I love popcorn. It is the one snack I have allowed myself, now that I have given into the nagging of the food fascists.
Popcorn requires two major components. Good popping corn. And an even-better popping kettle.
Over five years ago, I told you how disappointed I was with the quality of the popping corn in Melaque (popping memories). Once popped, it looked and smelled like popcorn, but tasted like packing material.
Several of you told me I must have bought an old bag of corn. The defenders of the local product claimed Mexican popping corn was usually of the highest quality. After all, it all started here. Corn, that is.
It turns out the commenters were correct. My subsequent forays into the world of Juan Redenbacher have resulted in popcorn that is as good as any I have eaten -- even at my grandmother's house.
And that brings me to my popping kettle -- the subject of this little essay. When I moved south, I brought along a set of high quality pots and pans that my employer purchased as a retirement gift. After all, what use would I have with a watch in Mexico? And I knew that the odds of finding quality cookware in Melaque was about as good as finding temperate weather at the beach.
The pots are great. The one I selected to pop up my corn is the perfect size to produce a one-person bowl of snacking pleasure.
Of course, no story is told unless the writer is willing to add a bit of tension. It came in the form of the glass lid having a hard date with the kitchen tiled floor. The floor was unscathed. The lid shattered into a myriad of shards that I still find from time to time.
I thought that was the end of my popping kettle. But, as luck would have it, I had noticed a glass lid to a long-ago deceased round Corning Ware bowl. It was the perfect size for the kettle.
Better yet, its transparency reminded me of the electric popper at my grandmother's house. It is not often that utility and nostalgia vacation together.
That union lasted about two years. Until early Thursday last week -- while I was rushing in the early morning to get on the road to Guadalajara. Dishes needed to be put away. As I moved the popcorn kettle to the lower shelf, the glass lid slid off and had the same date with the same kitchen tiled floor. With the same result. There were not as many shards, but the lid has now served up its last snack.
Mexicans are well-known for improvising -- just as I did with the replacement glass lid. So, off I went through the shops in my little fishing village seeking a reasonable replacement for either lid. Nada. And then to the tianguis -- a weekly market that can best be described as a garage sale on steroids. Nada.
Somewhere there is a single lid in Mexico looking to hook up with a kettle that enjoys walks on the beach in the rain and listening to Kenny G albums.
Until I act as the perfect matchmaker, I will truly improvise. And that is why you are looking at a photograph of a plate atop my pot. Dora, the woman who cleans my house, offered the perfect Mexican solution.
I suspect the popcorn will taste good despite the kettle's Rube Goldberg heritage.
One of my favorite internet pastimes is to lurk on Mexican message boards -- just for the fun of reading what some people write.
And I am seldom disappointed in some of the gems I find in the usual dross of complaints about roosters, church bells, and loud music.
Yesterday offered up an uncut diamond that still has me chuckling. A British psychologist is on her way to Pátzcuaro, and she has announced to one and all that she is willing to offer her services "1:1" -- a code that usually shows up primarily on paid dating sites.
I am not certain what the good doctor's true name is, but the information was posted by one "Pammie Willis." I kid you not. So, for the sake of this essay, let's just call her Dr. Pammie.
And, because Mexpatriate is a forum where everyone is allowed her say, let's turn the floor over to Dr. Pammie and let her have it. "Her say," that is. After all, this is a kind and gentle site.
By the way, I have made no change in either the grammar, sentence structure, or spelling that Dr. Pammie chose to use in introducing herself to all of us.
Hola!
I'm a Psychologist from the UK and I'm going to be living in Patzcuaro for 6 weeks from 15th August to 27th September.
As a psychologist I work with adults and anyone involved in the lives of children and young people to learn to grow and to change. I provide psychological, advice, tools and counselling to help you make the changes for a healthier, happier and more fulfilled life.
I currently work online but if anyone wanted to access this service 1:1 in person then please contact me at: [there is an email address here, but you don't think I am going to pass it on, do you, after what you have read so far?] to discuss further details.
