I first heard of Dr. Oliver Sacks the same way millions of others did - via the 1990 movie "Awakenings", a wonderful film that I wished could have delved more into the frustrations and limitations that the characters were portraying but alas, only so much can be dealt with in two or so hours.
The next time I was to reacquaint myself with Dr. Sacks was when I was living in Oaxaca and my friend Richard Orlandini turned me on to Sack's book Oaxaca Journal, a must-read for anyone interested in Ferns and micro-environments such as one finds on Oaxaca's Highway 175, a road that I never tired of exploring and experiencing. Sacks also captured many of the other delights unique to the Oaxacan culture and geography that at that time I was embracing wholeheartedly and at present miss quite dearly.
And then there was today, this afternoon, listening to one of my favourite radio programs, CBC Radio's "Tapestry"....today's episode entitled "Face Time" - a nice montage on faces, sight, perception and featuring an interview with Sacks no doubt due to his latest book release "The Mind's Eye" which further explores the notions of perception and how some compensate for various shortcomings. Sacks also shares his experiences dealing with a particular visual ailment he suffers from as a result of a cancerous eye tumour.
No, this is not a freebie for Dr. Sacks courtesy of me but rather an acknowledgment and at times confessorial with regards to the hiding of certain afflictions and the problems that in turn can occur due to lack of understanding and empathy by those with whom I deal with on many levels.
Sometimes the impatience of others, that inability to "see" beyond their own experiences can be more vexing than the malady itself.....I must rest now for awhile. I do promise to expand upon this essay. Unfortunately, fatigue is but one of many symptoms that I go through on a daily basis.
First Realizations.....lessons learned in childhood
My mother held up the mason jar that had been sterilized, inspecting it closely to make sure it was perfect. Her brows were furrowed in concentration as she did this. As she talked with her father I heard the words lab and alkaline being bandied about.
Like just about every farm in our district we had a well, a very deep one, housed in a little red building, the interior immaculate. No farm detritus contained in there, just shiny buckets and tightly coiled hoses. We children were always told to stay out the well house but for me staring down into that perfect deep and shimmering pool it was a magical portal to another kingdom promising of adventures to come. For my mother however that well was the bane of her existence.
Mother trudged out to the well house with her jar and when she returned minutes later the jar had been filled and sealed with a colorful wrap. She dutifully wrote down the date and placed the jar into a carton festooned with very official-looking words like "Norquay Water Labs Test Samples". When my grandfather departed later that day the box with the jar went with him.
I didn't give the jar much more thought as there were more important things on my youthful mind like going out on my bicycle to explore the prairie world around me. Water? What was the problem? We had a well. What could possibly be wrong with that magic nectar? We had a creek and a small slough and in some springs we had too much water that would flash flood our yard when the snows in the escarpment mere miles west of us would rapidly melt bringing with the melt a deluge.
Two weeks later the phone rings - one long ring followed by two very short ones - our dedicated party line ring. Mom answered in her very official Good Morning voice and within a minute her brows again were furrowed. I could see her nodding her head up and down for yes and then several times sideways for an emphatic no and then she said Thank You Very Much and ended the conversation. She sat down at the kitchen table, heaved a big sigh and poured herself a cup of tea from the china pot that never seemed to go empty and said "R----" we have alkaline water....only she said it like "alkalye" so it took me awhile to find the right word in the family dictionary.
The lab had recommended that we do not use our well water for drinking or cooking. Yes, we could occasionally partake of a glass but to continue imbibing it was not good. Salts, while necessary for our survival, can also be deadly. It seemed that in the case of our well, we had a little bit too much of a good thing.
Good enough for the chickens but not good enough for us. We had to get our water for consumption trucked in after that day. Stored in several barrels in the basement it was to be my task as a child to bring up buckets of water daily for our cooking and drinking. It was a task that stuck with me and those memories of conservation and practical uses came in quite handy when many years later I would find myself in a similar situation, several times over, thousands of kilometres away.
Wet Season, Dry Season...Honduras, Jamaica, Belize and Mexico
There was a neatly lettered, encased in plastic-wrap sign over the communal sink at the hotel where I lived. It stated as such that no taps were to be left running, toilets only flushed with seawater and that showers should be limited to five minutes or less as the hotel relied solely on rain water stored away during the rainy season, which at this time was winding down quickly.
We were coming into the dry which would last for at least six months and even though our cisterns were full and on some days, overflowing when a late-season squall would come roaring in conservation of this precious resource was maintained and enforced. Those of us who were living on Isla Utila, part of the Bay Islands chain in Honduras - a mecca for folks pursuing diving careers, we knew the drill all too well being that many of us had already lived in other places in the tropics that were slavish to the wet/dry seasons. We had to be, what would seem to some, tyrannical in our approaches to wanton waste.
Yes, there were some lucky folks on our island who had wells with beautiful, sweet water and they were indeed the lucky ones but even they did not waste what they had for these old timers knew the vagaries of the skies and in the evenings sitting over beers would regale us newcomers with stories of deprivation during their childhood.
I took my stewardship duties seriously as the one long-term resident of our hotel. Most of the guests who would only be there for a week or two had no problems adjusting to these rules but on occasion the Duena or myself would be in the awkward position of having to correct a guest and in doing so incur their wrath. Hate to say it but the paradigm of Urban versus Rural would be an all-too-common theme in my subsequent observations regarding conservation habits.
