A Stitch in Time

The sudden scream pierced my pleasant siesta. The sound was akin to an angry cat in the throes of comeuppance. I made my way from bedroom to laundry bodega, the apparent source of the high-pitch caterwaul. By the time I reached the washing machine sound had met fury: my fine, albeit rusted, Bosch thumped and shimmied a kind of tarantella across the brick bodega floor.

Load must be unbalanced, I thought. I stabbed the off button.

"What’s the problem?" The commotion had roused my husband, Win, from one of his fix-it projects.

"I’ll take care of it," I said. I stuck my hand in the belly of the Bosch, scrunched wet towels.

"I don’t think so. Smell it."

Burnt rubber. Uh-oh.

Win pulled the machine out of the bodega into the adjacent courtyard, removed its metal back plate.

"Bad news. It’s the belt. Snapped in two." He scrutinized the frayed ends. "Don’t know where we can find a belt to fit a Bosch."

"We’ll have to buy a new machine," I said. I ticked off the names of likely retailers: Costco, Wal-Mart, Tio Sam…"I can be ready to go in ten minutes…"

"Not so fast," said Win. He ran his finger over the tear, turned the busted belt this way and that.

"But we have company coming! We need to wash sheets, towels…we have four days before…"

"You can go to the river," said Win.

I think he was kidding.

During the next 48 hours Win focused on fixing the belt. First he knit the ends together with wire. But it snapped on the test spin. He then tried glue. Three tubes later, Win looked for another solution. The remedial attempts had truncated the belt; it was now too short to fit the machine. He looked around for material to elongate the belt as well as make it stronger. Here is what he applied with silicone: strands of webbing from a disintegrating lounge chair, a few inches of leather from the back of an equipal sofa, the strap from his rubber flip-flops.

Eureka! On a slow motion spin the belt held. But Win was worried. "It will break again. And when it does I don’t think I will be able to fix it."

We tried local hardware stores first. No belts. Perhaps one could be ordered?

I nearly wailed…no time…three days…laundry…guests...

The manager at Amutio, a major hardware store in Mezcales, did not have a belt either but intrigued with our problem flipped through a phone book for a likely retailer.

The shop he suggested was located on an unmarked street in nearby Bucerias. It did not carry a name either but the several washing machines in various states of deshabille stacked in the front yard were calling card enough. The woman behind the counter took a look at the old belt Win had stapled and glued then shook her head. She rooted around in the back of the shop, said she couldn’t find anything similar. She pointed to the layers of webbing and leather and rubber. Win laughed, explained his fix-it job. She returned to the back of the shop. The belt she eventually brought us was perfect. We took it home. It worked.

There is a moral to this small story. It touches on disposable societies up north and resourceful societies down south. While this gringa is still quick to toss the broken and buy the new, my husband has learned, by observation and osmosis, to do what our Mexican neighbors do: repair with materials at hand.

So we keep the patched up version of the Bosch belt. It could be useful for parts when and if the new belt breaks.

Chiles en Nogada

Ana Ruiz, head chef at Café del Mar and my housekeeper/property manager, makes the best chiles rellenos I have ever eaten. She stuffs the poblano chiles with shrimp and cheese and covers them with a roasted tomato sauce that is as light-handed as it is flavorful. I pay Ana to make me dozens at a time, which I then freeze, individually wrapped, sauce on the side in zip lock bags. It’s my dinner of choice for guests’ first night at Quinta Elena and is a no-fail crowd pleaser.

Chiles can be stuffed with any number of things---panela or Chihuahua cheese, ground beef or pork, canned tuna or refried beans and onions. The king of chiles rellenos, however, is chiles en nogada---chiles stuffed with picadillo, a rich mix of meat, fruit, and spices, topped with a creamy walnut sauce, sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and parsley. Touted as Mexico’s most patriotic dish because its colors are the red, white, and green of the Mexican flag, this stuffed chile has an equally colorful back story. The favorite version tells of nuns in a convent in Puebla inventing the dish in 1821 for Emperor Agustin de Iturbide and the first dinner celebrating Mexico’s independence from Spain. Frida Kahlo featured this dish on her wedding table when she married Diego Rivera.

I feature it on my table when I feel like showing off. To call chiles en nogada labor-intensive is understatement. For an amateur like me, all the roasting, peeling, dicing, and frying take up most of two days. (my recipe even calls for peeling the walnuts; I’m willing to sacrifice some authenticity and skip this step.) Fans of Mexican food, especially those who cook, have been known to break into applause when I set their plate in front of them. Even without tasting the first forkful, they pay homage to the effort involved.

