The other day, with an extra hour to spare, I decided to take a shower when woosh, a gust of wind closed the back door behind me and I was left locked out of my house. You see, taking a shower in Mexico requires first turning on the water heater. Wait ten minutes, and voila, a warm shower. Simple enough until circumstances go awry and there you are stranded on your back porch clad only in a towel staring at your locked door. Add to the scenario that it is raining and I was surrounded by 10-foot high stone walls and Anders was not expected home for hours and the problem just gets better.
What to do:
1. Break the window of the door. Probably the most logical, but also the most costly. Return to this solution only if all others fail.
2. Succumb to the feeling of being all alone and stranded and cry until falling asleep or being rescued.
3. Encourage Bird to jump up on the door until she hits the handle and welcomes me back inside. Good in theory, but bad in practice. When attempted, Bird merely looks up at me confused and then goes to lie on the couch.
4. Stack four spare tires rims and climb them like a ladder to see if upstairs windows are unlocked: not tall enough.
5. Stack four tire rims onto a chair and try again: still not tall enough to reach the windows, but it is now possible to see over the wall into the neighbor’s backyard. Good news, their window was open. Bad news, a giant moan from inside reminds me that my neighbors are in fact mentally handicapped and likely unable to offer their assistance. Try this option before breaking the window.
6. Climb the tree: sadly, not physically or emotionally equipped for such feats. Feet hurt from the bark rubbing against them and terribly afraid of heights.
7. Scream for help: no luck, so I take this as a sign to let out a great shout of profanity, something about this bleepity bleep country. A very ladylike shout of course.
8. Hoist myself to the top of the wall in the hopes that some sort of balancing act will produce results, but the combination of a shaky make-shift ladder and my lack of balance make this seem like a bad idea.
9. Clamber up the gas tanks to see if they are tall enough for me to reach the roof. Nope.
10. Remember there is a ladder leaning against the back wall and prop it up against the roof. Push away fears of the slick and slanted corrugated metal roof and me passed out in a puddle on the ground and start to climb. Get to the top only to discover that the window is locked.
So there I was, all options exhausted, trying to figure out the best way to get down from the roof when out of the corner of my eye I spied an elderly gentleman a few blocks away. Left with the choice of him or my mentally handicapped neighbors, I let out a crackled “Perdón.” Nothing. This man wasn't going to make things easy. I paused to consider other options and realizing I had none blurted out a giant “Perdón,” thus getting his attention. Now I was faced with the new obstacle of explaining in Spanish why I was standing on my roof, in my towel, in the rain. “Senor, mis llaves son cerrado en mi casa. Puedues ayudar? Mi casa es en Los Arcos. Mi puerta enfrente de es abierto.”* Very broken and very wrong, and yet somehow, I convinced the man to come to my rescue and gave him the necessary directions to do so (thank goodness I listened to Anders give the pizza man directions or I may have stayed on that roof all day).
* Translato-bot here. Roughly translated, I think you could say that says “Mister, my keys are close in my house. Can you help? My house is in the arches. My door in front of is open.” Not bad for a desperate language-learning near-nudist standing on her roof at midday.
With this good news at hand, I realized a new predicament: Bernadette is going to bark at this man when he tries to walk through the front door. The kindly gentleman had a decent walk to make because we live on a closed road giving me at least five minutes to devise a solution encouraging Bernadette to not bark at him, but by the time he showed up I had come up with nothing and he stood at the front door paralyzed “No muerda. Ella es muy simpatico.”* To have made it this far, to see hope in the form of a frail, old man standing in my doorway, and then to have him to afraid to walk in the front door because of a dog with a fierce bark who is so terrified of men that if he just came inside she would run away was too much. I just kept screaming through my locked back door, “She is nice, she won’t bite,” and next thing I know, he is at my back door rescuing me from my misery. I had used up all the Spanish I had at this point to properly thank the man for walking in the rain to help my stranded self and just kept repeating “muchas gracias”** over and over hoping that somehow this would convey my sincere gratitude for his kindness.
* Hola. This is quite good, saying “She doesn’t bite. She is very nice (for a man).”
