Parrot Safe Driving

The Brisas Mobile Radio reported that firefighters suppressed the fire first occurred in the It seems to make roast is a breeze and you do not need anything but a good kind and a grill, more or less decent. But a grilled has a series of rules that can not be overlooked, regardless of the type of meat (beef, pork, lamb …) we're going to cook. Some of our tips are simple and obvious but often do not pay the necessary attention and the result can be a real mess Who has not ever been a charred piece of meat?. 4. And although the fire must be kept alive, we should avoid a too strong heat and soften the flesh and muscle tissue appear. 5. Before putting the meat on the grill must be greased with oil or butter, but the meat can stick and tear us to turn around or withdraw losing some of its juice. 6. We should never use a fork or sharp instrument to turn the meat in this form is no loss of juice. Use spatulas or similar utensils flat. 7. The meat should not seasoned before placing on the grill. Salt follows water containing meat and there would be juicy and crisp. 9. For thicker pieces once the meat has turned on one side will have to decrease the intensity of the fire, that is done inside. 10. And finally, very careful with fire and intensity that we find in the typical barbecue beginner: A beautiful piece of charred meat and raw inside. I have six children, five boys and one girl, all grown, I have made five times and grandfather, when I get the whole family gather around the table, I like being called "old." – What came open, man? – Often asked the eldest, Charles, born in Chile and with his mother recovered from the hell of Villa Grimaldi went to non-homeland from exile. He was only nine years, the memory of a father in jail first and then in countries with strange names, a pack of cards and a figurine of Captain Hans Solo protective. I was not with him when his mother took the blows of the house, with a black hood covering the head, and neither took the hand to the plane of acronyms Scandinavian him away forever from Chile. But this lack I never claimed, and when nine years ago, put in my arms the small body of Daniel, my first grandchild, I love your-old-told me that everything was okay between us. While the rest of the sons, grandsons, granddaughters, daughters and son are busy setting the table or preparing salads and desserts from the grill I smile, because the roast is a matter of "old" and warms my heart to know from afar , some from Sweden, others from Germany, the daughter of Ecuador. I enjoy your culinary queries Spanish and Swedish, German and Spanish, in English and Spanish, and the smoke from the embers falling on the greasers I smell the best cosmopolitanism, the best way to be, then I think of my old how much would have liked to be here. Suddenly I know that my dad is there with me, because they stuck to it I learned the roast in the alchemy of light and distant courtyard of a house in Santiago that no longer exists in my memory. I liked seeing him light the fire, both in the yard and with the radio on, listening to the direct transmission from the racecourse Chile. I often wonder if I've been a good father, and the answer is I do not know. I guess my dad will have also made the same question, and I do know it was a good father, in his way, although many of the family was the worst way. He did not recall a single boot of authoritarianism but rather the opposite, because he was shy and almost asking permission before releasing what he had to say. Then went to the door and returned with a strong-looking guy and he had scattered the face of shocks. He appeared as "The Wolf of St. Paul", a boxer from grace of many who frequented the Mexico Boxing Club Calle San Pablo, and we we learned that this man represented all possible because I had hopes paste champion, and my old man was his new agent. He had several pupils, of different categories, none was ever champion. That's what I look like my old, I also lost all the battles. 'But into the ring and that's what matters,' replied my old when my mother commercial rotisserie grill reminded him of the last failure. And so, old, also got in the ring, and that's all that matters. -Old, would you put a few drops of lemon juice to the avocado? – Ask my son Leo, born in Hamburg, and that of pure love to me, your old, came to Spain to improve their Spanish at the University of Oviedo. I know he loves me and I know I've failed, because he stole hours of childhood, in the sacred hours we should be together making kites or by FC St. Pauli bar to at the stadium in the neighborhood. What the hell was I doing then as a correspondent in Angola, Mozambique, Cape Verde, El Salvador? If they wanted most was to be with him, with his twin brother Max, and Sebastian, my three children hamburgueños. My dad was also at times. Now I know I had depression, all the broken dreams was coming and then isolated in the world in the small space occupied by the radio, with bowed head like the RCA Victor puppy, listening to their tangos to be taken to hell of a heinous and useless longing, or radio broadcasts in Spanish Neederland perhaps made him feel protagonist of travel ever did. 