PERISCOPE: What I learned from a "DEAD" CRAB #lawofattraction #motivation #sorrynotsorry

Some of my greatest teachers are crustaceans.

Okay, the cat's out of the bag.

I pretty much always look a hot mess on Periscope. 

No, I don't even take a second to run a comb through my hair. Yes, I suppose it is "unprofessional", but I will probably continue to do it anyway.

Here's what I figure: there are people out there who will be willing to work with me anyway. Right? There must be plenty of folks who would hire me to help them make peace with their bodies while they try to transform their lives (btw if you are one of those people, email me at MyCoachMargo@Gmail.com or visit my coaching site MargoPorras.com for more info/endshamelessplug). There are even people who will choose to hire me to speak or write on the subject.

Plus, I choose to believe my troll-doll bedhead enhances my woo-woo-crystal-bruja-cred.

I don't know about you, but lately I've been noticing that there are literally MILLIONS of people out there who make a great living EVERY DAY without makeup, without beautifully coiffed blunt bobs, even without MANICURES-gasp!

They're called men. Perhaps you've heard of them?
NEXT DAY ADDENDUM: I realized this morning that the above min-rant makes it sound like I'm anti-makeup. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just don't like having to deal with internet haters' attempts to shame me into wearing it before going online. I think there's a post there somewhere...

Today's word of the day was ATTRACT.

We spoke about it in terms of "the law of attraction" (you can view the replay HERE) but later I got to thinking about how what YOU ATTRACT is up to YOU. No one else gets to tell you what get to attract. 

Because appearances can be very, very deceiving, and you never know who is going to teach you something when you are open to learn. It may be a dead crab. Or a live one.

Have you ever been fooled by someone's appearance in a positive way?

Wishing you love with extra cheese-

Nacho Mama

Everything's still great, but it's been a hard day.

Warning-this might be a bit of a bummer, I'll try to salvage it by the end, but I can't make any promises.

Let me start by saying that everything is still great, but February 8th is always a hard day for me. It's the day my dad died. Usually I manage to pretend February 8th isn't happening; maybe I might be a little more irritable than usual, but I get through it. This year I couldn't run from February 8th. Today it's officially been 10 years since my dad died from prostate cancer at the absurdly young age of 57.

Side note: my husband says he has no memory of me looking like this.

This is me (obviously) with my dad and my daughter on the steps of the tiny house Dad was born in, in the Colonia barrio of Oxnard, Ca. He was the baby of the family and, as a toddler, would sit under the shade of an overturned orange crate while his parents worked in the farm fields that still surround Oxnard. The farm workers were constantly sprayed with harmful chemicals meant to protect the crops. When this photo was taken, Dad had already outlived the doctors' prognosis by 18 months. I remember walking along what had been his street and hearing how virtually every family that lived there during his youth had been touched by cancer.

I miss him so much and am still surprised at how angry I am to have lost him. Every now and then my son, who is five and looks exactly like my dad, will do something so adorable and I'll think, "Wait til Dad sees this!" Then I remember he's gone and never got a chance to meet either of his grandsons. 

Dad's the little guy in the foreground.

I have no regrets about leaving anything unsaid, we were very close. I also know that Todd and I both did everything we could possibly do to help my dad and my mom. When I think back on those awful last days and the 2 years of hell that followed his death, I'm still not sure how we did it. 

I do have some regret when I think about the whole experience, though. I was so much younger and so naive about health in general in those days. Also, we simply did not have the access to information that we have today. If I knew then what I know now about wellness and nutrition, I could have done so much more for Dad. Maybe he wouldn't have lived any longer, but he might have enjoyed that time so much more than he got to. He might not have suffered as much as he had. 

And if I had had access to blogging and the wonderful network of friends that I've made through social media? It would have been so much easier to bear.

I know I really can't allow myself to go down that road and I know we did more than our best. All I can do now is my very best to keep my own kids from ever having the same experience. Then maybe try and help others and their kids, too.

So now that it's been 10 years, naturally I'm re-evaluating everything. Trying to work out how I might do the most good with what I know and what I've experienced. It's going to a take a while to figure out, I think. 

I started pondering it this morning as I went on a walk to Balboa Park. When I was a kid my dad used to take me there on the days he was "in charge" of me. We'd get sandwiches from the deli across the street and eat them in the park. After lunch, he'd chase me around the lawn and push me on the swings.

Balboa Park was beautiful this morning. 

