me and mini-me

I have a favorite drink in Mexico. The Snappy Steve.

While I was in the Air Force in the 1970s, I developed a taste for Ortega's Snap-E Tom, a highly-chilied tomato drink. It was a great way to kick start the morning.

But, like many foods of my twenties, it simply disappeared. If I remember correctly, it was bought out by Del Monte foods. A tomato drink under that name is still marketed, but it is a pale imitation of the fire-in-a-can I knew during the 1970s.

So, I have improvised. And Mexico gave me a head start. There is a drink here called a michelada, whose foundation is close to a Snap-E Tom. Clamato. Tabasco. Lime juice. Worcestershire sauce. Magi.

Unfortunately, it also contains beer. And none of that is going in my mouth.

For a couple of years I have been experimenting with variations on the drink. If I have time, I will grill serranos, tomatoes, and onions, and blend them, to spice up the Clamato. Most often, though, I simply pour a three-quarter glass of Clamato, and add the juice of five limes, twenty dashes of Worcestershire sauce, a shot of soy sauce, and twenty-five dashes of Tabasco. This is not a doing-by-halves beverage.

It is almost as good as the original. Since the good name of Snap-E Tom is tarnished, mine is Snappy Steve, as an homage to a dead treat. Three restaurants here now have it down to an art form for me.

Yesterday I had everything in the glass except the Tabasco. At about the thirteenth dash, the bottle died. The well was dry.

But, I need not worry when it comes to Tabasco. There are usually one or two backup boxes in the pantry.

When I took the new box off of the shelf, I heard a sound that no customer likes to hear. The sound of glass hitting glass. In most cases, it means the bottle in the box is broken.

Not this time. There was no liquid trickling out of the box. What did come out of the box was a 355-ml bottle of original Tabasco sauce clad in its distinctive Mexican colors (though it is manufactured in Louisiana) -- fully intact.

The "broken" glass noise was caused by the second resident of the box. A 3.7 ml of the McIlhenny Company's "newer" sauce -- green pepper. Hardly enough for a single serving.

But there was enough in the new big bottle to fill out my Snappy Steve yesterday.

Before I fly off to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon, I may try using that little bottle as an addendum to tomorrow's Snappy Steve. After all, I need to finish off that jug of Clamato.

Because I have no idea when, or if, I will be returning to the house with no name.
    

me gusta mi taco

I have a food ritual when I fly north.

No matter whether I arrive in Redmond on an afternoon flight or at midnight, I ask my brother to stop at Taco Bell to buy a hard taco.

I am not particularly fond of Taco Bell's food. But nothing says American food like a hard taco.

On Saturday I will be flying north for family business. After spending a night in Los Angeles, I should be in Oregon around noon on Sunday.

But on this trip north, I may skip the Taco Bell ritual -- because I indulged in a tastier version at noon. When I was at Hawaii this week, I noticed a packet of Taco Bell taco seasoning.

Some of you will remember the taco kits we used to buy when we were kids. I think the brand was Old El Paso -- or maybe Rosarita. It is too long ago for me to be certain. The kits came with taco shells, seasoning to be added to ground beef, and a can of extremely mild "hot" sauce.

Alex at Hawaii has sold hard taco shells for years. I usually just laugh at the package. After all, sending taco ingredients to Mexico is the epitome of shipping coals to Newcastle.

But something urged me to buy the shells and taco seasoning. Maybe it was out of some urge to chase the dragon of nostalgia knowing full well that the dragon always eludes capture in the end.

I cooked up some ground beef with serrano and added the seasoning while I warmed the taco shells, and grated a measure of extra sharp Tillamook cheese and sliced some tomatoes, onion, and lettuce. As a topper, I turned crema fresca into sour cream with fresh lemon juice. Because the meat was a bit bland -- even with the seasoning packet -- I added a few twists of my own making.

You can see the result. What you cannot do is taste them. For one good reason. I wolfed down both of them.

I generally am not humble about the food I cook. And there is no reason to alter that self-assessment today. The tacos were good. Certainly better than Taco Bell's. But I will be the first to admit that standard is not very high.

