Monday, October 30, 2006
Happy Birthday, John Adams!
John Adams said, "In my many years I have come to a conclusion that one useless man is a shame, two is a law firm, and three or more is a congress."
Sunday, October 29, 2006
It ain't Picasso
...but we love the newest additions to our Mexican art collection. In a fit of hubris, we've dubbed them Miss Mizzy and "Wishful Thinking" Mike.
Language Study
The week of November 13th, I'm finally going to enroll in a language class. (You can only remained paralyzed by fear for so long, right?) But that doen't mean I haven't been picking up a little Español on my own. Most people, of course, start with numbers or simple greetings. I, however, have started with something that better suits my temperament. Go figure.
Backsliding
We ostensibly came down here to jerk ourselves out of old habits and embrace a new culture. While we've been largely successful, we couldn't shake our film addiction, and went the way of most ex-pats here -- into the waiting arms of NetFlix. God bless the Internet.
OK, who's kidding whom? Movies aren't the only thing. Every couple of weeks or so we pay way too much money and attack a thick, richly marbled piece of American Angus beef.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Día de la Muerta, Part I
"The Mexican...is familiar with death, jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it; it is one of his favorite toys and his most steadfast love. True, there is perhaps as much fear in his attitude as in that of others, but at least death is not hidden away..."
-Octavio Paz (1914-1998)
Karen and Mike about to embark on their first "Day of the Dead" celebrations in Mexico.
The Ultimate Karmic Dividend of Life
No, I don't know what it means either, but it's the best 2x1 margarita phrase I've come up with so far to describe our lives here.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Who Knew? Part IV
When Ashley visited a couple of weeks ago, we had the most amazing meal: Steak Tartare prepared tableside. Yeah, we were a little leery. Raw beef in Mexico and all that. But truth be told, it was one of best meals we've had since coming to San Miguel. The three of us ate every bite. Not to mention the fifteen minutes or so of meticulous preparation. (The cart came loaded without about a dozen separate ingredients.) Apparently, we had the maistro 'cause, like a Mayo Clinic brain surgeon, he had a rapt audience of junior staff people crowded around him the whole time. Anyway, that sound you just heard was another pre-conceived notion about Mexico crashing and burning.
Change of heart?
As most of you know, Karen and I have always been philosophically opposed to mandated school prayer. (It's the liberal thing.) But after reading this, we may have to re-think our stance. Enjoy... and pass it along.
SchoolPrayer
by Diane Ackerman
In the name of the daybreak
and the eyelids of morning
and the wayfaring moon
and the night when it departs,
I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.
In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,
I will honor all life
—wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell—on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.
SchoolPrayer
by Diane Ackerman
In the name of the daybreak
and the eyelids of morning
and the wayfaring moon
and the night when it departs,
I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.
In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,
I will honor all life
—wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell—on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Shirley McLain, are you reading?
I've never believed in reincarnation. Now I'm not so sure. I just came across this story in a blurb about the composer Giuseppe Verdi:
Verdi used the same librettist for his next opera, Lombardi. The librettist had a procrastination problem, and Verdi had to lock him in a room in order to get him to write enough on time. Once Verdi made the mistake of sticking him in the room with his wine collection, and hours later the librettist emerged drunk.
Verdi used the same librettist for his next opera, Lombardi. The librettist had a procrastination problem, and Verdi had to lock him in a room in order to get him to write enough on time. Once Verdi made the mistake of sticking him in the room with his wine collection, and hours later the librettist emerged drunk.
Quote of the Day
My former employee and free-spirited young mentor Hannah Ashmore sent me an e-mail this morning with this quote appended to it. Karen and I are thinking of having T-shirts printed up.
“My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I'm happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right?” - Charles M. Schulz
Monday, October 09, 2006
More Inspiration...
From Writer's Almanac. Enjoy!
Hard Rain
by Tony Hoagland
After I heard It's a Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
played softly by an accordion quartet
through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall,
I understood there's nothing
we can't pluck the stinger from,
nothing we can't turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt.
Even serenity can become something horrible
if you make a commercial about it
using smiling, white-haired people
quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes
in the Everglades, where the swamp has been
drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course
with electrified alligator barriers.
You can't keep beating yourself up, Billy
I heard the therapist say on television
to the teenage murderer,
About all those people you killed—
You just have to be the best person you can be,
one day at a time—
and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little,
because the level of deep feeling has been touched,
and they want to believe that
the power of Forgiveness is greater
than the power of Consequence, or History.
Dear Abby:
My father is a businessman who travels.
Each time he returns from one of his trips,
his shoes and trousers
are covered with blood-
but he never forgets to bring me a nice present;
Should I say something?
Signed, America.
I used to think I was not part of this,
that I could mind my own business and get along,
but that was just another song
that had been taught to me since birth—
whose words I was humming under my breath,
as I was walking through the Springdale Mall.
