dying of laughter he looked so scared. 

The house above my host moms has twin girls, they must be around 3. There being abused and we can hear them crying everyday over the yelling of their mother. They are hit for anything and everything because their mom is it for anything and everything by their father. There is a cycle in Ecuador—men use machismo to abuse their wives who than abuses her children in desperation who then grow up to be abusive husband and abused wives. The girls are so hungry for both food and love. We try and sneak them food and love whenever their mom isn’t looking. There is no such thing as social services here—I can’t call the police or something. All I can do is pretend to not hear their heartbreak and see their bruises. How hopeless it truly feels, I can’t save them.

The stories keep coming in and falling into my lap the way leaves in fall let gravity pull them down to the earth. The pain of this place oozes out, its so painful seeing and watching and only being able to move around like a ghost. I love and detest this place for breaking my heart. I had no idea this was going to be so hard. In the beginning all I had wanted was to work in an orphanage and then God puts me here in such heart break and I don’t know why. People here are so broken from babies to old women, their just shattered. I don’t even know how to love them, all I do is listen and hold their stories like tear drops.    

Monsters

I am spending my final month in a rural elementary school with lovely monsters know as my students. Every morning begins with a prayer, a plea for strength. I am up by 6am and getting ready until my 7am bus leaves for La Balza where I am teaching.

Once on my bus I lose any sense of ‘personal space’ so I try to be clever and find women to stand with, there are never open seats. The women tend to build a barrier amongst ourselves of purses and hand bags against the other, the men. Men are like shadows and I have come to fear dusk. I am rarely around men and when I am, I am afraid. I’ve noticed that the women in Ecuador, when in public if alone never ever smile, let alone laugh but that does not mean they do not have joy. Women survive here by blending in—into the scenery as backgrounds and backdrops, only within their kitchen and safety of their homes do they come alive with laughter and sarcasm. I have come to love there smiles and laughter the way one would love diamonds and jewels, they have become that precious to me. These women carry brave faces like warriors especially on the bus— tight jaw, eyes down cast, hands tight around your body, focused and tense. They do this to protect themselves.

 Once on the bus I let my brave face slip, I was day dreaming about Canada and smiled. I was caught in my error as the man next to/behind me saw my vulnerability. He moved in closer and my jaw hardened, my eyes expected the dirt on the floor, and I felt my hair rise on the back of my neck. Nothing terrible happened except that he smelled me hair. I know that sounds trite but it felt intimate and there was nothing I could to but shrivel into myself.

Formation for my school is at 7:30. There are six levels with nine teachers one for each grade, a computer teacher, a physical education teacher, and an English teacher. I am smart enough to know that I am being taken advantage of in La Balza. I teach classes and talk to the kids but with my presence in the classroom the teachers leave and do not return for the day, so I am left with monsters.

My lovely monsters make campers look like saints. My monsters fight, yell, and destroy everything. Within one hour block I spend 37 minutes breaking up fights, 13 minutes telling them to sit down, two minutes trying not to cry, and eight minutes teaching. I admit that this is my fault because the favored form of discipline here is an open hand to the face or a quick stick to the bum. I simply refuse. I tower over them and know my strength, they are small and I will not hit them. Period. The monsters caught on to this quickly and run around my classroom taunting me, they want to see me break and snap into the violence that they know.

Today I was beat up by a five year old. He bit, kicked, punched me with all the strength he could muster. I hugged him and let him beat me up while I quietly put him outside my classroom. I could feel hatred in his entire body and clenched within his fists my heart. His name is Jesus. At five you shouldn’t know how to be a fighter and the only you learn that is by being someone else’s punching bag. I fear that he learned to form fists before he learned to tie his shoes.

Every day after class I visit I get to spend time in the kitchen and home of some lovely women. There are three sisters—Carolina, Merlyn, and Rosalisa and their mom. They are refreshing after my morning at the school. We eat lunch and flirt with the idea a days when they could live without abuse and fear. After spending some time with them which includes jokes and stories about their hearts that will break yours I catch the bus and head back to El Rodeo—I don’t want to call it home because it’s not my home but where I rest. I kind of think of it as a womb. I go there and hide trying to recover from the assault of yelling on my ears and heart.  I try and keep my sanity by reading East of Eden but I just finished it and I feel betrayed by Steinbeck and Abra. My womb is occupied by two sisters and their children. I dance on the outskirts of their lives keeping my distance but at the same time I fit nicely into their family.  There is no running water here so each night with a quick bucket to the face I am magically clean. I also wash my clothes by hand so I just rub the dirt off with some water and pretend to know what I’m doing. Also, there about over a hundred gigantic frogs hopping around each night that always find their way into our house. I have developed a very strong hatred for the amphibian. Because I am in a malaria zone I sleep with this lacey pink mosquito net that makes me feel like a princess. I spend half the night fighting against it though; I know one night it’s going to suffocate me.

