prickly dessert

I just looked back at my last few posts.  A casual reader would assume I am a food obsessive.  And a quick look at my girth might confirm the assumption.


I’m not.  Or, I don’t think I am.  I am merely starting to get back into a normal meal rhythm.


For the past year, I have not been cooking for myself on a regular basis.  Eating, yes.  Cooking, no.


The six months I was in Oregon, I ate almost every meal either at the company cafeteria or in a restaurant.  When I returned to Mexico, I kept up the same habit.  I ate at least two meals a day at local places to help keep the tourist economy rolling.


But when I returned from my cruise, I discovered I would need to change my eating plans.  Most of the places where I ate are either closed until next November or have reduced their days of operation.  And thus my hunt for ham and cherries and other bits of exotica to spruce up my own cooking.


Some of that exotica is close to home.  At home, in fact.


There are several fruit trees in my back yard.  Limes.  Bananas.  Mandarin oranges.  Sour oranges.  Fruits I have known most of my life.


But there is one that I have been waiting for almost a year to taste.  A guanábana.  One of Mexico's gifts to the rest of the tropical world. 


It is an odd tree.  Spindly with huge fruit.  As if Twiggy had elected to sport a Mae West look.


During the past month, I have watched two guanábana fruits weigh down a single limb – almost to the breaking point.  Yesterday, the largest was on the ground.  In a single day, it had gone from unripe hard to as soft as a full diaper.


I broke it in half and gave a portion to my land lady.  Inside is a white pulp filled with an incredibly fragrant nectar (somewhere between apple and banana – think Juicy Fruit gum).


I pulled out the pulp of my portion and stored it in the refrigerator.  I grab a piece now and then.  It is simply too taste-explosive to eat a lot at a time.  But it is now one of my favorites.


The other large guanábana fruit is now under a daily food watch.

fruit flies down the throat

I forgot to mention yesterday I did find something unexpected at Costco.  Something I would be searching for if I was north of the border.


My one true vice.  The reason I look forward to summer every year. 


Cherries.


After my ham disappointment, I wandered into Costco's cold storage area.  Hoping against hope I could find something to replace my lost trophy.  In truth, I was probably reliving some experience of being turned down for a date by a cheer leader, so, I decided to ask for a date from the prettiest girl in the class.


And maybe that was it.  Some form of high school redemption.  Because right up front was a stack of California cherries.  Not a stack.  Stacks.  Indiana Jones could have not felt a greater tingle in his fingertips.


I grabbed my prize and headed to the cashier.


In Oregon, I had a tradition of eating just a few of the cherries on my drive home.  I am not a fanatic about washing fruit before I eat it.  But dirt and various vermin parts tend to find their way into stored produce.  So, I like to, at least, rinse them off before I pop them in my mouth.


But I love cherries enough that I have invented the Drive Home Rule.  I can safely eat cherries, without washing them, if I eat them on the drive home.  After all, I eat them fresh off of the tree -- when I can.


That is fine when I lived fifteen minutes from Costco.  I now live four hours away.


The photograph at the top of this post is exactly how many cherries I had left in the container when I pulled into Melaque.  Three pounds of cherries down the gullet.


And I do not begrudge myself the experience.


Probably because I bought a second container of dark cherries and a smaller one of Rainiers.  They are going to be rationed a bit more than yesterday’s feast. 


The cost?  About $16 (US) for each of the dark cherry containers and $10 (US) for the Rainiers.


But worth every centavo.

buying my soul at wholesale

I had all sorts of plans for my drive back to Melaque from Puerto Vallarta on Saturday.


Stops at little beaches.  Lunch in a new restaurant.  And some ham-enriched beans when I returned home.


Nice dreams.  Maybe one day they will.  But that day was not Saturday.


One of the joys of Puerto Vallarta is Costco.  I am not certain why I get so excited about the prospect of shopping at a big American-oriented warehouse.  I almost never find find what I would like to buy.  But isn’t that true of a lot of our lives?


This trip my list was short.  I needed a new backup drive for my computer.  My current backup is almost full.  I need to transfer my photograph files to the current backup because my C drive is almost full, as well.  Two birds.  One drive.


I found exactly what I needed.  A 3 terabyte backup.


But I may be in the market for a new computer.  The wireless adapter in my lap top is not working.  That was the first symptom of my last computer as it began its death spiral.


I may need to break out the black crepe.


The other item on my shopping list was a hunk of ham.  I want to add chunks of pork butt to my home-cooked beans.


And it should be an easy request to fill.  Or so I thought.  Not even Costco had whole hams.  All kinds of sliced ham.  Even ham steaks.


Then I saw it.  A foil-wrapped ham – with its bone.  I grabbed it as if it was the Holy Grail – until I read the package.  Spiral cut.  Merely a variation on a theme.


