"Halloween! Halloween!"

One year ago today, Mario and I took possession of our house. As we locked our car in the driveway, it dawned on us that it was Halloween, as trick-or-treaters pranced up and down the dark street. I thought to myself, "Excellent! They do celebrate Halloween here!" I feverishly dreamed about being prepared for this Halloween, passing out candy in my witch's costume, while perched in a little alcove just to the side of our driveway, and scaring the poop out of the kids, as I didn't imagine they would notice me there.

So imagine my surprise yesterday evening when a troop of 5 kids knocked on our gate, yelling "Halloween! Halloween!" Apparently this is the thing to say instead of "trick-or-treat". Not being a grinch, I fished out the candy, teased them about being a day early, and sent them satisfied on their merry way.

While I never remembered to bring my witch's costume from Indiana, and it's a bit chilly to be sitting on the hard concrete all night, I decided to be content to wait for the trick-or-treaters in the comfort of my warm-ish house. And I waited. And waited. Did I really see those trick-or-treaters in this neighborhood last year? Bursting with festive impatience, I stalked my driveway and sidewalk. No children were to be seen.

Well, more candy for me.

While pulling Clara's pajamas out of her drawer at 8:00, I caught a chorus of, "Halloween! Halloween!" coming from the street. Still dressed, I snatched the baby off her changing table and raced for the door, candy bowl in hand. Four little monsters waited at the gate. We respectively spread our Halloween cheer. Triumphantly, I returned to my house. For the first time in years, I celebrated Halloween. And it felt good.

There's nothing like giving candy to perfect strangers wearing grisly costumes. Let's call it a holiday.

Dead Bread

In Mexico, nothing says fall like the first time I see pan de muerto, or dead bread, in the stores. Whenever I see those little buns, I want to buy up as many as I can possibly carry in order to enjoy them throughout the month. Never mind that I can continue to buy them throughout November. As they're one of my favorite seasonal items, I'm always afraid they'll be rushed off the shelves before I have time to restock.

Pan de muerto is made to help celebrate the Day of the Dead on the 2ed of November. The bread is often available beginning in October. I'm hoping that they'll continue to sell it throughout November. When families make altars in their homes to honor deceased loved ones, pan de muerto is often featured prominently on these altars.

Pan de muerto is a sweet bread with an odd flavor I always found hard to identify. I always described the flavor as that of flowers, and in my head I associated the flower flavor with marigolds, which are considered flowers for the dead. Tasting one this morning, my mother described the odd flavor as light orange, which is probably more correct, but a lot less poetic.

And now I'm off, to buy up some more Dead Bread. For those of you in Ft. Wayne, the Indiana Mexican Bakery on Wells Street makes some excellent pan de muerto. Incorporate it into your Halloween traditions!

Day of the Dead

I realize this is a few days late, but I've been asked what the Day of the Dead is all about.

The Day of the Dead is the 2ed of November. All Saints' Day (in both Catholic and Protestant traditions throughout the world) is celebrated on November 1st, and then November 2ed is labeled on our Mexican-Catholic calendar Day of the Faithful Dead. Or, more simply put, Day of the Dead. Mexican Catholicism is often a strange mix of traditional Catholicism that you'll find anywhere in the world and indigenous traditions. It's traditionally believed that on the 2ed of November, the souls of the deceased visit the earth this one night a year. Therefore, families traditionally build altars in their houses, honoring their deceased relatives, loading these altars with food and drink that their family member enjoyed and other things that remind them of this person. According to traditional belief, the departed enjoys the essence of the food, and then on the 3rd the family will eat the food themselves. November 1st is celebrated in roughly the same manner, but set aside for children that died.

Now, I've been saying that all this is how it's traditionally celebrated, because I don't know that people REALLY believe all that. Some people do set out altars in their houses, but most will go to the cemeteries, spruce up the graves of their family members, say a few prayers, and go on their merry way. The only Day of the Dead altars I've seen are in cultural centers, whose purpose is to keep traditions alive (and keep the encroaching Halloween at bay).

Again, traditionally they say that some families sit out all night in the cemetery. I've never seen this, but my guess is that those who might do this are either really traditional (this would show quite a bit of respect for their deceased), super-religious, or honestly believe that their loved one's soul does come back to visit (or some combination of all three).