** C’mon now, you know that one, gringo.
A few days later, I made a batch of dulce de leche brownies to thank the kind man, but when Anders and I went to his house to deliver them, he couldn’t even make it to the door to receive his gift because he had a “delicate sickness.” I just hope that wasn’t my fault.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Let them eat cake
For the greater part of this week, Anders and I have been feasting like royalty. It started when we decided to throw our first party in Mexico in honor of the Super Bowl and ended with me accidentally buying two chocolate bars for 100 pesos. To put 100 pesos into perspective, we used to live here for 400 pesos a day. That included housing, food, booze, and entertainment, so to spend a quarter of our daily income on chocolate is pretty extravagant. In my defense, the chocolate price had been incorrectly labeled as 11 pesos, but it was a rookie mistake because when going to the grocery stores in Mexico you always have to triple check the item prices. If you don’t, you end up with a much higher tab than anticipated.
With each fine meal we cooked, I kept thinking to myself that one of the finest joys of growing older is getting to eat what I want when I want. I can recall countless childhood nights where I was stranded at the dinner table contemplating how to discard the pile of mushy, cold broccoli that sat limply on my plate without having to actually eat it – a sudden urge to use the restroom and flush it down the toilet or the horrible idea of mixing it in with my milk and then chugging it down while trying not to gag. It would be fair to say, I was a bit of a picky eater growing up. My palette had not yet matured, and I enjoyed things like pizza and french fries and as gross as it is to remember now, raw hamburger (I used to sneak mouthfuls of it when my Mom wasn’t looking). But, fortunately, time passes and we develop into adults with more refined taste buds. Today, I love broccoli, the non-mushy kind that is steamed and crispy and oh, so delicious, and I usually look forward to meal time.
Many mornings this week were examples of just this feeling. Instead of figuring out how to get away from the table, I found ways to linger. I have coffee and pumpkin bars with maple-cream cheese frosting to thank for my eagerness, but as I lifted my fork up, I was reminded of how my mother taught me how to enjoy such a succulent breakfast. One of my favorite breakfasts as a child occurred the day after my birthday. I would always request that my mother make me my Grandmother’s angel food cake with chocolate frosting. This wasn’t your typical chocolate frosting recipe, no powdered sugar required. Instead, you take a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips, an egg, and a little bit of milk, and mix it all over low heat being careful not to cook the egg. Then you frost it over the angel food cake, throw it in the fridge, and wait for it to cool and harden. The way the light, airy angel food cake mixes with the rich, decadent frosting is nothing shy of glorious pandemonium in your mouth. Somehow, the next morning, it is even better. Normally, my mother fed us oatmeal or some other healthy equivalent, but when there was leftover birthday cake, waking up got a little sweeter. People gasp when I tell them this story. How could a mother do such a thing? Her logic was sound: some people eat doughnuts, but my kids eat cake.
I am glad for this lesson and many others she taught me about how to cook and enjoy food. There was a stage in my life where I hated to cook, but as the following menu for our week shows, I think it is much better to embrace the inner cook within. And just so you know, Anders made many of the delicious meals below.
Super Bowl Feast
With each fine meal we cooked, I kept thinking to myself that one of the finest joys of growing older is getting to eat what I want when I want. I can recall countless childhood nights where I was stranded at the dinner table contemplating how to discard the pile of mushy, cold broccoli that sat limply on my plate without having to actually eat it – a sudden urge to use the restroom and flush it down the toilet or the horrible idea of mixing it in with my milk and then chugging it down while trying not to gag. It would be fair to say, I was a bit of a picky eater growing up. My palette had not yet matured, and I enjoyed things like pizza and french fries and as gross as it is to remember now, raw hamburger (I used to sneak mouthfuls of it when my Mom wasn’t looking). But, fortunately, time passes and we develop into adults with more refined taste buds. Today, I love broccoli, the non-mushy kind that is steamed and crispy and oh, so delicious, and I usually look forward to meal time.
