You Know You've Lived in Mexico Too Long When . . .

I saw this ad on the side of my email inbox.











I immediately thought to myself, "that would make GREAT Independence Day dress for a little girl!"




Oh . . . right.




It's a Christmas dress.




Oops!

Destination: Xochimilco (y las chinampas!)

When in Mexico City for Independence Day weekend, Mario's family decided that they wanted to go to Xochimilco to celebrate together.

Xochimilco is on the very south side of the city. Its claim to fame are the canals that still exist there. When the Spanish arrived in Mexico, Mexico City was a floating city, much like Venice. When the region was settled, those living in the area built it, quite literally, from the ground up. They made rafts out of reeds, raked mud out of the lake bottom, put it on top of the rafts, and eventually made thousands of man-made islands. This was Mexico City in its hey-day. The streets were canals.

Then the Spanish arrived, drained the lake, and put their medieval city planning to work (you know, the kind of city planning where people dumped their trash out their window so it could rot on the street). We're still wishing the Spanish had at least listened to Moctezuma's city planners. Sure, go on with your world domination, but for pity's sake, keep the lake!

Anyway, the canals and floating islands (which will now be referred to as chinampas) still exist in Xochimilco. The flat-bottomed boats (which will now be referred to as trajineras) can be rented by the hour and are a huge tourist draw. So much so that the docks, canals, and trajineras at Nativitas are getting a bit icky.

So when my sister-in-law suggested that we take a tour with a company recommended to her by someone at the Waldorf school she works for, leaving from docks a bit farther south from Nativitas, we said, "sign us up!"

And what a tour we had.

First of all, it was a 5-hour tour. Lunch and drinks were provided. The lion's share of the lunch came right from fields grown on chinampas right in Xochimilco. The whole point of this company (www.delachinampa.mx) is to promote the organic products grown on these small farms in Xochimilco. Our tour guide said that only 2% of the fields in Xochimilco are currently being cultivated. If that figure were increased so that a mere 10% of the fields were being used, they claim that the entire population of Mexico City could be fed from products produced on that land. Just imagine the positive environmental impact that could have!

Furthermore, they believe in selling produce at a living wage. Most fruits and vegetables in Mexico are taken to a central de abastos. The central de abastos then sells fruits and vegetables wholesale to those who have fruit/vegetable stores, stalls in markets, corner stores, etc. The central de abastos sets the prices. Even if it costs a farmer 10 pesos to produce a kilo of carrots, the central de abastos can say (and often does), "we're buying these carrots at 3 pesos a kilo--take it or leave it." And farmers have to take it. There isn't much of anywhere else to sell to.

So yes, De La Chinampa's produce is considerably more expensive than other produce found elsewhere in the city. But it's an investment. And if it catches on, it's an investment that would reap huge dividends for everyone.

So if you live in Mexico City, think about getting together with friends, family, and neighbors and having some organic, Mexico City-grown produce delivered right to your house. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that community sponsored agriculture existed in Mexico City.

But if it catches on, wild dreams could come true.

Surprise!

As of this posting, it turns out we are not moving. Overall, I'm grateful that I get to stay in the neighborhood, not have to bother about packing up everything and then turn around and unpack it. However, a teeny little bit of me is lamenting not living in that beautiful house across the street from the playground. But so it goes.

Even though I was not looking forward to the packing aspect of moving, I was looking forward to seriously cleaning out the house and throwing out crap that we don't need to drag with us. So on Sunday at church, when they mentioned that Caritas is having a big clothing drive this week, I decided that yes, this IS the week. We've got the clothes, I now know of somewhere willing to take boxes and boxes of used clothes, let's get this show on the road!

Yesterday I went through the kids' closet and storage hamper. (OK, since The Boy has yet to grow into most of his clothes, I was going through Clara's storage hamper.) As neared the bottom, gleaning my way to the sweet little 3mo-sized little girl mamelucos and dresses, I was aghast to see THIS on my favorite pair of Baby Clara's pajamas:




UGH! Fortunately it was very, very dead. But, ugh!

I had just been congratulating myself that, despite living in the desert, I have never seen a scorpion here, let alone had to kill one. Now, I don't know what this sucker was and, given the state of its petrification, it may have lost a few body parts (ie, I never saw a stinger), but those front claws do lead me to believe that it was a scorpion.

*shudder*

And it was in the hamper of baby clothes!

AAAAA!!!!

Flan Flop . . . again!

I had been wanting to make flan for a few weeks now. But Mario isn't a big fan of eating mine, as he claims they're too sweet. Tomorrow, though, I've got a number of ladies coming over. They can eat my flan!

Or so were my plans this evening, as I made it.

It was rather fun to make. I love watching the carmel sauce bubble and turn from simple sugar and water into that beautiful, glassy, amber boiling, sweet mess. I love the fact that I can use 7 eggs in a single recipe--the decadence just gets me in a good way.

The recipe recommended baking it in a Maria bath, so I cushioned my baking dish inside a larger one filled with water, popped it in the oven, and waited out the hour that the recipe said it would take to bake. At 11pm, the hour was up, and I checked on the flan.

Every bit a soupy as when I poured it in the baking dish!

Now, I'm used to my oven taking a good deal longer to bake things than the average recipe indicates, but this is ridiculous!

I re-read the recipe, and I followed it to the letter. Then I checked out Joy of Cooking's "about custards" section. Apparently the water in the Maria bath was supposed to be scalding hot. Mine was straight from the tap. D'oh!

And hour and a half later, we're still baking.

I sure hope this is worth it.

**************************************************************************
Come to think of it, I think I blogged about the last time I made flan, which also ended in disaster. This may be the end of Jill's adventures in flan baking. Grrr . . .

Huh . . . that post was almost exactly two years ago! I guess early November is flan season, at least in my head!


***************************************

UPDATE: This flan was AWESOME. It was soooo worth it. I may even make it again sometime before November 2013!

Like next week, perhaps . . .

Best. Dinner. Ever.

In our family, we don't do much for the Day of the Dead.

We live to far away to visit any loved ones' graves. As Mario never does it, I have a stinking suspicion that it would freak him out if I were to build an altar for our dearly departed. (However, whenever he kicks the bucket, you can bet that I'll be pulling out all the stops on a super-cool homage to him and other deceased that I've known. Don't worry--it's not ancestor worship. And I'm fairly confident that Clara would then be weirded out. *sigh* They're so alike.)

However, we do go to town with Pan de Muerto and this year I finally invested in some sugar skulls (one for me, one for Clara . . . they're too sweet for Mario).

As Clara was finishing her quesadilla and hot chocolate for dinner before bed, I had planned on suprising her by letting her know that we could eat some of the sugar skulls that had been on the table in the hallway for the last week. She was vaguely interested in them when I set them out last Friday. But tonight, surprise of surprises, she was adamantly against eating them. I tried to get a picture of her holding them--no dice. She wouldn't touch them. This is the same kid who has been talking about candy as soon as she wakes up every day since Halloween.

I did leave them sitting on top of the bread box, staring at her while she sipped the last dregs of her chocolate. She talked about them.

But then she decided, "yeah, I'm done. Let's go brush my teeth."

*sigh*

House Hunting

Have I mentioned that I love my house?

It's a great size for us, has a kitchen that actually has cabinets (a rarity for the price range we've got). We have a lovely, lovely patio that has a grill and a great view of the neighbors' trees (which are finally coming back to life after nearly dying after the week of below 0 degree temperatures we experienced in January), and space enough for the pool that I feel that is absolutely essential to my survival for the six months between March and September. We're technically downtown, but we're far enough away that the neighborhood isn't icky. We're able to walk to the Alameda a few times a week. I know a number of my neighbors. We hear the church bells twice a day, which thankfully don't ring before 9am. There is a butcher shop across the street. This is an older neighborhood with a lot of charm. I love, love, love it here.