Still, the spirit of the day does honor All Saints' Day, and in my experience, most Mexicans celebrate the Day of the Dead founded on their Christian beliefs. It's healthy and good to sit back and remember those who are no longer with us, and to contemplate our own mortality. In fact, US culture probably needs to do a bit more of that. Should death really be the taboo subject that we make it out to be?

It Must Be Fall!

While, yes, the temperature has turned cooler, the leaves do not turn colors and only a few fall from the trees. Therefore, it's easy to forget that it's fall after all.

However, while hanging out in the backyard the other day, we were visited by a monarch butterfly. This reminded me that the Great Monarch Migration is underway! Every autumn, thousands and thousands of monarch butterflies make their way from their summer home in Ontario (and likely a few neighboring provinces), to the state of Michoacan here in Mexico, where they spend the winter. How miraculous is it that those tiny little bodies can cover so much distance? Never mind that they fly--they still don't go very fast!

This afternoon, as Clara and I were walking downtown, I noted more and more monarchs, here and there, slowly but surely making their way south. Thinking that we might have a treat in store for ourselves, I made an unplanned stop in the Alameda. Clara and I claimed an empty bench and, sure enough, we were blessed with a park full of butterflies if we looked to the tops of the trees. Although they certainly didn't congregate as closely as they do when they arrive at the Butterfly Sanctuary in Michoacan, we spent a good twenty minutes watching the butterflies, once after another, and often two or three at a time. What a treat!

OK, I spent a good twenty minutes watching the butterflies. Clara was more interested in her stuffed monkey and all the other people walking past us.

I know I'll be spending more time in the Alameda in the next few weeks!

Our Medicine Man

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

Ding-dong-Ding-dong-Ding-dong-Ding-dong-Ding-dong!

Now, before last year, I had never lived in a house in Mexico. I don't know if because it's a house, or it's Saltillo, or because our house is near the railroad tracks, or because we live in a nice neighborhood, or because we live in a house in a nice neighborhood in Saltillo near the railroad tracks, but almost daily someone rings our doorbell asking for something. Not usually this insistently, though.

Often, people sell things door-to-door. My favorite door-to-door seller is the fruit man who, once a month or so, convinces me to buy more fruit than I honestly believe the three of us can consume in a reasonable amount of time for a bit more than I would pay at the grocery store. However, it does come delivered right to our door. And it's always absolutely delicious.

I also bought our mailbox from a man ringing all the doorbells on my street. Many people peddle brooms and cleaning supplies door-to-door. There also appears to be an army of women in this city who appear willing to provide re-financing and modest loans to almost anybody--I can only imagine the interest rates!

However, as I mentioned that we live a few blocks from the railroad, lots of people stop by asking to do any odd job for a bit of spare change as they make their way to the US from Central America (usually Honduras). In exchange for a few pesos and sandwiches, the clunker that sits in our driveway gets its monthly bath.

Ding-dong.
Ding-dong.
Ding-dong-Ding-dong-Ding-dong-Ding-dong-Ding-dong!

But none of these people ring the doorbell quite as frantically as this. When we hear the doorbell that won't shut up, we know that our medicine man is back.

We met the medicine man about a month ago. As I was paying the Domino's Pizza delivery guy, a man who collects cardboard was standing nearby and mentioned that his stomach had been hurting. Would I have anything that could help? Thinking of Alka-Seltzer, I initially told him, sorry, no. But then I thought about it and remembered that we did have some Lomotil.

(Side note: Lomotil is the best diarrhea medicine out there. Forget Pepto-Bismol. If you go anywhere in Mexico and are worried about getting diarrhea, go to any pharmacy and get Lomotil. Take one if you've got some slight symptoms, two if it's full-blown. If you take two at once and it's not seriously diarrhea, you'll get backed up for the better part of a week.)

So I told medicine man to wait, went and got the Lomotil, cut him two tablets out of the pack (in case his symptom weren't really Lomotil-worthy, I didn't want to worsen his condition if he were to take too many), gave him those along with a glass of water. He asked if I'd be home the following day, in case he needed more. I assured him that I would be around.

