This year, like virtually every one of my life as an "adult", I got the plastic baby in my family's Rosca de Reyes, and a lovely porcelain one from the office’s rosca. Lo and behold, as I shakily sliced my bit of bread with sugar and fruit toppings, I nearly cut the feet off the baby (for some reason, it has undies on these days; it used to go commando). That, of course, meant that I got the particular pleasure of inviting tamales for my coworkers in el Día de la Candelaria, as tradition requires. Good thing about the yearly layoffs -less mouths to feed. And yes, I do feel the tiniest bit bitchy for posting that, but only the tiniest. I didn't particularly care for those now ex-coworkers. Bite me and all that.
At least the kid is supposed to bear good tidings my way. One can only hope, though past experiences seem to show no Rosca Baby-Good Fortune correlation at all. Whatever; for all I know I should have rightfully died years ago and it's only that Rosca Baby Magic keeping me gallivanting on this world.
-I blame it on my sudden bouts of insomnia that THAT theory up there seems to hold some water in my actual mindset; let the ruminating meditations begin.-
I have to admit that although for me it’s nothing like the Day of the Dead (which I revere almost fanatically, true story), I actually like the Día de Reyes. It's sort of fun to see people try to evade that tiny, white plastic baby of DOOM and (financial) DESTRUCTION, and while the rosca bread is not my favorite (Bread of the Dead, all the way!) with some hot chocolate it's more than palatable.
However this all takes me a few years back, when I was in Tabasco for some reason, and my beloved uncle Valo invited Pancho and I to cut the rosca with his wife’s family.
Now, these are all very nice people: polite, welcoming and generally decent. It's just that they are... careful with their money. (Which is coded Poli-speak for saying they tend to be stingy. Very much so. On everything.)
So when the time came for Pancho and I to slice the bread, someone helpfully pointed out that, should we get the baby, my uncle and aunt would be responsible for buying our share of tamales. A brief sideway look at my uncle and aunt revealed them to be swallowing nervously. But hey! No pressure guys.
We got surprisingly lucky, though. No plastic toys.
-Or so I thought.-
I do remember someone remarking that the rosca was missing a baby. I didn’t give it much thought; it happens. In fact, this year my custom-made (and somewhat expensive) Superama Rosca included only three dolls instead of the advertised four, and two of those were BURNT and MELTED in a rather horrific fashion.
Detail of BURNT and MELTED
(with their normal siblings)
I probably should have complained. Meh.
Fast forward a couple of years later. I’m recounting the experience to someone, when dearest Panchito points out that he DID get the baby.
- No you didn’t. I don’t remember you getting it.
- That’s because I swallowed it.
- ... What?
- Well, I got the baby; I knew my uncle wouldn’t like me getting it, so I swallowed it. You do remember they thought it was one baby short?
- But... it’s plastic. And it's not big or anything, but it couldn’t have been pleasant to swallow it. And it's PLASTIC.
- Yeah, kinda scratched its way down. Not something I’d like to do again. Hopefully won’t have to.
And so, it turns out my brother is a bigger idiot than I gave him credit for. But in all fairness, I'll admit he's rather adept at idiocy. And we now have proof he has quite the hardy stomach.
In any case, from then on I absolutely demand that people hack up their slices in public before wolfing it down. With me always getting the baby, I'm not about to take chances and let someone off in Tamal Duty.