But the house is falling down on us. Literally.

We have decided that we really, really need to move before the 1000-liter tinaco (water-holding-thingy) on the roof falls on our heads while we sleep.

The trouble is, it's really hard to find anything that's comparable to what we have for the rent that we have in an equally lovely neighborhood.

As the end of the month is coming up, we've finally gotten off our butts and off the online listings and actually called a few of the houses listed online. I found a plethora of houses that looked very interesting all listed under one number. I tried calling that number, but it doesn't exist. The online pictures of these houses were stamped with Coldwell Banker's logo, so I got CB's number out of the phone book and called. They could give me information on only one of the five houses I was interested in. The others were a complete mystery to them.

We set up a date to look at that one house. It was just about everything I expected, with a much better patio than I expected. Outdoor space is crucial for me, and very hard to find in Mexico. At least affordable houses in Mexico. The only downside is that it's less than a block from the train (we're currently two blocks from the train, and it isn't bad. But I'm scared to be any closer. It does blast its horn frequently in the middle of the night). And I'll never understand why those who rent houses here feel that cleaning the house before a showing is just a suggestion. And apparently, in the minds of these landlords, a ridiculous suggestion, as they didn't mind showing us the corpses of twenty cockroaches in the downstairs bathroom. And they think that garish pink is an OK color for every room in the house. But, other than those kinks, I was pretty excited about the house. (OK, I was excited about the HUGE patio.)

Then the realtor mentioned that, if we had time, she had another 3 bedroom house with the same rent to show us nearby. We were OK with the neighborhood, so we followed her.

She took us over the railroad tracks. We do not want to live on the "other side of the tracks".

She took us into a gated community. We hate gated communities.

The houses were too close together. The neighborhood isn't within walking distance of ANYTHING. There are factories nearby. It would make Mario's commute so much longer.

As we drover further and further into the addition, I kept saying, I could think about it only if there were a playground. After every street we passed, no playground.

Then the realtor stopped in front of a lovely yellow house smack in front of a LOVELY playground. No way.

It's got a great view of the mountains.

The master bedroom not only has its own bathroom, but a walk-in closet AND a super-spacious balcony.

The patio is about twice the size of ours. (No trees in the neighbors' patios, though. *sigh*)

The cabinets and closets were actually pretty as well as functional. Again, I didn't know that existed here, at least in houses that rent for less than 1000USD a month.

And there were ceiling fans!

As you can tell, I'm sold. But we just started looking. I'd hate to settle already--it is so much fun to look at houses. And we're really rather be on the south side of the city, if we can't stay in this neighborhood.

But I'd really hate for someone to rent this one before us.

And I'd really hate to get squished by our tinaco. Ooo--the tension!

Picnic

We decided that yesterday would be a lovely day for a picnic.

Normally, for a picnic, we'd go to a park that boasted actual picnic tables. Or, if we were in the mood for a picnic in the mountains, we'd head to Arteaga, where there are authorized places to pull off the road and eat. There are even picnic tables for rent, thanks to those enterprising Arteagans.

But no, Mario had to go to his office for what he swore would only be twenty minutes (it turned into an hour . . . no surprise there). Unfortunately, Mario's office is in the opposite direction of Arteaga. So we just pulled off of Highway 54 and sat down under some pines right off the highway and ate our turkey sandwiches.

We were bemused to find out that eating lunch 20 feet from the highway was a good deal quieter than eating lunch in our kitchen. (Reason #2 why we will be looking for a new house sooner rather than later.)

I had the urge for a little hike, but after going another 20 feet further from the highway, Clara decided that she had had enough hiking. The highlight of her afternoon was counting the trucks driving by. Oh, two-year-olds.

The two-month-old made it clear that he just wanted to sleep in his car seat.

Picnics in the mountains just aren't what they used to be.

However, I did learn an interesting fact: the pine trees that are off the side of the highway are indeed pine nut trees. I found a pine cone that had some suspicious looking seeds in it. I asked city-boy Mario if they were pine nuts, and he said no. At the end of our picnic, a pick up truck parked behind us, and after a few minutes, let us know that it wasn't a good pine nut-scavenging-day. (Reason #23 why I should stop taking Mario's word as the gospel truth.) Then, as we were driving back to town, we noticed a number of other trucks and cars, apparently also out scavenging pine nuts. Good to know. Next year, when my basil bush won't be shriveled up, I'll head out there and join them. (Or maybe I'll just buy a bag downtown . . .)

Ode to the Mother-In-Law

Tradition in Mexico dictates that new mothers should lay in bed for a full 40 days after the birth of a child.

Sweet.

Sign me up for that! And, despite living far, far away from both my parents and Mario's, I'm doing my best to get my 40 days in bed (OK, not in bed--that's a bit ridiculous--but I'm sure getting pampered). Mario's mom was here an hour after we got back from the hospital, and she stayed a full three weeks until my parents came.

Literally until my parents came. My parents' bus arrived at 11pm, her bus left at 11pm.

Now that my parents have returned home, we're surviving a mere 3 days until we get to spend another 2 weeks with the abuela.

One might thing that spending 5 out of seven weeks with one's mother-in-law would be a bit much. Normally, I might agree, but when it comes to taking care of newborn babies and their mommas, my mother-in-law is hands-down awesome.

Keep in mind, she's not (at least in my head) a traditional Mexican mama. She never spent 40 days in bed after any of her children were born. She thinks that tradition is pretty silly. In fact, she boasts that they spent two weeks in Guadalajara a mere month after Mario, her third child, was born. (The thought of spending any time with three small children, one of them a newborn, in a hotel room for any amount of time, is a scenario plucked out of one of the lesser rings of hell, to my way to thinking. But, to each their own.)

Even though she might not have been spoiled as a new mom herself, she sure is good at spoiling me. The first week I was home I picked up a broom to sweep the hallway and she yelled at me. (I held my ground.) She and Patty were constantly cooking and cleaning for us, even though my mother-in-law does not enjoy cooking at all (I do think she enjoys cleaning). She has a tendency to stay up halfway into the night, so the nights that the baby did not quickly settle down, I just had to whisper her name, toss her the baby, and she was happy to keep him for the rest of the night. In fact, one night the baby slept pretty soundly, so I never felt the urge to pass him off, and I think she was a little mad at me in the morning.

And then, when she couldn't find anything else to clean, she cut and sewed the baby diapers. By hand.

Two and a half years ago, when I mentioned that I wanted to use cloth diapers, Mother-in-law made all of those and delivered them as a kind of Christmas present. For Baby #2, I was planning on simply reusing Clara's old diapers. I even saved a few from Clara's original stash that Clara so that Baby #2 would have a few super-soft, never-been-used diapers.

Now he's got his own stash of super-soft, never-been-used diapers. With hand-stitched hems.

She mentioned that she hand sewed diapers for her oldest son before he was born. I guess it's only fitting that she's also hand sew diapers for her youngest grandson.

Before giving them to me, she mentioned something about ironing them. I think I yelled at her for that. And I don't think she ironed them.

Then again, maybe that's what she did those nights that she stayed up half the night.

Oh, Mother-in-Law, you're a nut.

I love you.

Role Reversal

I don't do this too often. But today I'm a worrier.

And all because I want to be protective of my parents. Like worrying is going to help.

My parents are flying in to visit us today. I'm pretty excited about this. However, this is the first time that they're arriving that we won't be able to pick them up at the airport. Mario will be right in the middle of his shift when they arrive, and I've offered to go on the bus to the airport to meet them. Much to my relief, they declined my offer. While Patty would be around tonight to watch Clara, that bus ride to the Monterrey airport is one of my least favorite things to do (especially with a small baby). Plus, that round trip would require a serious chunk of change. Had they wanted me to meet them, I'd have been there with bells on. But, I've got to say that I'm happy to have been spared the trip.