The next day, we heard the first ringing of the persistent doorbell. As I was feeding Clara, I told Mario that medicine man might be back for more Lomotil. So he went out and talked to the man, gave him the rest of what we had (it wasn't much), and both went their merry ways.

A week later the doorbell rang again. Again, Mario answered and stood outside talking quite awhile. Through the open window, I could hear the loud yet wheezy voice and knew that Medicine Man was back. I don't know what he wanted, but Mario was outside for at least a half hour. [note: Mario enjoys listening to people. When he would visit me at NPH he'd get holed up on a bench with a kid for the better part of an hour, just listening to them. I'd be afraid that he was getting bored and thank him for his patience. He'd counter, "they just really need someone to listen to them."] This must also be true of the medicine man. After two or three lengthy visits from the Medicine Man, I asked Mario what it is they talk about.

"Ah, a little bit of anything."

Reflecting a bit longer, he added, "I really do like him."

A Bit of Mexico in Hoosierland

The other day, while recording the fact that I live in Saltillo on facebook, a number of other Saltillos popped up as possible states for the location of "my" Saltillo. Among them, I discovered that there is a Saltillo, Indiana!

I'm from Indiana, but I live in Saltillo. That little town just combines two of my favorite places--how cool is that?

This got me to thinking: why is Saltillo, Indiana named Saltillo?

While I was busy noting the randomness of Indiana towns and their connections to Mexican areas (and other places of foreign origin), Mario reminded me that there is also a Churubusco, Indiana. Churubusco is also an area on the south side of Mexico City. To the best of my knowledge, Churubusco, Indiana was named after this area of Mexico City, thanks to an ugly battle near the climax of the Mexican-American War in 1846.

Apparently, among the gringo army was a batallion of Irish soldiers. After months of fighting their way into the heart of Mexico, these Irish soldiers, being Catholic just like the Mexicans, realized that they had more in common with the Mexicans they were fighting against than with the gringos with whom they had enlisted. Therefore, right before this battle at Churubusco, a significant number of these Irish immigrants switched sides and fought for the Mexicans. Legend has it that those that survived the battle (and managed to not get shot for treason) made their way back to Indiana after the war and founded the town of Churubusco.

I do know there was an earlier battle during the same war near here. Would Saltillo, Indiana have a similar history to Churubusco, Indiana? Curious.



If anyone else knows of other details to this story, feel free to leave a comment!

End of the Drought

I had been told that, when normal adults move to new places (ie, places where they're not living with at least 3 other fairly transient young adults (otherwise known as "instant friends")) it takes at least a year to make friends. I have been living in Saltillo for about a year now, and yes, I am seeing an end to the "friend drought".

Thanks to Blogger, I made the acquaintance of another woman whose life story (as of the last 2-3 years) is astonishingly similar to mine. We'll be sharing some lasagna with this woman and her family on Saturday. Oh, I hope they like us!

Furthermore, after mass one Sunday, a neighbor stopped by our house as we were walking home. She invited us to attend a class down the street on Wednesday evening. Now, when people talk of church-related classes, it can sometimes turn into an all night, mind-numbing event. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, for as soon as she invited us, I jumped all over her invitation, thrilled at the idea of hanging out with other people who were neither Mario nor Clara. And in someone else's house, too!

It turns out that this is an ongoing Bible study, an "evangelization" class (even though all of us that attended are Catholic) and an introduction to the Bible. I have now attended two classes, and can tell that this will be a most insightful experience for me. Not necessarily for delving deeper into the Bible, but as a cultural experience. I'm finally invited in to witness the mind of the traditional Mexican woman. It's going to be a trip.

For example, after reading Genesis and taking note that all of creation was proclaimed to be good, our little study booklets went on to explain that people sometimes misuse God's creation, messing up all that was proclaimed to be good. True enough. The Bible study leader, a fussy little old lady, further illustrated the point, "like when men grow their hair long and pierce their ears."

Umm . . . what?

First, I'm sure that as soon as God created man, he also created the scissors and told Adam, "hey--make sure to cut your hair when it starts to get long."

Second, men with long hair and piercings are right up there with war and slavery and pollution in the grand scheme of things that destroy the goodness of creation. Right.