Many mornings this week were examples of just this feeling. Instead of figuring out how to get away from the table, I found ways to linger. I have coffee and pumpkin bars with maple-cream cheese frosting to thank for my eagerness, but as I lifted my fork up, I was reminded of how my mother taught me how to enjoy such a succulent breakfast. One of my favorite breakfasts as a child occurred the day after my birthday. I would always request that my mother make me my Grandmother’s angel food cake with chocolate frosting. This wasn’t your typical chocolate frosting recipe, no powdered sugar required. Instead, you take a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips, an egg, and a little bit of milk, and mix it all over low heat being careful not to cook the egg. Then you frost it over the angel food cake, throw it in the fridge, and wait for it to cool and harden. The way the light, airy angel food cake mixes with the rich, decadent frosting is nothing shy of glorious pandemonium in your mouth. Somehow, the next morning, it is even better. Normally, my mother fed us oatmeal or some other healthy equivalent, but when there was leftover birthday cake, waking up got a little sweeter. People gasp when I tell them this story. How could a mother do such a thing? Her logic was sound: some people eat doughnuts, but my kids eat cake.
I am glad for this lesson and many others she taught me about how to cook and enjoy food. There was a stage in my life where I hated to cook, but as the following menu for our week shows, I think it is much better to embrace the inner cook within. And just so you know, Anders made many of the delicious meals below.
Super Bowl Feast
- Pulled-chicken sandwiches with homemade barbecue sauce* and homemade buns smothered in a spicy green onion coleslaw
- Adult pigs in a blanket with chorizo and gouda
- Gingered Gin and Tonics
- Guacamole
- Brownies
- Pumpkin bars with maple-cream cheese frosting
- Ginger Fried Rice – a deconstructed fried rice topped with a fried egg and then sprinkled with crispy pieces of ginger and garlic. Simple, but delicious.
- Best Chocolate Pudding – let me just say that the 100 peso chocolate made a difference folks.
- Fetuccine Alfredo
- Toasted bread smothered in garlic
- Three-bean Chili
- Cream biscuits smothered in Chorizo gravy
- Fried eggs
- Pork Meatball Banh Mi sandwhiches (from bon appétit magazine)
- Bottle of Malbec
- Apple Crisp topped with nut ice cream
Saturday, February 13, 2010
=8=
I've got to say, it kind of surprises me that I'm feeling it somewhat necessary to post about this, but as I was reading my Royals blogs this morning, I saw an article on– and a great photo of– Frank Thomas and his retirement. Honestly, I feel like just seeing his huge body (what a head!) and remembering marveling at it on so many baseball cards back in the early 90s sent me spinning back to my youth– if I can call it that, now nearly 29 years old.
One special moment I remember well with the Big Hurt (truly, this was a fine nickname; now we're stuck with obvi-boners like A-Rod), or more specifically, with his high gloss '92 Fleer Ultra likeness, was while visiting my Uncle Ryan (that's Unkie Ry/Wy or just "Unk" if you know the man) in Newport, Rhode Island. Back in those days, when we'd go on a family vacation, my dear mother would always get dragged along to any number of majestic and foreign card shops– it was always one of the most anticipated moments of any vacation for me, and remember that this was well before internet availability of any card you could think of on sites like eBay was possible– in search of Bo Jacksons, Kirby Pucketts or Barry Bondses that were missing from my binders filled with hundreds of these fellas, carefully slotted into Ultra Pro sleeves. We'd always joke that we'd find her a recipe card shop to make up for all the time we spent in and hunting for these spots, as if such a thing existed, and even if it had, as if she'd have any interest in spending hours pouring over the giant-sized glass display cases sure to be inside.
At this particular card shop on this particular day, and I remember there was a Spider-Man on the sign at this spot (we statistics-loving card collectors often had to coexist with the cartoon drama-loving folks who loved to read, of all things), I don't recall walking out with any of the AP Big 3 (see above) that had been long missing from my collection, but I did buy a pack of '92 Fleer Ultra in which I pulled this baddie out, then valued at $20.00 on the nose (isn't it funny how card values always came in multiples of 25 cents?):
One special moment I remember well with the Big Hurt (truly, this was a fine nickname; now we're stuck with obvi-boners like A-Rod), or more specifically, with his high gloss '92 Fleer Ultra likeness, was while visiting my Uncle Ryan (that's Unkie Ry/Wy or just "Unk" if you know the man) in Newport, Rhode Island. Back in those days, when we'd go on a family vacation, my dear mother would always get dragged along to any number of majestic and foreign card shops– it was always one of the most anticipated moments of any vacation for me, and remember that this was well before internet availability of any card you could think of on sites like eBay was possible– in search of Bo Jacksons, Kirby Pucketts or Barry Bondses that were missing from my binders filled with hundreds of these fellas, carefully slotted into Ultra Pro sleeves. We'd always joke that we'd find her a recipe card shop to make up for all the time we spent in and hunting for these spots, as if such a thing existed, and even if it had, as if she'd have any interest in spending hours pouring over the giant-sized glass display cases sure to be inside.