But this means that my parents will have to buy bus tickets and get themselves to Saltillo from Monterrey. Lots of people do this everyday. I imagine that everyday a number of people who speak no Spanish do this.

But they're not MY parents.

So I'll just sit here and worry about them until they show up. I know that they're both very capable people, both boasting more than sixty years of life experience. I know they're capable of getting on a bus.

And yet I worry.

I feel like our roles have been reversed a bit.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Note: My parents did arrive just fine. Whew.

Apparently the people who work at the information desk at the Monterrey airport are quite helpful. Good to know.

And, as my brother wisely told my parents before they left, "if you can't get out of the airport, maybe you shouldn't be traveling."

Too true.

Little Guy Has Arrived!

Warning: Possibly Too Much Information

Pregnancy website and books tell expectant parents to have some kind of "birth plan". For Clara's birth, my plan was to simply wing it. Not knowing at all what my options were (all my books and websites were written with a stateside audience in mind), I really kind of refused to investigate. Mexican medicine in general is a very paternalistic affair, so I figured that my options were extremely limited anyway. While I've never presented a birth plan to my obstretician, who is in my opinion an excellent, excellent doctor, I'm fairly confident that I'd hear his low chuckle, although bet he'd try to hear me out while patiently explaining why my "options" weren't an option at his semi-public hospital. Really, I didn't want to know much more about the birthing process than absolutely necessary. I figured that everyone else gets through it, so I would, too.

We survived, but I decided that the second time around I wasn't going to go into the experience blind.

In fact, Birth Plan A consisted of us moving to the US, so I could get an epidural as I walked into the hospital, even at a mere 3 cm dilated. I have an OB/GYN friend who mentioned (I believe, correct me if I'm wrong) that many of her patients get sent right to the anesthesiologist after being admitted, and a number of friends have mentioned the modern miracle of a pain-free birth, thanks to the power of drugs. That was what I wanted. Give me drugs, baby!

However, I never discussed this plan with Mario (whose cooperation was vital to the success of the plan). I knew the timing wasn't quite right for him, so I just kind of held my breath, hoping that fate would intervene. As the months went by, it became clear that Plan A was not going to work out.

Nuts. Now, I don't what standard procedure is in most Mexican hospitals (and, with modern medicine being what it is, IS there even any kind of standard procedure?). However, in comparing experiences on the births of our first-borns, my two friends and I had remarkably similar experiences. One was very commited to having a natural birth, the other was quite interested in having in having hers unmedicated, and I just wanted drugs--the sooner, the better. However, all three of us were given epidurals at the very, bitter end of our kids' deliveries.

There may be three very different reasons for this. I know for a fact that in my case, as Clara was born at 1:30 am and I entered the hospital sometime around 10 pm, that at least part of the holdup was that they simply couldn't find an anisthesiologist until the last minute. Maybe they would have doped me up earlier. But I never asked my doctor, so I had no way of knowing. Also, there is no way of knowing that Child #2 wouldn't be born in the middle of the night, so it's entirely possible that the same holdup would occur.

So I went to the opposite extreme. A friend of mine, whose first child's birth was much more traumatic than Clara's, borrowed a copy of The Bradley Method from a friend. As she was going into labor with Child #2, she said that she and her husband read through it, followed their relaxation exercises as best as they could, and had a MUCH more positive experience for their daughter's birth. I figured if it could work for her, it could work for me.

So I borrowed the book, too. Turns out that holding off on epidurals until the last minute is the healthier way to administer them . . . too bad. But the book helped me be prepared for anything. If the hospital offered me an epidural straight away, sweet. I'd take it. Otherwise, I was starting to look forward to trying out the relaxation techniques for real, to find out how well they really worked. It's one thing to practice relaxing. It's a whole other thing to relax while one's body is being turned inside out.

At 8:30 on Sunday morning I woke up knowing that I'd have the baby that day. I knew that second babies come much faster than first-born babies, but with Clara it took twelve hours' worth of light contractions before they got serious. Four hours after that, we went to the hospital, and three excruciating, unmedicated hours later, Clara was finally born. After that experience, I knew I wanted to spend as little time at the hospital as possible with #2.

We went through our normal Sunday routines, as my contractions were merely of medium-strength, menstrual-cramp variety. After Clara woke up from her nap at 4, as I was pulling the popscicles out of the freezer, it was becoming clear that things were becoming more intense. Clara and I sat on the patio with our limeade popscicles, watching Mario finish tarring the roof. I took breaks from the stimulating conversation with the two-year-old to focus all my energies on relaxing every five or six minutes. She didn't mind too much.

When Mario finished up and and showered, I requested that he and Clara go out for lunch, as I just needed to have her far from me while I worked through the contractions. Being quite confident that I still had hours to go, at five o'clock I told Mario and Clara to go eat and check back on me in an hour. I cleaned up various things on the patio and then decided to try out deep-relaxation mode, as prescribed by Dr. Bradley's childbirth method. It was a lot of work, but I did have a feeling that I was much more in control of myself than I had been for Clara's birth. Then, at 5:15 (or so) I had a feeling that I just couldn't do much more of that and feared that I sent Mario away at a very inopportune time.

During the next contraction, my uterus reared up and started PUSHING. Oh, shit! The book was right. It was a feeling that one just couldn't fight. Problem was, I wasn't supposed to be at home at this stage. Alone.

Feeling utterly alone, I called out Mario's name. He must of hear me, way out at the grocery store, as he and Clara were back home within five minutes, well before I told them they should return.

I had him call the doctor. While he was doing that, Clara was standing at the side of my bed (I was facing away from her). But one of my arms was behind me, so she held my hand during two of the worst contractions. This was not AT ALL what I wanted my two-year-old to witness, but so is life. After the second contraction she either got scared or mad that I wasn't paying attention to her (or both) and started crying. Mario finally came and got her, while I told him to put Clara in the car, get the bags, and then we'd drive to the hospital.

As he came to get the bags in the car, I was pretty certain that the boy was crowning. Mario confirmed this through freaking out (really, he did pretty well). He called the doctor again (our house is, fortunately, right between the doctor's house and the hospital) and, as he was on the phone, Little Guy slithered right out.

Yep, the baby was born at home. On our bed.

I am fairly certain that this will always be up there as The Coolest Experience of my life.

Five minutes later, after un-hurriedly enjoying the baby's first moments, the doctor showed up, and confirmed that we were all OK. I did need a few stitches, but that was waaaay better than the episiotimy that I had with Clara. We stayed in the hospital for 24 hours (for stitches and observation's sake, I suppose). We could have left after a mere 12 hours, except straightening out insurance hassles took the extra twelve.

The Little Guy slept through the night while we were in the hospital, so between him not being born in the middle of the night and automatically losing an hour of sleep that way, we're still doing quite well.

I'm in worlds better shape than I was two days after having Clara. I'm chalking it up to:

• the birth being far less traumatic than Clara's (I'm fairly confident that the experience was worse for Mario than for me)
• not recovering from an episiotomy
• not having missed a night's sleep (until last night, but that's another story and--cross your fingers--I think the problem is solved)
• I have a feeling that postpartum hormones are triggering an ecstatic wave right now. So if I miss another night's sleep tonight, this post may have taken a much different tone than had I written it tomorrow. Not looking forward to getting those switched around . . . so I'll ride the wave while I can.
  