I will be taking a lot of notes during these classes. And trying to keep a straight face.

Something to Bite Into

Clara has started eating crackers.

They're an (almost) endless source of entertainment.

This picture was taken on one of her first days with the cracker. I can tell, as I must have gotten a little overzealous, gave her multiple cracker options, with the end result of the child "two-fisting" the crackers.

However, she still doesn't have the pincer grasp completely down yet (putting the thumb and forefinger together rather daintily), so once she's nibbled off the cracker that isn't covered by her palm or fingers, she's out of luck.

Even though she knows there's still plenty of cracker there.

It's tough to be a baby.

Kids, kids, everywhere!

Clara and I extended our vacation in the Mexico City area so that Clara could spend more time with her abuelo, and so that I could visit my kiddos in Morelos.

Roughly five years ago, I spent two years as a full-time volunteer at a children's home an hour south of Cuernavaca (they gave me free room and board, so it wasn't too much of a hardship). My second year, I helped care of 26 1st, 2ed, and 3rd grade girls. These girls are now in 6th, 7th, and 8th grade. Compared to most ex-volunteers, I count myself very fortunate that I have in-laws that live near the house, so I can visit these girls at least every year.

As a quick summary, the house, Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos (http://www.nph.org/) has been in existence for 55 years, and has been a home for thousands of children, many of whom are clearly now adults. They operate under a beautiful philosophy of unconditional love, pledging to be a permanent family for the children that live there. Therefore, when children are accepted into the home, they must arrive with all their brothers and sisters, and they are never adopted out, giving the kids a sense of security and belonging.

Education is of utmost importance, so, upon reaching adulthood, "ex-pequenos" can go on to lead self-sufficient and productive lives. NPH runs its own school, which continues through the high school level [note: high school is not compulsory in Mexico]. Furthermore, upon completing high school and donating two years of service to the house, those who have the grades to be accepted at a university are given the opportunity. Currently, NPH has about 100 graduates studying at the university level.

In my time there, what I've witnessed overall is a group of healthy, happy kids who grow up learning how to cooperate with one another, and know how to share better than any other children I've ever met. For example, my daughter Clara, who already has far too many toys, was showered with toys and stuffed animals from the kids she met there.

Clara and I arrived at the house at lunch time. Initially, I thought, "perfect timing! We can go meet everyone at once."

Yeah. Poor, poor Clara.

She got mobbed.

However, she tolerated all the hugs, the poking, the proding, the cheek-pinching, and the noise surprisingly well. She didn't enjoy it, but she hung in there. While I did want to soak up as much of my time there with the girls I worked with, Clara and I took frequent breaks to hang out in our room and recover from over-stimulation. After a nap, we'd head out to be squeezed and hugged and poked all over again. I earned some bad-mommy points over those three days. Sorry, Clara.

I also got to witness my first de-gutting of the fishes. Every two months or so, fish are harvested from the fish ponds, cleaned and then fried for lunch. They're delicious. However, cleaning enough fish for 500+ people is more work than the ladies in the kitchen can possibly handle on their own. Therefore, the oldest girls spend half their Saturday gutting the fish. Ugh. I did hear of some dorm moms promising their girls plenty of free time on Sunday for this exceptionally disgusting Saturday chore. I enjoyed watching the procedure and Clara enjoyed the fact that they were unable to smother her for a few hours.

If, upon reading this you've wondered to yourself, "500 kids in one house! How to they pay for everything?" Good question, and during this financial crisis it's gotten harder and harder to them to make end meet. NPH runs a godparent program, asking donors "or godparents" to sponsor a specific child for $25 a month. These godparents make up a huge chunck of NPH's operating budget. When one sponsors a child, the child and godparent begin writing letters back and forth. I've seen the excitement when godparent letters arrive, and know that they do appreciate having someone who writes specifically to them. Furthermore, I've seen this godparent relationship stretch well into adulthood, long after the godparent has stopped financial support for the specific child. The woman I worked with during my two years there was an ex-pequena, and I helped her translate a letter to her godmother, letting her godmother know that she was going to be a mother herself! How beautiful for this woman, who did not have much extended family of her own, to know that she could write her godmother such exciting news.