I could really feel like my dad was with me as I walked alongside the towering eucalyptus trees. I silently asked my dad to prove he was there by showing me a flowering cactus. I don't know what made me pick that. There are TONS of cacti, all varieties, around here, but they don't usually bloom til mid-April. I saw scores of unadorned cactus on my walk. 

When I got to the playground I swung on the swingset for a while til I became frightened of how high I was swinging.  I jumped off the swing, sticking a perfect Marylou Retton landing, and suddenly realized that I would never have fit in that swing a few years ago, much less have been able to leap from it.

That cheered me up. 

I gave up on my cactus hunt and decided to walk home via 5th Avenue, which is mostly commercial with no gardens. Then I spotted this in the parking lot of a dentist's office.

As I got closer I could see this.

And this.

And yes, I stood there on 5th Avenue, right in front of the dentist's office, with tears and snot running down my face for about 5 minutes. Hell, it was before 8am on a Sunday and no one gets their teeth worked on then. I wouldn't have lost it so if it hadn't been for the fact that this particular cactus is a nopal. My dad's parents always grew nopales in their backyard. My grandfather would can them and my grandmother would cook with them.  All that plus the fact that I love to eat them, means nopales are very special to me.

I'm not sure what it means, but I'm sure it means something. Whatever it means, I'm grateful.

(If you're reading this anywhere but on NachoMamasBlog.com, then this content has been STOLEN. What kind of a jerk would steal a personal post like this?)

Wishing you ALL love with extra cheese,

Nacho Mama

When worlds I love collide: My Mama Lola, Mama's Kitchen, Richard Simmons and COUPONS!

I am about to have SUCH a "full-circle moment"!! (btw-do any of you miss Oprah as much as I do?) I know I spoke to you all about Mama's Kitchen before Thanksgiving. Remember this?

I think this pie looks SO much better on my head than on my rear, don't you?

Mama's Kitchen is a WONDERFUL organization here in San Diego that provides healthy meals to HIV & cancer patients and their children. I've been donating food to Mama's Kitchen for many years and was proud to pariticipate in their annual pie sale last fall.

WELL...it seems Mama's Kitchen heard tell of my passion for coupons via my podcast on Blogtalk Radio. Apparently, they have a long time donor (a man) who has been couponing food donations for Mama's Kitchen for ages.  Folks, I have been challenged!

From the Archives: Don't Sweat the Holiday Stuff-A Tale of Two Santas (orig.pub.@Rockonmommies)

This post was originally published last year on Rock On Mommies.

When I think back on my childhood Christmases I have to say that, in my memory? They were perfect; filled with twinkling lights, beautiful music, yummy food and thousands of hugs. The other day I was having lunch with some of the other Rock On Mommies, and we went around the table sharing our favorite childhood holiday gifts.  I was shocked to discover that, although I can remember the way my Great-Aunt Rosie smelled (Giorgio) and I can remember my cousins playing “Silent Night” on their clarinets (shrill, but charming) I can’t really remember my presents very much.

That was really eye-opening. Especially when I think of the hours I’ve spent agonizing over getting just the right gifts for my family and friends. I have actually lost sleep. Over the presents.  Oh.

Then there’s all the hours making sure everyone arrives on time and that everything falls into place just so. Because I want the holiday to be perfect-just like I remember, right? But when I really looked at my memories (and the photos) I was shocked again to realize that what made those memories so warm and fuzzy for me was, in fact, all the imperfections.

From the Archives: My Big, Fat American Thanksgivings

This post was originally published at Rock On Mommies in 2010

I grew up in a BIG Mexican-American family. And we did everything BIG. Especially holidays. And ESPECIALLY Thanksgiving.

It was probably our biggest and most difficult-to-navigate holiday.

Christmas was easy: Christmas eve with Dad’s side of the family and Christmas Day with Mom’s side. But Thanksgiving was a NATIONAL holiday. A day to celebrate alongside our neighbors, regardless of color or creed, as AMERICANS. Splitting up Thanksgiving over two days would be un-American! 

So here’s how I spent every Thanksgiving of my childhood:

First, we’d head to my dad’s parent’s house. All the adults would squeeze into the living room and they’d drag picnic benches into the kitchen for us many, many kids. Dad’s family usually served the meal around noon. (I know!) The food? Was SO. GOOD. We’d gorge ourselves on the rich “American” fare we truly only ate once a year: Turkey, Yams, etc. Everything swimming in butter. Only “American” music would be played: big band, Mathis and Doris Day. After my Aunt Maria’s delicious homemade pumpkin pie, we’d end our festivities with, what else? A BIRTHDAY PARTY. Oh, yeah! Several family members had late-November birthdays and my grandparents would take advantage of having the whole family under one roof. So we’d bust into the 2-hours-old “leftovers” and then, naturally, we’d have cousin Becky’s butter-filled layer cake for dessert!

