Tag Archives: dining

Time for lime

MAY IS THE warmest month of the year here, some might even call it hot, depending on where you’re standing.

In the evenings, upstairs at the Hacienda where, alas, live the Samsung Smart TV and the computers, it can get unpleasant in the late afternoon and early evening.

It’s even been known to chase us downstairs prematurely when we’re trying to relax with Netflix.

And, of course, we have no air-conditioning because 99 percent of the time, it’s not necessary.

Most of downstairs, however, never gets hot due to the high ceiling in the living room. In the bedroom, which has a somewhat lower ceiling, it gets a bit stuffy at times.

We have a ceiling fan in the bedroom, the sole ceiling fan at the Hacienda if you don’t count the fan in the ceiling of my child bride’s pastry kitchen, which stands apart.

May is our worst month. There is the “heat,” the dust, the dead grass in the  yard. May is just a period that one must endure  in order to enjoy the other 11 months.

One way we endure May is by making limeade.

The first limeades of 2017 were made this morning, a little tardy this year due to this May’s being somewhat less stuffy than the average. We’ve been lucking out.

That’s our limeade station in the photo. One nice limeade requires three limes, three tablespoons of barroom sweetener, water and ice. That’s it. Stir and serve.

Those limes are called lemons down here, limones. What the Gringos call lemons are rarely seen. The yellow things.

Doesn’t matter. Limes do the trick. Every May. Until it starts raining daily in early June.

Then you don’t hanker for limeade anymore.

Down the mountain

cafe
Are we in Paris?

WE DRIVE down the mountain every week to the state capital, mostly for shopping at Costco and Superama.

And to grab a lunch.

We rarely go directly into the center of town because traffic is snarly, and free parking is hard to find.

Yesterday, while my child bride was doing chores, I drove downtown for a look-see. That array of sidewalk tables sits across from a music conservatory called Las Rosas.

The Roses.

When I lived in the capital for seven months in 2000, I occasionally ate here. At the time there was only one establishment on this end, and another on the far end.

Those in the middle were not there.

cops
Cops, cops, cops.

Mexicans are fond of protesting in the streets and highways. More often than not, it’s teachers who want guaranteed jobs and the right to bequeath those jobs to unqualified relatives at retirement. Teachers also loath competence tests.

To counter these malcontents, police often take to the streets en masse. That’s what you see in the second photo. They were just standing there in body armor and shields.

I saw no impending strife nearby, so …

Being a cop must be very boring at times.

church
Scads of churches.

Sidewalk restaurants, cops and churches. The state capital is full of churches. That’s one just above. I snapped the photo while sitting on a bench in a plaza of yet another church directly behind me. Churches galore.

We sit at sidewalk eateries. We want guaranteed jobs. And we kneel and pray everywhere. All of those things happen in quantity down the mountain in the state capital.

It’s only 40 minutes away.

Thirty minutes if you really haul butt.

Night salads

SOMETIMES it’s good to show one’s human side.

Our evening meal is always a salad. I fix it myself. It’s served about 8 p.m., and we dine upstairs sitting in recliners watching Netflix, recovering from our ever-arduous days.

kit2While making the salads last night, my child bride snapped these two photos with her phone camera. The photos are not very sharp.

But neither am I.

It’s been quite nippy here in the evenings lately, and that’s why I am heavily clothed. We have no central heat. Or central air-conditioning either for that matter. No need.

kitThe flannel pants I am sporting were purchased in Costco, and are adorned with skulls and crossbones. The heavy hoodie was also a Costco buy.

That thing atop my head is an ancient and dreadfully misshapen watch cap. My child bride detests it.

But I never wear it out of the house, and I have a much newer version of the exact same model for social wear. The newer one looks quite smart, I think.

My normal preference for black-and-white photos has been cast aside for obvious reasons. We live in blazing color.

Lunch at Tapimba

house
Cabin across the way from Tapimba.

THERE ARE two, large, high-mountain lakes hereabouts. One I can almost see from our upstairs terraza.

Tall trees impede the view.

The other, Lake Zirahuen, is about 15 miles away. We traveled those miles in the Honda on Sunday to lunch at Tapimba where we’d eaten only once before, about a year back.

rest
Open-air dining room at Tapimba.

The restaurant serves a killer plate of arrachera, and that’s what drew us, that and the spectacular setting.

Entering the dining room, we noticed we were the only customers with the exception of three beautiful babes, just to the left of the photo above. They were models.

It’s a good thing Donald Trump wasn’t there. Or Bill Clinton. The gals were totally safe with me, of course. I had my child bride who provided stiff competition, beauty-wise.