For now, I am laying down my ham quest.  Sliced ham will have to do – while I serve death watch on my lap top.

big top on the beach

I am in The Big City.  The Pride of Banderas Bay.  Home of the Tourist Bull Ring.  The Big V.  Puerto Vallarta.


My friends, Lou and Wynn, were headed to the airport on Friday morning, so, I volunteered to drive them up.  Going to airports is one of my favorite pursuits.  I always feel like I am beginning a new chapter of life when I pull away from the terminal.


When a country boy like me comes to the big city, there are lots of things to accomplish.  Eating.  Movies.  Shopping.


My prime reason for coming up here was to go to Costco.  I wanted to look for some computer gear – and to buy a ham (if such luxuries exist).  In checking my wallet, I notice I left my Costco card in Villa Obregon.  I think I can get a temporary card when I stop by on Saturday morning.


Friday night was movie night.  Cinemex has a great multiplex theater in the Liverpool shopping center.  I never quite feel as if I am in the States when I go there.  But it certainly is more uptown than my little fishing village.


Lou and Wynn stopped by the theater with me before I dropped them off at the airport.  The offerings were about what I would have anticipated.  Pirates of the Caribbean 4.  X-men 15 (or so).  The first I had seen.  The latter will continue to be an enigma to me.


When Lou and Wynn saw one poster, they immediately recognized it:  Water for Elephants.  Both of them had read the novel and highly recommended it.


So, I returned – with a bit of misgivings.  It looked like the ultimate date movie.  Pretty leading lady (Reese Witherspoon).  Wispy leading man (Robert Pattinson of vampire fame).  And the Prince of Twilight himself – Christoph Walz – who seems to get the roles Christopher Walken would play as a younger man.


A lot of my doubts disappeared with the movie’s setup.  Through odd circumstances, a veterinary student, with the world on a string, ends up working in a circus and quickly discovers that poverty is not always the result of character flaws. 


Now, I know the film is not about vets and circuses.  It is merely a dramatic device.  In the same way that The Iliad is not about the Trojan War.


But, those of you who have been reading this blog for anytime will know this movie is my life dream.  I wanted to be a veterinarian so I could earn enough to buy a circus.


The team that put this film together got everything right – as far as emotions are concerned.  The thrill of the big top canopy straining its way to meet Old Glory on the center pole.  The giddiness of the opening parade with its band and unlikely acts.  The wonder of airborne acrobats twisting and turning as if gravity had no control on such elven creatures.


If that sounds a bit schmaltzy, it is.  And the movie serves it up – one heavy dumpling after the next.


But it has no apologies for being a sentimental piece.  The tragedy of the human condition is the underlying drum beat.  Evil and good are presented without any subtle nuances getting in the way of hankies dabbing leaky eyes.


Will you learn anything about yourself after watching the film?  I doubt it. 


But the cinematography is a wonder.  The acting is above average.  And it has an elephant.  For me, an elephant will cover a multitude of cine-messes.


And you may discover that there are a few tears still left in you – no matter how much you rail against rank sentimentality.  And that may as good a reason to go to the movies as any I can think of.

sand gets in my eyes

“The foolish man built his house upon the sand.”


So goes the old Sunday school song.  And as are many of the lessons we learned on Sunday mornings, it is true.  Some of my neighbors are discovering it to their cost.


For the past two weeks, the Pacific Ocean around Melaque has been restless.  High tides.  Ill-tempered waves.  The sea has been high enough for ocean water to crash into the laguna.  Maybe that is why my crocodiles have been AWOL.


We are entering summer in these parts.  For most people up north, it would have felt like summer for well over a month.  Our temperatures and humidity are rising fast enough to keep our professional status as “tropical” intact.


Summer means rain.  Storms.  Lightening.  Thunder.  Hurricanes.  And the rising surf that moviegoers have come to associate with watery disasters.


But the storms haven’t started yet.  And there is no rain.  Just an ocean that seems to be in need of a good dose of Depakene.


In the summer, the wave activity in Melaque is heavy enough to erode the beach – leaving what looks like a model of half the grand canyon.  They are not the cliffs of Dover, but they are over 6 feet high.

 

Their height is not the problem.  The problem is that as the beach erodes in this bizarre form of double-entry columns, the sand gets very near to the fences the beach home owners have designated as their property lines.


If the waves push the sand back a few more yards, there will be fence posts and fencing mixed in with the migrating sand.


But that has not been the worst of this year.  On Thursday night, I had dinner with Lou and Wynn in Barra de Navidad.  While we were waiting for our dinners to arrive, I wandered down to one of the town’s new tourist sites.