(My dad, left, and his brother Jess with their post-Thanksgiving birthday cakes)

Then we’d head over to Mom’s family home. You know, for Thanksgiving.

It was a short trip from East Cedar Street to West Cedar Street, where my mom’s parents lived. They served the meal at 4pm-which meant we had to leave the birthday party early. Mom’s family was just as big and it was just as tight a squeeze to seat everyone. Only problem? The food was better at the first house. It was! With Mom’s family, you could bet that the giblet bag had been baked inside the bird. Or that the mashed potatoes would be too thick to penetrate with a steel serving spoon. Or that the bread could be used to shatter the windshield of your worst enemy. (Before you get insulted, Aunt Sheila, may I remind you that they literally could not slice that bread with a saw.) And we were SO FULL. But we HAD to eat! So eat we did. And the fact that the food was so much better at the first house was always very quickly mitigated by the fact that the laughs were so much bigger at the second house.

By nightfall, my parents, my sister and I would be too full to sleep. We are blessed to eat and we are blessed to laugh, but take it from me: over-eating and over-laughing should only be mixed on very, very special occasions. It’s the American way.

What were your crazy Thanksgiving traditions? I can’t be the only one!

Wishing you love with extra cheese-
Nacho Mama

Making a short story long: My Story

My Mama Lola opening the Christmas tablecloth I made for her when I was 6 years old (with help from my mom of course!) Making her smile was one of my favorite things.

I’ve had a flair for decor and style for as long as I can remember. I was always re-arranging my room as a child (I even remember hiding my clock radio so I could have “background music") and I loved drawing and writing.  But I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. My dad was a very well-known interior designer and it never crossed my mind that I could do what he did, even though he was my biggest cheerleader. You see, in the culture of my family there is a unwritten law that you’re a failure if you do what your parents did. I can understand why, my grandparents were farmworkers who wanted their kids to finish school and have careers, but it really got in my way! I struggled to find my purpose and my place.

The Met-I was always RACING up those steps to get to work on time! (photo via Wikipedia)

Because I loved art, I got my BA in Art History and landed a job at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, far from my home in San Diego. I was married to the love of my life and had a very stable job, but I had no creative outlet whatsoever.  I devoured design books and magazines like Doritos. Soon my friends at work started asking for decorating advice. Then they started asking me to actually design things for them. Finally they kindly said, “Why are you working HERE when you could BE A DESIGNER?”

Somehow hearing it from someone outside my family helped all the pieces to fall into place. I applied to a heap of graduate programs, telling everyone I was “just doing it on a lark.” In my heart I secretly wished to get into the exclusive and famously tough program at the Pratt Institute. One by one, the rejection letters came in. I began to tell myself that I’d been a fool to believe that I had any talent, that my dad was the designer, not me and I just had to accept that it was never meant to be. My hands trembled as I opened the letter from Pratt, the last to arrive, and I could scarcely believe it when I read that I’d been accepted! I knew immediately that my life would change forever.

Pratt Institute-you have no idea how much I miss Brooklyn! (photo via Wikipedia)

It was tough, but I loved every minute of it! During my second year one of my designs was featured in The New York Times, a tremendous honor for any designer, let alone a student. That summer my husband and I took a trip home. On the last day of our visit, we sat on my parents’ sunny back porch with my dad and planned out the next 5 years. I’d finish school, apprentice at a firm in New York, then move back to San Diego where I’d join Dad’s firm, taking it over when he retired. Then my husband and I would start our family. After that conversation, I felt like I finally had a purpose and a place.

The very next day, back in New York, I threw myself into my schoolwork with more enthusiasm than I’d ever felt before. My phone seemed to be ringing off the hook that day, but I was not going to be interrupted! When I got home that evening I finally checked my phone and saw it was my mom who’d been calling. I figured she just wanted to know how my first day back had been. I was wrong. She was calling to tell me that my dad had just been diagnosed with Stage 4 prostate cancer.