Maybe I wanted the hard tacos as something of a transition back to The States. It has been four months since I have been in an airplane. That is a record for me. At least, during my dozen years of living in Mexico.

I will keep you posted on how the travel world has changed since then.

At this point, I have no idea how long I will be away from Mexico. What I do know,though, is visiting Taco Bells will remind me that I have not yet returned home. 

auf wiedersehen mein mitreisender

Marlene Bartz

There is never a good way to deliver this type of news because words are not adequate to describe our thoughts at moments like this.

Those of you who read the Facebook pages for Melaque and Barra de Navidad have already heard the news that Marlene Bartz, the owner of Marlena's restaurant in Barra de Navidad, has died.

It is a great loss. For numerous reasons.

I cannot claim to be a friend of Marlene's. At best, we were acquaintances, a status I have with most people I know here in Mexico.

But we were the type of acquaintances who would not merely pass on the street with a brief greeting. Whenever I would see her in town (usually while we were both exercising), we would stop and share stories of the town. Or if I met her in the grocery store (which was often), we would talk about which food looked fresh and how it could be best prepared.

Food was a major connection. She labeled her restaurant as "international cuisine -- German and Mexican." That is not a combination you see every day in these parts. But it was a popular draw for mainly the foreign community.

It was in her restaurant where we would have our most detailed discussions. I almost always dine alone, so she felt free to join me for our ongoing food discussions -- where we had more than a few polite disagreements.

I did learn early on, though, that prying too deeply on the ingredients in her recipes was verboten. There are some things that restaurateurs believe are best left in the mystery category.

And she humored me by letting me believe that my extremely-corroded German still had some conversational utility, along with blushes. Such as, my recurring confusion of using the word for pineapples when I meant bananas. She simply gave me that very Germanic smile that rests somewhere between sympathetic and disappointment.

When I heard of Marlene's death yesterday, the main theme from Ennio Morricone's The Mission kept coming to mind. I cannot tell you why. But something in the soulful oboe's opening line made me think of her. Those of you who know Marlene and who know the story about the oboe in the film will understand.

Probably for the same reason with which I started this essay -- "words are not adequate to describe our feelings at moments like this." Music, on the other hand, can touch areas where words dare not (or cannot) trod.

So, for Marlene I dedicate this video that, for me, captures who she was -- and how I will remember her. It may not be Wagnerian, but neither was she.

kicking the can

I think it was The Accidental Tourist.

It was not one of the most important scenes in the film, but it helped to establish the character of William Hurt's family. His brother and sister are in the kitchen stocking the shelves -- alphabetically.

Obsessive-compulsive? Maybe. Eccentric? Certainly. Organized? Definitely.

I have lived that scene. Far before I saw the movie. My spice and herb jars are stored alphabetically. Always have been. Well, until Dora cleans that particular shelf.

My canned goods are not so well-organized. I do not use a lot of canned goods in my daily cooking. There is no reason for that here. Fresh vegetables and dried beans are available everywhere.

The canned goods are part tradition and part survival. My mother always kept a wide variety of canned goods in the house. It was not until I left home that I figured out why she kept about a year's worth of canned goods at the ready.

Even though I grew up in an era that people called America's Golden Years, there were always the possibility of bad times when revenue might stop following. The canned goods were insurance that the family would not go hungry. Tradition and survival. 

My pantry supplies keep that tradition alive. We live in an area that experiences earthquakes and tropical storms. It is good to have at least a modicum of food on hand should disaster strike. Chili. Beans. Tuna. Chilies. Soups. Anchovies. Sardines. That sort of thing. Along with a supply of dried beans and pasta in the refrigerator -- to dissuade the weevils and other beetles.

I seem to remember that the siblings in The Accidental Tourist were obsessed with pull dates. That is the date that is stamped on the can that is supposed to warn consumers away from eating the contents.

Some people are fundamentalists when it comes to pull dates. If they notice the declared date has passed, they will toss the can.

I am not a fundamentalist. I might be better called a pull-date pagan. If an "expired" can contains something I would like to eat, I check the cans for dents, and listen carefully when I open it. If the contents smell edible, I will eat it.

When I moved to Mexico, I brought a number of canned goods south with me from my Salem kitchen. Mainly soups. Those cans then followed me to my second rental.