• Just knowing that I delivered the baby myself is staggering. While Kiddo was keeping me up all night last night, I might have normally lost it somewhere around 3:30am (especially keeping in mind those postpartum hormones--they must really get triggered by lack of sleep). However, every time I looked at him, I'd keep thinking about that moment, after working and knowing that he was coming, when it was just me and him in the house, when he just gushed right out and the first quiet seconds when I wasn't sure whether he was OK or not . . . this kid is MINE in ways that no other kid will ever be.
  

So for those who've been wanting details--there you go! For those who got too many details--you were warned!

And for those who are or may become pregnant, as fantastic as this experience was, I highly recommend getting to the hospital on time. I'm really glad it worked out this way for me, but we're also very lucky that we had no complications. True--in the majority of births, there won't be complications. But for those births that do pose risks (and often there's no telling until labor is well underway) it could be a life-or-death risk for both individuals involved. I know we're fortunate. It could have gone so very, very badly. So if you choose to do the home-birth thing, actively choose it as an option, and have a midwife or doctor present.

I need to go to bed, so if there are typos, or odd phrases that don't make sense, I'll edit those the next time I'm on the computer.

Further updates on the boy and all his accomplishments will more likely be brought to you on www.xanaidah.blogspot.com

Because I'm a Sucker for a Questionnaire

Thanks for starting this, Lisa! I've enjoyed reading others' answers, so I thought I'd jump on this train, too.

1) How long have you been with your husband?

We started dating 12 years ago, and got married 3 1/2 years ago, finally ending 9 years of long distance relationship. There's a lot to be said for long distance relationships--I recommend that all people dating do it for awhile. But 9 years is a bit excessive.

2) Can you remember a funny miscommunication due to language barriers?
I think most of our miscommuncations that triggered real responses were more due to the fact that our personalities and world views are so different.

However, he always made me giggle a bit (to myself) when we were dating and instead of saying, "You had better not do that", he'd say "You better don't". I never corrected him because I thought it was adorable. Then he spent a year in Sweden, speaking nothing but English, and all his cute, little not-quite-right phrases were erased. I miss those.

3) Where have you relocated?

Saltillo, Coahuila, Mexico. We had known for years that it would be inevitable that we'd spend at least a few years here, but neither of us was real thrilled with the prospect. I think we both viewed northern Mexico as a huge, cultureless, icky wasteland. And really, that stereotype probably isn't too far off the mark. But I've come to learn that northern Mexico does posses a number of charms, and Saltillo is one of them. While part of me daydreams about moving back to either the US or central/southern Mexico, part of me knows that in a number of important ways, we've got the best of both worlds here.

4) Do you have any children?

For all intents and purposes, I've got two kids (unless something goes very wrong in the next few days). Clara just turned 2 1/2, and I probably talk about her way too much on this page. The boy-child is welcome to get his tiny toushie out of my womb any day now.

5) What is one thing your blogger friends don't know about you?

Despite the fact that I probably share way too much personal information on this blog, initiating a conversation on the phone (except with very close family and friends) just terrifies me. I spent the better part of this afternoon psyching myself up to call our babysitters so Mario and I might be able to spend our last baby-free weekend watching Harry Potter on Harry Potter's birthday (yeah, I'm that kind of cool). Of course, talking on the phone in Spanish is, admittedly, a little scary, but one of my babysitters is a native English speaker!!! And they're both lovely, lovely young women, with whom I have no problem speaking in person. What is the matter with me?!?

6) How did you stumble on this blogging community?

Blogger has this neat, little feature at the top, left-hand side of their pages that reads "Next Blog". One day, I was clicking away on that, weeding through endless mommy-blogs and Portugese poetry, eventually stumbling on Teresa in Merida's blog, "What Do I Do All Day?. She linked to a number of other ex-pat-in-Mexico blogs, and I spent most of that night up reading . . . best night of next-to-no-sleep ever! Up until that point, I felt like a number of you, wondering, "am I the only one out here?" It's been such a godsend to know that's not the case.

7) Have you learned something new about this whole process that has changed all our lives?

a) moving to Mexico: had you asked anybody that knew me in high school (or especially before) I'd had to have been one of the last people anyone would expect to move to a foreign country. Super-shy, anxiety-ridden: no way would I leave my comfort zone. Those four months I spent here as a study-abroad student in college changed me in ways that four months have no business doing to a person. I found that I had many more personal resources than I ever imagined. I realized that no matter where I was, there I was. Sounds simple enough, but when I found myself unexpectedly sleeping at a friend's apartment--not part of my plan for the night, no clothes to change into, no contact solution, no one else knew I was there--I realized that I was FINE. So what no one else knew where I was? I knew that I was fine, and what else really matters? Sometimes I got lost. I'd get un-lost. I was FINE. Go with it, Jill--go with it.
And boy, did I!

b) While I haven't had to deal with immigration issues personally, in getting to know the many of you who are here because of such issues, my eyes have been opened--profoundly. When I first became acquainted with some of your stories, especially those of you who packed up and moved to Mexico, having never been here before and speaking no Spanish, I was challenged to my core. Do I love my husband that much? I really don't know. Your stories, through sharing your daily struggles and triumphs of living in a foreign land just to keep your family together, have made those vows we all took to love our spouses "for better and for worse"--a concept that was once an abstract for me, is now understood (through your stories) as a concrete reality. Thank you for sharing, thank you for your honesty, and for challenging me in your own ways, whether you know you've provided me with such an influence or not.

This is not AT ALL to knock the struggles of those who must be separated from a spouse, thanks to immigration. That journey is equally difficult, and all who undergo it have very legitimate reasons for remaining in the US. We all have different stories, and yours--while heartbreaking--are also inspiring.


8) Something you love about Mexico and something you can't stand:

I've probably said it before, and it probably sounds naive to say it, but living here often feels like living back in time a few decades. When life was simpler. This does have its advantages and disadvantages, but overall, I prefer it.

When I was fresh out of college, I volunteered for a year with the Border Servant Corps. One of the focuses of the program was for volunteers to spend some serious time thinking about what it means to "live simply". Given our monthly budgets, living simply was a given. But we were forced to look beyond our budget. For good or bad, how were our spending choices or lifestyles affecting the environment and our communities? How could we re-align our habits to coincide with our values, making sustainable choices and strengthening our communities? Although rewarding, this was exhausting work. It felt like we spent so much time and energy "fighting The Man". However, after I moved to Mexico, all the little, "radical" choices I made to realign my habits with my values just seemed to come naturally. Living a simpler life in Mexico is often the only option. I don't feel like I'm swimming against the current here.

Then again, in Mexico,"The Man" is just so big and so powerful and so out-of-touch that there's really no fighting. Conversations with successful people and any number of newspaper articles just seem to throw in the towel when the conversation turns to enacting real change. After living here for years, I'm beginning to understand. Sometimes I almost get the feeling that I could be turned into a cynic here. The US still gives the illusion that ordinary people do have the power to change things. And, in some respects, I believe that is more than an illusion. For me, that's the real draw of the US.

9) Did you know your in-laws before moving? Has it been a big adjustment being closer to them?

I was well acquainted with my in-laws before moving here permanently. Two or three years after I met Mario, he finally took me to meet his parents (I was the first girl he took home). Meeting them helped me understand Mario so much better. He's still an odd, odd guy. But to see him with these people who molded him into the person he is, who love him more than the sun, moon, and stars (and, despite that, all agree that he has always been an odd duck) made me appreciate him so much more than I had up to that point.

They're wonderful, wonderful people, and when we lived within an hour or two of them, it would often be me that would suggest, "why don't we visit your family this weekend? I miss them!" Unfortunately, now that we live halfway between my family and his (or would, if it weren't for the Great State of Texas), we're no longer close to them, geographically.

10) If you were to go back to the US next week, where is the first place you'd go after seeing friends/family?