My Qualifications include:
Doctorate in Psychology
BSC (Hons) Psychology
Certificate in Counselling
Level 1 Narrative Therapy
Studied as part of my Doctorate and applied knowledge of:
Psychological Consultation
Motivational Interviewing
Solution Focused Therapy
Approaches in Human Givens counselling
Personal Construct Psychology
Restorative Approaches
Cognitive Approaches to Learning
Narrative Approaches
Person Centred Planning
Registered with Health and Care Professionals Council UK
Practitioner Psychologist
Registration Number: PYL25109
I did not post a response on the message board. But, if I had, it would have gone something like this.
My dearest Dr. Pammie --
We are all so thrilled that you have announced your plans to come live in Pátzcuaro for six weeks. Most people would call that a visit, but, by reading your message, I can understand why someone with such earnest breathlessness would consider six weeks to be a long, long time. Almost like becoming absolute best friends with everyone -- and I mean everyone -- who lives there.
From your message (with its drifting from third to second person and its haphazard spelling), I am going to assume that English is not your first language. But, don't worry. Pátzcuaro is in Mexico -- and English is the first language of only a handful of people.
I mention that Pátzcuaro is in Mexico because you may be in for a rude awakening. If I understand your quaint rambling style, you are a psychologist, and you are seeking paying clients for your particular style of therapy.
You would think that Mexico would be ground zero for psychologists. After all it is the Kingdom of the Oedipal Complex. (I capitalized those nouns because you seem to enjoy that sort of thing.)
Fathers regularly tell their sons that they will not amount to anything. And mothers tell their sons that they are perfect princes, unlike their scoundrel fathers. (Families here try not to leave any brooches lying about the house.)
Here's the problem for you, though, dear Dr. Pammie. Mexico is a country based on relationships. People have families and friends who they actually talk with and share their problems. I guess you would call that "Narrative Approaches" in your particular patois.
Unlike the the developed world (where everyone is called a "friend," but hardly any are), Mexicans do not need to waste their time and money on therapy. In Canada and the United States (and I suspect in the exotic land of the UK -- which really has a full name and does not need to go by a nickname), people used to pour their hearts out to family or friends -- or even bartenders. But the only people who accepted money for their advice were the nice young women you would find under street lights at night.
Come to Pátzcuaro. Enjoy your time there. It is a great place to visit. But if you are planing on raking in the moola, the Mexican immigration folks may have something to say about that. They are likely to pack you back into your snake oil wagon and send you back to Dear Old Blighty.
I hope you have an enjoyable trip.
With best wishes, I am
As always,
Dr. Stevie
PS You do not need to respond. I know my readers. I am about to get a "talkin' to." And that is better than any therapy in the world.
That is what I thought the headline would be in either today's or tomorrow's post.
But, running the danger of ruining my own narrative, it is not to be. The headline is a sham.
Let me explain.
Last March I let you in on a little bit of my financial life. (driving miss barra) I had put an offer on a house -- using all of the proceeds I received from the sale of my house in Salem. But it was not to be. The owner countered with a reasonable offer, but I had nothing more to put on the table.
That was too bad. Both my brother and I really liked the house. But I was willing to let it go.
That is, until my visit to Bend in July. My brother and sister-in-law listed their ranch, and almost immediately sold it. Within a year and a half, they would be on their way to Mexico.
And then the worst thing that happened while I was there -- my mother suffered a home invasion. (COPS comes to bend) She is a cool character. But her house no longer offers the security she once thought it did.
As luck would have it, my original proceeds from the sale of my Salem house had grown -- along with the rest of the stock market over the year. And a retirement account had matured.
I checked with the owner of the house in Barra de Navidad to see if it was still on the market. It was. But he had accepted a contingency offer from a couple -- with a 48 hour right of first refusal.
Earlier this week, I made my offer. The buyer accepted. I was positive I was on my way to being a home owner in Mexico.