I was too paralyzed with panic to know what to do. My wonderful husband, who knows me better than I know myself, said, “We have to go back. Now.” We packed our bags and took the first available flight back to San Diego. We were told that Dad could go at anytime and that he should never, in fact, have lived long enough to be diagnosed. Then, a few days after we arrived, I became pregnant. Even though it was 9 years ago, I still refer to it as “the week my life was hit by a truck.” After that my husband and I spent our time helping my parents, fighting to save my father’s design firm, selling our home back east and nurturing our daughter.

Dad with my daughter on the steps of the tiny house where he was born, in the Colonia of Oxnard, Ca. The calla lilies were planted by my Mama Lola over 60 years ago.

It was extremely difficult to uproot our lives and leave our friends but I would have done anything to help my father. For as long as I could remember he'd done everything in his power to make me, my sister and my mom, feel how special we were to him. He delighted in celebrating every seemingly insignificant occasion in our lives with parties, gifts and love. He marked every moment of my pregnancy with fanfare, as though I were a queen, and lavished his unborn granddaughter with presents. Remarkably, Dad lived long enough to be present at my daughter’s birth and for her to remember him. He passed away just before her 2nd birthday. He was 57 years old. The years that followed were a blur of sorrow and work that I would never have survived without my husband and my kid. Through all the grief and the enormous workload I'd taken on (helping to finish the projects Dad had started before he'd passed) my husband always had the right thing to say when I needed to hear it, even if I needed to hear it at 3am. Even our baby daughter helped by lightening my spirits during those very dark times when I just couldn't face what had been lost.

It’s been a painful journey but now, years later and after the birth of our 2nd child, my husband and I honor my dad’s memory by living his philosophy, “Celebrate life. Celebrate all the good things and keep celebrating them, no matter how small.”  I know now that celebration is the only way through grief and loss, two things that every human must experience. I also know that it's important to surround yourself with beauty, with things that are meaningful to you and with people who love you for who you are. I feel so blessed to have been able to make my living bringing beauty into people's homes, businesses and lives.

Me with the editorial staff of San Diego Home and Garden, shooting a spread on a home in La Jolla.

I’ve made it my mission to show people how they can celebrate all the good moments in their lives, no matter how small, as much as possible, until joy and gratitude become a reflex. I call it “Life, with extra cheese.”  Because cheese is good, but extra cheese is better. Beauty is good, but more beauty is better. The same goes for friends, laughter and glitter. And love? You can’t ever have too much, you can’t ever give too much and you can always make more.

Wishing you love with extra cheese,
Margo (aka Nacho Mama)

Stress-free Holidays? Almost...

I recently had one of those "lightbulb moments" about holiday stress. You can read about it over at Rock On Mommies! (sorry to make you click to another site-hope that doesn't stress you out!)

Do you freak out every holiday season trying to make everything perfect?
Yeah, me too. Now all I have to do is change my definition of "perfect."

Wishing you HAPPY HOLIDAYS with extra cheese,
Nacho Mama

Nacho Mama's "Empanadas"

If you’re anything like me, this time of year brings a flood of childhood memories.  Many of them are food-related. The holidays meant a long drive from San Diego to Oxnard. And Oxnard? Meant La Central.

La Central was the bakery where both sides of the family would go for pan dulce (which, for some reason, we called pan mexicano). We’d always stop at La Central on our way home from church on Sundays. It’s still there, where it’s always been. I can still hear the rickety screen door that would always slam behind us-we were so distracted by the delicious smells that we always let it slam.  I can’t possibly conjure the intoxicating aroma of fresh pan dulce, but I can show you what we saw-and believe me, it looked almost as good as it smelled:

And by the way-La Central has the BEST glazed doughnuts in the whole world. Better than Krispy Kreme, better than Dean and Deluca,  better than in your dreams.

But my favorite thing to get at La Central was always the pumpkin empanadas. Because I, Nacho Mama, am a pumpkin whore. You may as well know.  And today my craving for pumpkin empanadas was all-consuming. I just had to do something about it. Even though my baking skills are rather, um, lacking. Oh, I can cook ropa vieja that’d inspire you to write a poem about me-but a cupcake? (cue ironic trombone here)

So? I improvised:

I had some leftover pumpkin from the pumpkin chili I made earlier this week (told you)  and some other stuff in the fridge I thought would be good. Here’s how it all shook out:

-2/3 cup pure pumpkin

-5 oz honey-vanilla greek yogurt (I used Voskos, from Fresh and Easy-my favorite!)