One could always tell apart those who had an appreciation for our situation from those who just did not give a shit. One morning I heard one the guests go into the breezeway to use the sink to wash up and brush his teeth. I could hear him cursing about the bucket that we used to draw seawater for the flushing of the one communal toilet that was not hooked up to the cistern supply. The latter invectives being hurled did not trouble me but what he did next bothered me to no end.
He turned on the tap and I started a mental count. I could hear him brushing his teeth but what I did not hear was the sound of the flow of water being interrupted for brush cleaning. This dude was leaving the tap running while he was brushing. Why do people do this? When my count got up to almost thirty I got up from chair where I had been reading, walked over to the sink and turned off the tap, subsequently pointing at the sign which was in English, Spanish, German and French.
He stopped his brushing, forcefully spat out his toothpaste and asked me why I turned off the tap. I went on to explain why and he interrupted me saying I am paying to stay here and I will use as much water as I want to!!! I was shocked at his arrogant attitude and not just because he was paying the princely sum of around six bucks a day to stay here but because he felt it was his right to do as he wished without a care for those of us who months later would obsessively measuring what water was left in those cisterns.
The Duena, hearing the heated discussion, came upstairs, looked this man right in the eye and said I have the right to ask you to leave. The look of shock that registered on his face was priceless and no matter how strongly he pleaded it fell on deaf ears. Within the hour he was gone and our household was peaceful.
Thankfully I did not run into this stroppy character too many times and like most tourists he was gone shortly thereafter leaving the rest of us to deal with those day to day rituals that were far from mundane.
Oaxaca.....beach camping and water barrels...
Prior to living out in the islands I got my first foreign lesson in water scarcity when I was camped out (in my Westphalia) in the fishing village of San Agustine, in the very arid state of Oaxaca, Mexico. At that time it was a sleepy, quiet place, perfect for someone like me who was more or less, self-contained.
I had a ten-gallon capacity in water tank, more than sufficient for my meager needs but how to stay clean? Yes, there I was right on the gorgeous, rugged Pacific Coast but how to get the salt off of me? Where I had parked and set up camp was perfect. Agosto, the gentleman whose land I was staying on had just that year built a cabana for bathing. I was in heaven. For the incredible sum of one whole dollar a day I could dip a bucket into the barrel, bathe and rinse out my clothing. Primitive yes, but I did not care. I would learn some valuable skills here that I would be able to apply years later when living in Jamaica and Belize.
Agosto gave me the conservation lecture over beers and I immediately understood. All one had to do was look up into the hillsides where the only green was that of the succulents and cacti that dotted and dominated the landscape. This was not the tropics of the rainforest.
Near the bathing cabana was a small cabin whose resident, a retired police officer from Seattle, was already a veteran of conservation. We got along famously and once in awhile he would lament our water shortage, having lived in a region that is dominated by rain, but he agreed that by slowing down our lives, parsing out and recycling our water, we were forced to appreciate a situation that millions if not a couple of billion folks elsewhere had to contend with everyday, for years on end, not on their journeys like us. We had that option of returning to civilization with its abundance and sense of entitlement.
Cop Richard, as I came call him, helped me string a line to allow the sea air to "cleanse" my whites. I would only wash when absolutely necessary and when I "bathed" it was standing over a large tub that I had bought so I could capture the washing water to use later to water our veggie plants near the cabana.
We had a good system going and we could stretch out that water barrel's contents for days.....until that is, two more hippie van groups showed up. This encounter was to be for me very telling regarding that sense of entitlement that many travelers have, an almost elite and arrogant care-not attitude. I find it disgusting.
The cabana was not for bathroom duties. In fact we had no bathroom except the wide open sea. I had an army-issue folding shovel, more buckets and of course my own waste paper. I had no problems with venturing into the sea, my front yard at the time, to take a piss. The only time it got dodgy was when the rip tides were in full-force. As to ahhhh, bowel evacuations that is where the shovel, bucket, bleach and asswipe came in handy. Richard kept a chamber pot in his cabin and I would take my bucket into the cabana for my privacy. After using it I would go out for a walk, dig a hole, dutifully bury my waste and then return to camp to clean out my bucket, rationing of course my water use and making good with the bleach.
When these other campers showed up us gringos, at Agosto's insistence for his English was spotty at best, were in charge of educating the new arrivals. Within less than one day the barrel was depleted and the cabana stinking of piss. We were livid as was Agosto, who was also insulted by the sheer stupidity of these "pinchay cabrones". He was in a tough position as he sold cold beers, made wonderful seafood out of his beachside stand, did some fishing etc....in other words he could not afford to toss away these six travelers but ask them to leave he did.
My respect for Agosto's integrity tripled that day and I promised him that I would make sure that I would consume as much beer as I could so he would not be broke.....well, the laughter that erupted from him....precious. As to my liver? Well, that story is still evolving....hahaha.
Catching the rains in Jamaica.....
Jamaica, always being advertised as the perfect island paradise, abundant supplies of clean, fresh water and having a fecundity that is the envy of the Caribbean. Yes, that may be the case but it is not so everywhere.
Perched up in the hills overlooking the sea about ten kilometres outside of Negril were homes ranging from tidy little cottages to the sprawling estates of the mega-rich but there was one thing all those dwellings had in common - cisterns. The very rich of course had no issues with water but those of us who had smaller cisterns were always aware and governed our usage accordingly.