The library! Oh, how I miss free, quality books in English (in, essentially, unlimited quantities). And now that I've got a kid old enough for story hour . . . ooo--how that dream teases me!

Then again, I'd love to visit a park. A park with a lot of trees, bordering flowing water (Foster Park, Metea Park--I'm not picky). Or I would walk the public trail behind my parents' house to the county park, complete with playground, at the end of the trail.

I guess I just need to commune with trees, whether alive or mashed into processed pulp. =P

Frozen Caballos

The new favorite treat at our house--popscicles.

Or, as Clara tends to call them, "po-cay-yos". For a few weeks, she was calling them "caballos". Yes, the Spanish word for horses . . . no idea why.

But she's so into them that she knows them both by their English name AND the Spanish name. Coffee is about the only other thing that makes this category. Gotta be clear here--to whoever she may ask for a flavored block of ice.

And ask she does. First thing after waking up, in her high-pitched, cartoon-character voice, "Pocayos? Pink pocayo?" After at a month or two of eating them regularly, she's still in denial that we never, ever indulge until after her nap. Or maybe she's hoping I'll slip and she'll get lucky.

All winter/spring, I had been on the lookout for popsicle molds, but hadn't had any luck. (To be honest, I hadn't looked THAT hard.) I know I saw them last summer in Jojutla, in one of those stores that sells nothing but cheap plastic products. We don't live by any of those stores here in Saltillo and, while we pass one on our bus route, it never seemed worth the extra 6 pesos to make the special trip. So, in May when I visited Indiana, lo and behold, Wal-Mart's seasonal aisle stocked popscicle molds. Bought them then and there. Again, this probably wasn't something I necessarily needed to import to Mexico (I still think I could find them somewhere in Saltillo), but I thought I'd regret it if I didn't take advantage of the opportunity presented.

Too true.

When my friends borrowed our cochera for their garage sale in June, I thought it was the perfect time to inaugurate the popscicle molds, so I dumped some extra-concentrated jamaica water in the molds. As June was pretty brutal heat-wise, and our cochera gets next-to-no shade, the flavored chunks of ice were a godsend. And it's so easy, it's now a steady habit.

So far I've tried jamaica popscicles, tamarindo, cafe con leche (and a LOT of sugar!), horchata, banana milkshakes, and strawberry lemonade from Chili's left over from a kiddie cup (divine). I've currently got a handful of limes that I may squeeze, sweeten and freeze tomorrow. But, beyond those obvious flavors, does anyone have any other yummy variations on the popscicle?

Given its easy-ness, delicious-ness, and positive nutrition factor, the banana milkshake popscicles are our standby.

• In a blender, throw together one or two VERY ripe bananas, a teaspoon of cinnamon, two tablespoons of peanut butter, and enough milk to bring the entire concoction to two cups (works well for 8 individual popscicles).
  
• Blend, freeze overnight, eat. Feel guilt-free, as just about every food group is represented, AND there's no added sugar! Woo-hoo!

Note: the only popscicle flop we've had so far were the horchata ones, made from Princesa brand concentrate. I had never used this concentrate before, so I didn't realize that even in a pitcher of water, it needs constant stirring anytime anyone wants a glass of horchata, as the concentrate immediately sinks to the bottom of the pitcher. The same is true of the popsicles, so when I left them in the freezer overnight, the very tops of each popscicle were loaded with chalky-white concentrate, while the bottom 4-inches of popscicle were merely sweetened water.

Just a word to the wise!

Everything else has frozen fairly uniformly. And, with the coffee ones, I am happy to announce that I'm finally NOT missing the mocha frappes from the Italian Coffee Company. So good. So much colder. And I'm not spending 30+ pesos on them. Excellent.

Goes Buzz in the Night

With the house being so stinkin' hot the later in the day that it gets, I'm finding myself spending a lot of time in the patio in the evenings. However, I'm always by myself, as the hubs refuses to join me, due to his hatred of mosquitoes.

I do understand his feelings. They're irritating. They put me a over the edge when they buzz in my ears. And he gets bit by them.

I don't.

Now, I used to be just like everyone else on the planet and the mosquitoes loved sucking my blood, and I'd swell and slap them and itch. But it's been twelve years since this has been a noticeable problem.

I first noticed this anomaly when I was a camp counselor in 2000. My girls were stuck inside the cabin on a rainy day and were passing the time by counting their mosquito bites.

"I've got 109!"

"I've got 73!"

I took a look at myself and found about 4. Why on earth were the girls being bitten to death but not me? Was it their sweet, young blood? At the ripe, old age of 21 I was no longer attractive to mosquitoes?

Upon further reflection, I decided that I had been cured from mosquitoes. And, while I'm not exactly sure why, I've got a pretty good idea.

Back when I was doing my study-abroad semester in Mexico in 1999, a friend and I decided to take off for a long weekend and visit Taxco. It was April, the height of the dry season, and we opened the windows wide in our hotel room to let in some refreshing, mountain breezes. The windows were open all day, and when we finally got ready for bed that night, we found that we had unwittingly invited just about every mosquito in the northern part of Guerrero in our room.

It was hands-down the most awful night of my life. I didn't sleep a wink. We got bit and buzzed and swollen within an inch of our lives.

However, since then, I can't say that mosquitoes have bothered me too much. Sometimes I see them on my arms and I kill them. They rarely leave a mark, and it's even more rare for those few mosquito bites to itch.

One sleepless night with a bazillion mosquitoes in exchange for a lifetime of being immune to mosquito bites?

I don't think I would have chosen it, but I'm sure glad it happened!

(Not sure what else may now be crawling around in my bloodstream, but let's just not think about that!)

I'm Turning into My Father

For years I've made fun of my dad for his solitaire obsession. He can happily spend hours in front of the computer, electronically shuffling his cards and testing his luck. I never understood it.

Until December of 2008, when I was eight months pregnant with Clara. I picked up a deck of cards and didn't put them down for a month. Even when my in-laws were here for Christmas, I shuffled away, trying not to be too horribly anti-social. But I was a woman obsessed.

Two and a half years later, here we are again. Eight months pregnant, and the cards are on the table, beckoning. I'll doubtlessly play another game before I go to bed. What is with this?

The thing is, I'm apparently really good at solitaire when I'm really pregnant. I've always thought that it was more of a game of luck than anything. Maybe a year ago, I picked up the cards and won a game while I lost five others. Now, I win five games for every one I lose. The odds were the same the last time my obsession reared it's ugly head (or huge belly).

So does that mean that I'm especially lucky when I play cards when really pregnant? Let's go to Vegas and find out!

(Of course, I'd BETTER be especially lucky if I were to go to Vegas now, because if the baby comes early, while we're in Vegas . . . I'll need all those ill-gotten gains to pay for the uninsured US birth. So I think I'll stay put.)

Ewww . . . really?

The other day, I took my daughter, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law to the park so one of the four of us could play outside for the afternoon. It was a lovely day with the sun shining, a breeze blowing the tree branches, well-dressed kids teasing the turtles in the pond after their graduation ceremonies, and then . . .

"Could you spit on my daughter's foot, please?"

WHAT?!?

Clara was happily rocking away on her motorcycle, when a woman and her 12-year-old daughter came up to us. The daughter was clearly uncomfortable, as her mother explained that an ant had bitten her. Yep, that does sting. Then again, it may have been her mother's request that really made uncomfortable.

Being at the park, they were all out of ice, meat tenderizers, and other home remedies for cutting pain from stings. She had heard that pregnant women's spit could ease stings. And, when she mentioned this, I felt like I had heard this somewhere, too.

So I spit on the poor kid's foot.

I hope it helped even a little bit, because if she wasn't uncomfortable before, having her foot smeared with a stranger's spit could easily change the situation from uncomfortable to unbearable.

