2C 3Tbsp flour
3/4C sugar
1 tsp b powder
2 large eggs and 1 yolk
2/3C hazelnuts (blanched, whole)
3oz dark chocolate chunk
optional--citrus zest
another option--forgo nuts and chocolate, add liquor--and don't put that bottle away, keep it close, that's your friend
Preheat--350F
Combine flour, sugar, b powder in large bowl. In separate bowl, beat until just combined eggs and yolk--add to the dry ingredients and mix. Add the hazelnuts and chocolate, using your hands to combine all ingredients thoroughly until mixture forms a ball.
Transfer to clean surface and knead the mixture about 2 minutes. Divide the mixture in 2 and shape each part to a flattened log shape, about 12 inches long. Place on baking tray.
Bake for 20-25 minutes, until lightly golden and firm to touch. Remove from oven. Use a heavy, sharp knife to slice each log on the diagonal into pieces 1/2 inch thick.
Lay biscuits flat on the tray and return to the oven for further 10-14 minutes, until golden.
Cool before serving. Store in airtight container up to 1 month.
A couple of days ago Tallulah said, "Thank you for making our dinner, mom." She's talking like crazy! But she was NOT talking about this particular dinner, Thanksgiving dinner #1. The fish and chips place was closed and I ended up steaming a pile of incompatible frozen vegetables, because that was all there was, and putting raw garlic on it out of sheer spite. Even with the dateline, I just knew something was wrong. Pushing aside our half-eaten food we figured it out.
At Mt. Manganui.
(I will be writing more about our adventures once I finally finish this fiction project aka novel about New Orleans that's been dogging me for at least two years. Personal deadline is January 1.)
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Walking alongside the market in Papeete, its high-ceilinged acres, I glimpsed tiers of mangoes, unattended, on tables in the dim warmth of late afternoon. I went toward them, stopped, stood waiting for someone to appear. “Tiare!” a voice called from the shadows, and in a moment a vision burst forth, one arm upraised, fingers snapping as if the aisle between the clusters of mangoes were the runway of a Harlem drag ball. “Oui?” she inquired with a moue, a raised eyebrow, having caught all the laughter in the world, just barely. So radiant that I stumbled over my words, trying to explain that I wanted some mangoes, not too green. She chose three for me, palpating them gently, putting them into a plastic bag. As she disappeared again the way she had come, she called to me over her shoulder. “If you want them to ripen quickly,” she said, “keep them in the shadows. Les fruits mûrissent le soir." Fruit ripens at night.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Eating out of the serving bowl means fewer dishes to wash
The text of this post removed because it's now part of an essay I'm publishing elsewhere.
Monday, October 5, 2009
We anchored outside Cook's Bay a few days ago to get to some more swimmable water. We soon became a useful marker for the multitude of outrigger canoes being paddled back and forth. Moorea flora Chocki Bickis con cojones! SeaWolf prepares for tsunami. Our first warning came in the form of an odd siren that sounded like a kid trying to imitate a fire engine on his hand-me-down Casio. He had some chops but not enough to strike fear or even make us want to know more. Forty five minutes later a catamaran came racing past and yelled (in French accented English) "Dare ees a tsunami. Ees nineteh santemetares. Ees danjaruuus!" Now, if we've learned anything over the last three years of cruising it is that opinions of fellow cruisers must be taken w/ several grains of salt as they are usually given under the influence of much fire water. It was only ten AM but these people were French so I waved and made the sign of drinking and did a little staggering shuffle around the deck to show them we were in on their little joke. Just in case and because we take safety seriously on SeaWolf I looked around the anchorage and sure enough there were signs of frantic activity among many of the other boats. Hmmm. We turned on the radio. We also noted that there was no activity aboard a neighboring superyacht and nothing significant happening on shore. Better safe than sorry we decided to bail the dinghy which had filled with rain from the night before. Halfway through this operation the skipper realized we were wasting perfectly good fresh water so ordered all personnel to get into the dinghy for hair washing. Come what may, we would face it with clean hair and glowing skin--for once. This also served to distract us all and restore calm--though soap in the eyes of first mate and powder monkey caused some shouts of discomfort and fussing. By the time we were clean the channel out of Cook's Bay was thoroughly clogged with fleeing cruisers and this was about the time the tsunami was supposed to arrive. We were starting to feel pretty smug, safely at anchor in a deep bay, protected by a narrow channel far from and not facing Samoa. Soon, we heard an all-clear on the radio and rowed ashore for our daily rounds and felt lucky, once again, to be alive. Jessica says I have to say this is my (Adams) work. (can YOU spot the loophole?) We were thirsty and the sign said "sample our juice". Lots of school kids but nobody handing out juice. Disappointing.