Westmoreland Parish is one of the driest regions of Jamaica and your average tourist who visits the famed seven mile beach of Negril never has to worry about how much water that twenty minute shower uses. The average tourist would never go into the impoverished Negril neighbourhood of Red Earth where squatter's shacks were plentiful and water hauled by the bucket out of rusty barrels. Bathing was done in big old tubs or by using a gravity shower whereby water was hauled up to a container above the shower where the user could pull a string and water would be come out of a calcified and rusty shower head.
My friend Miss Jan's home was thankfully not of the rustic variety and was one of those beautiful homes perched on an escarpment with the priceless seaview. Unfortunately though this location was problematic in that the clouds, swollen with rain, rarely dumped down on us....such are the vagaries of the winds and climate.
We had been rationing for weeks, waiting for rainy season to begin. The cistern was almost empty and we had been forced to drive into town to get water for drinking and as to our bathing routines well, we had an interesting system for that as there were several beach side hotels where we were known so we were granted pool and shower privileges. We were grateful for this kind gesture.
One day, on one of those torrid days when one finds themselves lolling about, tired from the heat and conserving their energies, the skies darkened and we heard the not-too-distant rumble of thunder. We didn't pay it much attention having been "teased" like this several times in just the past week. We did not stir. And then it happened - one humongous burst of thunder the crackle of lightning so close that our power got knocked out. Immediately the deluge came and we women moved fast.....Jan barking out orders to grab whatever plastic tubs and get them under the drain spouts that collected precious rain water.
She had gone to open up the lids of the cisterns so that we could transfer the precious cargo.....yes, the cisterns were fed off of the roof but why waste what was coming down? It was a rather comical affair as her porch was a polished cement and therefore not given to having lots of traction at the best of times. I must have fallen on my ass at least a dozen times with these damned buckets but continuing catching and filling I did. This deluge went on for an hour and at the end of it all the cisterns had been replenished to half of their volume.
Over beers, soaked through we laughed and celebrated our ingenuity. It is a memory that I cherish to this day and one that I could appreciate and that was to be repeated just a few years later at my own little cabin in Belize.
Bakabush and the Rotoplas....a rain celebration after deprivation in Belize
It was those experiences in Mexico, Honduras and Jamaica that enabled me to apply sound stewardship of my own water resources and had in many ways brought me back full circle to my formative years and that damned salty water well.
My elevated cabin although in the part of Belize that received around 55 inches of rain during the wet season was close enough to the sea to render the ground water unusable even for watering plants. I did not even like showering with this water, so slimy and smelly it was so when we first designed our water system I told my then-husband that we needed to build a platform on the upper deck by which to capture the water from the roof so it could feed into the barrel and then allow for gravity to carry it into the kitchen and bathroom. We had an additional ground tank that caught the rainwater as well that had an electric pump hooked up to it so the upper barrel could be filled but that second barrel came more than a year later so for the longest time I made do with a 450 litre container.
I had all sorts of tricks at my employ. Like those camping times in Mexico I made excellent use of laundry lines so my towels and linens would always stay fresh. My gravity fed shower water was never wasted either as I stood in a tub whilst showering, saving the grey water for my fruit trees. Little things like saving my drained pasta water for cleaning out my pots and pans.....we never think about things like that in urban society as we have it all, hot water too, at the flip of a tap.
For me, living in what many of my neighbours felt to be very primitive conditions, I was happy and did not mind adhering to these practical routines. The dry season that year had dragged out and many of the more well-heeled foreign residents faced empty cisterns and were on waiting lists for water to be hauled to them. One never knew where this water came from but one day I made the discovery and I was none too pleased when I caught the water man pumping his cargo out of a stagnant canal where folks tossed their garbage and sometimes animal carcasses. Disgusting to say the least. To say that I felt a bit of schadenfreude when telling some of these snooty bastards where their water came from? Oh well, one cannot always be nice.
I was down to probably my last twenty or thirty litres.....the barrel had been invaded by frogs and geckos seeking comfort from the searing, dry heat....in other words, it was a skanky, slimy mess and I had to empty it and bleach it out. I had no choice. I was worried though what I would do for household water once cleaning out the barrel as there was no rain in the immediate forecast.
A few hours later, cold beer in hand, relaxing in my hammock I heard the rumble. I got up to see the clouds quickly rolling in, the skies darkening and the temperature plummeting. A smile came across my face as the first drops hit the roof. I whooped and cheered as the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof sounded like a freight train rumbling through my home. It was so loud that I could not hear the music nor did I care.
I grabbed the cell and hurriedly dialed my husband in Canada and yelled out my joy. Yes, he could hear the rains. I stripped down and stood outside on my deck not giving a care in the world as to who may have driven by and maybe seen me. I was ecstatic. Now I knew how desert dwellers felt when the rains came.
For the next few months I had too much water, the barrel was never empty but the lesson remained and even after I installed the second barrel I never lost sight of how I had to respect the wet and dry seasons and adjust accordingly my usage of water.
Ending thoughts.....
Now that I find myself back here where I grew up, in the land of 100,000 lakes - the remnants of glacial retreat and probably one of the largest watersheds on the planet, I still have what some consider water saving eccentricities. I use my grey bath water for plants, I capture rain water in the summer for my garden and in the winter I leave my hot bath water in the cast iron tub so it can give off needed moisture and extra heat. I only run the dishwasher when it is totally full and no, I do not leave the taps running when I brush my teeth.
Maybe if we all took the time out to just for one week, change some of our habits, I wonder how much water we could save? I regret never measuring empirically what my daily usage was in those far-off locales but I can safely say that it was nowhere near what the average North American uses in one day - the contents of my Rotoplas or rather around 450 litres.....wow.
