Don't ask, don't tell, right?

It could have been liverwurst. It could have been cafeteria grade beef compressed in a vice and sliced into layers. It could have been chopped and pattied chicken. It could have been finely ground canned beef luncheon meat. It could have been the meat they make dog food out of. It certainly smelled like it.

It was flat and grey and squishy but hard and dark and had a strange layer of wrapping around it that was possibly fat or possibly plastic. The gravy it was cooked with was a type of French onion gravy that was planned to mask the identity of my mystery meat. Then, on top, further trying to provide camoflauge were the potatoes. Personally, I love my potatoes pealed, boiled, mashed up with butter and salt. Not dry, out of a box, water added and put in the microwave.

But, as far as I was concerned, it was a steak. And as I sliced and mushed and hide the meat under the potatoes attempting to make it look like I ate it, I tried to figure out how long I could prolong the "eating." Theoretically, the longer it took the "more" I would appear to have eatten. Except that meant taking lots of tiny bites. Which left me contemplating if the tiny bites were more painful that eating huge chunks and inhaling it, quick and easy.

I considered asking Tete what it was; is it better to know, or to just really hope that it was something that was alive at some point, and not the innards of an animal.

We're about zero for two right now: herring the other night for dinner and now mystery meat.

Meals are doing about as great at being delicious as the Broncos did having any type of respectable plays. This has left me eating the Cheese Its that Emma sent me like it is my job. When Tete asked me what Emma sent in the box that I got on Tuesday, there was that awkward silence where I tried to think of something in the box that wasn't food, tampons or an embarrassingly huge Toblerone that weighs about as much as a small dog, child, or cheese burger. The result was a choppy explanation that Emma sent me lots of vitamins... a seven year supply, judging by the size of the box.

Speaking of awkward, I have encountered a slight issue in the past few days. My goal for this semester, other than getting a six pack while simultaneously drinking sangria as much as possible before returning to the States, is to expand my vocabulary. This would, theoretically, be easy in Spain. The only problem is that I am interested in learning words that they just don't have here. There is no way to convey the full meaning of "awkward" or "sassy" or "fiesty" or "RUDE." Seeing as rude is my main form of expressing displeasure towards, well, anyone, this has caused me far too many missed chances at telling boys off on the bus. What are you supposed to say to a rude teenage boy when he oogles you like a perv on creeper steroids if you can't effectively say "RUDE." to him. Flipping them off is a tad excessive; there is just such deeper disgust with behavior if they understand the weight that being rude carries.

Or how do you explain that moment when you see someone you really dislike and you have to say hi because you are forced to in a social situation but you both want to either throw up or kick them in the mouth? That is just awkward.

And don't even get me started on trying to explain sassy or fiesty to a Spanish person. They just have no idea. Like if you try to explain why country music is so fabulous to someone who didn't grow up with it. Something just doesn't click. Or, to give you a more perfect example: trying to explain to a Spanish mom that you don't need a five course meal for lunch and dinner, but you'd like something other than cookies for breakfast. Somethings just get lost in translation. Although luckily those haven't involved Tom Hanks living in an airport, like in that terrible movie.