In my defense, though, I do remember a dentist of mine telling me that one's saliva gets slightly more acidic when pregnant, and he recommended rinsing my mouth out nightly with baking soda and water, to counter the effects of my more acidic saliva so it wouldn't attack my teeth. So maybe there is some truth in this, after all.

However, I still think the girl might have gotten more relief from sticking her foot in the turtle pond.

Drought's End (I Hope)

Here in northern Mexico, things are pretty desert-like. Most of this part of the country IS officially a desert. Saltillo, however, is high enough in altitude (and must get a bit more annual rainfall in comparison to the surrounding areas) to officially qualify it as a temperate zone, located smack in the middle of a desert. However, that doesn't mean that we get much rain. At least in my opinion.

And this year, it's been a lot less than usual. I heard rumors that we were into the worst drought in 70 years.

The country in general seems to be suffering from a lack of rain. In the Mexico City region, the rainy season usually starts punctually at the end of May, rains every afternoon/evening, and peters out in September or October. However, it only just began raining there.

How ironic, considering the floods that have been washing out much of the US.

However, once I heard that Mario's mom and sister were going to visit us this week, I KNEW that the rain would finally come. In a given year, Mario's mom and sister tend to spend about 4 weeks with us, and at least two of those weeks are overcast and rainy. In general, Saltillo only has 3-4 overcast, rainy weeks a year. I don't know how they do it.

This time around is no different. So thanks for bringing the rain, Mago and Lili! I know it will make for a more boring week than you intended, but we sure need it.

In fact, if you could hang out until September, we'll have the greenest desert ever! (Granted, we'll all go stir-crazy, but wouldn't it be worth it?)

Goodbyes

Finally, the tables have been turned on me.

After years of moving cities/states/countries with alarming regularity, this week I finally get to know how it feels to have someone leave ME.

I don't like it at all.

Two years ago, after living in Saltillo for about 6 months and desperate for friends, I was stalking all Blogger accounts registered in Saltillo, hoping to stumble upon potential quality friends. (Yes, I am THAT kind of stalker!) I was pretty interested in a missionary family, but after trolling farther down the list, I stumbled upon her: we were born within a month of each other, had our first children (both girls) within 4 months of each other, were married and moved to Mexico within two months of each other . . . I HAD to get to know this woman!

I send her a message, and she must have been just about as excited to meet me, as she called me the very next day. Turned out, I was the first person she was able to speak English with since she moved to Mexico (in almost two years).

We've had a great two years and have found a lovely community of other ex-pats in the meantime. (I've also found some Mexican friends, too. Whew!)

But, for a variety of good reasons, last fall my friend and her husband decided to apply for a resident visa for her husband, so they could move to the US. It's been a long, insane, headache-inducing process and, after 3 trips to Ciudad Juarez for visa appointments, my friend's husband finally got his visa last month. They gave themselves a month to pack up their life here, say their goodbyes, and oh-so-appropriately be in the US in time for the 4th of July.

That month just ended. They're gone. Entire days go by where my phone doesn't even ring once. *sigh* (OK, it rang just a little bit ago, at a time when my friend often calls, and I thought to myself, "Who on earth is calling me? It can't be ________. Who else would call me?" So thanks, Panchita for the call--it's good to know I do have other friends!) ;)

But really, all month (or ever since last fall when they announced their plans), I haven't focused on my own sadness of losing them. After all, as already mentioned, I've moved so many times and left so many people, that I know how it goes. Life goes on. I was mostly worried about Clara and how she'd take the change. After all, she's always talking about my friend's daughter. Often when a bus drives past the house, she asks to take a bus ride to visit her friend. While Clara might have no idea what "goodbye" means, I did. I feared for both girls. After all, it's not every day that you say goodbye to your first friend.

Good thing that their move was timed so close to our visit to my parents' house, so I could at least explain to her that her friend was going to take an airplane ride (just like Clara did) so stay with her grandparents (just like Clara did). Then I mention that Friend will be living with her grandparents and not coming back. Now that they've left, she talks about Friend being with her Grandma. Whenever she hears an airplane, she talks about Friend being on the airplane. So, I think that in her two-year-old way, she is getting it.

We'll see what happens when weeks go by and she doesn't get to see her little friend.

But, however painful goodbyes are, I am really very excited for my friend and her family on their new adventure and am anxiously looking forward to hearing how they transition to life in the US. That will be another story worth the telling!

Five Hours?!?

My fears for the last week centered around the five hour layover I faced in Dallas on Monday. Two year old in tow.

Five hours in an airport with a two-year-old?!? What will we do?

I researched the airport, all available play areas (DFW has at least TWO!), planned on riding the inter-terminal train until the novelty wore off, and letting Clara take her sweet time to eat a meal (which normally lasts at least an hour . . . endless frustration for me!).

Quite unfortunately, the airport itself helped me out considerably with our kill-time conundrum. In the past, I've always breezed through customs and immigration at DFW. On Monday, passing our bags through customs took around TWO HOURS. The line started at the baggage claims and then snaked its way through the entire baggage claim area. Thank goodness we had that layover!

Once we were finally free to wander the airport, we explored Terminal D and one of their huge, glass sculptures. Once Clara warmed up to it, she loved running through that labyrinth, giggling at me on opposite sides of the glass, screeching as I chased after her. My apologies to my fellow travelers in Terminal D. I don't usually let my daughter run amok in public, but as she was just screeching in glee, running off some steam, I figured better that she was loud in public rather than being loud on the airplane.

Later, we sat down with two other small children and their parents at the Children's Play Area in Terminal D, which quite unfortunately only had a bead chaser as the sole working toy. Not having one at home, it was a novelty for Clara, and she also thought rearranging the chairs and climbing on stuffed "pigs" was delightful, so it worked for her. It could be disappointing for a higher-energy child.

Our flight left from Terminal B, so we took the train over there (also a hit with the transportation-loving toddler). I would have liked to ride around the entire airport, but time was actually against us! While it's not listed on DFW's website, Terminal B also has a play area. However, we didn't get to check it out. I do know that somewhere in that airport they have toddler-sized climbing equipment, and I have a feeling that it's in that Terminal B. Too bad we didn't get there in time.

At our gate, I spied a man who looked disturblingly familiar. Because, yes--it was my childhood best friend's father! Clara needed to walk off some steam down the hall (and I needed to decide if that man was REALLY my friend's father . . . yes, it was. We wound up sitting right behind him on the airplane). As Clara and I headed down the hall, I spied another friend's mother arriving at the gate. No way. Two people I knew on my flight?!?

Oh, the beauty of being from a small city.

As Clara and I were the last to get off the plane, my parents were able to greet both friends' parents before they met me, AND they saw another friend's dad get off my flight, too! Dear heavens!

While part of me feels like I really do belong in Saltillo now, it's clear that part of me will always belong here.

Why Cinco de Mayo Should Be Celebrated More in the US than in Mexico

I think I finally stumbled on the reason why Cinco de Mayo is celebrated more in the US than in Mexico! This battle, while being significant in Mexico's history, also had significant consequences for US history, too. (And likely longer-lasting consequences for US history, as the French eventually did overthrow the Mexican government, despite the defeat at Puebla on May 5th.)

The Battle of Puebla (as it's known in Mexico) was fought in 1862, between an invading French army and the Mexicans that were defending their country. At the time, Mexico was heavily in debt to France, and France decided to recoup their investment by taking over the country--in part, thanks to the US being otherwise occupied with its Civil War to bother enforcing the Monroe Doctrine.

