Identity crisis: Who even am I?

Guess what.

I'm back!

I want to tell you a story about my identity crisis that I had last night that almost broke me. For those of you who don't know, I am Puerto Rican and Dominican, a mix that is quite rare in the area in which I live. Most of the few Hispanic people in my area are Mexican, which means that dialect and food are different enough that I just don't quite fit in. My local grocery store stopped selling anything Goya (the food of my people) a few years ago; the next closest grocery store only occasionally has the Goya goodness that I need.

Now, I am not what you might call a *good* Latina. I am woefully out of practice with my Spanish, which I understand but barely speak anymore. I only rarely cook Hispanic food, and when I do, I have to call my sister to remind me of the recipes that families never write down.

I do, however, use the seasoning of my people, although it is getting harder and harder to find on a local level

  

Anyway, I tell you all of this, because there is one special beverage from my childhood that holds a place near and very dear to my heart. The single only people I've met who like this stuff are either related to me, or of similar descent.

Ladies and gentlemen, nerds and cool kids alike, I present to you:

Evidently, it is an acquired taste. The Husband doesn't like it. To be honest, I don't know many other people who do. But for me, this drink is the epitome of being Latina, and drinking it brings me such comfort of days gone past that I can barely verbalize how much it means to me.

Like I mentioned, the food (and drink) of my people is hard to find. The second closest grocery store carries a generic version which I've not dared to try, because I grew up only drinking Goya brand, and this is one of those instances where brand loyalty means so much more.

Now, the fifth closest grocery store is about nine miles away from my house. The Husband and I happened to venture over there the other day, because we remembered that this particular grocery store has an actual international section, with options beyond taco kits. This grocery store, carries Goya products!

AND they had Malta!

Y'all. It was the last six pack, on the bottom of the shelf, and I felt myself pulled to it like a magnet in my heart was telling me exactly where to look. The heavens opened up, and I heard the angels sing. Finally, I could have some Malta!

Well, before I tell you anything else, I need to tell you a very important fact about brain surgery, chemo, and radiation. Any or all of the above have the ability to change your palate. Things that you used to like might taste disgusting to you, and things that were repulsive might be just the worst. For example, before all of this happened, although I only rarely drank alcohol, when I did, it was either liquor or wine.

Imagine my (and The Husband's) surprise when one day I decided I wanted a beer.

I don't like beer. 

I've never liked beer.

Even in college, I preferred cheap vodka over beer any day of the week.

Why did I suddenly crave beer? Keep in mind, I can't drink a whole beer, especially with the various medications I'm on, but a sip here or there wouldn't kill me, right? So The Husband had a bottle of Yuengling, and I grabbed the bottle and took a sip, and the beerness and tangy delicious flavor of this beer soothed my bitter soul in the most unexpected way.

I don't like beer. But this beer calls to me. I can drink maybe a third of a bottle before I start to worry about medical interactions, so I'm not a full-on beer drinker yet; however, The Husband now has to deal with Wife tax on his beer (a couple of sips from an ice cold bottle) then I'll leave him be.

Okay, so now you have the background information. The key point is that, although I suddenly like beer (seriously, it's weird), I never thought my palate had changed that much.

Remember that Malta?

Yesterday, I was waiting for dinner to be ready when I decided to crack one open before we ate. I took a biiiiig swig.

I gagged.

My dearest friends, who am I if a swallow of Malta makes me gag? Did the Rockstar Neurosurgeon scoop out the Latina part of my brain?

Maybe I should try another couple of swallows.

Nope. No good. It tasted chocolatey and rancid in all the wrong ways, and I was pretty sure that I was going to vomit. 

The spirits of my ancestors had abandoned me, left me to rot in a Malta-less hell where I didn't know who I was anymore.

So, I dumped out the rest of the bottle and tried not to cry.

The husband could see the distress in my face, and I wanted to lay down on the floor and cry.

Remember how I said it was the last pack on the bottom shelf?

I just remembered that, and took a look at the bottle I had just dumped.

Expiration date - wait for it - July TWO THOUSAND SIXTEEN.

Yeah. For real. The bottle had 07/16 printed on it.

It was not that the Rockstar Neurosurgeon had scooped out the Latina part of my brain, it was that my palate can't handle FOUR-YEAR-OLD Malta!

Whoo! Needless to say, that was roller coaster ride of emotions.

I don't know how I'm going to find non-four-year-old Malta, but my already shaky identity is now slightly more solid. 

Can Malta be mailed?