'It smells rich, says my daughter Paulina, and hugs me hitting her head on my chest and I know that your love becomes stronger when the beating of my heart accuse me, because he also failed and instead of being where I wanted, the Iñaquito game park, was stronger than the desire to get into the ring in Nicaragua. Once, when my daughter was an adult, I told him that in the midst of gunfire some kissing a little card with the image of a saint, but I kissed a black and white photograph that showed smiling in my arms, and I swore myself that if he was living there all the time you recover stole. I know my kids felt my absence at the start of the school when it rained and the parents of his classmates were waiting with open umbrella, with the car warm, with a cake in hand. Letters did not arrive for months and then we knew that raising cows in Patagonia had been hell, the thoroughbred horse corral was on fire, the restaurant had been stolen the partners, which had grown dwarfs. But in return, always without any warning, except my mother sighs, had his failures as if they were the best jokes and, well, cutting slices of salami exclaimed. Then I wanted to rage, forgot his absence and found that none had a neighborhood friend as macanudo old as mine. – What if we tried a tip? – Says my daughter, and I cut a strip of meat golden into her mouth and sighed. Also my granddaughter was about Camilla, the terror of Quito libraries does not forgive because my books are not in prominent places, and I know that soon I will have also to my side to Valentina, born just two weeks ago. Also my mother, who died recently, was approaching my old when he declared that missing and very little to bring the roast to the table. I watched him cut and give his wife the strip of meat, this woman who banks their absences and the ups and downs, more lows than highs, his passion commercial or failures Burrero their own horses which were the keys to close the racetrack. That woman was his strength. I think I found out later that none of them knew in time. My mother was tenacity, firmness, and held the reins of the house. My dad was a bunch of beautiful dreams that made life less sad. Have I been a good father, or simply a parent without adjectives? I do not know. And while Max comes over and tells me that the computer is running fast and free weights, because Max is the genius of the family in this area and after each visit all his mail is better than newly bought, I think he and his brothers learned the most difficult of the German language: the ability to lavish affection and establish complicity of love. Upon returning from each trip to Africa, before returning to our home in Hamburg I had one night at a hotel in Frankfurt to clean, remove all the smell of death, corruption, lies, the myths collapse always stuck to the skin of war correspondents as a tattoo of "Comanche territory." Only then I dared to open the door of our house, my wife kiss and hug my children. In Frankfurt hotel were also Spanish and Portuguese, and German language was a source of mutual affection that kept us safe, because in the eighties used to come home some rueful faces fellow, and sitting in the kitchen let down "killed Robert, beheaded him," and my children safe from the horror, but my sadness guessed and asked me to tell them a new pirate adventure Elba, or the red ass big boss, a chief Sioux eliminated his enemies to fart. Before removing the meat from the grill comes with your camera Jorge, from childhood wanted to be a photographer and is succeeding. I am not the biological father of George, but his brothers always made him feel that he was one of the team, with equal rights and duties. -Old, get closer to the smoke-out also commands me, and I answer if you think Daniel Mordzinski or Cartier Bresson, but posed for him with my best side of barbecue. My dad came back from his trips real or autistic and in doing so, it was time to hear horror stories of naive. My brother and I sat next to him and then began to spin tales that do not know if you may have read somewhere, but they were featuring a single character, The Shroud, something like a zombie who always deceived mortals . Sebastian is now accompanying me. With his video camera to record the movements in the brazier and Brasitas him the meat browned and fragrant. Always wanted to be a cameraman and got it. While attending film school in Munich accepted as something new to show me the films of Eisenstein or Fritz Lang. All my children are my favorites, but with Sebastian joins us something intangible and whose reason is that, after his birth, I took a year of post-natal leave to which men also had rights in Germany. His mother continued to work and the boy lived stuck to my chest in a kangaroo pouch he wore as a backpack but in reverse. Every four hours left for the clinic where her mother to suck, we made purchases, would retire or return books to the local library and in doing so, remember the smell of my old snuff when I embraced in the cool evenings these winters and the James and hopelessly lost. I do not know if I've been a good father, but I know I enjoyed every second with my kids, but I know I should spend much more time with them. I do not know if I've always been fair, but they did have been. My son Charles is a musician, on a world tour with his band, "Psycore" at the time that girls were screaming and crying because Carlos "Kalle" Sepulveda, the only one not born in Sweden in the group, gave the finishing touches on their guitar solo suddenly stopped, raised his instrument and cried: This guitar gave me my old! He continued playing, filling the stage with his notes long and fierce-looking leader of the heaviest rock group in Scandinavia. I saw on MTV that performance of their group, and as he did one evening I returned to Hamburg and I was entering Stenway