One day, I looked at three cans of soup. I was not surprised that the pull date had passed at least ten years ago. But the cans looked fine -- if a bit corroded. I ate the soup and I am here to tell the tale.

I am not always that lucky. I had a six-pack of tomato paste that had been pushed to the back of the pantry. The pull date was five months prior. But the cans looked intact.

I opened the first can. The moment the can opener had cut a small slit, the paste almost exploded out of the can. The same thing happened with the second can. And the third. All six cans had gone off. And tomato products are not something to avoid the obvious signs of spoilage. botulism lives down that road.

Because my canned goods had become so jumbled, I decided to organize them into categories to make finding them a bit easier. And, if I was going to go to that much work, I grabbed a sharpie to write the expiration date on the label of each can. I hoped to avoid another tomato paste Vesuvius in my kitchen.

That is when I discovered the two cans of soup pictured at the top of this essay. You can immediately see two problems. The cans are almost three years past their pull date -- and they are both noticeably corroded. Actually, the tops were almost completely covered with rust That is not a good sign with cans.

Instead of tossing them, I opened them and smelled the contents. It smelled like a Campbell's product, but I decided to eat it despite that.

Some onion, garlic, serrano, ginger, and oregano dressed up the contents. And it was a quite refreshing dinner.

The best part is that I am still here to tell you the tale. And I did not have to come up with any euphemisms for emergency bathroom breaks. There were none.

I tossed some cans. Five cans of anchovies with oil leaks were the first to go. Anchovies are not hard to find here. And there were a couple of cans of tomatoes that had not yet expired, but the tops were bulging. A very bad sign.

The pantry is now organized and each can is sporting its use-by date. It will at least be some information to help me choose which can to use first.

So, I did not kick the can in the colloquial sense. But I may have kicked that can down the road -- like any practiced politician.

become a key person

Class. Close your textbooks and put them under your desk. I have a quiz for you.

Yesterday, we chatted about the fact that my car fob will not open the front door to my house (open, sesame). Actually, we talked about the ravages of aging, but let's call it a door lock issue for the purpose of today's discussion.

The photograph is of my bedroom door that leads out onto the patio. It also has a lock that does not work with my car fob. I need to search in my pocket for my set of keys whenever I want to lock or unlock the door.

You can see the keys. Now, which way am I going to turn the key to open the door? Clockwise or anticlockwise?

In my brief experience of living in Mexico, either answer is certainly possible. I lived in a house for several years that had two successive gates to enter the garden. On one gate, the key needed to be twirled clockwise to open the gate. The other required an anticlockwise twist.

I finally decided the reason was simple. One gate swung to the left, one to the right. The lock mechanisms were simply installed upside down from each other. A perfect Mexican solution.

Not so, in my house. All doors swing in the same direction. But the front door has one solution; the four bedroom doors have the opposite solution.

The internet can often be our friends in such matters. At least, those in which I have had no training.

The most common answer is that there is no "correct" way for locks to be installed. Having said that, most of the sites say it is standard for doors that enter the house from the outside to lock by turning anticlockwise and unlock by turning clockwise -- unless it is a dead bolt. If it is a dead bolt, then the key almost always is twisted toward the door jamb -- mimicking the action of the bolt. Internal doors follow the deadbolt rule. Generally.

Well, my house did not quite get that memo. Or maybe it did.

As you know from various underwear-related stories on this blog, my front door latches automatically. There is no handle on the outside of the door. To lock the door, though, I treat it as if it were a deadbolt. Because it is. Lock toward the jamb. Unlock away from the jamb.

You have probably already guessed the answer to my bedroom door quiz. Even though the locks are dead bolt-based, the answer is just the opposite. To lock the door, the key turns away from the jamb (clockwise). To open -- well, you already have the drill.

I have never owned a house that had locks on internal doors. Maybe they did, but when you live alone, what's the point? I am not even certain there was a door on bathroom.

But the bedroom doors are not really interior doors. They open onto the patio. And, though I like to pretend it is the largest room in my house, it is the Grand Outdoors. Almost as natural as Yosemite. And a lot less crowded.