It was good to find this blog site today whilst investigating the recent tragedy in my "home" state of Oaxaca.....yes, it has been my "home" off and on for many years. I am worried for the safety of many good folks up in Tlahui.....
Day of the Dead is almost here and I have to admit that I am far more excited this year than last because I have thrown myself into the preparations with gusto. This is far more fun than Christmas as far as I am concerned.
I have been having a rather difficult time trying to describe the flurry and frenzy so this morning I decided I would find a spot to park my ass and just absorb the smells and sounds and all that good stuff. Perhaps I may even be able to share some of that.
Today is the thirtieth and the market is bustling like I have never seen it before. My nostrils are assailed by the odors emanating from the various pots of incense burning. I like the smell when it is outside and not confined in some silly cathedral. It seems more natural and there are many varieties. I am reminded of my trip to Morocco when I smell it.
I am hungry this morning so I head to the indoor market to visit my empanada lady who dutifully tells me the price every morning for my favourite breakfast (3 whole pesos per empanada!!) even though I have been eating here everyday since I arrived. It has become a sort of game with us. Her empanadas are pure Oaxaca, stuffed with the stringy quesillo and flavoured with epazote, a local Zapotec herb that I am very fond of using for frijoles and soups.
Dona Maria must be at least eighty-something years old. Every crack in her face is a story and then some. I dare not ask her if I can take a shot. Instead I burn into memory these lines. It has taken me most of this month to win her over and yes she did remember me from last year but that was, after all, last year. She makes some great salsas and is very proud of her recipe. She gets very insistent with me to slather my empanadas with her concoction and she will watch to see how much I use. Today I used a lot and she was content with that.
I like being back here for I have gotten to know many Mitlenos. They can be a conservative bunch at the best of times but it is festive events that seem to wash away the taint of modern life that has invaded even this staid valley town. Folks from the outlying communities, you can tell because they are dressed up in their Sunday best, have been gathering here for the last several days. This is what I like to call the last big blowout before the spending orgy that entails Christmas only this one has far more significance as far as I am concerned.
Day of the dead comprises more than one day and no I am not going to describe it here. Google it in for there are writers that are far better equipped than me who can give the more anthropological slant. I concentrate on the food and family stuff. In other words I am gonna make you sing for your suppers and yes I am a lazy bastard sometimes.
Mole, mole and more mole. There are several varieties for sale today but most folks will make their own from trusted family recipes. Today for example I will be going to a mole lesson where I hope I will do my teacher proud later when I attempt to do my family's honored recipe that was so good that former President Zedillo ordered buckets of it to take back to Mexico City. I don't think for a second that on my first attempt I will triumph to that degree but as long as it tastes good I will be happy. Sublime will come much later.
Flowers and oranges and more flowers and oranges and apples, so many varieties of such that I am truly surprised. Belize could learn a thing or two if they sent some trade envoys up to live in this valley. I bet they would never go back after experiencing the choices here for fresh foodstuffs.
The orange trucks came in late last Friday and set up on the corners near the main plaza. The oranges are used mainly to decorate the altars that are in just about every home down here. Well maybe not up in the evangelical gringo gulag on the other side of town but who gives a shit about those party poopers anyway? Some altars are very modest and then there are some that defy description and can be so campy as to be cool but they all have oranges and apples in common as main decorations.
There is a Zapotec country woman who has just walked by and I will describe her outfit. She has to be around my age as many of the younger women, even those from the smaller villages, are choosing jeans and sweaters rather than the traditional garb which I believe looks far nicer. Firstly let's see her hair - it is in long pigtails that reach her arse and it is braided in a very loud orange color. Her hair is of course jet black and contrasts nicely with the orange braiding.
She is wearing a crispy white blouse embellished with rocket red roses, hand-embroidered of course, and to top it all off she is wearing a red plaid pleated skirt. Now that is a first for the village ladies tend to wear the same uniform of plain dress covered by hand embroidered full apron, earth-toned reboso (scarf) draped over and around the shoulders. Hair done the same way as the stylish village lady but cloth braiding more plain in colour. Most will also be wearing blue flowered head scarves. You see this uniform so often that when a creature walks by in a red plaid skirt you take notice. Did I also mention that she was gorgeous and that her husband followed her? Cool. He was dressed pretty snappy too and not cowboy kitschy.
Holy shit! Right across the street is my tortilla maestra Josefina clutching a bunch of marigolds that almost obscure her. Well she is a little person but boy does she move fast and her tortillas rock! Yes Marigolds and many more varieties of flowers are for the buying. The flowers are not just for the home altars but for the cemetery (Panteon) that plays a central role this week. This is the week that we honour and celebrate the dead by lavishing much attention on the graves of those who have preceded us.
We honor the spirits, sing to them, give them their favourite treats (in many cases shots of mescal and sometimes joints, toys and foods and will be placed reverently on gravesites) and make sure that every site is honored, especially the sites of the few foreigners who may not have family to clean up or honor their burial area.
Man sometimes it is so hard to concentrate with all the noises and no I do not mean the market and people noises but the new annoying modern noises as generated from the moto taxis, a new phenomena for Mitla. It used to be, and that was just last year for crying out loud!, that if you had a bunch of groceries you could flag down a bicycle taxi and have a leisurely ride back to your home but no more. We now have a hundred of these putt-putt things and it seems that damned near every one of them is driven by someone under twenty-five years of age who thinks he is Mario Andretti. Sorry boys, I am.