Hard Rain
by Tony Hoagland
After I heard It's a Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
played softly by an accordion quartet
through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall,
I understood there's nothing
we can't pluck the stinger from,
nothing we can't turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt.
Even serenity can become something horrible
if you make a commercial about it
using smiling, white-haired people
quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes
in the Everglades, where the swamp has been
drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course
with electrified alligator barriers.
You can't keep beating yourself up, Billy
I heard the therapist say on television
to the teenage murderer,
About all those people you killed—
You just have to be the best person you can be,
one day at a time—
and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little,
because the level of deep feeling has been touched,
and they want to believe that
the power of Forgiveness is greater
than the power of Consequence, or History.
Dear Abby:
My father is a businessman who travels.
Each time he returns from one of his trips,
his shoes and trousers
are covered with blood-
but he never forgets to bring me a nice present;
Should I say something?
Signed, America.
I used to think I was not part of this,
that I could mind my own business and get along,
but that was just another song
that had been taught to me since birth—
whose words I was humming under my breath,
as I was walking through the Springdale Mall.
Who Knew? Part III
It should have been intuitively obvious. Hey, we're moving to another country -- a Spanish-speaking country. But it never occurred to us that we'd find ourselves confounded by everyday kitchen appliances. We're hoping, before long, we won't have to do all our cooking with a dictionary in one hand and a temperature conversion chart in the other.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Another Foodie Post
I really lucked out tonight. I bought some chicken thighs and was intending to reduce a bunch of cobbled-together Bloody Mary mix as a sauce for it. As it turns out, we never used the Bloody Mary sauce. After tasting it, we concluded we'd stumbled onto the perfect Sangrita recipe and promptly threw it in the fridge for our next tequila tasting. (Amazingly, the only Sangrita mix we've been able to find here in San Miguel is a shitty, watered-down concoction not worthy of a good tequila). Anyway, I digress. Turns out, as we pursued Plan B, we discovered one of the simplest, most delicious chicken dishes we've ever made. Let me share. If you don't like it, we're several thousand miles away, so what the hell?
Huitzi Chicken
attempted 10/3/06
Huitzi Chicken
attempted 10/3/06
1 small red onion, sliced
2T Penzey’s Bicentennial Rub*
1 cup chicken stock (preferably home-made)
2T olive oil
1t sugar
Salt & pepper
Lightly coat thighs with Bicentennial Rub, let sit for 1-2 hours
Heat olive oil in sauté pan on med-high heat
Brown thighs on both sides; remove
Reduce heat; add onions and more olive oil if needed
Add sugar and sauté onions ‘til wilted
Place thighs atop caramelized onions; add stock
Place in oven; cook for one hour
(Onion-stock mixture should be reduced to a syrupy texture; add water if necessary)
Spoon onion compote over chicken.
Salt & pepper to taste
Serve with pasta or rice, as desired.
(serves 2)
*My favorite Penzey’s spice mix for chicken, a wonderful blend of flake salt, Tellicherry black pepper, sugar, turmeric, orange zest and coriander. (Available on-line at www.penzeys.com)
Festival Internacional Cervantino
As if 6 weeks of celebrating Mexican Independence "Day" weren't enough, tomorrow marks the beginning of the Festival Internacional Cervantino in nearby Guanajuato, a festival that lasts for a mere 2 1/2 weeks. It's a celebration of medieval arts, dance, street theater and music - although someone who actually lives in Guanajuato described it as a smaller-scale mardi gras (which is certainly how we felt during some of the Independence Day activities). For some reason the people of Gto. have a fascination with Cervantes (maybe because he's one of the best Spanish authors of all time who's generally credited with inventing the modern novel?) - anyway, you can find the Quixote Iconographic Museum there that exhibits works from artists all over the world (including Dali, Picasso, Rafael) featuring Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
But the only part of this history lesson that you need to remember is that Miguel de Cervantes said, "Too much sanity may be madness, and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be."
Monday, October 02, 2006
Happy Birthday, Graham Greene!
Graham Greene is one of my favorite writers. Today, on his birthday, The Writer's Alamanac excerpted several choice quotes... and y'all know how much Mike Goot loves quotes. Enjoy!
"We are all of us resigned to death: it's life we aren't resigned to." And, "Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered." --Graham Greene
While I'm at it, let me share one more poem with you. I'll freely admit to not quite understanding it, but I'm completely taken with the poet's call to resist the tyranny of habit. It speaks to my emerging new self.
Exercise
First forget what time it is
for an hour
do it regularly every day
then forget what day of the week it is
do this regularly for a week
then forget what country you are in
and practice doing it in company
for a week
then do them together
for a week
with as few breaks as possible
follow these by forgetting how to add
or to subtract
it makes no difference
you can change them around
after a week
both will help you later
to forget how to count
forget how to count
starting with your own age
starting with how to count backward
starting with even numbers
starting with Roman numerals
starting with fractions of Roman numerals
starting with the old calendar
going on to the old alphabet
going on to the alphabet
until everything is continuous again
go on to forgetting elements
starting with water
proceeding to earth
rising in fire
forget fire
"We are all of us resigned to death: it's life we aren't resigned to." And, "Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered." --Graham Greene
While I'm at it, let me share one more poem with you. I'll freely admit to not quite understanding it, but I'm completely taken with the poet's call to resist the tyranny of habit. It speaks to my emerging new self.