At this particular card shop on this particular day, and I remember there was a Spider-Man on the sign at this spot (we statistics-loving card collectors often had to coexist with the cartoon drama-loving folks who loved to read, of all things), I don't recall walking out with any of the AP Big 3 (see above) that had been long missing from my collection, but I did buy a pack of '92 Fleer Ultra in which I pulled this baddie out, then valued at $20.00 on the nose (isn't it funny how card values always came in multiples of 25 cents?):
Looks like Frank popped out in this one. Still, $20 to an 11-year old...
I remember being out in the street, walking to that non-existent recipe card shop, for all I cared, feeling on top of the world. Though it isn't even a particularly handsome card– I do still really like the marble effect on cardboard, plus the little hand-scrawled-looking "'92" at the top left and, now that I see it again, the fact that part of Frank himself– his left foot– stepped outside of the borders of the card, making him that much closer to this kid on vacation in Rhode Island– it was undoubtedly the most valuable card I'd ever gotten in a pack. Perhaps the best part is, if I were at my parents' house up in my old closet, I bet you I could dig that card out, still in a hardcase and a probably an inner sleeve as well– as was the rage for us overindulgent, non-savage card collectors back then– in under half an hour. The other best part would have to be that it's probably not worth $2.00 anymore (anybody have a current Beckett/online subscription [how novel that would've been back then!] they could use to check it out for me? If so, I might have a few other cards to check as well, just not my '87 Fleer Bo rookie card I paid the book $18.00-$20.00 for :\).
Anyway, I could probably go on for hours still, remembering all of this stuff and connecting the dots to my friends and compadres in card-collecting, my silly dreams and haunts of those days, but I'll just say thanks, Frank, for the memories. You were a giant-sized stud for a lot of years to this kid, even at your more modest 3-1/2" by 5-1/2"-size.
Big Frank: never my favorite, but a player
I'll always revere as long as I've got some kid left in me.
Here's to the start of Spring Training (some Royals players have already reported!) and to my dad, alongside whom I've always loved all things baseball and who sings a mean "El Paso"– even at long, long distance :').
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Walking in the Rain
Yesterday, after four days of rain, Mexico had me at my wit’s end. Holed up in my house I was content, but as soon as it came time to walk to work I transformed into a bit of a curmudgeon. I blame it on my misunderstanding of Mexico and its people. To paint a brief picture for you, when it rains in Mexico, giant still bodies of water form. In the states, I would call these puddles, but that word doesn’t translate here. I guess I imagine puddles as small, little pockets of water that if splashed in would merely create a slight sprinkling. The puddles here are knee-deep craters big enough to swim in, and when you are walking on the sidewalk and a car drives through one of these puddles you are left drenched. The people say this problem is formed by the large amount of garbage in the sewer system that needs to be cleaned out. I for one vote for cleaning it out.
The rain has reminded me of how different it is to live in a place verses visit a place. Had Querétaro been a part of our Mexican tour, I would have chocked it up to bad luck that we visited during a fluke rainstorm in February. But since I live here and have learned that it is common practice to make pedestrians wait in the rain while dry people in their cars keep pushing their way through the intersection, I have grown frustrated and taken the wise advise of my cooperating teacher during student teaching, and I flip people off in my pockets. She used to say to do that when the students acted unruly, and I have to admit it makes me feel better. Other times, I act aggressively and I just walk straight into the street and hope the cars stop (they don’t always, but I will keep that story to myself since my father is likely to read this blog).