If this is not the most beautiful packaging for canned fish we don't know what is!
It was just about perfect. We've been in La Cruz for over 4 months and I have it dialed. This is good because I checked out of the country four days ago... I'm ticking things off my list--getting them done at N American speed. I catch the bus into Puerto Vallarta and walk to my friend Hilario's shop. I've never seen it before and it's impressive. No wonder he drives a late model BMW SUV. There are two floors of lathes and milling machines. The kind of machines that, given the right raw materials and direction, can make an identical copy of themselves--I love that thought. And there's art on the walls, each piece with its own custom fabricated metal pedestal. But no HIlario, I feel a slight hesitation in my momentum but soon spot one of his workers who knows me and I wave him over. I tell Jesus what I need and he starts to tell me how they're actually not working today so I'll have to come back Monday. I hit him with a pause. "I'll be back in an hour...with lots of money." We part laughing, knowing he's not going to have it done in an hour and I'm not going to have lots of money BUT I'll have it today and he'll get paid. In an hour I spot Hilario. He's determined to drive me wherever I need to go so we're off. I ask him what's his key to finding good workers and he says his best guys are the ones who started out sweeping the floor. I file that nugget away. We stop at "Bolt World". I buy bolts, Hilario ribs the owner while the owner talks trash about Hilario to me. This is good guy fun we're having at "Bolt World." Next we have lunch, lunch transcends good guy fun--this is something. Bellied up against the sidewalk around the corner from "Bolt World" is a lunch wagon "Tortas Ahogadas" with a couple of tables spilling out into the street and a quiet crowd eating or waiting. We grab a table. Hilario says this type of torta is from Guadalajara and they're very hot though he quickly adds these aren't too hot...I think he's worried I'll disappoint him here but when we order I say I want mine like Hilario's. He looks at me and smiles, he says to the cook "he's practically Mexican." The cook doesn't seem impressed. He's in a routine. I watch him go through his moves, a deeply worn groove, no wasted movement. Rolls are hustled along a toasting rack, hunks of meat are chopped then stuffed inside, add some pickled onions and smother (ahogar them) with the special sauce. Boom. We finally have ours and I just know this is going to be really good. But the first bite is a revelation. The roll is softened with the sauce but that toasting gives it a firm center that holds up like good al dente pasta. The sauce is hot but not too hot, the bread and the meat are your friends here and keep it from overwhelming, instead it creates an atmosphere in which all the flavors and textures do their thing. The meat is prime, no dubious chewy bits, just melt in your mouth rich, smokey tender chunks. Those thin slices of pickled onion and the sauce work together to balance the richness of the meat. The whole thing works together, each element balanced and enhanced by the others. OK, so I had a great sandwich. We get back in the car, return to the shop and sure enough there's my newly machined fitting ready to go. I go through the formality of asking Hilario what I can give him for it and as usual he says "nothing." I give Jesus a goodly sum and I'm off to catch the bus back to La Cruz. The next thing I notice is a group of rowdy teenagers get on the bus I'm riding. They're heading to the beach, full of themselves and making too much noise in the back seats. Riding the bus often devolves into an experience that just needs to be endured and this ride is shaping up that way. The next stop, adding insult to injury, a mariachi steps on board. The bus riding mariachis tend to be the worst of their breed and sure enough the teenagers in the back start yipping and howling in mockery. As he makes his way past me I hear the mariachi say in a low growl "direct from Hollywood." He stations himself right in the middle of the teenagers and immediately hits some cords that sound fantastic. Over the next ten minutes he's easily won over the entire bus with the best live music I've heard in years. The crowd in the back sings along to a couple of the traditional songs and lets him loose to do the others on his own. At this point I'm glad to be sitting by the window with sunglasses on because I'm alternately sobbing and laughing at myself. I love these people. I'm really going to miss this place.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