Truthfully, I am tiered of passing through lives; I have been a nomad for the past three months in Ecuador. In total I have spent seven months abroad the year of 2010 and I am ready for something to call my own. I can’t help but daydream with 24 more days until December 11^th about burritos, coffee with cream, and worship on Sunday mornings.

Day 4

Confession, I am not the best blogger in the world. This is probably not going to be my true calling in life. I have a lot I want to share with you. (Another reason why I am bad at writing a blog, I have an idea of who reads this but then again I really have no clue so it feels like I am awkwardly writing to myself, also after speaking Spanish for the past 3 months my English is rotten). Things I really need to blog about: the rainforest, Quito, machismo, the coast, and where I will be for the next month, but for now you’re going to get the hot mess I like to call my heart.

Things that are on my heart: I turned 21 on the 4^th day of November in Quito, Ecuador. As a young American I should have partied like it was 1989, but I didn’t. I had dinner with some friends, Skyped with some more friends, ate Oreo cake, called home to talk to mis padres, made a wish/prayer that I hope will come true, and studied for a final. Not exactly your average 21^st birthday (for the Canadian readers out there 21= legal drinking age). Fact, I try really hard not to make a big deal out of my birthday by not mentioning it but LOVE surprises and when people remember. So this year the surprise I found most exciting was that I felt loved from all corners of the world! I should admit that I know I am not the easiest person to love; I have layers and stories that require time and patience to sift through. It shouldn’t be a surprise but I find it hard to receive love because I don’t ever know what to give back in return but I’m learning to see love as a state of grace, not a means to anything.

This shouldn’t be surprise either but I am a hopeless romantic that totally wants to believe in fairytales with poufy dresses and princes that don’t make you cry but we all know that happily ever after only happens when shooting star wishes come true, sigh— I am such a girl. So truth: I have a slight princess complex, but then I go through these phases of being a feminist that will never ever get married and burn all my bras to a 1950’s Betty Crocker phase with pearls, heels, and chocolate chip cookies. One thing I miss most here in Ecuador is not being able to share this with someone. Sure Skype, emails, Facebook, and all that is grand but that doesn’t bring you here next to me. Have you ever just seen something so wonderful you wanted to turn to the person next to you hold their hand and say, “this is beautiful isn’t it?”.

I was told that Ecuador and my time here would change me – and I’m starting to see that it has. I feel that the more and more I become my own, gaining independence and self-reliance the less and less I see myself as someone’s. The romantic in me wants a sense of companionship but I am finding that in myself with Jesus. I am learning to be alone and not be lonely, too find joy in the solitude of my heart. I am an old soul trapped in a young woman’s body. Here in Ecuador I don’t feel like an angry feminist who hates Latino men and their machismo but I don’t feel entirely ready to prance around in heels and have some crazy fairy tale either and I am not ready to jet set my Miss. Independent self around the world either—here I feel healing. All I want in this life is gray hair, a rocking chair, and some chocolate milk sitting on a porch facing west. I feel settled into who I am as a person and as a woman, and that’s the best birthday present a girl could ask for.

Shirma

I saw her in her pajamas when she would wait up for me at night if I went out. I saw her in her apron when she taught me how to cook. I saw her in her high heels when she taught me how to dance. I saw her laugh as I struggled over Spanish and she patiently explained to me the rules. I saw her see me with the tenderness of a mother.

She didn’t know me and she didn’t have to even love me but she did.  It was so foreign to me—her love. She lavished me with her love. She loved me without conditions, without limits. I didn’t need to impress her with my grades and resume; she didn’t care. I didn’t need to be strong for her; she was strong on her own. I didn’t need to be perfect; she found joy in my flaws. She loved that I was as thick as her with the curves of a woman; she helped me reclaim a piece of my beauty. She told me about love and marriage and the compromise a woman makes. She baked me cakes filled with laughter and joy. She didn’t need me but she knew I needed her and she embraced me with her hugs.

To mother is to heal: Lots of cups of tea and one perm later my mom had unleashed a charisma in me that I lost somewhere between lies and truth. She called this my joy and laughter. I loved doing the dishes and laundry with her because we just laughed. I had forgotten how powerful laughter is and how critical a mother is to the essence of a family. Ecuador is different here—family means everything. A family is a woman’s pride and joy and however limiting this is to my feminist liberal perspective I finally see the beauty in mothering. I wish I could complain about machismo and the ama de casa idea but I see the value of it in my host mom.