The models were with two fellows who were setting up camera equipment on an old, covered dock just below the restaurant. While we were still eating, the models joined them and began doing those silly poses that models do.

But we went for the arrachera which was, as Mexicans say, “well-served” with a big glob of guacamole and a baked potato. You don’t see baked potatoes often in Mexico.

We won’t wait another year to visit Tapimba again.

Summer moments

corner
A corner of the veranda starring Bart Guevara.

SATURDAY MORNING, yesterday, and Elvis is crooning love songs on the living room’s music machine.

The far edge of July.

I was communicating via email at dawn with my friend Ray in Alabama who was telling me what I already knew, that Alabama is no place to be in summer, weather-wise.

Here, of course, it’s cool and damp all summer, even into autumn. After that, it’s just cool but not damp.

Heavenly.

After talking to Ray, whom I hope to meet in person one day, I ate a bagel with cream cheese, light, with my child bride, and she hastened out to her pastry kitchen for final touches on Saturday’s sale on the plaza.

First, I went to the living room to turn on Elvis. Then I went outside to chores like wiping the tabletop and chairs on the Jesus Patio, pulling weeds, pushing the mower out for Abel the Deadpan Yardman who arrives at 10 o’clock.

I swept the cushions on the rockers on the veranda before taking the photo above. We bought the big ceramic tile with Bart Guevara on our last visit to San Miguel. We found it on the highway between San Miguel and Dolores Hidalgo.

Though cool and damp, as always, the morning sky was blue and the sun shone sweetly. It’s a great place to live.

As night fell on Saturday, the grass was shorn, we’d lunched on roasted chicken, rice, chiles and soft-drink Sangría out by the highway in a humble place with earthen walls, afternoon rain had fallen and departed, pastries had all been sold on the downtown plaza, and it was cool and damp.

Thanks for stopping by.

Summer moments. With Elvis.

And Bart Guevara.

One of our pastry customers yesterday.
One of our pastry customers yesterday.

 

The other direction

New Image
Pirates buried here?

THE BEST-LAID plans often fly awry. Our plan yesterday of doing lunch on the shore of a nearby, high-mountain, lake was thwarted by a huge traffic jam caused, it appeared, by the balloon festival downtown.

So we went in the other direction.

We ended up in a restaurant just past a village with the cute name of Tzintzuntzan where we had fish and chicken and mole and guacamole and sopa Tarasca.

Instead of returning directly home after dining, we continued all the way around our local high-mountain lake, a jaunt of just under an hour, depending.

This route is a rural two-laner with spectacular views of mountains and lake. One passes wandering burros and indigenous women toting this, that and the other.

During the ride, I snapped the above photo of a cemetery gate. The photo might have been better had I not forgotten that I’d put the camera on video mode earlier.

It was on video mode because just as we were leaving for lunch, it started pouring rain. I stood on the veranda and used the video of my Canon camera for the first time.

The rain ended quickly, and we had a great afternoon. At times, the other direction is the best route.

It’s a good Rule of Life.

Christmas horror

THIS TALE OF terror is true. It was posted by me almost a decade ago on another edge of Mexican cyberspace.

But due to the passage of time, plus the fact that the audience has changed — new people have come in, and others have stormed out — I feel justified in repeating this Christmas grotesquerie.

We were newly arrived here at the Hacienda. If memory serves, it was our first holiday in the new home. We put up a huge Yuletide tree and invited a horde of Mexican relatives, which is the only kind of relative I have now, which saddens me deeply, but that’s another story.

A brother-in-law whom I dubbed the Eggman in those distant days (yet another unrelated yarn) was in charge of the festive meal. Mexicans do their Yuletide dining late on Christmas Eve, not on Christmas Day.

Due to the many people on the guest list, the Eggman purchased an entire sheep and ordered it catered and cooked.

headThis main dish arrived on the afternoon of the 24th. It looked like a brown meaty stew in a massive tub, and it required two people to tote it into the kitchen, placing it on the floor.

Flash forward a few hours, to 10 p.m. or so, music was playing, people were eating here, there, everywhere, because there were more folks than suitable seating.

I had ladled one serving of the stew into a bowl, and found it tasty. It went down nicely with Coca-Cola.

Returning to the  kitchen, bowl in hand, I bent down to the tub and submerged the ladle. At that moment, he rose to the surface from the murky depths. The sheep’s entire head, its dead eyes staring me squarely in the face.

I froze in place, dropped the ladle, turned quickly and decided I had eaten enough for one Holy Night.