Mexico confuses me daily. I wonder why I can’t have a hot shower every time I want one or why it is okay for people to throw their dirty cleaning water out onto the same sidewalk that I use everyday. I decided that one of the best ways to deal with it is to give up logic. Things just don’t make sense around here, and I could sit around stewing over why they drown their parks to the point of killing the grass, or I could just go about my day and learn to accept the muddled world of Mexico and its giant puddles.
The learning curve is steep and I often feel like I will never understand the social norms and mores. I have to fight against my American mindset that believes the world is a better place when pedestrians have the right of way. But then I wake up to a bright, sunny morning like today and I am touched with a bit of gratitude and find that I am ready to give this country another go. There are many challenges to integrating into another culture, and I would say that it is a strong possibility that come the rainy season I am going to have the similar frustrations to those of this week, but hopefully I can gain a more positive perspective by then.
Here, even the arches are underwater
The rain has reminded me of how different it is to live in a place verses visit a place. Had Querétaro been a part of our Mexican tour, I would have chocked it up to bad luck that we visited during a fluke rainstorm in February. But since I live here and have learned that it is common practice to make pedestrians wait in the rain while dry people in their cars keep pushing their way through the intersection, I have grown frustrated and taken the wise advise of my cooperating teacher during student teaching, and I flip people off in my pockets. She used to say to do that when the students acted unruly, and I have to admit it makes me feel better. Other times, I act aggressively and I just walk straight into the street and hope the cars stop (they don’t always, but I will keep that story to myself since my father is likely to read this blog).
A nearby part-time park/mud pool
Mexico confuses me daily. I wonder why I can’t have a hot shower every time I want one or why it is okay for people to throw their dirty cleaning water out onto the same sidewalk that I use everyday. I decided that one of the best ways to deal with it is to give up logic. Things just don’t make sense around here, and I could sit around stewing over why they drown their parks to the point of killing the grass, or I could just go about my day and learn to accept the muddled world of Mexico and its giant puddles.
Our back porch. Notice the "drain."
The learning curve is steep and I often feel like I will never understand the social norms and mores. I have to fight against my American mindset that believes the world is a better place when pedestrians have the right of way. But then I wake up to a bright, sunny morning like today and I am touched with a bit of gratitude and find that I am ready to give this country another go. There are many challenges to integrating into another culture, and I would say that it is a strong possibility that come the rainy season I am going to have the similar frustrations to those of this week, but hopefully I can gain a more positive perspective by then.
Bird making the most of rainy days
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
=7.5= (my lists)
(10 11 13 14) Things I like about ol’ Mexico (in no particular order):
1. cactus grass instead of grass.
2. being able to take a two-hour flight to Cancún (in fairness that's after a 3-hour bus ride).
3. spending all the weekend long with my girlfriend and doggy.
4. how making a little better than $1,500US a month makes you a friggin’ cash-money superstar/legend, unless you want to buy a BMW or practically anything thrice imported from the Mexican Pier 1.
5. food ‘n drink/booze—tortas, tequila, chilaquiles, tacos, micheladas (with OYSTERS!)— are cheeeeeap and goooood* (see below list for a related caveat)
6. utilities—including cable and internet—are reasonably inexpensive.
7. Bird, seemingly the only labradoodle in all of Mexico, foments our status as all-stars in these parts.
8. ¡¡¡FRONTON!!!
9. I feel ok about (temporarily— I promise to buy all the good stuff when I get back) stealing music online because I can’t get it anywhere around here :\.
10. late January evenings in Mexico feeling like late summer evenings in Nebraska.
11. brightly-colored Mexican artisan stuff— pottery/dishes, clothing, bags, etc.
12. actually conversating with the dear, dear people of Mexico who aren’t trying to sell you something or run you over with their cars or bodies.
13. how cheap commodious bus travel is.
14. how much more it means to get mail/correspondence from home.
And, the other side of the coin (these could be a bit longer ‘cos I kinda have to complain a bit about each—isn’t that just life? Read this article a friend of mine posted on Facebook for more insight):
1. the way people drive around here (good CHRIST!); good luck, American pedestrians, visiting this land of lawless right-of-way.
2. the way people walk around here (I swear people walk AT you instead of walking around you).
3. getting stared at like the 6’4” freak of Gringolandian nature (with no evident haircut) that I am.
4. how much it costs to fly. Period.
