G is chopping onions, M is washing dishes. I walk in with a bag of groceries.
G: (to me) ¿Y el queso? What about the cheese?
I reach into the grocery bag and pull out a block of sharp cheddar and hand it to G. He stops what he’s doing to examine it. He looks confused.
G: ¿Y eso? What is this about?
Me: (cheerfully): Cheddar… you asked me for cheese, right?
G holds his tongue. I continue to put away groceries. M senses that something is wrong, puts down her towel. G looks to M, baffled.
M: (searches her memory for a second): Ah, sí. Los gringos le echan un tinto al queso para que salga amarillo o anaranjado. Se sabe igual. Oh yah, Americans add a coloring to their cheese so it comes out yellow, or orange. It tastes the same.
G: ¿Por? What for? (both look at me, murderously)
Me: ¿Y yo qué sé? Yo no soy el responsable del queso en mi país, pueden hacer un reclamo en el consulado si quieren. Por dios. I don’t frakkin know, I’m not in charge of the cheese in my country. If you want you can file a complaint at the consulate. Guh.
M: (after a moment) Se acostumbra. You learn to get used to it.