Looking For Love In All The Tasty Places

I’m just a gringo lookin’ for love. That's right, I'm talking about good ol' fashioned, rose petals to the door, butterfly eyelash kissing-,David The Gnome nose nustling,lying in front of the couch-watching-the-Notebook-snuggling, love. Well, maybe not love exactly,but the thing that you tell girls to get in their pants at that pivotal passionate tipping point. Is that it?...no, that might have been a bit strong. But on that “getting into pants” note, what is up with the “buttons” on the pants covering the solo zipper, that aren’t really buttons? Is this the emergency break that’s built in case you suddenly realize the Lamborgini that you thought was going to take you for a spin around the ol' block turns out to be a beat up Hyundai Elantra riding on three hubcap spinners? If that is the case then well done because it calls for quite the awkward fondle for the helpless and anxious Casanova.

What I really mean by the love I am searching for is a happy medium, a connection, something more than a wink in the night club, two strong caiparinas, and the grand tour of my double-wide tent out back. I dont know what it is, but whatever aphrodisiac the Uruguayans put in the water here really brings out the “SPRING BREAK CANCUN 2011!!!!!” attitude to the beach. I am starting to think the Cumbia music must have some underwear-undressing-undertone that subliminally sends the pheromones running wild in Punta Del Diablo. I wish I could say what happens in Punta, stays in Punta, but thanks to ol’ Zuckerberg, no one is safe from your darling distant detective checking up on Big Brother Facebook to see how your “Girl’s Weekend” trip is going. Things get a bit wild and crazy round here, but still begs the question...Tim, are ya lookin' for love?

Please allow me to smear a picture of the struggle I am dealing with at the moment by breaking it down in Guayo' terms: The two types of luv (l-u-v, not l-o-v-e, big difference, ask any texter) that the hostel receptionist runs into can be best compared to the relationships I have with my two favorite jewels of Uruguayan Cuisine; Trufas and Asados.

For those unfortunate enough to never have indulged in a Trufa, let me explain what these god-given fruits of the Rocha coast exactly are. Think of the perfect mix of a dark chocolate brownie, soft fudge that makes your teeth shutter from the sugar, and the surprise of mint, dulce de leche, coconut, rum, or my favorite, white chocolate(reminiscent of my freestyling hay-day) hidden in the middle to stun you mid-chom on that second bite. When a guest is ready to pop their Trufa cherry, the Trufa veterans huddle around the virgin just to see the orgasmic, eyes roll in the back of their head- OH-face, just so we can remember our first experience…Christmas eve on your lips.

Those lustful one-nighters/early morningers (depending if you went to Bitacara,Punta's happenin' nightclub, at 3:30AM in the morning or not) are directly correlated with the feeling I get when I step up to The Fridge to decide which Trufa I want to indulge in for the night. You are looking for a quick fix, to be sensually stimulated, and basque in the 10 minutes of passionate pleasure. It doesn’t really matter what flavor it is, or what is inside the plastic covering, as long as it looks good from the outside. You know what you are going to get and you don’t care how it tastes on the inside, as long as she’s a Trufa (have to watch out with all these Brazilian Trannies running around these days.). However, after a hedonistic night of Trufa El-You-Veeing, you look back on the night and wish you thought twice about hiking back so hastily to the hostel on the hill. You feel a bit queezy in the stomach from the sugar overload of the night before, stained smears on your sheets, and an empty teeth-torn wrapper on the empty pillow next to you. You're head is a bit wobbly and are left with nothing but bad breath and a long day of “eh”-ness ahead of you.

Now on the contrary, there are the asado's that we all patiently wait for and crave deep down inside. Like the Trufa, the art of the Asado must be explained for the unfamiliar. “Asado” itself is a cut of meat, but more importantly, is the style of grilling/barbequing (depending where you are from) that the Uruguayans and Argentinians have perfected to a t, or should I say a capital A.

The Asado, much like the “something more” type of relationship takes time. If you ask any Uruguayo o Argentinian, rule numero uno that must be upheld at all costs is “One can Never, EVER rush an asado.” The longer you wait, the more you allow the smoke to slowly seep into the pores, and hence, the better the taste. What makes the realationship with your asado so unique is the art of stoking the embers for hours, making sure you are adding fuel to the fire, and allowing the flames to flirt with the tender skin. The heat tickles, massages, and caresses the muscle and fat until the aromatic juices begin to flow. If you attempt to turn the fire up too fast, you'll burn the prized flesh and ruin what could have been one of the most savory, succulent, and satisfying meals you have had for a long time. Nothing is more rewarding then putting in hours (days, weeks, months for the memorable ones) into watching your steak or summer love mature, heat up, and begin to ooze with satiating “sabor” until finally, you are ready to sink your teeth into something real, something fulfilling, a feeling of completedness. This, my friends is not a quick, cheap fix that temporarily curves your appetite you've been longing to appease, but a genuine feeling that settles your stomach and gives you the warm and fuzzies.yes

The only problem is a few hours after you really feel that you have built a strong connection with that special someone, the inevitable occurs. Our fantasty filet must return home leaving you alone with the essensce of smoke and perfume, watching the folks walk away until I am alone stuck with my..spatula in my hand, gazing longingly as the pit of passion that once was, until the last ember fizzles out. gSure there will be more asado's, but each time it feels more real and more real, proportionally getting harder and harder to sit alone as the smoke subsides. The last cackle of a joke, crackles through the smoke, and poofs into a memory of what just was... that tangible LUV that felt so right... So what is it that I am really craving?

I don't know it's hard to say. If I had a mobile parilla (what you cook an Asado in) maybe I could follow that prized piece of meat around. Maybe I'm tired of being left alone to clean up the ashes of the fire. But for right now, enough of these asado analogies... I'm getting tired and ready for bed, but before I hit the hay, maybe I'll go grab a quick Trufa...

Smooches - Timmy Goodtimes Jackson