Every Mexican grandma probably has her own special recipe for chiles en nogada. And would be aghast at shortcuts taken by some restaurants, e.g. plain ground beef passed off as picadillo; dried cranberries as a substitute for out-of-season pomegranate seeds. Here is a version I like.

CHILES EN NOGADA

INGREDIENTS:

For the filling:

1/2 lb. ground beef

1/2 lb. ground pork

2 large garlic cloves, finely chopped

1/2 medium onion, finely chopped

1 1/2 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil

1 medium apple, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes

1 medium pear, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes

2 plum tomatoes, peeled and chopped

2 ounces blanched almonds, slivered

2 ounces raisins, soaked until soft, then drained

1 stick cinnamon

salt and pepper to taste



For the chiles:

8 large poblano chiles, prepared for stuffing (See Note)

4 eggs, separated, at room temperature

1/4 teaspoon salt

Oil for frying

For the sauce:

1 quart unsweetened heavy cream

4 ounces walnut meat, soaked in milk, drained, chopped



For the garnish:

2 pomegranates, separated into seeds

parsley sprigs

PREPARATION:

After preparing chiles as described in the note below, pat them dry and set them aside while you make the filling. The batter will not adhere to them properly if the chiles are not dry.

Melt the lard or oil in a large skillet; saute beef, pork, garlic, onion, apple, pear, almonds, raisins and cinnamon stick until the meat has lost its pink color. Remove the cinnamon stick, add salt and pepper to taste and allow the filling to cool to room temperature. When cool, fill the chiles, dividing the mixture evenly.

You will have fluffier and more uniform coating if you make the egg batter and fry the chiles in two batches. Beat two of the egg whites until they stand up in peaks, stiff but not dry. Lightly beat two yolks and half the salt together; fold them gently into the beaten egg whites. Dip each of four filled chiles into the mixture, turning them gently to coat evenly. Place each one immediately into a large skillet with hot oil. Fry them until golden on the bottom side (lift gently with a spatula to check) then turn and fry on the other side. Repeat this process with the rest of the chiles and the other two eggs. Remove and drain on paper towels before placing on serving dish.

Put the cream and the walnuts in a blender or food processor and puree until smooth. Pour over the chiles, and decorate with pomegranate seeds and parsley.

NOTE: The chiles are prepared for stuffing by roasting over a gas flame or under a broiler until charred all over. They are then placed in a plastic bag for 10-15 minutes. Peel by rubbing them gently, using rubber gloves, under a stream of running water. (Stems are not removed, but can be trimmed beforehand if very long.) After the chiles have been roasted and cleaned, make a lengthwise slit up one side of each and carefully remove the seed sac and any loose seeds. Avoid over-handling the chiles.

Just Another Day in Paradise

To-do list, December 15:

1. Bucerias: find Sammy the upholsterer, drop off cushions. At the orange building (or is it green?) turn left, and then turn right. Look for his shop behind El Famar Restaurant. “Tapiceria” is painted on the wall.

Sammy’s great. He takes our cushions, we give him the fabric, we chat about extra pillows, we agree on a price. His fisherman-friend comes by in his truck with his wife and daughter. Sammy suggests we buy some fish. We look at the fish. We all agree it is very good fish. But we can’t buy it now, we explain. I show him our list: we have a lot to do. Check!

2. Pemex gas station: fill tank. No self-service pumps here. An attendant fills the tank, cleans the windshield. We give him the customary tip and are good to go. Check.

Our attendant especially likes the windshield wipers on the headlights of our Volvo. We all agree they’re unusual. We don’t tell him we’ve had the car for eight years and we still don’t know how they work. Check!

3. Lloyds: change money. Mega: buy groceries. This is our own mini-mall: fast food, banks and cellular phone stores. If a Subway restaurant opened here, it would be perfect.

To-do list near completion, and we feel very efficient! Suddenly, as we’re driving, there is an ear-splitting noise in the car, as if something has exploded. And something has; the entire back window of the Volvo has shattered.

Wait, that’s not on the list.

We pull to the side of the road, leap out and stare in amazement at what is left of our back window. Tiny pieces of glass are everywhere. We search in vain for a rock or air-to-ground missile that has done so much damage. The cause of the exploding window mystifies us.

But we’re not easily defeated. Not here, not in Mexico, where automobiles suffer indignities never imagined in the US. On to the shopping mall. We take turns guarding the car. The car-wash tag team approaches. Don’t they notice we don’t have a back window? We have our groceries and our pesos, back to San Pancho.