Despite being severely outnumbered against the most powerful army in the world at the time, the Mexican army triumphed at this particular battle. Had the French been able to roll right through Mexico and take it over in mid-1862 (a full year before the Battle of Gettsyburg would turn the tide of the US Civil War to the Union Army's favor), the French would have been beautifully poised to support the Confederacy at a crucial point in their war for independence.

Had the French government been established in Mexico in 1862, the blockade that the Union army used to strangle the south would have been made completely ineffective, if Mexico's ports would then have been open to aid the Confederacy.

Furthermore, that formidable French army, the most powerful army in the world at the time, would also have been able to aid the Confederate States of America with the manpower and technological power that the South lacked. Just as the US could not have won their independence from England without the aid of the French, it is quite possible that the Confederacy's quest for independence could have been successful with the French on their side.

Had Mexico lost the Battle of Puebla, it's quite likely that the United States would be a far different (and smaller) country than the one we know today.

Whatever our individual stances on history are, there's no denying that Cinco de Mayo is a significant date, not just in Mexican history, but US history, too.



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OK, I'll be honest. I got this information from Wikipedia, which I realize is not the most accurate source of information. For this particular paragraph of information, "Consequences to the United States", they site Justo Sierra's (a notable historian) work Political Evolution of the Mexican People. If I can get my hands on it, I'll check it out.

However, if anyone else has other, more accurate sites for information on this topic, please send them my way!

Easter Vigil

Easter has always been one of my favorite holidays.

The candy won me over early on, but as I got older and was able to catch the significance of the holiday, it really captured my imagination. I always loved the symbolism of a sunrise service--particularly at my Grandma's church, where they held theirs at a nearby cemetery. And then singing with said Grandma "Christ the Lord has Risen Today" in her wonderfully, warble-y, little old lady voice. Ahhh . . .

My first Easter in Mexico, while I did my study-abroad semester my second year of college, I expected big things. After all, I had always been told that Easter is a big, stinkin', huge deal in Mexico. And as I was hanging out all of Holy Week with a church group that I had joined, I was sure we'd celebrate an Easter to remember.

Not so. This specific church group, who I affectionately nicknamed the "Crazy Church", did not celebrate holidays. No mention of Easter was made. So disappointing!

Three years later, I visited Mario for Semana Santa. We spent the week in Puerto Escondido and drove back to Puebla on Saturday. It was nearing midnight when we were nearing the city, and on either side of the highway, huge fireworks were bursting, announcing Jesus's triumph over death. Being the pyro I am, I contentedly sighed and said, "now THAT's how Easter should be celebrated!"

Drawn to fireworks, and desperately needing a walk after the horrendous, hours-long drive through the mountains of Oaxaca, I convinced Mario to come with me to check out the fireworks, which they seemed to be shooting off from the zocalo in Cholula (where he lived). At the same time, one of the churches on the zocalo was just beginning their Easter Vigil.

I had never been to an Easter Vigil, but as they were lighting a bonfire in the courtyard, I was intrigued and had to watch. The symbolism of lighting the fire in the dark of the night spoke to me. As our parish priest said this weekend, "this is where everything begins anew." Oooo-it gives me chills! I do like a new beginning.

However, Mario and I were dead on our feet at that point, so when the candle-carriers left the courtyard and filed into the church, we beat it back home.

The following year, I was living in Puebla and my parents picked that Saturday before Easter to fly down and visit me--their first time in Mexico. I remembered being drawn to the Easter Vigil the year before, and convinced Mario and my parents that we should check it out.

Oh, would that Mario had warned us what we were getting into!

After the awe-inspiring opening bonfire, we filed into the church for what turned out to be hours and hours of readings. From what I could follow, we were reading our way through the entire Bible. And this was my parents' first day in Mexico, and they don't speak any Spanish! Yikes! I can't say I've ever spent a more uncomfortable evening. Every moment, I felt that we should go, but then SOMETHING was bound to happen, right? Surely this would end sometime, no?

FINALLY, we arrived at the New Testament readings, the lights flipped on, bells rang out and it was another stirring moment.

Then they read for a few more hours. My poor parents. When it finally ended, we left more than a little bit shell-shocked.

It took me a few years to brave another Eater Vigil. But my presence was requested at one, three years after my parents' first night in Mexico, when adults are traditionally confirmed. So I went. And got confirmed. And since it was held in my church in Indiana, in English, I got a lot more out of it. And found it was really beautiful after all.

Now that my Spanish is much improved, and I have a clue what I'm getting myself into (and I don't have to translate for my parents . . . I'm a terrible, terrible translator), I've found that those Eater Vigils really are a highlight of my Spring. Again, there's nothing quite so refreshing as celebrating new beginnings.



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PS: for any offended by the nickname "Crazy Church", I do apologize. Those friends that I made at the "Crazy Church" were lifesavers during that semester abroad, and I remember and respect all of them fondly. They were hands-down wonderful people. But they were the kind of church that spoke in tongues, fell down in trances, and were otherwise moved. I grew to respect that tradition more than I ever thought I would, but I'd be kidding myself if I didn't admit that it still weirds me out. Hence, "Crazy Church". But they were a wonderful, wonderful group of people.

That Other Orange Fruit

I'm not a big fan of papaya. It's right up there with cantaloupe, where only 1 in about 15 has decent flavor. Yes, that flavor is excellent, but it's not worth going through the other 14 flavorless ones. And, unlike cantaloupe, which is (usually) simply flavorless, non-sweet papayas taste like nail polish remover. Ugh. So I generally only eat papaya at the in-laws'.

However, Patty is now buying half a papaya every other day. Even though Clara thinks it's the best thing ever, I only feel compelled to eat my share because all that papaya will go bad if I don't. And, let's face it, I don't eat enough fruits and vegetables. So when someone buys me fruit and also cuts it up for me, I can't really say no.

The other day Patty bought a really, really ripe one. It was still good to eat, but wouldn't be for long. The texture was fast passing an acceptable level of smushiness for me (smushy fruit . . . gack!). As we had a good quarter of the papaya left for the following day, I was left with the dilemma of what to do with it so it would survive until the next day.

Solution? Freeze it!

Smushy factor? Gone!

Flavor? Not significantly diminished by the freezer, and as it was a decent papaya, that was OK.

Bonus? Unlike most foods eaten frozen, it has none of that icy consistency. Rather, it's a bit creamy, like ice cream. And right about now, I need anything that can distract me from my ice cream cravings. A 100% healthy option? Awesome.

Thanks to the magic of the freezer, papaya has gone from being one of my least favorite fruits to one of my favorites. The fact that is comes in such large quantities is also no longer daunting, either.

Way to go, papaya. Maybe one of these days, I'll even voluntarily buy one.

Who Am I Talking To?

Has this ever happened to you?

[telephone rings]

Me: Bueno? (That's how we answer the telephone in Mexico.)

Unfamiliar voice on other end: Si . . . con quien estoy hablando? (Who am I talking to?)

Me: [confused silence. After all, isn't that MY line?]


Wait a minute. You're calling MY house. Yet you're asking ME who I am?

I can't tell you how many times this has happened. Why would anyone pick up the phone without knowing who they're calling? Drives me crazy.

Or, my other favorite, when people call and then ask to know what phone number they're calling. Really? You just dialed it. What is your problem?

Patty told me that the other day someone like this called her at the store where she works. She answered very professionally, "Good afternoon, _________ store in Saltillo. How can I help you?" The caller then responded, "where am I calling?" She didn't tell me what she told the man, but I know she was thinking to herself, "Dude--I just told you. How thick can you be?"

These callers don't seem to be your average creep-o. Well, they are a bit creepy, but men, women, and children of all ages do this. WHY?

As mentioned above, this used to just baffle me into silence. Initially I was so taken aback that I would actually tell them who I was. Having been since warned that this could be a scam or a way of stalking my house to find out when to rob it, I've wised up and now refuse to give any personal information over the phone. (Good job, Jill . . . took you 30 years to figure that one out! Yikes.)

