On Sundays, I normally go three different places. The first stop of the day is a place that I call, "Casa de Mimi" (in English- "Mimi's House" because I have no hope of ever being able to pronounce the name correctly. Mimi is the youngest of 11 children and her mother is one of the most wonderful women I have ever meet. I have spent a good bit of time in this home. If I could only pick one place to go, this would be the place. No questions asked.
Yesterday, my friend took stuff to make pancakes for the kids. They were all super excited. "Tortillas de pan!" (in English- Bread Tortillas) Bread is a treat in this place. All was going well...the nine-old-boy was diligently working on the fire, others were gathering plates, and the rest of the kids crowded around as my friend made the batter. Then we realized that the milk was nowhere to be found. We had had it earlier that morning, but it was nowhere. Milk is a treat there as well, and it turns out the oldest brother had enjoyed it very much, not knowing that it was intended for pancakes.
So Lolo, the 11- year-old daughter, and I set of on a mission to find milk. The "stores" in this village are selves that line people's homes. We went to two places. No luck. Then we ran half a mile down the mountain to another place. Along the way, we laughed, held hands, and talked as much as we could. No luck there either. The way back up was a bit more difficult.