-1/2c light brown sugar

-1 tube light crescent-roll dough

I mixed the pumpkin, yogurt and sugar together. Then I rolled out the crescent dough, and put a spoonful of the pumpkin mixture in the middle of each triangle, sealed it and crimped it with a fork. Ok, they looked kind of weird:

But after baking in my pre-heated 375 degree oven for 15 minutes, they looked awesome!

Not satisfied, I made a glaze with powdered sugar and lemon juice, and then sprinkled them with EDIBLE GLITTER STARS. 

Yeah, you read right! Edible glitter. I thought I’d dreamt it, but I asked the Crafty Chica if it actually existed and she told me yes! I raced to my local cake supply place and bought some. You should know that I am also a glitter whore. As far as I’m concerned, there’s not a thing or person on earth that couldn’t use a little glitter. Glitter helps me think. But I digress, the point is: they were YUMMY. And they are now gone. Were they as good as La Central? No. But they were a delicious and distant second. Plus? They had glitter.

Wishing you love with extra cheese,

Nacho Mama

Raised on "Chicano Soul"

Music has always been a big part of my life. Growing up, all my grandparents sang and/or played guitar at family gatherings, often joined by uncles and cousins. We have so many great singers in the family and just about everyone plays some kind of musical instrument. I myself played piano & clarinet but sadly did not inherit the "awesome pipes" gene. Le sigh.

In my childhood memories, there is always music in the background. My mom's parents sang beautiful songs together, like Ojos Negros, Piel Canela, in the kitchen while preparing sandwiches. My dad's father loved to sing rancheros, mariachi music and corridos at Sunday barbecues. And my dad and his brothers loved to play music from the "Chicano Soul" era that took place in LA in the 60s.

What, you never heard of it?

Chicano Soul crossed over into the mainstream a few times with groups like Cannibal and the Headhunters (Land of 1000 Dances), The Premiers and Thee Midnighters. My dad's brother Jess had been in the Chicano Soul group, The Mixtures, and we kids grew up hearing stories about how our Uncle Chuy had rocked the house at the Rainbow Gardens Ballroom, where The Mixtures were the house band. My grandfather was especially proud that his son (bottom center of the photo below, with the sax) appeared on TV, in the music show that broadcast live in LA from the Rainbow Gardens.

As you might have noticed from the photo, one of the groundbreaking features of The Mixtures was that they were an interracial group in a disctinctly non-interracial time. And from what I've heard, they brought the pepper to every party! I love listening to these records when I'm spending time with my young family, dancing and spinning to this joyful, raucous music. Of course, the Mixtures albums I've been playing all these years (that belonged to my dear late father) are scratched and badly worn by now. So I was ecstatic to learn that the complete recordings were being reissued and released this fall!

My dad and my Uncle, though not twins, shared the same birthday-November 20th, which is this Saturday. As I write this, my brand new copy of The Mixures: Stompin' at the Rainbow is on its way to my home (I ordered the LP but it's also available as a CD). It should arrive just in time for me to celebrate and remember our family's beautiful musical legacy.


Did your family have a creative legacy? Did they paint or write poetry? I'd love to hear about it!


Wishing you love with extra cheese,
Nacho Mama

PS-If you'd like to see and hear a little of The Mixtures for yourself, check out their facebook page and this Youtube Video!

NOTE: My dear Uncle Chuy sadly lost his battle with cancer the day after Christmas 2010. There were many moving tributes to his memory, including this one. We will miss him very much.

Nacho Mama is a Rock On Mommy!

lWell it's up! You can check out my post about Thanksgiving, My Big, Fat, American Thanksgivings at Rock On Mommies.

It's about the way my family put the American in Mexican-American!

We lived in San Diego, but my parents were both born and raised in Oxnard, California. We made the 10-hour roundtrip drive every other weekend to visit my grandparents, aunts, uncles and my many, many cousins.

Whenever any of my friends has occasion to visit Oxnard, they always ask me where they can get "the Good" Mexican food. And I'm always at a loss. Because we never went out for Mexican food, why would we? We were eating it every day at home! My grandfather's homemade salsa and nopales(cactus) sat in mason jars on the table at every meal.  But if you want to know where to get a fabulous burger or Japanese food in Oxnard? I'm your gal.

Like many of you, we put our own spin and flavor on the holidays. What were your famly traditions when you were a child? Do you keep them up in your family now?

If you're wondering what mine were, you'll have to head over to Rock On Mommies to find out!


Wishing you love with extra cheese,
Nacho Mama