My very good friend Kelly Duhn made a poignant comment on a photo I uploaded to Facebook today. While my defensive side is slightly irritated, she is admittedly spot-on, and I realize something new about myself and that probably I should blog about it.
Ask Yankee-Sydney what her favorite food is, and she’ll probably say tacos. Ask Tica-Sydney what her favorite food is, and she’ll probably say “WHAT?” because you asked her in Spanish and she didn’t know what you said. Maybe she would just say “Yes,” and smile weakly, hoping to have just agreed with some sort of benign statement.
But it wasn’t, so you ask her again, and she blushes and struggles to find the Spanish word for pizza, which is “Pizza,” so she spits it out eventually and marvels incredulously at how dumb she can get under pressure.
Yankee-Sydney appreciates rich foods from other cultures (even if it is an American taco), while Tica-Sydney’s mouth waters at the thought of a hot and bland slice of Casey’s gas station pizza. The cheese would be a little crusty. Just around the edges because it had been under the rotating heat lamp. And the pepperonis. They would be there too.
Yeah.
But as Tica-Sydney looks down at the bean eggs, onion buns, papaya juice, or mustard fish, she knows only one thing.
She’s hungry.
So she eats it. Mustard isn’t that bad, but no amount of hunger will change her mind about papayas. 
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