Another great quote from Garrison Keillor:Karl Rove could put fecal matter on his lapel and call it a boutonnière. Goodbye and good riddance.
Chicharrone is deep fried pork rind. It's sinfully good and more than likely death on wheels. They sell it here in huge hog-sized sheets, but frankly, we've refrained from buying in bulk. So why am I a fan? Last Friday night, El Campanario, one of our favorite restaurants, was featuring chicharrone crusted red snapper. After a couple of strong margaritas and some jokes about clogged arteries, we decided to give it a try. Oh my God!!! I'm guessing they threw some in the food processor to give it a bread-crumb like consistency, then dredged the fish fillets in it. Truthfully, I couldn't tell whether they sauteed or baked the fish, though I'm leaning toward baked. No sauce -- we squeezed some lime on it, took a bite and commenced to moaning. Strange as the recipe sounds, I'd suggest giving it a try. Your guests will be blown away.
San Miguel is known as a haven for powerful women – independent, well-educated gringas who moved here following widowhood, divorce or retirement, taking up art, writing, yoga and Sisterhood. San Miguel is reputed to have seven women for every man.
We met a seventy-something retired ad executive last night. A charming lady with a PhD., architect husband and bad back. She related the following story:
A couple of years ago, after having lived here for nearly a decade, a disgruntled neighbor apparently filed a complaint against her and her husband with the local police. (By way of background, the Mexican justice system doesn’t work exactly like it does in the U.S. An accusation – with or without evidence or corroboration -- is enough to get you arrested, and once arrested, you’re pretty much considered guilty until you can prove yourself innocent.) Long story short, this lady left her house this fateful Friday morning to pick up some bread for a planned dinner party that night. When she got to the bakery, a car pulled up behind her. As the driver approached her, she called out in a friendly way, “Hey, what a coincidence. I saw that you left from the same neighborhood as me and it turns out we were going to the same bakery!” In response, the young man showed her his badge and told her she was under arrest. She would need to get in his car and go to the police station with him. “No way,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” And then she demanded to use his cell phone to call her lawyer. When his phone wouldn’t work, she handed it back, turned on her heel and marched into the bakery to use their phone. (Another quirk of Mexican law: a policeman can’t go on to private property to arrest someone.) Her attorney sent a car for her. Before the policeman could react, she jumped into the back seat (bread in hand) and hightailed it back to her house, the police in hot pursuit. Once home, she dashed in the front door and slammed the door in the young cop’s face. There she stayed for three days – hosting her dinner party that night – until her attorney was able to arrange for bail.
Did I mention that the women down here are powerful?