I guess I got carried away on that. However, if you know that you generally have $25 in spare change every month, NPH would be most grateful for your donation. They are hurting for funds, and after my two years there, I can vouch that the organization is a good steward of what they are given.

Fiestas Patrias

Contrary to popular opinion in the United States, Mexico does NOT celebrate Independence Day on the fifth of May. (In fact, most Mexicans do not celebrate Cinco de Mayo at all . . . but more on that in May.) Mexico's Independence Day (and all Central American countries' Independence Days) is on September 16th.

We planned on celebrating Independence Day with Mario's extended family in Coatzacoalcos, Veracruz (again, at the very bottom of the Gulf of Mexico). Many people go out to join a "Fiesta Patria", or patriotic party, sometime in mid-September. Fiestas Patrias involve people dressing in clothes that are representative of a certain region of the country (or in green, red, and white if traditional clothes are not available). Then they get together and eat a lot of traditional Mexican food, sing mariachi and other traditional songs, drink a lot of traditional tequila, and dance.

As Mario's "uncle" Ramon turned 5o on September 15, his wife threw him a surprise birthday party, cleverly disguised as a Fiesta Patria. Somehow she was able to keep the surprise a secret, and Ramon was accordingly overwhelmed when he waltzed into the banquet hall, surrounded by 60 of his nearest and dearest friends and family.

In every town throughout Mexico, at midnight on September 15th (or 16th), the mayor of the town stands on the balcony of the town hall and shouts, "Viva Mexico!" The throng of people gathered in the square then echo "Viva Mexico!" a number of times, commemorating the shout that Father Hidalgo, a priest and father of Mexico's independence movement, gave to kick off Mexico's independence from Spain 199 years ago.

However, we were enjoying ourselves in the banquet hall and were clearly not going to join the rest of Coatzacoalcos in the town square. Therefore, at midnight, Ramon's elderly mother made her way to the balcony in the banquet hall, recited a patriotic poem, and then gave a spirited, "Viva Mexico!"

This was one of the most touching ways I've celebrated the 16th of September.

The Evil Eye

For about the last eight months, it has struck me as odd that nearly everyone in Mexico who comes in contact with Clara feels the need to touch her gently on her head. Not being weirded out by legions of strangers touching my child, I just chalked it up to being a cute, touchy-feely custom of Mexican women who clearly love babies.

Then, while I was visiting NPH, one of the older kids asked me why Clara doesn't wear a red string on her wrist.

"Because I don't believe in the Evil Eye," I replied.

A-HA! That's it! All these strangers who have been touching Clara on her head have touching her to avoid giving her "mal de ojo" or the Evil Eye.

Ever since moving to Mexico, I've been fascinated with mal de ojo--what it is, the symptoms, and, most importantly, how to pass it on. Of course, I've been fascinated as a skeptic. Plenty of people really do believe in the Evil Eye.

Children who are infected by the Evil Eye are just mysterously ill. Now, being familiar with the causes of Mexican illnesses, this must be something to do with the child having flu-like symptoms, but as the child hadn't been out in the cold, the wind, or wet, this illness must have been caused by the Evil Eye . . . because germs clearly don't have anything to do with disease, right? *sigh*

Mario's niece was apparently infected with the Evil Eye when she was about 18 months old. Fortunately for me, I was visiting at the time (and I probably gave it to her). Mario's mother doesn't really believe in the Evil Eye, but Dulce's other grandmother does. So, Other Grandmother performed a cleansing ritual for Dulce. This involved bouncing the naked child in a blanket and then sticking some herbs behind her ears (rather Julius Cesear-like). Odd. But it must have worked, as Dulce recovered. Because, as Mario's mother warns me, despite the fact that she doesn't really believe in it, children have been known to die from the Evil Eye.

But Clara is going to take her chances. No red string bracelets for her. Fortunately, all the female population of Coahuila is willing to touch her after looking at her, which promptly lifts the curse.

Oh, I think of all those children I've flirted with while waiting in line at the grocery store. I hope they're OK. I didn't mean to give them the Evil Eye.

(OK, sometimes I did try.)