Where I am sitting is the main intersection so imagine a traffic jam comprised of these silly machines with drivers impatiently honking their horns as if they are going to get anywhere faster today! Not a chance. The streets are choked with people, livestock, flowers, oranges…best to walk I would think. Besides, how else is one to get an essence of what is going on? I hope that in the years to come that Mitla maintains its traditions and doesn't get too caught up in the bustle that afflicts Tlacolula just down the road. They don't seem to take Day of the Dead as seriously as they used to. Here it is celebrated with gusto.
It is now just a little after ten a.m. and I am hoping that the ladies with the charcoal grills are preparing chuleta and filete for I am looking forward to having some beef. It is a treat to be sure. Man you could eat market food every day and not break the proverbial bank.
I am now on my third cafe con leche. I love the coffee here for they enhance it with cinnamon (canela) and yes, unlike American coffee it has body for it home-roasted and fresh-ground.
For the last two weeks in our kitchen we have been preparing for this week by making rounds of chocolate spiced with cinnamon for the de rigeur Oaxacan hot chocolate which is served with pan de muerte. Every village has its own particular take on this bread and some loaves are quite ornate. Think of the hennae designs on the arms of Indian ladies and you will have an idea as to how some of these loaves are decorated. Some come with little icing angels on them or Jesus themes. The little angel breads are for the one day that we remember the little children who have passed away.
Folks have been fattening turkeys for sale this week. Turkey is the choice meat to have with the moles. Another village up the road, Teotitlan, serves up tamales made with mole Amarillo (yellow mole) and boy are those tasty tamales.
We are not doing turkey this year but will do instead barbacoa with mole. Barbacoa in this region means goat meat and I for one really enjoy it. Not for everyone but I like the rich flavour and when served on fresh, hot tortillas it makes for an excellent meal.
You have to pace yourself when making the rounds of eating (that is front and centre after the cemetery visit) for each household will offer you hot chocolate, pan de muerte, a mole concoction and of course shots of mescal. It is the latter that can really bite you on the ass so I have a strategy already planned. I will take a small bowl and a small shot glass with me to each home I visit so I do not get inundated for on visiting day I will be going to at least ten homes.
Just outside the cafe where I am there is a group of country ladies sitting down on the sidewalk having their mid-morning snack of tortillas some sort of meat stuffing.
The tortillas in this region are worth mentioning for they are not of the wimpy northern sizes that we are used to. These tortillas can sometimes be almost two feet across and the so-called regular ones measure a healthy ten inches or so in diameter. They are served hot or crispy and my favourite ones come from a small village and are made with blue corn.
A huge tourist bus is trying to make its way past the square towards the ruins. Hahahaha - good luck buddy. As much as I can sometimes be a real snob about certain varieties of tourists I have to admit that it is good to see them coming back to Oaxaca after a prolonged statewide strike. The local economy has taken a major hit since last year and the recovery of such may never happen.
This cafe is a great vantage point this morning and I wonder why I have never sat here and worked before. Maybe because I always felt like I would be too visible. Today that is not the problem and I am able to write unnoticed which is nice. I have only had one person approach me and that was a gringa looking for ways to get to Hierve la Agua (a spectacular waterfall not too far from here). It just so happens that I know Hugo, the man who drives tourists up there so I told her how to find him but I warned her that Hugo may be missing in action for his wife is really pissed off at him. I will see if he is still alive later this week when Richard and I invade his place for our hot chocolate and mescal. It seems that Hugo got rooked into providing a huge breakfast for a visiting fiesta band and he did not tell his wife of this and if I was her I would be angry too for it would be she doing the bulk of the work! Hugo got conned into this honor� when he was sort of in his cups? Hahahahahaha. Never commit to a favour when you have been drinking. Not a good idea and I am sure Hugo will never hear the end of it.
A lady just walked by with a huge bunch of basil with the purple flowers. I smelled the bouquet long before I saw it! Yes, I have been making pesto. Of course!!
A girl is walking past carrying bunches of sugar cane no doubt to festoon the altar at her home. This is so cool this day and finally the nasty weather that has been plaguing us seems to have vanished. It was windy and cold and miserable to say the least but today makes up for that. I am getting coffee-d out now and have the urge to walk to the net cafe in order to post musings to friends.
Author's note......this first appeared in fall of 2007 on a forum, ourbelize.net
First off I must apologize for the ajo word being used instead of ASADO.....call it a Mexican fraudian slip.....here is part two....the tales of ribaldry will come later.....
The momentum has been building and from what I had observed in the markets this morning everyone's energies were hyper-focused on their collective and individual preparations for Day of the Dead which is more than one days worth of celebrations.
Lupe and her son el Diabolito (Angelito) were in the market selling off their last bags of pecans which we had shaken out of the huge tree that morning. I love to sit in the courtyard with a hammer and enjoy them at their freshest. I have found that in the absence of pine nuts these nuezes work just as well. Yes, the food snobs will crucify me for this one but one thing I have learned in my travels is to make adaptations in the absence of certain ingredients. To date, my efforts have been appreciated by those whom I cook for.
By the time I was done with my mornings musings it was time for me to head back to the family compound to have some lunch and get ready for part two of our production. I was really stoked for this. Our household was engaged in its own particular bit of craziness. Lucia, Lupe's mom, had picked the sacrificial victim for tomorrow's special meal the goose which she was going to do with her own particular Coloradito sauce. This is a rich red sauce, not quite a mole but a specialty unto itself. I was to learn the next day during the visitations just how many kinds of sauces could be served and how delightful each one could be in its own right.
