Friday, November 08, 2013
my cheesy past
OK. Enough of this "it's a good day to die" talk.
Let's talk, instead, about one of my favorite Mexican topics -- relationships.
Last August in is he a cypriot -- or merely a cretan?, I bemoaned the fact that I could not find halloumi cheese in Melaque. Not that I expected I could. It was almost impossible to find in Salem.
It is one of those cheeses beloved of both foodies and vegetarians --mainly because of its versatility. Even the healthitarians sing its praises.
But it was not to be found in my little fishing village by the sea. Nor in the gringo food treasure house of San Miguel de Allende. (I will confess that my search in the highlands was as about as shallow as a Justin Bieber essay on the Holocaust.)
Even my brother got into the act. He talked a local cheesemaker in Bend to take a stab at making some for my Thanksgiving visit. Blessed are the cheesemakers. And kindly brothers.
That will be weeks away. But I need crave no more. Anna, who comments here from time to time, lives a couple of blocks from my place. We share the same laguna shore.
I should say she and her husband live in Villa Obregon in the winter. In the summer, they live in British Columbia.
The two of them just arrived in town after a pleasant drive down only to discover that our neighborhood's power was out for the day. But one of the first things she did was to send me an email, while I was waiting for my dental appointment, to let me know she had brought something from Canada for me.
I had no idea what. Of course, you do. Because you can see where this story is going. And you can also read labels in photographs.
A pack of halloumi cheese. That is it. Sitting in the midst of the chorus line of vegetables that were to become tonight's salad and stir fry.
Thanks a lot, Anna. I will prepare a spinach salad with halloumi in your honor later this week. I guess that will be tomorrow.
And even though I was not going to talk any more about matters of the heart, I will let you know I am serious about getting back into the kitchen. Here is my proof.
Thursday night's dinner. A stir fry of vegetables, chicken, and a greatly modified hoisin sauce over a small serving of penne pasta. And what I call a summer salad -- tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions with a drizzle of rice vinegar, sprinkled with basil and oregano.
This is the type of meal I ate when I first moved to Villa Obregon. It is about time that my past got back to the future.