*5. getting sick for the better part of a week on a tuna empanada— previous to the water being shut off, fortunately, ‘cos I needed the sink and the toilet simultaneously for HOURS on a Sunday night.
6. the apparent definition of “urgent” for the water utilities and just the general lack of regard for timeliness or the accuracy of time-related statements (We were quoted between 1 and 30 days for internet [they came within 2-3 weeks] and just 10 days for cable; they showed up over 3 weeks later. :\).
7. that many of my wonderful friends and family members do not live here as well.
8. having to work long-ass hours and making sh*t-fifty an hour to do so (this has improved— lots.)
9. not having a washing machine/getting the crap kicked out of your clothes each time you take them to the lavandería, where they seem to inject them with urinal cake scent before dusting them with a fiberglass/asbestos hybrid and bagging them up.
and 10. having work schedule issues that prevent Sally and I from spending as much time together as we’d like/we thought we’d have, though this one is, in its way, a good thing too ‘cos we could be totally sick of each other like some of the other things on this list.
Oh, and 11. when it friggin' rains here— and it seems to rain for days at a stretch in the non-rainy season, like now— Mexico becomes a third world country. There is little-to-no sewer drain capacity (my boss says because the drains are all filled with littered garbage of all shapes and sizes), and so it's near impossible to avoid shoe and sock-drenching puddles whether you're going long or short distance. My American mind can't help but feel like it's kinda ridiculous :\.
Overall though, I'd say at this point that I am grateful for what works (in some cases better than how it is back home), and also for the fact that who I’m here with makes all of the stuff that in some cases I quite fervently hate all the day long melt away at the end of each day. Bird included.
1. cactus grass instead of grass.
2. being able to take a two-hour flight to Cancún (in fairness that's after a 3-hour bus ride).
3. spending all the weekend long with my girlfriend and doggy.
4. how making a little better than $1,500US a month makes you a friggin’ cash-money superstar/legend, unless you want to buy a BMW or practically anything thrice imported from the Mexican Pier 1.
5. food ‘n drink/booze—tortas, tequila, chilaquiles, tacos, micheladas (with OYSTERS!)— are cheeeeeap and goooood* (see below list for a related caveat)
6. utilities—including cable and internet—are reasonably inexpensive.
7. Bird, seemingly the only labradoodle in all of Mexico, foments our status as all-stars in these parts.
8. ¡¡¡FRONTON!!!
9. I feel ok about (temporarily— I promise to buy all the good stuff when I get back) stealing music online because I can’t get it anywhere around here :\.
10. late January evenings in Mexico feeling like late summer evenings in Nebraska.
11. brightly-colored Mexican artisan stuff— pottery/dishes, clothing, bags, etc.
12. actually conversating with the dear, dear people of Mexico who aren’t trying to sell you something or run you over with their cars or bodies.
13. how cheap commodious bus travel is.
14. how much more it means to get mail/correspondence from home.
And, the other side of the coin (these could be a bit longer ‘cos I kinda have to complain a bit about each—isn’t that just life? Read this article a friend of mine posted on Facebook for more insight):
1. the way people drive around here (good CHRIST!); good luck, American pedestrians, visiting this land of lawless right-of-way.
2. the way people walk around here (I swear people walk AT you instead of walking around you).
3. getting stared at like the 6’4” freak of Gringolandian nature (with no evident haircut) that I am.
4. how much it costs to fly. Period.
*5. getting sick for the better part of a week on a tuna empanada— previous to the water being shut off, fortunately, ‘cos I needed the sink and the toilet simultaneously for HOURS on a Sunday night.
6. the apparent definition of “urgent” for the water utilities and just the general lack of regard for timeliness or the accuracy of time-related statements (We were quoted between 1 and 30 days for internet [they came within 2-3 weeks] and just 10 days for cable; they showed up over 3 weeks later. :\).
7. that many of my wonderful friends and family members do not live here as well.
8. having to work long-ass hours and making sh*t-fifty an hour to do so (this has improved— lots.)
9. not having a washing machine/getting the crap kicked out of your clothes each time you take them to the lavandería, where they seem to inject them with urinal cake scent before dusting them with a fiberglass/asbestos hybrid and bagging them up.
and 10. having work schedule issues that prevent Sally and I from spending as much time together as we’d like/we thought we’d have, though this one is, in its way, a good thing too ‘cos we could be totally sick of each other like some of the other things on this list.