Lucia dispatched her husband Artemio to fetch the machete and sharpen it up for the sacrifice. There was no commiseration here. She picked a spot in the yard and got her son Diego to assist her. With two quick motions the goose's neck artery was severed and the blood allowed to flow. This is getting to know your food at its best. How many folks I wonder have never seen a critter get slaughtered, cleaned, dressed and prepped for the pot? Most of my friends think they are being daring going to a butcher shop and getting their meats in brown paper as opposed to the cellophane packages in the big box stores. I prefer Lucia's approach as it brought me back to my farm upbringing.
Lupe was still at the market so I thought it best that I head over to her Auntie's house as they were waiting for me and mole should never wait for anybody. I grabbed my notebook and camera bag and made my way down the circuitous back lanes lined by the adobe walls that to me, define Mitla. I came up with this great thought the other day as I was wandering home one night down the same lane, hearing laughter and music coming from behind those walls. Was the notion of life in the courtyard something handed down from the Moors of Spain? Or was this something that had existed in Mexico before the invading Spaniards put their imprint on this society? Walking a lot is good for the brain.
The big wooden door to Don Fausto's workshop was open and I entered the courtyard yelling out the standard greetings. Everybody laughed, hugs were exchanged and I was beckoned into the kitchen. The tomatillos and tomates rojas were reducing beautifully and within fifteen minutes would be removed from the stove to cool and be strained.
It was upon leaving the kitchen to organize my camera gear that I noticed the comal heater had this huge tin tub on it full of steaming water. Then I saw that the turkeys - the GUAJOLOTES - were being prepped to be defeathered. I made the slashing motion across my neck and this brought gales of laughter. These were gorgeous specimens of black turkeys and unlike the horrible things that are passed off back at home, all fat and flavourless, these Oaxacan turkeys are full of flavour and lacking in fat. I have had turkey many times in Mexico and now when I have one back at home I could almost cry because these creatures are the real thing. Tasty and organic and yes, they lived well and not in cramped feces infested barns.
Fausto and his son Armando and his wife Ophelia got down to the task of defeathering with gusto. It does not take too long to do this but once again this is a practice makes perfect kind of thing.
Fausto's wife Flor summoned me for the next important step, the washing of the chiles that we had toasted the night before. Flor grabs a generous handful, dips them into the pot of water and proceeds to wash and squeeze them. The juices are a rich brown color, a portention of things to come.
I am grateful to be able to capture her motions as well as the juices on the camera.
When the chiles are done being washed we grab the pot of strained tomatoes, the pot of washed chiles and the casserole containing the concoction that had been festering all night covered with a cloth. Flor, myself, Armando's son and his daughter all leave the courtyard to go to the community grinding spot. I am familiar with this ritual for we have an industrial MOLINO (a large machine whose design has not been altered since the 1930's) at our place that gets a great deal of use when folks come in the morning with their fresh-roasted beans for Artemio to grind up. Maybe this is why I love this house for I get to smell fresh coffee everyday. Take that Starbucks!! When the latter-mentioned company tries to duplicate Oaxacan cafe Olla that will be the day that I howl greatly in protest even though I must confess that I do like their pumpkin spice latte (send me a check later for my generous plug here okay?).
I can smell the grinding house before we cross its portal. It is a rich smell, one that promises of great things tomorrow. There are many ladies there, dressed in the de rigeur outfit of dress, apron and braided hair, lined up to have their mole ingredients treated. I feel very privileged to be here in that everyone has their secret ingredients and I get to photograph in this place. Normally, many Zapotecs despise their shots being taken unless they ask you to do so. I too was once one of those stroppy shooters who took umbrage at not having access. It has taken me two years of being in this community to be accepted and thus have unfettered access but I still ask for permission for it is a sign of respect. And I have great respect for my fellow women here.
Now there is a particular order to the grinding process. You just don't dump all the shit in together and schlep it back in one pot. Oh no. That would be not only sacrilegious but it would screw up the flavor order later once the cooking part began. First we place into the Molino what I refer to as the blonde ingredients, the stuff that was in the casserole, the spices, raisins, prunes, garlic, onion, sesame, herbs and yerba santa. I call it blonde for when it comes out it is a rich blonde color. This mash goes back into the same casserole.
The grind house Duena rinses out the Molino so we can do the chiles. Obviously the color of this paste will be much darker. In order to rinse out the Molino the tomato/tomatillo mash is added with a wee bit of water. This mash goes in with the chile paste. We are now ready to return to the kitchen so we hail one of those moto taxis and pile in holding the pots on our laps so as to not spill the precious pastes.
The propane heater setup is turned on almost full-blast and another huge tin tub is placed on it. 1 and ½ litres of cooking oil is poured in to heat up. If you have been cooking long enough all you need to do is carefully observe the oil and how it moves to know when it is at its optimum temperature. I would say to the anal folks out there most likely a 350 degree temperature needs to be reached.
This next step kind of took me by surprise. Another big onion, having been sliced into almost clove-like shapes was incorporated into the hot oil. Another joyous aroma greeted my nostrils. The onion slices had to reach a dark, not too dark, brown consistency. Salt was added during this process. How much salt one uses is purely at the hands of the chef. There are some things one cannot measure. The heat by the way is gradually turned down so this can reduce.