My sister took these pictures after Lulu ate a holly berry which is poisonous and I tried to make her throw up and she started crying hard and it didn't work anyway and then my sister finally found the number and got through to Poison Control and they told her that I had just totally traumatized her for nothing because they don't prescribe barfing anymore. They said one holly berry was no big deal. And then I made a special drink in the blender and Lulu loved it and we hugged like survivors.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Pueblo Azúl A play in one act
Characters: Jessica, a white woman in her late thirties, dressed in a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless black shirt with a prominent avocado smear on one shoulder. She is never seen without Lulu, an energetic child of about a year and a half Adam, a white man, also in his late thirties, wearing a pair of paint-stained shorts and a t-shirt. Currently the family breadwinner. Rat, a medium-sized rodent Waiter, a Mexican high school student with carefully styled hair Mariachi band, enough said
Act I, Scene 1 A one-room apartment above a restaurant in a small Mexican beach town. Outside the door, laundry hangs on a line. The Beatles’ "Imagine," played at top volume, is abruptly turned off, replaced by a blast of cumbia music. Two men can be heard arguing in Spanish. The music gradually fades as light comes up on the room shared by Jessica, Adam, Lulu, and Rat.
Toys are scattered across the floor. Five beds of different sizes have been pushed up against the walls. A plastic table, of the kind used outdoors, with a single plastic chair, sits next to the refrigerator. Rat is poised on its haunches on top of the refrigerator, preparing to eat a ripe avocado with a spoon. Jessica and Lulu lie on one of the beds. Jessica is reading a detective novel aloud as she nurses the baby.
Adam enters. He places his hat and sunglasses on the table and prepares to sit. Notices Rat.
Adam: Wha—this is disgusting! Rat is eating our food!
Rat drops the spoon with a clatter and runs into the rafters. Jessica looks up.
Jessica: At least it’s not drinking our coffee.
Lulu sits up abruptly.Da!
Jessica: We missed you. Do you want a sandwich? We have cheese. Adam: Sure. Jessica: So, is it getting finished? Adam: No. Jessica: Any idea when it will be finished? Adam: Not really.
Act I, Scene 2 A room in another apartment complex in the same small town. The walls are painted an unpleasant yellowish beige. On top of a dresser a pepper grinder, a half-empty bottle of beer, and a roll of toilet paper are visible. A bed takes up much of the room. In one corner a miniature refrigerator with a small microwave bolted to the top emits a loud, variable hum.
Adam sits in a large, food-stained chair, holding a laptop computer, several pillows shoved behind his back. Jessica enters, carrying Lulu.
Jessica: What’s that smell? Do you smell something? Adam: Yeah. It’s sewage. We are right next to the sewage treatment plant. Jessica: Yeah.(Sets the baby down) Lulu: Baila, baila! (dances) Adam: So, what’d you guys do today? Jessica: We bought some organic beans at the Mega. I was thinking we could cook in the fridge—you know, like, sprouting stuff! And I found this thing that froths milk without using electricity! Adam: Uh, sounds good. Jessica: How was work? Adam: OK. Jessica: Are they making progress? Adam: Not really. Lulu: Ererehehbop? Jessica: So—how much longer? Adam: I have no idea. (Pause, then) Should we go for tacos? Jessica: Sure. Um. I’m pretty sick of tacos. Adam: Well, we could get pozole. Jessica: That’s more corn. Adam: Yeah.