With tedious precision Bill removes the remaining glass and creates a new fashion statement; a customized back window out of pink Styrofoam secured by bungee cords. It will be a long time before we can find a replacement. In the meantime, we join the legions of car owners who have patched, wired, glued and taped their cars together. Our neighbors laugh. “Your car is now Mexicanado,” they say. Check!

Ten Things I Learned in Ten Years

2009 was the 10th anniversary of our marriage to San Pancho. In 1999 we bought a plot of land; in 2000 we began building a house; and in 2001 we spent our first winter here. We loved the place then, and we still do, but our love has matured. No longer are we starry-eyed newly-weds.

Because 2009 is a milestone year, and it is ending, I am prompted to take stock. I offer these observations, in no particular order, for anyone contemplating wedlock with San Pancho.

1.Being handy is helpful. Anything with moving parts will malfunction in this climate. Neither my husband nor I is a Do-It-Yourself genius, but we regularly repair blenders, toasters, printers, the kitchen range, the barbeque grill, the sewing machine, and the disposal. And we still need to call the electrician/plumber about once a week.
2.Traveling between the U.S. and San Pancho is time-consuming and expensive. Given that we live in Connecticut, spending winters in Florida would be simpler, but, in my opinion, boring. Every day here brings its own little adventure.
3.Owning a home in San Pancho costs more than we expected. True, there is no heating expense, and labor is cheaper. However, the mildew, termites and jungle vegetation must be kept at bay when we are not here, and we have to pay people to do that.
4. Learning to manage household help is, for me, an ongoing process. It is too easy to become preoccupied with what the “help” is doing or not doing.
5. Being able to speak Spanish, even if one is not fluent, makes life easier. The Spanish classes I took at the community college have proved invaluable. I can talk to the guy at the hardware store and to my Mexican neighbors.
6.Life in Mexico is not orderly. For instance, in Bucerias, a town near the line between Mountain and Central time zones, business owners arbitrarily choose which zone they prefer. This kind of unpredictability can be charming or infuriating.
7.One can learn to sleep in the midst of crowing roosters, blaring disco music, barking dogs and raucous partiers. I will never understand the Mexican cultural norm about noise. I have concluded that, since I am a guest in this country, I should accept its noisiness or go somewhere else.
8. Part of the fun of living here is doing things differently than we do in the U.S.. We don’t have cable television in San Pancho, so we read more. Instead of cooking our usual fare, we experiment with Mexican ingredients. We take time out to watch the sunset.
9. We have become more conscious of health and safety risks. We are older, and we have seen friends run into problems. Now we don’t drive at night, we carry a cell phone, and we buy medical evacuation coverage.
10. Maintaining friendships and activities in both the U.S. and Mexico--a book group, a class, a volunteer activity—is a challenge. The reward for my constant balancing act is that I have two hometowns, two places where I belong.

365 Days of Me Time

Leaving Puerto Vallarta for the drive up the coast to San Pancho, the billboards and banners almost blot out the azure sky. Buy into this! Buy into that! The signs for Los Amores (The Lovers) show an impossibly beautiful couple, retirement age, smiling at each other as though the Viagra shipment has just come in. Another announces: You’ve Been Good—You Deserve It. An older man grins like the cat that got the cream. He deserves that infinity edge pool, those lounge chairs…possibly that swimsuited beauty, too. Life Built Around You. Life! The whole enchilada. Resorts, spas, beach clubs, residences, condominiums—Invest! All this is for people with Lifestyle Addiction. Could that be us? Those ripped bodies outlined by gauzy white cotton in the ocean breeze? We no longer care for the environment, the common good; we’re not our brother’s keepers—it’s 365 Days of Me Time, 24/7.

It was August when I wrote that; now it is December. The sky is an even deeper blue and the temperature has cooled to perfection, but The Crisis has come upon us. On the drive, I count 127 empty billboards. Only a few bother to plead Disponible (Available). About 40 others wait to be put out of their misery, so faded and tattered that their messages are no longer legible. Everybody said they were overbuilding condos…Now, no matter how good you’ve been, perhaps you don’t deserve a second or third home. In fact, you’d better hope you can live on love.

I'm a Bad Boss

I’m no good at managing household help. Never had so much as a cleaning lady back in the States. Now Lady Got-Rocks has a maid, gardener, and pool man. If I had my druthers, everyone would just do their jobs with no instructions or feedback required from me. Sometimes I even plan my runs to Vallarta to coincide with their work hours so I don’t have to watch someone make my bed and wash up my breakfast dishes.