Oh, and 11. when it friggin' rains here— and it seems to rain for days at a stretch in the non-rainy season, like now— Mexico becomes a third world country. There is little-to-no sewer drain capacity (my boss says because the drains are all filled with littered garbage of all shapes and sizes), and so it's near impossible to avoid shoe and sock-drenching puddles whether you're going long or short distance. My American mind can't help but feel like it's kinda ridiculous :\.
Overall though, I'd say at this point that I am grateful for what works (in some cases better than how it is back home), and also for the fact that who I’m here with makes all of the stuff that in some cases I quite fervently hate all the day long melt away at the end of each day. Bird included.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
=7=
There. Dishes are done.
Another weekend in Querétaro, but this one is special. It’s longgg. Well, three days long (therefore the three g’s), but still better than the usual two for me and my darling Sally. If we have one mutual complaint/disappointment thus far regarding our Mexican experience/-ment, it’s that we don’t have enough time together, but spend too much time at our respective workplaces :\. For the time being, and I think the time being for now means through Semana Santa here (Easter is stretched into a week-long vacation for most language schools and many Mexican businesses here in Catholandia), we’re just gonna keep our noses to the grindstone and get some cash saved up— I just got a raise that about doubled my former salary— and see where we want to go from there.
Some really, truly wonderfully great news since I last wrote is that my family has purchased tickets to come for a 10-day visit over the aforementioned Holy Week! I don’t know how much religionating we’ll do, but, with our meeting place in Cancún the 27th of March (the 26th for my crew), I suspect there’ll be a bit of sunbathing, pyramid ruin scoping, seafood eating and maybe even a bit of tequila imbibing ;). My dad is currently searching for rental homes in the Puerto Morelos area, and Sally and I continue with info reconnaissance from various friends and acquaintances as to what to see and do. With T-minus 56 days and counting, you could color us a little (if a bit prematurely) excited…
Another spot of good news, though this time born of utter misery, is that we, after not having it for nearly four full days, have water that comes out of our very own faucets! That’s right, we can poop, pee, shower, wash our hands and dishes right from the comfort of our very own home! What had happened, evidently, was that as our house had been empty for a period of months, and despite the fact that our landlords had shut off the water line, the water company— not believing that the house could not be consuming water— continued to charge them for imaginary amounts of water consumed. Though she (the landlord) had already attempted to deal with the problem two times previously— she showed us her complaint file numbers, etc., to prove it wasn’t their fault— the water company still shut off the water late one Saturday night while Sally and I were enjoying first Sherlock Holmes (that sh*t was a lot of fun) and then some late-night sushi on the way home— without bothering to call and warn us. Great folks, those water company ass-bags. Well, we called and called, and only a little over 24-hours after we were notified we’d been put on the “urgent” list, someone bothered to come by and turn us back on.
I’m only a little bitter still about the overall experience, but it does provide some nice segue for a blog post Sally and I have been discussing for some time: things we like/don’t like about Mexico*.
* ‘Cos Sally has warned me that if I include those lists right now your attention spans would wane, I’ll post them later this week and consider it multiple posts toward my “at least once every 2 weeks rule” :).
In touch soon, dudes and dudettes--
Another weekend in Querétaro, but this one is special. It’s longgg. Well, three days long (therefore the three g’s), but still better than the usual two for me and my darling Sally. If we have one mutual complaint/disappointment thus far regarding our Mexican experience/-ment, it’s that we don’t have enough time together, but spend too much time at our respective workplaces :\. For the time being, and I think the time being for now means through Semana Santa here (Easter is stretched into a week-long vacation for most language schools and many Mexican businesses here in Catholandia), we’re just gonna keep our noses to the grindstone and get some cash saved up— I just got a raise that about doubled my former salary— and see where we want to go from there.