I checked on changing my postal box. Transferring the telephone (and getting better internet service in the bargain). Notifying Immigration of my new address. Scheduling weekly movie nights in the spacious living room. And discussing the possibility of hiring a well-known decorator (at least, well know to some of you).
But the big step was setting up my bank and investment accounts to make the transfer of funds (fortunately, all within The States) as easy and quick as possible.
After spending two days getting my house-owner mojo on, I received news yesterday afternoon that the couple who held the contingency offer were excising their right of first refusal. This house simply was not to be mine.
Oddly, I am not really disappointed. I would have been happy to own the place. It is a real beauty, and I congratulate the new owners. They should really enjoy it.
And as for house hunting? It will go back on hold. Darrel and Christy will not be here for another 18 months or so. And Mom is making her own plans.
By the time we are all of one mind in one place, the house-hunting could occur in a part of Mexico far away from the heat and humidity. But that is a tale that waits telling.
As many of you know, I have a tendency to let typos slip into my work. And several of you have been very helpful in calling them to my attention.
Correcting them does matter. After all, the message conveyed with "brother," instead of "bother," is quite different. Even though some claim not to see the difference. I do. My sainted brother is never a bother.
Apparently, the United States Postal Service has joined the copy editor's union. Or so it would seem from the sole piece of mail in my postal box yesterday.
About a month ago, I mailed a birthday card to my aunt who lives in Oregon. Yesterday, it was back in my box with a helpful note from the US Postal Service: "No such address exists."
I have written that address on cards and letters for 40 years. I knew it existed. That it stills exists.
Then I saw it. Rather than writing the street address as "Wasco," I had written "Waco." Everything else was correct. Her name. The house number. The town. The state. Even the zip code.
But that missing "s" was enough to flummox the ability of our automated and unionized delivery service to determine if there is no "Waco" street, there might possibly be another very similar street name that matches up with the rest of the information on the envelope.
Rather than try a little logic, the postal service shipped it all the way back to Mexico for me to add the errant "s." Just to prove that I commit writeos as well as typos.
You probably know what I am going to say next. And you would be correct. If my aunt had made a similar mistake in my Mexican address, the guys at the local post office here in Melaque would get the envelope to me.
I know that because it has happened. In fact, I told you about it in post haste. All three of the postal clerks were in the office when I took my aunt's card back to them. And we had a good laugh about the difference between the two systems.
The biggest difference, of course, is that I live in a community of 8000 people where the postal employees know the people who live here. With a name and a city, a piece of mail will find its rightful home.
So, Aunt Naomi, your birthday card is on its way to you. By the time it gets there, it will have earned enough frequent flyer miles for a trip to Hawaii on Alaska. But the greetings will still be as warm.
Some tales bear repeating. Even if they have not been told the first time.
I am getting to that age where I regularly pepper my speech with "I may have told you this before." It is one of those self-deprecating defenses: I will say it before someone deflates my tale with "Oh, yeah. You've told that one several times."
I thought I was going to be put in that position for today's story. But a quick search of Mexpatriate (using the very handy search engine at the upper left) reveals that this is a new story for you all. Except for the people who have sat through it in person.
It involves one of my favorite pies. Banana cream pie, to be exact. But a little context first.
Last evening, my friends Ed and Roxanne rode over to La Manzanilla with me to experience another of Alex's dining experiences at Cafe de Flores. I saw on our local message board that one of her featured desserts was Old School Banana Pudding. You can probably see why it interested me.
And it was everything I could want. Homemade pudding in a small mason jar with fresh bananas, thin Mexican cookies, and whipped cream. Everything bite was perfect. And best of all, it triggered a raconteur's tale for the assembled diners.
A couple of years before I moved to Mexico, I drove over to the local Marie Callender's restaurant to buy a pie. Don't be shocked if I tell you it was banana cream.
Back in those golden days, I did most of my reading and eating in my hot tub. This was to be no exception.
In my world, there are four servings in a pie. When it comes to pie I like, a piece can never be too large.