Act I, Scene 3 A taqueria. Smoke from a grill billows over three plastic tables set in the street. Across the street at the bakery a child aged about two, covered with red spots, is eating a donut.
Lulu: Acos. (Notices bakery)Num! Jessica: No num. Let’s have meat. Lulu (smiles): Num!
They sit.Waiter appears.
Adam: Hola, buenas noches. Tres de asada, por favor. Jessica: Igual. Gracias. (Turns to Adam. Lulu gets down and runs toward the sidewalk. Jessica follows. Several minutes later, they return. Lulu squirms, is put down, runs away again. Jessica prepares to follow) Adam: (sotto voce) Keep her away from that kid. He has mumps or something. Jessica: What? (Disappears)
Adam remains at the table. He looks preoccupied. Several minutes later, Jessica and Lulu reappear.
Lulu: Agua! Adam: Here’s your agua. Waiter arrives, sets down plates of tacos. Algo más? Adam: No, gracias.
They begin to eat in silence. Sound from loudspeakers atop a traveling vegetable truck can be heard in the distance: Señoras de la casa, tenemos jitomates, veinte pesos por kilo, si, solo veinte pesos cada kilo. Aprovecha! (Sound fades away.)
Adam: Watch out. She’s getting salsa everywhere. Jessica: Could you pass me a napkin?
Suddenly, a mariachi band appears stage left. The guitarist strums the first notes of a song and the singer steps forward. Rat appears stage right, holding a miniature pair of maracas.
(Singing) Parece un camino laaaargo, A veces necessitas esperar. (Repeat) But as time is passing Life is passing A-pro-ve-cha! Oh, it might seem like a long road, But you know what, it’s a short life— Que agarres los cojones! (Together) Que agarres los cojones!
Adam: I didn’t know mariachis could swear. Jessica: Maybe they can’t. I just made all this up. Except for the part about the rat. Come on, let’s finish our tacos, buy a family-size Corona, and go watch the moon come up over the breakwater. (They smile at each other.)
1. A sidewalk taco stand. It’s dark. Seven-thirty or so. A girl, ten or eleven, walks up.
Girl: Tiene ceso? Cook: Sí. Girl: Dame uno de ceso and uno de cabeza, por favor.
And she waits, standing straight, looking ahead, holding her money against her chest in one hand. Then she goes off boldly into the future, fueled by brains and head.
2. A dog show. Early afternoon.
It’s at the library.
Adam: A dog show at the library? Me: I guess there are, like, grounds.
I see a big sign, “Aprende a Bailar Salsa.” There are dogs everywhere, a cacophony, the announcer shouting, “Es un dahks hund. En español, una salchicha.” Then, solemnly, “Es un hembre.” Funny how you can say “female” as a masculine noun. Tallulah is applauding, running around petting dogs. Tiny dogs and dogs with oversized skulls and strange callouses.
We enter a tent containing fowl in cages. Guinea fowl with heads like knobs, a first-grader’s art project atop narrow bodies covered in feathered pointillism. Quail, pigeons, and miniature roosters. Kids are in there at eye level with them.
A woman asks me something like, Are these being judged too or are they just here? I say something like, I have no idea.
Adam starts sneezing and Tallulah gets overexcited. Down! Down! A puppy! A puppy! she cries.
We leave and end up at Wal-Mart.
Do you have pomegranates? I ask a worker. Because they have them at the Mega this week.
Oh no, he says, shaking his head. They’re not in season.
Where did this guy come from? He needs to talk to the management about scaling back the global economy.
We board the bus and head home.
3. Near the bathroom in the yacht club is a small book exchange. Among the disintegrating paperbacks is a large leather-bound volume. The book sitting next to it is Jayne Ann Krentz’s The Family Way, or Janet Evanovich, Hard Eight, or something called Moviola, that supposedly Gore Vidal liked.
