Saturday night, we had the pleasure of dining with our next door neighbors, Michelle and Germn, who hail from Peru. Michelle, whose name I had trouble with way-back-when, has since become a good friend of mine. She stays at home with her two boys, and they are big buddies with my own crew. We’ve got a good thing going in da ‘hood. Anyway, they invited us over for some authentic Peruvian food, and I became acquainted with my new very best friend, the yuca root. She sliced it, fried it, and served it with a spicy chili dip, like so:


I think I momentarily passed out from sheer delight after the first bite. It’s like french fries on steroids. It’s so good, I had to resist the urge to get in the car and drive five hundred miles just to slap my mama. (Sorry, WonderMom. It’s just a saying. A cruel, heartless saying that I have no business using.) I am almost frantically craving it right this instant just typing the word YUCA. I want to marry it, buy a house in the ‘burbs, have little yuca babies… and then eat them all.

Okay, yeah. That’s messed up. Perhaps this is one of those instances when using the “backspace” key would be wise. But I do so enjoy being inflammatory.

Anyway, we had several other dishes, but it was hard to stay focused on them when all I could think about was more sweet, sweet yuca. We drank pisco sour, a grape brandy with lime and egg white, which tasted like a very smooth margarita to me. We listened to some native tunes, talked about American/Peruvian culture and politics, drank wine when we ran out of pisco sour, and yes, gossiped just a WEE bit about the goings on in the neighborhood. Tsk. Anyway, it was lovely. And after we said goodnight, we were two steps from home! That rocked. I love not getting DUI’s.

Next time, we’re returning the favor and having them over for a traditional Louisiana meal. Although, that fried yuca will be a hard act to follow. I don’t know if my gumbo can face that kind of competition.

So that’s what we did this weekend. You?