¡No me digas!

I must introduce my favorite Spanish phrase:
¡No me digas!
Google Translate: Do not tell me!
Situational Interpretation: See below

A situation in which this phrase might arise would be at mealtime with my host mom Rosa.  Any of these sentences could merit a ¡No me digas!, depending on the level of drama we're feeling that day:

"I got home at 5am!" "No, I don't want the pig fat and chicken on bread." "My favorite color is orange." "I bought a dress for 10 euro!" "My family eats dinner at 7pm." "I'm going to Italy for Semana Santa." "I got a sunburn yesterday when I was in direct sunlight for 15 minutes." 

"¡No me digas!"

To really get the tone right, emphasize the No and the i (in English, the "ee" sound) of digas: 

"NO me diiiigas!"

The other day, an old enemy from the early days of my stay in Sevilla came back to haunt Sarah and me at lunchtime:

Cauliflower.

Or, as it's known here, coliflor.

Let's revisit how this particular dish is prepared:

Giant heads of cauliflower, hacked to pieces and laid to rest in a glass dish

Smothered in some sort of milk sauce, sprinkled with cheese and salt

Baked.

This brought me back to the sweet time known as the "honeymoon period," fondly remembered as the time when:

A. Everything was beautiful (okay, still true)

B. Spanish catcalls weren't that creepy; and most importantly:

C. Nothing tasted bad....it was new and cultural!

Well! This little white girl has become a hardened Spaniard, and I can now identify the difference between something new and something just terrible.  Our dear Mama Rosa baked this for us during our first week in Sevilla.  That time, we told her that it was good, but "not our favorite."  

Now, in America, "not my favorite," clearly means "I HATE IT."

Two months ago, the rose-colored glasses of New Experiences kept my taste buds safe from the true damage that the Cauliflower Dish of Danger is capable of, but I knew better this time.  Rosa was upset that her amigo especial wasn't able to visit that day (¡No me digas!) so Sarah and I didn't have the heart to tell her how we really feel about her favorite dish.  Feigning concern about the upcoming bikini season, we told her we wanted to eat less than the (literally) mounds of coliflor she was all set to pile on our plates.  

"I want to eat less, like you!  And you know, I just had this huge bowl of Choci Chocs for breakfast (five hours ago) so I couldn't possible manage one more scoop of cauliflower.  I would just burst."

"¡No me digas!"

But, it worked.  The only flaw in our plan was that because Rosa hates to waste food when there are starving children in Africa (translate to Spanish for her exact words), we only managed to succeed in creating leftovers for ourselves another day.  But hey, that was days away.  

That day was today.

Mm...we even get to use the same spoon!

Sarah missed lunch yesterday so she had pasta leftovers.  Upon returning from class, this is what greeted me:

I'm from Idaho.  I am tough.  I am WOMAN!  My plate spent 2 minutes twirling in the microonda, acquiring heat and a delightful new squishy texture.  While under the watchful (and sad--her boyfriend can't visit today!) gaze of Mama Rosa, each bite of cauliflower was quickly chased with a large bite of bread to give it a more manageable consistency.  For dessert on the way to class: Coca-Cola and three Principe cookies.  

The only problem was, Mama Rosa is no dummy.  After we cleared our plates and thanked her for lunch, there was silence.  And then, a shout from the other room:

¡Pero a Curney no le gusta!

(But Courtney didn't like it!)

¡Aye, madre mia!  Damage control time.  First of all, another good phrase to have on stock in the case of Dramatic Host Mom is,
¡No dame drama! - Don't give me drama!

A bit of joking about getting fat and a couple reassurances later, the storm settled and Sevilla was sunny once again.  

All's well that ends well, right?  I walked to class feeling all warm and fuzzy that because of me, there is less cauliflower in the world today.

Well.  As I returned from class this evening and went straight to the refrigerator (as usual)...

My host mom eats like a bird.

With my recovering eyelids and toiling stomach, I shall live to die another day.  I just hope that day isn't later this week, when this entire saga repeats itself.