This book is The Law of Procedure, Jones’ Forms, Third Edition. It looks boring, surpassingly boring. I pick it up. The leather is soft, almost delicate. Chicago, E.B. Myers and Co., 1872, I read, lifting the cover. It’s about civil procedure in Illinois courts in the later nineteenth century, something probably no one, no student of law, no aficionado of antiquarian books, wants or needs to know anymore. It's bound in the skin of a cow brought to the Chicago stockyards from Wyoming or Nebraska, slaughtered by an immigrant with deep cuts on his hands, covered with the muck of death. Flayed maybe on a spring day when the snow was just starting to melt. It’s printed on paper made from towering pine, or fir, men pausing with their saws as the trees creak and begin to fall.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Some people write blogs that lots and lots of people read, that they even earn money writing because so many people read them and then somehow it works out that they get paid. I don't really understand it. They sell ads, maybe. If I wrote every day, today's entry would be something like: I am eating Nutella out of the jar, without even bothering to put it on anything, which seems gross. The whole thing is gross, Nutella is gross. For some reason it's available in the most understocked, out-of-the-way little grocery stores around this part of Mexico and for all I know the whole country. I'm scraping the curves of the plastic, getting out the last curls of it, feeling like my head has been hooked up to zapping electrodes for several hours. My sinuses seem to be reverberating. I am fully in the present. Past, future--equally inaccessible. This is an occasional side effect of childcare.
Christmas day, La Cruz de Huanacaxtle Christmas has gotten weirder and weirder. Now we’ve begun to collect icons: a Virgin of Guadalupe, La Guardia—a blond angel watching over children crossing a rickety bridge—an Italianate Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus with an Oración por las Familias printed on the back. Lulu, as she’s begun to call herself, bites it and says “baba, baba.” She loves pictures of other babies. We’re not feeling particularly religious, just kinda lonely.
Christmas Eve, Puerto Vallarta Walking toward the corner where we planned to meet after a spontaneous hour of Christmas shopping, in a papeleria for streamers, a candy store for bright foil chocolates and the Telas Parisina for sequined and glittery ribbon, I passed an office set into the steep hillside, faded olive green chairs in an empty waiting room, the walls covered with portraits—a lowering doctor wearing huge square glasses holding newborn twins by their feet, faces red and swollen with birth, a woman’s white, emptied abdomen at the edge of the frame. On the other side of the room was a soft, pale Jesus and a young man holding out his arms to measure a prize dorado suspended on a hook, the glistening blue bay in the distance.
December 20, Tehuamixtle I got sick, too sick to move for a couple of days. It must have been food poisoning. The evening of the third day we up-anchored and sailed toward Cabo Corrientes. We'd try to round the cape, then curve toward the top of Banderas Bay. That morning a wind began to blow hard from the north. We hove to and waited for it to change, tossing in a heaving, spray flying, churning factory of wind. On the second day we turned back. Fast through the swell toward Tehuamixtle again, the implacable drip of leaks in the deck. We went to a hotel. The room had four beds, all with bright red satin coverlets, and buckets of fake flowers rooted in sand. Next door we found Socorro cooking enchiladas and fishermen sitting in chairs overlooking the bay, watching kids bag oysters on the dock. She was padded, quiet and smiling, heating oil in a pan, pollo deshebrado marinating in chile sauce. “Socorro—what does it mean?” Adam asked. “I don’t know what it means,” she said thoughtfully. I think to myself, I looked that word up recently. We eat plates of enchiladas and sopes and drink agua de lima. “Whenever you are hungry, come and I will feed you,” Socorro tells us. Socorro—it means succor.
December 14, un restaurante de mariscos, Punta Perula La dueña and her daughter waited with me at a table under the palapa. They showed me their cross-stitch. Pillowcases--a bouquet of red roses, a pair of bluebirds. Mi Amor. They brought the finished covers out from a room behind the kitchen, smelling of mildew. Contigo duermo en el cielo. “I also made one with turkeys,” the señora tells me. “Turkeys are so beautiful.” The women tell me in Spanish the colors of the yarn—tinto, verde de caña, verde de banderas—unfurling patterns stitched while waiting for customers, watching the light on the water, boats rocking in the swell. “There was a one-eyed man who used to come here,” the old woman says. “He was from pa’alla”—up there—the curve of her fingers taking in the United States. “He came for years, but I haven’t seen him in a long time. I suppose he’s never coming back.” Love, I dream with you—stitched in the blue of the sky, above an arbor of roses, a wine-red heart.