But every worker needs to feel appreciated, good performance noticed and commented on. So I force myself to remember with notes in my day planner: Compliment Ana for cleaning the ceiling fans; kibitz with Manuel about how healthy the plumbagos look. As if it were a chore for me to say something nice.

Nor do I deal well with poor performance. I limped along with Manuel for three years, watching as scores of plants and palms died from lack of water, weeds and dry leaves cluttered the grounds, irrigation and water filtration systems deteriorated for lack of maintenance. Manuel is a smart, talented guy who knew what needed doing. The two of us talked about corrective action but not much happened, especially when I was in California, as kindly neighbors recently pointed out. Neighbors who had rescued Manuel with small, no-interest loans almost as many times as his employer had.

“If you weren’t trying to sell part of your place, we probably wouldn’t even bring this up,” they said to me last week. “Manuel is a nice man, and we like him. But we see you’re trying to spruce up the garden with new plants that aren’t being taken care of.”

For the previous two months, in my absence, they had jotted down the number of hours Manuel came to work: My supposed Monday-through-Friday, 7 A.M.-to-noon caretaker showed up two days a week for all of an hour.

That did it. My hand was forced; I had to act. But to fire him without having clearly stated that his job was on the line seemed unfair and contradicted all my previous-life preaching as a human resources manager about progressive discipline. It also seemed unfair that I’d have to fork over a big severance (“finiquito”) amount if I fired him. Gringos rarely prevailed in fired-for-just-cause hearings; settlement amounts varied wildly and were often exorbitant.

So I did four things:

1. I talked to Manuel about his breach of trust, about the improvements I needed to see, about the fact that he could lose his job if the improvements didn’t happen.

2. I found someone to act as his supervisor and informed Manuel that he would now have a new boss. As expected, Manuel balked at this arrangement. "If you are so unhappy with my work, I might be forced to resign," he said.

3. I spoke with an accountant who figured out the much-reduced severance amount if Manuel were to resign(FYI: for a three-year, part-time employee, 10 days of vacation + 15 days of Christmas bonus [“aguinaldo”]) I told Manuel that I would pay him that amount plus five extra days to sweeten the deal.

4. I pleaded with the universe to please, oh please, let Manuel to see the wisdom of resigning.

The universe responded. Manuel took my offer and signed a letter of resignation. A new gardener starts next week. And I’ve learned my lesson. Like it or not, in person or in absentia, I need to step up to being a better boss. It’s only fair.

Waiting At The Bank

Our mission: to retrieve records of our closed Bancomer checking account. The only person who could process that request, the teller told us, was the branch manager, so we signed our names in the designated notebook and took seats in the waiting area.

The bank was crowded that morning, and despite a long line to see the manager, the atmosphere was friendly and convivial. Decorations for a special offer on checking accounts added a festive touch; balloon arches framed the doorways and giant bows festooned teller stations. Pre-school children were everywhere. They crawled on and under the chairs, wandered in and out of executive offices, and watched cartoons on the television suspended from the ceiling. A Mexican lady sat down next to me, explained her banking problem, and asked about my family. A Canadian man and I speculated about why the teller had refused to cash his traveler’s checks.

I had assumed customers would be taken in order, but that wasn’t the case. Except for my husband and me, hapless Americans not accustomed to Mexican banks, no one paid attention to whose name was next in the sign-in book. An hour passed. Lunch time came and went.

For awhile I diverted myself by studying the promotional materials for the checking account offer. Posters of a lady flipping pancakes with a spatula explained: Open a new account or increase your balance by $6500 pesos and you will receive a boxed set of stainless steel kitchen utensils--two cooking spoons, a spatula, a soup ladle, a masher and a stand for hanging them on. At least 20 people picked up utensil sets. We were still waiting.

When at last we were seated in the manager’s office, another customer walked in and began to explain her problem. Still typing our data into her computer, the manager responded in the manner of a kindly social worker. A half hour later the manager had processed our request, and, finally, we were done. But, she told us, we would need to return in a week to pick up our records.

Waiting for a delivery, a repair person, the house painter, the bank manager-- we spend a lot of time waiting in Mexico. I’m still not used to it, and it tries my patience. We have to see that bank manager again, and I’m not sure what I will do. Barge into her office, and risk being regarded as an arrogant American? Sit politely while other customers jump the line? I am still pondering.