Some really, truly wonderfully great news since I last wrote is that my family has purchased tickets to come for a 10-day visit over the aforementioned Holy Week! I don’t know how much religionating we’ll do, but, with our meeting place in Cancún the 27th of March (the 26th for my crew), I suspect there’ll be a bit of sunbathing, pyramid ruin scoping, seafood eating and maybe even a bit of tequila imbibing ;). My dad is currently searching for rental homes in the Puerto Morelos area, and Sally and I continue with info reconnaissance from various friends and acquaintances as to what to see and do. With T-minus 56 days and counting, you could color us a little (if a bit prematurely) excited…
Another spot of good news, though this time born of utter misery, is that we, after not having it for nearly four full days, have water that comes out of our very own faucets! That’s right, we can poop, pee, shower, wash our hands and dishes right from the comfort of our very own home! What had happened, evidently, was that as our house had been empty for a period of months, and despite the fact that our landlords had shut off the water line, the water company— not believing that the house could not be consuming water— continued to charge them for imaginary amounts of water consumed. Though she (the landlord) had already attempted to deal with the problem two times previously— she showed us her complaint file numbers, etc., to prove it wasn’t their fault— the water company still shut off the water late one Saturday night while Sally and I were enjoying first Sherlock Holmes (that sh*t was a lot of fun) and then some late-night sushi on the way home— without bothering to call and warn us. Great folks, those water company ass-bags. Well, we called and called, and only a little over 24-hours after we were notified we’d been put on the “urgent” list, someone bothered to come by and turn us back on.
I’m only a little bitter still about the overall experience, but it does provide some nice segue for a blog post Sally and I have been discussing for some time: things we like/don’t like about Mexico*.
* ‘Cos Sally has warned me that if I include those lists right now your attention spans would wane, I’ll post them later this week and consider it multiple posts toward my “at least once every 2 weeks rule” :).
In touch soon, dudes and dudettes--
Monday, January 18, 2010
Elotes (Mexican Corn on the Cob)
As a girl who grew up in Nebraska, I make it a point not to eat corn from anywhere else. Once you’ve tasted those brilliant kernels of white and yellow perfection, every other corn just tastes bland in comparison and not worth the trouble of getting it stuck between your teeth. Yet sometimes, we are forced to make exceptions to our rules, as is the case when you live in Mexico and walk by street vendors who slather steaming ears of corn with mayo, cheese, lime, and chili and then serve it on a stick or scrapped into a cup all jumbled together. How could you pass that up? In Nebraska, I might have thought it sacrilege to eat corn slathered in anything but a little butter and salt and pepper, but here I figured it could only make it better, and boy howdy does it ever. The flavor is love at first bite (except when you are eating it for a second time from a strange, drunk man in a Cantina - see Anders' blog post on January 10 for the full story).
Notice how cold it is in Mexico! We are both wearing two coats and a scarf.
Elotes (Mexican corn on the cob)
Adapted from Homesick Texan
There are many ways to enjoy this treat: grilled, roasted, steamed, or broiled. You could even go the easy route and roast frozen corn. Experiment and see what works best for you.
Serves 4
4 ears of corn (or 2-3 cups frozen corn)
4 tablespoons of mayonnaise
4 lime wedges
1/2 cup of cotija cheese, crumbled (or if you prefer, Parmesean cheese)
Cayenne to taste
2 tablespoons of butter (optional: most elote that we have eaten in Mexico does not use butter, but if you prefer a creamier taste adding butter is a good option)
In an oven heated to 350 degrees, cook the corn in husk, with silk removed (no need to soak corn) for 25 minutes.
In an oven heated to 350 degrees, cook the corn in husk, with silk removed (no need to soak corn) for 25 minutes.
After taking corn out of the oven, let it cool for 5 minutes, and then pull husk layers down, leaving them attached to the base of the cob, which can act as a handle. If you want to blacken your corn, you can either put it under the broiler for five minutes on each side or hold it over your stove’s gas burner. Be careful to keep the husk away from the flames!
While warm, spread 1/2 tablespoon of butter (optional) and 1 tablespoon of mayonnaise all over the cob. Next take about an 1/8 cup of cheese, and sprinkle it on cob, then sprinkle on some cayenne pepper and squeeze the lime over the cob (the lime is the key to making this recipe pop!).
Note: Instead of using the husks as a handle, you can stick a wooden skewer into the base or scrape the corn off the cob and serve it in a bowl or cup.
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