Enchiladas = Hospitality

All restaurants are called “towns” in our household. When we leave our little corner of suburbia and head to where the shopping is, I tell the kids, “We’re going to town.” Eventually that transformed into, “Hey, let’s go eat at town,” and finally last month as we walked through the airport, Laylee pointed out the food court by saying, “Hey! They’ve got a BUNCH of LITTLE TOWNS here!”

One of our favorite towns is “Enchilada Town,” Laylee’s name for any Mexican restaurant, most specifically the one down the street where everybody knows your name because your name is always Niña or Niño if you’re under the age of 23.

For a long time I wondered why so many Hispanic kids were named Niña. I was also horrified that anyone could name their daughter Hermana when I saw the list of “sister” missionaries in our church bulletin and it included a girl who’d gone to El Salvador. Hermana Leslie Pennington. I mean, Leslie’s a good enough middle name, but Hermana? That’s just cruel.

I am not so good with the Spanish but we love Enchilada Town because they’re so warm and inviting there. (Never mind that every time I say Enchilada Town, I'm reminded of this video.)

My husband’s parents and three sisters came up this weekend to help us move in and fix things around the house. We have worked them HARD. My goal this afternoon when they get home from church is to fabricate some semblance of hospitality to lull them into a sense of vacation-esque security before I hand them paint rollers tomorrow morning at early-o’clock in the AM.

My plan is to make chicken enchiladas for dinner this evening, despite the fact that I had to stay home with “sick” kids. Laylee had a fairly high fever last night and is now medicating with a healthy dose of animation therapy and play doh, not ingested, just “tasted” repeatedly.

Magoo’s not so much “sick” as he is “sick of” sitting still (yeah, right) for 3 hours at church every Sunday. 5 months till he’s old enough to attend the children’s nursery and we’re counting down the days. That kid is an adorable wreaker of havoc. Most women like to have the contents of their purse emptied out but there are always those select few who don’t enjoy sitting through Sunday school with a lap-full of tampons and chewing gum. To each her own, I guess.

So this afternoon, there will be food, fun, and everyone will be called something with an enyay. Tomorrow, it’s back to work!