I had thought of having the locks on the bedroom doors replaced with locks where the keys would turn in conformance with the front door. But that struck me as being far too Swedish.

Plus there is a certain amusement quotient in watching my house guests trying to figure out the door puzzle. Some just give up and leave their rooms unlocked. Omar, for instance, neither locks his bedroom door nor double-locks the front door.

Knowing the key code is almost like belonging to some secret society. The Masons. The Illuminati. Or Sam's Club.

Let's call it The Sacred Order of Key Lore. Why not? It is my essay.

I would get you a guest pass, but you first need to know how to use a set of a keys in any Mexican house.

I wish you well.
   

open, sesame

My friend Ed accuses me of being coy on political positions.

My standard reply is: "I'm not going to commit myself. Someone else is going to have to sign the papers."

Well, it may be time for someone to pull out a pen.

Yesterday I headed over to San Patricio to pick up the laundry and to replenish the pantry and refrigerators with a couple of days of food. When I got back to the house, I grabbed two full shopping bags, one in each hand, and headed toward the door.

My brother has a stock phrase for moments like this: "Every process has a sequence." A stock phrase I was not heeding.

The door to my house is always locked. That is the nature of its construction. When the door closes, the latch engages. Without a key, entry is barred.

The sequence I had missed was that my door key was in my pocket and my hands were now full. So, I grabbed both bags with my right hand and started fumbling in my left pocket for something to open the door.

I thought I had it. I stood there repeatedly pushing the button, but the door would not open. (I apparently could not hear the locks on my car repeatedly trying to open behind me.)

You, of course, know immediately what happened. Something that took me far too many seconds to realize. I was trying to open my front door with the fob that controls the locks and ignition for my Escape.

I like to think that I took the fob out of my pocket because I had just used it to open and lock the car doors on my errands. But even that is simply an admission of a logical error of categories. If the fob opens doors, it should open my front door. (Politicians of all ilks fall into that one repeatedly.)

Whatever it was that led me to choose the wrong option to open my door, I am certain there will be many more in the future. It is simply another of those mile posts on our life journey reminding us that there is a cost for everything. We may have gained wisdom with our years, but the gaining of wisdom is no guarantee that it will be properly applied.

Or maybe it is not that at all. Maybe that little creative voice that seldom talks to me was trying to make a point. An electronic opener for the front door would be a cool idea. Why not? I have one for the garage door.

Those of you who so graciously pulled out your pens to sign the commitment papers should now head over to Amazon.Mx. Certainly there is something for sale there that will make me look at least a bit less silly.

Standing in front of a door pushing the buttons on a car fob is ludicrous. Standing in front of a door with an electronic door opener that really opens doors would be cool.

naked in barra

I have become a cultural cliché.

Yesterday afternoon the DHL driver showed up at my front door with a delivery from Amazon. Without giving it a second thought, I answered the door. Nothing unusual there. But I was wearing only my underwear. In his haste to be gone, the driver nearly tossed my package to me.

What has happened to me? I was raised in a family where what we wear says a lot about who we are. My mother would never leave the house without thinking through what clothes she should be wearing.

Her father took that a step further. When he worked in the garden, he wore a fedora, a jacket, and a tie. I don't think I ever saw him in public without that sartorial trio.

And here I am in Mexico dropping all of that tradition faster than I doff my clothes.

When I took my clothes to the laundry yesterday, I was a bit surprised at how few clothing items were in the bag. But I know why. I have turned into one of those overweight northerners who lives out his day in his swim trunks.

The trunks make some sense. The arrival of the coronavirus in our municipality has once again restricted my activities. I primarily stay in the house. And because the summer is upon us, the pool is the best refuge for eating meals and reading.

Thus, the trunks. At least, I wear trunks. Enough people come and go through my front door each day that I do not want to frighten the horses in the street -- or them -- with my Winston Churchill impression. And I have not yet devolved to the stage where I wander around town in nothing but my trunks. In other words, I am not quite yet the cultural cliché I fear I am becoming.

Young people call it "just giving up." I may be on that path. But if any of you see me wandering around Barra shirtless, shoeless, and wearing nothing but my bathing trunks, just book me into a treatment center. Don't bother asking my permission.

There must be a 12-step program for the affliction.