Mexican delights


THIS SUNNY, cool morning we returned from our 20-minute walk around the neighborhood plaza. Birds were singing. The sun was shining. The air was like Baby Bear’s porridge, just right.

Walking back, my child bride detoured to the little general store on the corner near the Hacienda. She purchased butter for her pastries. I continued on, leaving the gate door unlocked for her return.

I sat on the porch, removed the walking boots that I bought years back at Academy sporting goods in San Antonio and put on my blue, house Crocs. I also have older, brown, yard Crocs.

In the kitchen I poured a glass of fresh orange juice. I returned to the porch, looking at what you see above. My child bride returned, went into the kitchen and came back with a grapefruit, which she rips apart with her hands, kinda like a hyena on a dead wildebeest. But it looks ladylike.

We will lunch today on beans and roasted chicken. The beans are already in the kitchen. I will head out later to buy the roasted chicken at my favorite spot on the ring road. Beans and chicken are our Wednesday tradition. You get a hen and a half on Wednesday for the price of one. Leftover chicken goes into evening salads.

Can’t beat it. None of it.

Remains of the day


THIS DAY DAWNED gray and cold. Upstairs, reading the morning’s ever-grim news from above the Rio Bravo, I shivered, and it was not simply the weather’s chill.

I heard the approaching freight train, so I picked up the Kodak Easyshare and stepped out to the terraza on the second floor and snapped this shot.

After doing exercise on the gym set across the room, the hour of 8 was upon me, so downstairs I went, calling out — as I always do — Let’s eat!   The cry is echoed back to me from the bedroom where my child bride is either still in bed, reading, or making it. The bed, that is.

I serve everything at that hour. The bagels, the cream cheese, the coffee, plus I set the plates and knives out, napkins too. I do it all, not being a real Mexican man who simply waits to be coddled.

After my child bride gets pinto beans boiling, we bundle up a bit, and walk 20 minutes around the nearby plaza. On our return, we sit on the downstairs terraza. I drink fresh orange juice squeezed before we departed, and she peels and eats a grapefruit, unsugared, which is just one step shy of sucking a lemon.

Women can be hard to figure.

Sitting there, we phone the propane company down the highway. Our tank is near empty. We’re told the truck will be here ahorita, which literally means pretty soon, but which actually means someday before you die.

Chores begin. I sweep the upstairs terraza and the service patio off the kitchen. I do some updates on the computer during the sweeps. I take a shower and dress. The propane delivery still has not arrived, but then I have not died yet. No matter. We have enough for many days more.

It’s almost time for Second Breakfast, which arrives at 11 a.m. I am scrubbed and installed in fresh clothes. My hair is combed, and I smell pretty good.

The ninth of April has not arrived at noon, but that’s all you get today. The remains must remain a mystery. I will say this much: Pinto beans and roasted chicken. Espresso on the plaza.

And the sun is now shining.