That building once housed the tourist police office.  The “we speak English” sign on the front seems a pathetic plea for help.


The back of the building was built on the sea wall.  But a small leak developed under the wall, washed all of the sand away, and toppled the building onto its side.  Leaving it with the appearance of a tipped cow.


But that building is not the only potential victim of the sea.  A little to the west, another building has lost a good deal of the sand under one side.  Nothing is being done to prevent any further erosion.  Maybe the powers that be have decided the diagnosis does not look good – it is time to set back and let nature take its course.

If we are seeing this type of damage this early in the season, I am curious what the place will look like when we start receiving our tropical storms.


You can bet I am going to watch the level of the laguna as the seasons erodes its way through the calendar – and the beach.

stretching the chicken

One of my favorite meals in Mexico is pollo asado – grilled chicken.


At least once a week, I stop at pollo Kamilan to buy one of their char-grilled chickens and two bags of prepared rice. 


The full meal usually includes tortillas, cole slaw, and salsa.  But I simply do not need them to meet my chicken need.  The full meal costs 85 pesos.  They charge me 80 pesos for my reduced fare.


My usual preparation is to tear the chicken off of the carcass and mix it with the rice and some cooked onion.  It is a fast and tasty noon meal.  And lasts for at least three servings – or more.


This week I decided to try something a bit different.


I have used left over chicken in the past to augment my Mexican red rice recipe – a recipe I originally received from Bliss, and have subsequently modified   Instead of making my own, I decided to use Kaliman’s rice and try a short cut.

 

I sautéed carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and jalapeño peppers in olive oil.  When they were almost cooked, I added some tomato sauce, and allowed the mixture to simmer.


Then I added the rice, the chicken, and some fresh oregano. 


The whole process took less than a half hour, and I had quick Mexican red rice with chicken.  (I suspect it would taste just as good without the chicken for you vegetarians out there.)


There was only one taste drawback.  I forgot that Kaliman, like most Mexican restaurants, adds a lot of butter to its rice.  And Mexican butter has a very distinct flavor.  One that cannot be masked by chili peppers.


It was good, though.  And the butter taste had disappeared from my first left over serving.  I will try it again whenever I am in a rush. 


But nothing beats Mexican red rice cooked slowly with fresh ingredients.

posting my life

I feel the roots starting to grow between my toes.


It seems each time I return to Melaque, I become more a part of this little beach community.  My three tasks on my walk into town Tuesday morning were perfect examples.


My first stop was my doctor.  She is treating me for an eye infection (I will write about that in a later post).  We talked about our work on the Indian school, her upcoming trip to Canada, her husband's visit to Salem, and updated each other on some common acquaintances.  The type of conversation I would have in any small town where I was part of the community.


I then stopped at the post office.  As you know, I use a mail service in Manzanillo.  I started using it over two years ago when I moved down in the belief I would get my magazines delivered to me in a timely fashion. 


That was not to be.  My magazines take at least two to three weeks to end up in my box.  You can imagine my recent horror when I belatedly discovered Archduke Ferdinand had been assassinated. 


Having the box in Manzanillo means driving two hours each week simply to get my mail.  Plus it costs me – well, a lot.


I decided it was time to get a post office box in Melaque.  All I needed was a copy of my visa and a utility bill showing my address plus 200 pesos for the 2011 rental and 25 pesos for my key.


I stopped by Monday morning to drop off the paperwork.  Because the postmaster was not in, the clerk asked me to return on Tuesday.  When I did, my paperwork was fully prepared for signature.  All I needed to do was pay my fees.


Not only did it make me feel like a part of the community (After all, what can be more a part of the community than stopping by the local post office?), but I successfully conducted the transaction in Spanish (with a little bit of help from a customer who got a good laugh out of my mistaken use of a private body part when I meant to say "year").


With my key in hand, I addressed an envelope and mailed my first letter from my new post office.  It gave me a sense of place.


I was then off to my favorite grilled chicken spot: pollo kaliman.  There may be better grilled chicken in town, but I like talking with the young couple who run the little stand.  Neither of them can speak English, so my conversation with them is very limited.


Until Tuesday.  The wife was there on her own, but she was pleased to see me.  Wanted to know where I had been.  Asked questions about my cruise.  Exchanged pleasantries about the oppressive weather.


In the past, I would have allowed my fear of not being able to communicate to get in my way of trying.  For whatever reason, I found the words I needed, and I could understand most of what she told me.


As I walked home with my chicken and rice trophies, I thought back over each of my encounters.  I talked with people on a personal level in a language we could both understand.  But it also underscored my need to get back to studying my Spanish lessons.


What felt best of all was the sense of belonging.  Of being in a place where I should be at this point of my journey.  That the tale I am living is one that may be worth telling.