It is now time to add the blonde mash. The mixture froths and spits as we both furiously stir. Now this is the funny part for I am stirring and shooting and Flor is cranking up the flames. This is definitely a two-woman production. This too will be reduced and constant stirring is absolutely necessary.
Once again observation is key and this is why I know that it will take many attempts to duplicate (if I ever can) this particular mole but it is a challenge that I look forward to. Flor after a time decides that we can now incorporate the chile/tomato paste into the mix. The flame is turned to low, the lowest setting. I love to watch the mixing of the dark into the light and have much fun stirring. Flor laughs at my ease with micromanaging two tasks, stirring and shooting.
Remember the tomato/tomatillo straining of earlier in the afternoon? We saved the juice for this next part. We add the juice to the blended pastes and stir some more. More. And more. My arm is getting tired but I dare say nothing for Flor needs me to keep doing this as she adds the last, most special ingredient and one that will vex to no end, the homemade chocolate blocks. I say this will be vexatious for every household has its own particular spin on chocolate. These blocks are of course not the blocks we use to make the infamous Oaxacan hot chocolate. These blocks are more bittersweet. We add 17 in total, stirring them in to the mix.
This brew will reduce and attain a smooth consistency over the next three hours.
My part is done and my next task will be the tasting of the mole the next day with the turkey. I had to take my leave for some guests were arriving from the city for afternoon drinks at my friend Richard's home which happened to be right next door to me. This is when things ahhh, will get very strange and quite delightful.
LESSONS IN MOLE PRODUCTION PART ONE.....fond memories con mi familia segunda en Mitla, Oaxaca - Fall 2007
I was all pumped up to do this one knowing that the women who were going to walk Lupe and I through the steps of making mole had consistently in the past produced a concoction that was rich, tasty and complex in flavour layers. The food snobs out there would say flavour profiles but to me mole is all about layers.
Our hostesses, relatives of Lupes, her Tias (aunties), had the best comal setup I have seen yet. It was in a separate prep area and for good reasons which I will point out soon enough. First I must describe this all-important piece of kitchen gear.
The comal is a concave shaped clay apparatus that comes in many sizes. Some can be several feet across but this one was about two feet in diameter. Our comal in our compound is housed in a wee building off of the courtyard and we use charcoal underneath it to heat it. That is the traditional way but now there is an easier system using a gas setup that the comal sits on top of. This makes heat regulation easier for in the construction of mole heat control over the surface of the comal is very important. If any of you have ever roasted and toasted spices and herbs in your cast iron pots at home for curries then you know what I speak of.
This comal instead of being the usual white colour was a deep earth-tone with black areas on it, no doubt the latter effect being produced from years of roasting chiles. The lack of light in the kitchen (why are so many country kitchens poorly lit?) and the darkness of the comal surface made for some challenging photography situations but I was able to document all of the steps during the first stage.
THE PEPPERS AND HOW WE TREATED THEM
We used three kinds of dried peppers. Before we start the tostado process they must first have the seeds removed.
¼ kilo Chile Mexicano 1 kilo Chile Ancho (these are the spiciest ones) 1/8 kilo Chile Chiluacle
As we prepared the chiles the comal was set to heat up on the lowest flame setting. You do not want a super-hot surface for that will spoil the process by producing peppers that taste more of charcoal and not enough of toastiness.
Using two long sticks the duena of the house deftly tossed the peppers over the surface not allowing the peppers to linger for too long in one spot. It was within ten minutes of doing this that I noticed a funny burning sensation forming in the back of my throat. I started to cough like I have never coughed before. Pretty soon Lupe joined me racked with coughing fits. Everybody started to laugh at us because we were now brujas (witches). Local kitchen folklore has it that if you cough while roasting chiles you are a witch. Now do you understand why the comal had a separate space from the main kitchen area? These fumes were so powerful I could feel their effects from thirty feet away out in the courtyard. How the duena did not cough at all is beyond me. I told her she must be the real witch and that got everyone in stitches to be sure.
While she was working on the peppers the rest of us peasants had the joyous task of working with the garlic. We use what is referred to here as CRIOLLO AJO or country garlic, sort of like the stuff you would have in your home garden and nothing related at all to the perfectly white elephant garlic that comes out of Stockton, California. That shit glows in the dark man. This garlic however is the real thing. The only bitch is the dealing with the cloves later for they are difficult to peel being so darned small.
We used 17 of these small heads. We separated and removed the cloves, keeping the skins on. The duena would inspect our bowl and ask us for a head count. She seemed satisfied with our efforts. Supposedly garlic amounts used is one of the many secrets of a good mole.
Now you are probably wondering how we knew when the peppers were done? It is in the brittleness of the skin. They are not blackened or burned but are rendered brittle. This takes practice so do not despair okay? We were pursuing the perfect mole and when it comes time for Lupe and I to try and do justice to her granny's recipe I will be really surprised if we totally nail it down being that our comal is tricky for heat control.
AJO VS. TOSTADO
Like the el vs. la discourse in Spanish, ajo vs. tostado is another one of those concepts that you have to permanently engrave onto your cooking head because yes, it does make a difference. The difference here is purely textural. For example the chiles were done TOSTADO whereas the garlic we were about to work with would be done ASADO.
After the comal was brushed and prepped for the garlic we poured the cloves onto the surface to start the asado process. Now this was an aroma I could very comfortably deal with. No choking fumes here. Once again you have to really watch and play with what is being treated on the comal. The constant swishing of the little whisk combined with deft stick movement was a dance in itself.