Chiles en Nogada

On our way between Veracruz and Mexico City, Mario needed to stop to take care of some personal business. I also needed to take care of some personal business--I had a hot date with a chile en nogada!

Chiles en nogada are hands-down my favorite Mexican meal. Unfortunately for me, restaurants generally only sell them during August, September, and October to celebrate Independence Day (September 16). And although I'm a fairly adventurous cook, I do not ever plan on trying to make these at home. They're wickedly labor-intensive.

So what is a chile en nogada? It's a big poblano pepper (they're not spicy), stuffed with meat (turkey, I believe), nuts, raisins, citron, and probably a few other tasty ingredients. Then the chile is battered in a savory meringue and fried. Once it's fried to golden perfection, the stuffed pepper is generously bathed in the creamy nogada sauce (pecan sauce). According to Mario, the pecans have to be perfectly peeled, otherwise the sauce will be bitter. This is the ridiculously labor-intensive stage. If I could buy the sauce, I would consider making them. But then again, it's the sauce that makes the meal absolutely heavenly.

As a finishing touch, the chile is sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and cilantro leaves, rendering the finished product a patriotic red, green, and white. Quite likely, because of this patriotism, the chile en nogada is considered Mexico's national dish. But this is the reason why it only makes an appearance around Independence Day.

Chiles en nogada were another inspired product of those culinary genius, eighteenth century nuns from Puebla. These wonderful women created some of Mexico's most celebrated food--mole poblano, chiles rellenos, and heaps upon heaps of poblano candy (I believe a tour down Santa Clara street in Puebla should be in the forefront of most peoples' 10 Places to Visit Before I Die lists).

What does a chile en nogada taste like? It reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner--all the courses rolled into one beautiful entree. Now, this sounds like it might be a bit overwhelming, but it is absolutely delicious. Sometimes the post-Thanksgiving food hangover sets in, sometimes it doesn't. But as I mentioned, walk it off by touring Santa Clara street. Ah, bliss!

Quite unfortunately, I have not seen any chiles en nogada advertised here in northren Mexico. Do they make them here? If anyone knows of restaurants serving them in southren Coahuila or the Monterrey area, let me know!

The photo above is of my sister-in-law, Lili, getting ready to dive into her first chile en nogada. Seriously? Her first?!? How can one live so close to Puebla for 32 years and never have tried chiles en nogada? We put a stop to that.

Destination: Achotal, Veracruz

The first stop on our whirlwind blitz through Mexico was Achotal, Veracruz--home of Octaviano Saure, Mario's 102-year-old grandfather (plus various aunts and uncles). This town is so tiny that it's not on the map. But for reference's sake, it's roughly an hour west of Coatzacoalcos, on the southern "tip" of the Gulf of Mexico.

The first thing that I noticed about this town that sets itself apart from other towns in Mexico is that all the houses have porches--a feature that is missing from most Mexican houses. But, due to the heat, thank goodness these porches exist. All we did for the two days we were in Achotal was porch-sit. And really, it was great.

For years, I've been told about the river that runs near the house. Given the heat, I was nearly delirious for a chance to swim in it. However, when Mario and I went to investigate it, it had risen higher than Mario had ever seen it and swallowed up the beaches that we could use to safely enter it. Therefore, swimming was ruled a bad idea. Nuts.

I entertained myself with the flora and fauna. Chickens strolled freely through the yard (and streets), and iguanas hopped from tree to tree. Having never seen an iguana in its natural habitat before, I was fascinated (and took way too many pictures).

Mario's grandfather was a cattle rancher and Mario's cousin runs the ranch now. Mario's grandfather and his aunt Evelia live in the wood house that Mario's mom grew up in, while his uncle, cousin and family live next door. Although they've always done well financially, the house is as simple as can be--particularly recently, as the running water is temporarily out of order. (Causing Mario to once again grumble that the country is regressing, instead of progressing.) For me, the lack of running water reminded me of camping, so, needless to say, I loved it.

While their living condition is very, very simple, Mario's grandpa and aunt receive abundant help from their immediate relatives. (More than they feel necessary, I believe.) With exception of the running water problem (I don't know exactly why it was shut off or what it will take to get it back on), they lack for nothing. Would that I could say the same for so many other senior citizens here and everywhere.