So, off I went to the hot tub with my large portion of creamy pie. I suspect it survived for only a few minutes. Back into the house I went to dole out another serving -- and to brew a cup of Constant Comment tea.
It too disappeared quickly. I took the empty plate back into the kitchen to leave it in the sink. But the third piece called out to me. And I gave in. That piece lasted me much longer than the previous two.
When I came into the house to finally get rid of the plate, it occurred to me that no one leaves that last piece of pie in a pan. Too often it simply goes uneaten. And that is the veritable definition of a shame. But not that night. It went on my plate.
I do not recall just how long it took me to work my way through the final piece. But I can remember that the last two or three bites did not go down smoothly. It was more like tamping down a wad in a pirate cannon. But I was not to be denied my bragging rights for eating a full pie in one sitting.
Would you be surprised if I told you I could not look at a banana cream pie for sometime without feel a bit nauseous? Thinking about it now, I am not certain I have eaten any since then.
Well, until last night. And it was a great lesson. No matter how I try to indulge in aversion therapy, I will never be a Skinnerian. Not that I would want to be.
Not only did I relish my little banana cream faux pie, I also received a hot tip on where I can buy some fresh cherries locally.
Life is good. And delicious.
Some tales in Mexico have a long storyline. My FATCA adventure is such a tale.
Almost two months ago, I heard from a fellow blogger that my BANAMEX USA account in Los Angeles would be closed on 1 July -- for no stated reason. He had received the news by certified letter.
I received nothing. But, after calling the bank, I discovered my account was on the hit list, as well. On 1 July, my account would be a dead letter. The only live letter would include a cashier's check in dollars sent to Mexico to close out any balance.
As it turned out, the bank allowed a very brief extension. I am glad it did because it gave a home for a misdirected pension check and two credit card payments that did not meet the change-of-bank notice. Out of crisis comes some good.
Even though I would have preferred the bank to send the cashier's check to my northern bank, all went well. When I returned from Guadalajara on Saturday evening, Lupe, the neighbor who I accompanied to Mexico City earlier this year on a medical mission, excitedly brought a DHL envelope to me. DHL had left it with her. Inside was the check. In dollars.
Checks denominated in US Dollars are a problem these days in my area of Mexico. No one will accept them or cash them. Not even Banamex, where I have an account. Even if I wanted the cash in pesos.
I was going to attach a deposit slip for my northern bank to the check and send it north with a friend -- even though it is a sizable amount. An amount high enough to raise eyebrows at the border.
But I then dredged up a memory piled underneath a stack of old magazines and a half-eaten pizza in my noggin. ("Noggin" is one of those words that we Powers boys like to use now and then to wash off the taint of faux sophistication we acquire when quoting Tom Stoppard witticisms.)
A couple of years ago, I was looking for a way to quickly deposit a check. Someone told me I could do it with my telephone. As it turned out, I never needed to try it. But this check provided the perfect opportunity.
By sheer coincidence, I received two reimbursement checks from my military medical insurance carrier. (You may recall in tsunami alert last May that I despaired of ever getting reimbursed for my prescription costs because Mexican pharmacies do not provide all of the numbers insurers like to receive. I was wrong. Tricare came through after a three month wait.)
I had already installed an application from my northern bank on my telephone. A quick look through its menu proved that my memory was not faulty. There it was. Detailed instructions on how to deposit a check in my bank account -- using only my telephone.
All I needed to do was to endorse the back of the check, and then use the application and the camera in my telephone to create images of the front and back of the check. After filling out the amount of the deposit, I was to hit the "deposit" button on the screen, and the money would show up in my account.
I am a big believer in the convenience of technology. But I will confess I approached this project with a bit of trepidation. After all, I still think of depositing checks as involving a smiling teller and a bit of paper, pen, and ink.
So, I started with the smallest check. It worked perfectly. I probably took no more than 40 seconds to complete the process. The second and third checks took even less time once I knew the steps.
And sure enough, when I checked online, the amounts were in the accounts I selected. It almost seemed too good to be true.
