churrasquear

Churasquear means:

you stick a bunch of coals and leaves and fatwood and pine needles and other dry-looking shit into the mouth of the brick kiln grill-thing out back and use three packs of matches trying to light it. At one point pour cusha (moonshine-y liquid) on half of it, thinking that alcohol will make things more flammable, when in fact it just makes things damp. despair a bit. by some miracle of wind and an unexpectedly large burst of flame from a spastic lighter, get the damn thing going. watch flame shoot out from several unexpected grill-orifices. have an insane I-am-lord-of-the-elements power trip for a few minutes, then start putting together things to actually cook.

roast the tomatoes from the street market (earlier: be outraged at the price of tomatoes, but buy them at 6Q a libra anyway because a churrasco without chirmol is like a churrasco without guacamol or frijoles, which is to say, not one worth having), mash the aguacates, season the chicken, chop cilantro, dice onions, peel garlic, squeeze limones, run up and down the stairs from the kitchen to the backyard a bunch of times.

revel in hands made black and greasy from pulling things off the grill. prod things unnecessarily with the machete because machete + fire. put on the old school reggaeton playlist, sube el volumen, dance like fools.

keep throwing cebollines, tortillas and papas on the grate until it's too dark to see. then put on four steaks. smear chimichurri someone just brought from walmart on everything that hasn't already been carried to the table. make sure no one tries the micheladas until 4 more limes have been added. run out for more tortillas and several liters of beer.

fall onto your stool. inhale the bean-tortilla-guacamole-chirmol-beer-chicken mixture you've piled onto your plate. when so full you begin to slump out of your chair, somehow manage to make more room for pan dulce and cafe. don't fall asleep, don't let the night end.