PS sorry for the lack of visual stimuli, our camera succumbed to our gritty lifestyle and is holding our photos hostage for now.
December 9 After a full day of sailing and a night rocking on the hook, we hauled ourselves up on the beach amphibiously, ready for breakfast. Our cruising guide mentioned that the restaurant under the palapa had been founded by a Frenchwoman, conjuring images of pain au chocolat and café au lait served in bowls that fit perfectly in your cool morning hands. But at that moment it was closed. As we stood wondering, another couple walked onto the sand carrying blankets. They looked local and I strode over. The woman told me that the restaurant wouldn’t be open til lunch, but recommended the hotel across the way. While we chatted I started thinking to myself that she looked familiar. In fact, she looked exactly like Alice Walker. I didn’t remember what she’d said her name was. I didn’t even remember her telling me her name, though she must have because I remembered telling her mine. Why do I always remember saying my own name and not hearing other people’s? I went ahead and asked: what did you say your name was? Alice, she replied. Because you look exactly like Alice Walker, I said, in what I hoped was a non-invasive, relaxed kind of way. Well, she said, I am. She didn’t seem to want to get into the whole thing, and we had a nice conversation about boats and turtles and she told us that one of her names was Tallulah, which she knew to mean "basketweaver." We went and had a delicious breakfast at the hotel, and when we came back she was gone.
December 10 This afternoon the basketweaver refused to nap, preferring instead to help the groundskeeper pick alien grasses. She’s wondering what you’re doing, I said, as T grabbed a chunk of lawn and ran over to him. Oh, there is a plague, he told us, holding up a handful of leafy runners. I have to pick all these little grasses out of the lawn. In a serious tone he related that some people who'd stayed in the third casita there went out to the polo grounds, and their shoes picked up seeds that had been brought by the horses, who you know go wandering around out in the pasture god knows where. And now, he said, they might have to replace it all--this whole expanse of perfectly clipped, indistinguishable green.
What do you mean we're going sailing? rebar lounge our next dinghy in due time our new/old deflatable comes to the rescue mother/sailor/scholar more great rebar mini-me you never know what you might want after three weeks at sea hard-earned torta coco water chicozapote--pear, brown sugar and cinnamon make beautiful music together
We found a double banana in a bunch that Adam bought at our local abarrotes. Apparently they’re not uncommon. But then Armando showed Adam a triple banana. “Have you ever seen one of these?” Adam also returned home recently with a limón chichona, which means “nipple lime.” They’re unusual. You have to sort of know someone. It was green and round and very pale orange inside. It had an herbal scent, maybe a little musky, vividly citrus. Exactly like Earl Grey tea, come to think of it. I suddenly realized that this fruit was also known as bergamot. I’d never had the urge to see a bergamot, but holding it I was captivated. I wonder what other unsuspected experiences will emerge from this unforeseen life, this crossroads.
Adam met a man who dries organic fruit in solar dryers. He also collects worm pee from three different kinds of worms that he keeps in separate plastic vats and sells as fertilizer. In other containers around his yard various studies are being conducted using various worms at various stages. There was a campfire with a big vat on top of it full of brownish yellow liquid. He dipped his finger in it and told Adam that it was organic pesticide, a combination of minerals including sulfur. He assured him that when it dried it didn’t smell too bad. Leaving the yard, Adam noticed a model of a pyramidal building made mostly of glass. It was the man’s dream to construct it. He had posed action figures in different rooms. Spiderman was sitting on a toilet.