I suppose all of you are wondering what popped into my head while I was so conveniently stuffing money into my American bank account. Why can I do what Mexican banks are now refusing to do?
Well, the answer is that I do not need to deal with the nonsense of the FATCA reporting requirements. If I do not pay taxes on the amounts deposited (there are no taxable events associated wit any of the checks), my bank will be a not-so-silent partner of the IRS in ratting me out.
But, for the moment, I am a happy bank customer. A sentence I have not written during these past three FATCA-scarred months.
And this hunter returns bearing quarry.
One of my major reasons for visiting Guadalajara was to obtain extra pages for my passport. You know the story. I am heading to Red China in April. No empty passport pages will result in no visa.
When I contacted the American consulate in Guadalajara about the procedure, I was told I did not need an appointment for extra pages. All I needed was a completed application form, my passport, and $82 (US).
The fact that I now have a Lane Bryant size passport is evidence enough that all went well. Handing over everything took less than a half hour. I then returned in the afternoon to pick up the finished product.
That was the boring (even though fulfilling) part of the trip. The part that made for a good tale was the security.
Let me start with several givens. There are evil people in the world who would like to do some rather nasty things to any property that represents the United States of America. Just think Benghazi.
And nothing in Guadalajara represents the United States more than the American consulate.
As a result, the place looks like a medium-security prison with its protective walls, fences, and concertina wire. When I buzzed at the window of the security shack, I felt as if I was about to visit one of my homicide clients.
I flunked fist contact. Because I did not have an appointment, I was told to leave -- until another guard brought out a form. He also told me that I could not take my backpack inside -- or anything electronic. I would have to leave all of my electronics in my car -- that was parked on the street.
I completely understood. Benghazi.
So, I stuffed my goodies in the Escape and returned to the building with only the contents of my pockets and my application materials. The only annoyance was sitting and waiting with nothing to read and no ability to start writing up this tale.
It wasn't until Kim and I returned for my passport that I noticed the sign* at the top of this post. It is on the fence in front of the consulate. I missed it because I was caught in a downpour when I arrived, and reading signs was not high on my to-do list.
Please remember, I know the importance of security. But take a close look at that sign. Unlike airports that prohibit dangerous objects, the good bureaucrats at the State Department have decided to ride their regulatory horse off in another direction. The legalistic list.
Firearms and sharp items, I understand. And electronic devices have been used as beards for explosive devices. Probably a smart call.
But you get the idea that some soul with a sensitive nose was given too much power. Perfume. Cologne. Cosmetics. Now, it is possible that the sign is not referring to items actually worn by visitors. But it certainly does not say that.
Umbrellas? Well, the KGB was known to poison defectors with poison balls shot from an umbrella stem.
And toys? The very thing that a mother needs to distract a 4-year old during long hours of waiting. Of course, the Russians were well-known for dropping explosive-laden stuffed toys in Afghanistan to terrorize the population.
But books and magazines? Maybe the consulate was afraid people would turn their DMV-inspired waiting room into an annex Christian Science reading room.
Or gel pens? What about regular ball point pens? Or my fountain pen that could easily be turned into a stabbing weapon that is easily driven into the brain?
And no medication? Except for one pill. Would that be the cyanide pill that all agents are supposed to carry with them?
Here is the great irony. I went through the security machines twice. Both times I brought in my automobile remote control and my house keys. Both of them strictly prohibited. And none of the guards said a thing.
There are enough absurdities in the sign for each of us to have our own little piece of pie. And I suppose some of us will.
As an American, I find the sign embarrassing. And it is mostly embarrassing because it reflects a growing governmental trend that circumstances can be controlled to desired ends. But that is just not how life works.
I thought of driving past the consulate and pelting it with gel pens. Partly out of curiosity. They must be far mightier than I thought.
At least, I am going to Red China. Or, I was, until I posted this.
* -- By photographing the sign, I disobeyed another sign that prohibits photographs of the consulate. Of course, the IRS has no problem in deleting email in violation of the law. I an see my defense developing now.
