Hispanic and Other Foreign Languages

So my inlaws were here for a few days (and by a few I mean the mental equivalent of 3 1/2 years), along with Hotrod's brother, his wife and their little boy.

Now, what you need to know, is that Hotrod's parents have been divorced longer than they were actually married. It's a bizarre situation for someone like me, whose parents are about to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary.

Hotrod's dad is one of those people who knows everything. Hotrod's mother is basically Chicken Little. In her world, the sky is always falling.

One day during the visit the women took the kids (the nephew and Hotrod's sister's little girl, the niece) to the zoo. The men went golfing. We met up for lunch at Moe's Southwest Grill. If you're unfamiliar with Moe's, it's like a Southwestern Subway. Made to order, fresh, really yummy.

I'm standing in line behind Hotrod's mother when I see this look of abject terror over take her. I asked her what was wrong. Staring at the menu board behind me, she waves her hands frantically and announces, "I can't read Hispanic!"

I stare right back at her, completely dumbfounded (if you know me, you know how infrequently I'm speechless.) When I find my voice, I say, "What? That entire menu is in English. What are you talking about?"

"Burrito, fa-gee-ta, kwes-a-deella...I don't know what any of that means!"

Deep breath. Exhale. Deep breath again. I proceed to help her order a soft chicken taco while the construction worker behind me giggles.

Long story short, she loved the food, even though (in her own words), she hadn't had Mexican food in 25 years. Which was the last time she went to a Taco Bell.

Aye Carumba.