Our local coconuts Discovering a sign on a nearby house that reads (in both Spanish and English), “I am home between 2 and 4. I hope you are too” has got me wondering about the secret life of Barra. I’m looking for overgrown alleyways, rumors and misinformation. Adam comments that the largest coconut plantation in the world is right here—“I heard that somewhere.” One evening we visit his friend Armando, who lives on a dirt road at the edge of town in a shed filled with wood and tools. A profusion of basil grows up around an abandoned hatchback near the tarp that covers the entrance. The shed verges on an expanse of grass and tall coconut trees. When we arrive, Armando is out hacking down weeds with a machete to reduce the mosquito population in his living space. This evening he is given to sudden, apparently incongruous suggestions. Would we like some fresh bread—very fresh and hot? Turns out he’s heard the approach of the minivan that brings pan dulce and bolillos through the barrio. As dusk falls, we eat rolls and drink milk from plastic cups. When he was a boy, Armando worked husking coconuts—before all the turistas and jubilados (which means retired people!), coconuts were the main industry around here, and their husks were used for charcoal. Armando says that he hears coconuts fall in the night. He machetes some open for us and makes a spoon with the husk to lift out the meat. “Give me this baby and make yourselves another one,” he says tenderly as we consume our coconut, holding her posed in the crook of his arm. The conversation turns to milk, and what happens when cows get into the chiles: leche chileada. I start thinking about the possibilities. Then I wonder if the cows don’t get really uncomfortable. Armando considers the question and offers that if cows find some limes, they won’t eat just one, they will eat a whole tree. So chiles probably don’t bother them either. Later he hikes out into the green and finds the coconut he heard falling last night—a young one, right where he thought it would be.
Doors made by Armando, appreciatively documented by Adam
We're not in Canada anymore! Group cannonball Jicama asserting squatter's rights. Its continuous, notorious and hostile presence means there's a real possibility we will lose title to our fridge. Our current plan is to urge the coconut and vitamins to DO SOMETHING! A cry for help is answered. Glow-in-the-dark San Lazaro presides as an angel rushes in where fools fear to tread. Is she giving us the finger?
Monday, September 24, 2007
We return from Guadalajara on La Linea más Cómoda. The little girl in front of us keeps coughing extravagantly without covering her mouth (I never really cared about this before!) while her little brother screams. The man behind us coughs in a lower register. We don't know it yet but we're getting what they have. Somehow I feed the baby while we’re swinging down the curving highway above Manzanillo. Back in Barra, mosquitos fall on us joyfully. A hurricane passed through while we were away. We open the door and find mold growing on the bed. It’s on kitchen utensils and the big pot we cook pasta in. There are probably four different kinds of ants living in our room. I think they were all here before, but now they seem to have asserted the inevitable rights of the natural world over the veneer of human habitation. A giant black and yellow beetle and a huge spider crawl along the tiles.
Somehow a bug has drilled through this can of pineapple, acquired in Bahía Tortugas, halfway down the Baja peninsula. At the time I wondered why Adam would buy canned pineapple in Mexico. Some vestigial memory of life in western New York, where his mom bought canned pineapple at the Shurfine, and he would eat the acid sweet rings right out of the can?
And this stuff is still here. All the way from Berkeley. It sounds innocuous—Sunflower seed butter, kind of weird, but no red flags. It tastes like sweet dirt--forget that, it puts the butt back in butter, this stuff is NASTY.
We have new neighbors for a week. They're Canadian. They hang out in the palapa drinking beer and chainsmoking. I hear the woman shout at her husband, "That guy saw you and he fell on his ass laughing!" maybe ten times at the end of a long day of tequila and cerveza. Tourist Mexico at its best.
The baby keeps them up at night.
Burping is hard.
When they leave, everyone goes outside.
Except me. I've spent over a week being cooped up in this apartment because I can't figure out how to use the damn baby carriers and plus it's like a million degrees out there. I remember shortly after she had her baby my friend Kathleen said, "I just want to go to Starbucks." I really want to go to Starbucks--though downtown Barra will do.