To mother is powerful: One day in the market a man grabbed my wrist and wouldn’t let ago. It was scary in the sense that I felt powerless against his embrace as he towered over me. He wanted me to buy some candy. Than all of a sudden my mama came soaring in like a mother hen with her purse literally beating him away. I believe words were involved that are not fit for young readers. That day she told me that a woman always needs a big purse for pendejos.  

If I have learned anything from Shirma I have learned that to mother is to leave your mark on someone. The day that I left I saw her love me as my bus drove away and she wiped tears away. My cheeks became wet as I transitioned forward into the next part of my time here but I know I will never forget her. She is a part of the way I cook, the rhythm I dance too, my flow of Spanish, and one day she will be there when I am a mother when I love the way she taught me too, one cup of tea at a time.  

Churros

You are probably thinking about delicious fried bread covered in brown and white sugar filled with chocolate, the melt in your mouth goodness, right? Wrong. Churros—the word I had been battling against the first day I wore a pony tail to the horror of my host mom Shirma.  Churros are curls or in my case a perm. Remember how I was supposed to say yes to everything while in Ecuador with the exception of life threatening adventures? Well I finally caved and told my mom to make an appointment for me to get churros my last week with her, she was so happy it was like I told her she had just won the lotto. The whole process of getting a perm was traumatic. My entire had was wrapped into these white strappy things that hurt  and than they were attacked with a chemical that smelled of rotten eggs and gas to than be covered by aluminum foil.

The pros of churros: I do not need to brush my hair; it is actually bad for my hair! I do not need to shampoo my hair or condition it on a regular basis! People here think I’m black. Churros are also super easy to maintain, I just get my hair wet a little each day and put some magical yummy smelling goop in my hair and go on my way. This means that the 30 minutes I would have needed to blow dry and straighten my hair has now become sleepy time.

The cons of churros: If I forget to put in my curl cream I risk looking like a poof ball. I also have this fear of getting a giant knot from never brushing my hair. Another thing, “the between perms phase” means I look like I was just electrocuted. I don’t look like my passport picture and I now have this weird fear of not being allowed in to the States.

My mama Shirma was so happy with the finished product known as my hair she cried, like real tears coming down her cheeks. She also feared letting me out of the house with my new locks—because churros drive the men wild, her words not mine. Looking back, was it worth it? Yes! Hair is hair, it grows, turns gray, and eventually falls out. In the end is this perm business something I will maintain? Heck no! As much as I love these churros I kinda miss the hassle of my straight hair and I feel as if I have traumatized it with all these foreign chemicals, so for now I’m going to try and nurse my hair back to its unmanageable glorious mess that it once was.

The amor of my abuelito

I don’t remember my real grandpa who died when I was two but I’d like to think that he would be like my abuelito here. Barely coming up to my shoulder, he is balding with silver lining crowning his head. He smiles at me every day after school when I fight with our dog so that he doesn’t escape our court yard. I would visit with him after my classes and inhale the scent of oils and passion colliding in his art studio. I always felt a little guilty because I knew I was interrupting his work but he always welcomed me in with a kiss on the cheek that told me I could do no wrong in his deep brown eyes. My abuelito calls me amor and hugs me real tight making me feel small even though I tower over him. It scares me to say but I like the feeling of being someone’s granddaughter.

My abuelito has been a self taught painter for seventy years and has art all over the world from Canada to Peru. He has painted the coast of Colombia, the faces of the indigenous community in Ecuador, the waterfalls of Washington, the forests of Venezuela, and in all of this he has captured a history while creating a legacy. My abuelito tells me every day that God created two things—nature and people but that when God made sunrises and sunsets He made them just for him. My abuelito tells me that the world is a gift from God that he has the privilege of painting. It is there in that studio that my abuelito wants to die painting the reflection of his Creators creation.

            I loved listening to my abuelito tell me about the beauty of our Savior as I breathed in the truth of God’s love mixing with oils, water colors, and charcoal. One day my abuelitos wrinkled hands held my face and looked into a lie I had been believing for a very long time. “One day,” he said, “I would like to paint you because when I see you, I see a part of God’s lovely creation.” With the tenderness that somehow knew the pain of my past he told me that I am beautiful and for the first time I believed him. My abueilito saw me as his hopelessly lost often frazzeled granddaughter whom he loved very much. In every painting there is a piece of my abuelito, in each brush stroke there is his love and that’s how I would like to think of God when He made the world—putting His heart and love not only in all creation but in each sunset and sunrise  just for my abuelito.