Exercise
First forget what time it is
for an hour
do it regularly every day
then forget what day of the week it is
do this regularly for a week
then forget what country you are in
and practice doing it in company
for a week
then do them together
for a week
with as few breaks as possible
follow these by forgetting how to add
or to subtract
it makes no difference
you can change them around
after a week
both will help you later
to forget how to count
forget how to count
starting with your own age
starting with how to count backward
starting with even numbers
starting with Roman numerals
starting with fractions of Roman numerals
starting with the old calendar
going on to the old alphabet
going on to the alphabet
until everything is continuous again
go on to forgetting elements
starting with water
proceeding to earth
rising in fire
forget fire
Aftermath
One aspect of the exploding dolls ritual I failed to mention: As soon as each clown, ballerina, cowboy or librarian was blown to smithereens, a screaming horde of little kids attacked the still-smoking debris looking for goodies and/or souvenirs. It reminded me of little kids at Wrigley Field chasing after foul balls. And speaking of foul, I spied a choice body part the kids had overlooked -- perhaps 'cause it had landed in a fresh pile of horse droppings -- and snatched it up. I was never lucky enough to snag a foul ball as a kid, but apparently my karma's on the upswing. I now have a very cool severed head, and maybe someday, will get the explosives guy to autograph it for me.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Who Knew? Part II
We had a hankerin' for Bloody Marys this morning. After a long and frustrating search through the mercado, we finally found what we were looking for: Salsa Inglesa (English Sauce). Known in the U.S. as the far-harder-to-pronounce Worchestershire Sauce.
Where To Begin?
This past weekend was the biggest festival of the year here in San Miguel. The semi-pagan, semi-Catholic Feast of St. Michael (San Miguel). Picture this. 2:30am, Saturday morning. We approach the jardin (town square) and find it filled to overflowing with multiple thousands of people. Families, kids, old people. It's a middle-of-the-night Mardi Gras. No one seems particularly tired. 3am! I've never seen anything like it. Karen and I are astounded and (need I say?) delighted. Every couple of minutes fireworks erupt. Bands wander through, followed by small troupes of dancers. A little past three, we see flashing lights around the corner, signalling the beginning of a parade. First come giant paper mache puppets, followed by marching bands, flaming lanterns and hundreds of celebrants twirling colorful 10-foot tall stars and crosses. Next, a long expentent pause, punctuated by the kind of whistling and stamping you'd hear from the restless audience at a rock concert. Suddenly, the lights illuminating the Parroquia (our Gaudi-esque cathedral) extinguished and the church bells start pealing like mad. Seconds later all hell (and metaphorically speaking) heaven broke loose. Fireworks like you've never seen. From the one side, the devil's, the sky erupted in red explosions. Then from in front of the Parroquia, the forces of good answered, ferocious displays of pure white. Back and forth. Red and white. For the better part of hour. Embers, ashes and debris reigning down on the spellbound crowd. Close to five it stopped. The Parroquia lights shot on. The bells pealed ecstatically. The devil, once again, was vanquished. Tired and amazed, we trudged home, along side dozens of our neighbors, for a few hours sleep. Only a few, because we didn't want to miss a) the hundred or so ranchers on horseback who arrived in front of the church sortly past noon to present offerings (along with what to this City Boy appeared to be prodigious amounts horse shit & piss); b) the strange and violent ritual of blowing up paper mache dolls, many of which were, pinata-style, filled with treats (like roasted penauts, sausages bananas and toilet paper[??]; c) the voladeros, guys who threw themselves backward off a fifty-foot pole and, tethered by ropes, gracefully "flew" down to the ground; and d) the most entertaining parade this parade-hating Gringo has ever seen. Indiginous tribes from throughout Mexico converged on San Miguel -- in skins, feathers and bells; with bands and drummers -- to dance their brains out. Interspersed were offerings -- huge panels balanced on telephone poles, covered with herbs, flowers, carvings and -- I kid you not -- bottles of FANTA!! And in the middle of it all, every so often guys dressed like devils or skeletons or confetti-throwing gargoyles would come dancing through, the most amazing of which was relentlessly cracking a whip. Oh yeah, did I mention the swordplay? Periodically, a couple of guys (or in one case, women), would go at each other with serious looking machetes. Whoosh clang, whoosh clang; clang clang clang. One guy slunk off nursing a bleeding hand! Then of course there were even more of the giant paper mache puppets. As the sun set and temperatures started dropping, we headed home to grab jackets intending to return for yet another fireworks display at nine. It started raining. We poured some red wine. We fell asleep on the couch, dreaming of man-birds and fire.