The garlic is easier to tell done-ness. Just think of when you roast garlic heads in the oven at home. Same thing. After cooling off the skins will be removed from the cloves. Nothing is simple with a good mole. I know for having tasted the commercial moles and then tasting the carefully crafted ones here I would never go back to a store-bought one. A few hours of torture is worth it as far as I am concerned.
ONE BIG WHITE ONION..sliced however you like but long slices are best for a comal treatment.
I can hear the garlic (ajo) popping on the comal as Lupe slices the onion. It is about four to five inches in diameter and has a lovely translucency about it. But before the onion is allowed dominion over the comal there are other treatments to do first.
½ kilo of AJONJOLI (sesame seeds)..these seeds are used in many Oaxacan dishes. I love toasting sesame seeds. Yes these will be done a la tostada. To be noted here if the flame is too hot on the comal the seeds will jump and THAT IS NOT GOOD. A delicate balance needs to be maintained. Garlic obviously can take a bit more heat than these little seeds.
Same principal here, constant whisking. Your nose has to be clear (maybe this is why we do the chiles first, to clear out our sinuses) so you can smell the exact time to remove the sesames.
Next stop, Almond City. We will be toasting a ¼ kilo of almendres (almonds). A slightly higher heat here than the sesames. Practice over time and you will develop a nose for all of this stuff. I felt like I was on very familiar territory here having worked with curries and toasting sesames and almonds for dessert uses.
After the almonds then came the CACAHUATES (peanuts), all ¼ of a kilo of them. Repeat the same process as with the almonds. A bit of smoking is permissible.
We had a big ceramic bowl sitting on the table to put this stuff into. Now the chiles stayed separate but everything else that had been treated thus far on the comal went into the deep casserole dish.
Now comes the herb and spice treatments. These do not take as long as the other ingredients but they must be handled quickly.
Thyme (Tomillo) about ten grams Oregano about an ounce
You work with these herbs separately and as you do the stalks and other detritus must be removed. The little whisk is a handy tool for this and of course seasoned hands from years of working on a comal are quite useful too.
The spices...Canela bark (cinnamon) one piece broken up into small bits, 20 Pimiento (allspice) balls and 20 cloves. Oh yes she was very serious about counting this stuff all out.
The smell generated here was wonderful, dominated of course by the cloves, but rich, evoking some very pleasant memories.
This last bit is done ASADO and that is the 25 grams of Prunes (zuruela or pasas) and ¼ kilo of black raisins.
Making mole should never be a solo event. I could not see that happening just because the sheer amount of work and tediousness of some production aspects would make for a lonely day. Methinks the chef would be reaching for the grog halfway through peeling all that damned garlic. Like the baking of Christmas treats, thanksgiving dinner, making knishes or perogies or dim sum, this kind of cooking requires a few bodies if anything to trade artful barbs whilst peeling, you guessed it, all that damned garlic!
My favourite part of the journey was hearing comparisons to other moles and I just had to inject a bit of controversy. I told them that just about every cookbook out there and television show regarding moles stated that this concoction originated in the state of Puebla. This statement of course brought howls of derision. No no no, mole is a ZAPOTEC invention and those pinche Pueblanos are thieves!!! I was not about to argue and yes, I will look into this further and see what all the foodie anthropologists have to say. Zapotec cuisine is unique and knowing what I do about the sheer variety of chiles just in this one valley leads me to believe that these women are not whistling Dixie outta their arseholes!
Haha! Now we can ASADO the CEBOLLA (onion slices). I have grown to enjoy working with onions even though I do not like to eat them. I have found several ways to treat them and incorporate them into my dishes without causing myself too much grief. Everyone has their food peccadillos and onions are one of mine. Funny how I love to work with garlic and leeks though.
The onions are not removed until they start to get a golden colour.
The conversation switches constantly from Spanish to Zapotec and every once in awhile I can interject too with English and Spanish. How four of us fit into that tiny workspace and did not go crazy is an amazing testament to the love of the mole production. We all lamented the passing of some traditions and the need, for this is where I come in, to ensure an interest so that these traditions do not die off. I believe that there is a resurgence of interest in rustic food production and I love to share this theory with my friends down here. Perhaps this is why I get many opportunities to invade kitchens with my gear and share comparative experiences.
Roasting veggies and spices is a wonderful way to draw out flavour and the added bonus here is that there is no fat involved. Pre-Spanish conquest cuisine for the most part had no fat in it. It was with the introduction of European ingredients and methodologies that Indigenous foods almost disappeared in many regions. Not so in Mexico. Not from what I have seen.
The onions are now being placed into the pot with the prunes, raisins, sesames, almonds, spices and herbs. What a crazy, beautiful aroma!! The last ingredient to go onto the comal are six large leaves of YERBA SANTA. These are slowly toasted. At first the aroma is delicate, intoxicating but as the moisture disappears and the leaves become more brittle the smell of course changes. This is when it is time to turn off the comal for the night.
Yerba Santa is one of those crazy things that along with Epazote and the delicate parts of young squash plants I love to work with. My favourite soup to make for example incorporates only the herbs and leaves and no meat whatsoever. It is a traditional Zapotec dish and one that can only be made for about maybe a month, mid growing season…like June or July.
The dessicated leaves which have been turned over many times are now ready to go into the pot.
All of this has taken three hours. Next step which will be this afternoon, will be the tomato and tomatillo reduction and the actual mixing and blending for the mole.