Now, the confused and innocent-sounding callers get a nice, "I'm sorry, but I can't give personal information over the phone." However, most, those who don't sound like confused versions of my grandma, get lashed back with, "If you don't know who I am, you shouldn't be calling my phone" in various stages of rudeness. And then I hang up.

Because really, who does that?

Residency vs. Citizenship

Friends I've reconnected with after years of no communication (thanks, facebook!) often ask, once they discover my status as a Mexican resident, whether I'll be pursuing Mexican citizenship.

To which I quickly say, "No way, Jose!"

The perception seems to be that anyone who would immigrate to another country must certainly be immigrating with the end goal of citizenship. After all, don't all immigrants to the US want to be US citizens?

Many do, but far from all.

My husband, for instance. If we were ever to move to the US, which IS acutally part of our grand plan, he has no desire to become a US citizen. He likes the US, would assimilate beautifully to US culture (even here, sometimes I think he makes a better gringo than Mexican), and would no doubt make many positive contributions to US society. But a permanent resident visa is good enough for him.

And, being almost halfway to my permanent resident status in Mexico, that's good enough for me, too. I love living in Mexico. Despite its flaws, I think it's a great place. And while I'm here, I do my best to provide positive contributions to this society. But the US is my country. And it always will be. I have no desire to change that.

However, a number of friends of mine are considering, and some actively pursuing, dual citizenship. I hope this works out well for them. These are people that I like and respect and admire. I'm sure that they've put as much thought (or more) into pursuing dual Mexican/US citizenship as I have with my reasons for being content with residency.

But the idea scares the crap out of me.

I've had it drilled into my head (I'm guessing from George McKinney, my HS government teacher, but it's possible I picked this up elsewhere) that dual citizens are born, not made. My kids are dual citizens. I know a number of adults who are, thanks to having parents from two different countries, or from being born in a country while having parents who are citizens of another. That all makes sense. And I say, "Cheers to you!"

However, an impressive number of adult friends of mine are confident it can work out. A good friend of mine, who is hoping to become a dual citizen, explained that the government, "doesn't like it, but they'll do it [honor dual citizens]." For her sake, I hope that's true. I just can't get over page 7 of my US passport that states, "under certain circumstances, you may lose your US citizenship by performing, voluntarily . . . any of the following acts: 1) being naturalized in a foreign state . . . ". Far too many people die each year in an attempt to reach the United States, with the end goal of becoming a US citizen. Why would I do anything to jeopardize my citizenship that is bought so dearly by so many others?

Furthermore, Clause 14 in my passport does explain this quirk of dual citizens, warning them that "dual nationality may hamper efforts to provide US consular protection to dual citizens in the foreign country of their other nationality." All understandable. When I mentioned this to my friend, she didn't miss a beat, because of course she doesn't plan on ever breaking the law.

Of course not. But what if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time? Growing up in the US, we're used to a legal system that declares all accused of being "innocent until proven guilty." However, in Mexico, those accused of crimes are guilty until proven innocent. And, if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, that could be real difficult to do. Clearly, neither the US nor Mexico have flawless legal systems. But, after living here for awhile, I'm fairly confident that Mexico's legal system is a bit more corrupt than the US's. Call me crazy--just don't throw me in jail here over it, or I'll probably never get out.

Were that to happen, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being accused of a crime, I do think it would be some comfort to have just a bit of the massive power that is the United States of America behind me. But if I were a dual citizen, the US wouldn't be able to do much for me. And that scares the bejeebies out of me.

To those pursuing dual citizenship, I wish you the best of luck, and from the bottom of my heart I hope it works out for all of you.

For my part, I'm content with mere residency. Here's hoping that in another 3 years I'll be finally finished with my yearly trips to the Immigration Office, handing over a hefty wad of cash in exchange for the chance to live here for another year. In 3 years, I'll have paid my dues, get my permanent resident card, and (provided that I don't spend more than 6 months abroad) be good to go.

While I think she's great, I can't say that I'll miss the World's Cutest Immigration Officer too terribly much. Or, who knows? After 3 more yearly dates with her, maybe we'll be on such terms that we'll go out and celebrate my permanent residency with a beer once she gets off of work.

Yeah.

Living on Air and Yogurt

As the daughter is now two, she has decided that she can live on air and yogurt. Fortunately, she is really into the yogurt. Unfortunately, Sam's Club is way across town, we don't have a membership, so the largest size of yogurt they sell at the grocery store is 1 liter--more than enough for your average kid for well over a week, no?

Clara is not average. Our house is about to be overtaken by the amount of empty yogurt containers piling up. As they're so useful (and so recyclable) I can't bear to throw them away. But WHERE in the entire city of Saltillo can I go to recycle them?

Ni idea.

Thank goodness, I have found the means to make yogurt at home! Thank you Stephanie O'Dea! Her blog, A Year of Slow Cooking, has given me all kinds of other great food ideas, but so far the slow cooker has only been used as a yogurt machine. However, it has paid for itself in the amount of yogurt it has churned out in the last few months.

Interested in making yogurt at home, too?

You will need:

• a slow cooker (crockpot) of at least 2 quarts.
• a 2 quart (or larger) saucepan
  
• a meat or candy thermometer
  
• 7 cups of pasteurized milk--NOT ULTRAPASTERUIZED! If you live in Mexico it might be difficult to find milk that isn't ultrapasteurized . . . if it comes in a Tetra-Brik, it's ultrapasteurized and won't work. Sello Rojo sells gallons (yes, gallons!) of milk in US-style gallon containers in the refrigerated dairy sections (Lala often does, too, but double-check that it is just pasteurized as opposed to ultrapasteurized). If you can't find this, ask around at your local market if anyone knows where to buy pasteurized milk . . . my in-laws used to buy it off a cart that drove past their house in Mexico City (this creeped me out for the longest time, but it shows that it is possible to find milk that hasn't been ultrapasteurized).
• 1 cup store-bought yogurt
• 1 package of unflavored gelatin (this is optional, and I believe unnecessary, if you use Stephanie's original recipe).
  

Click here for Stephanie's original recipe. Unfortunately for me, it calls for a slow cooker that has a high and a low setting. My little two-quart crock only has an on and an off button. On is apparently too hot to follow the recipe the way she has it. The modified recipe I use was gleaned from the comment section on the original post, and then tweaked it to handle my slow cooker.

What to do:

• It's ideal to do this at night, so you can have yogurt for breakfast in the morning.
  
• Turn the crockpot ON. Put the cover on, even though it's empty.
  
• In a 2 quart saucepan, pour 7 cups of milk and the package of unflavored gelatin. Whisk well, so the gelatin gets mixed in with the milk. Set the pan on the stove at a high flame, stick the thermometer in the pan and wait until the temperature reaches 190F/88C, stirring every once in awhile.
  
• Once the milk is 190 degrees Fahrenheit, stick the whole pot in a cool water bath (if possible. Otherwise, take off the flame and whisk, whisk, whisk lots of cool air into the milk) until the temperature drops to 110 Fahrenheit.
• AS THE MILK IS COOLING, turn off the crock pot and take the lid off.
  
• Once the milk has cooled to 110F, whisk in the cup of store-bought yogurt.
  
• Once the inside of the crockpot feels like it might be somewhere around 109 degrees (if you stick your hand inside the slow cooker (not touching the sides) it should be pleasantly warm. Keep in mind that your body temperature is 98 degrees, so just warmer than my hand seems to do the trick). If the temperature of the crock pot is much warmer than 109, the bacteria cultures will die and you'll wind up with spoiled milk. If it's not hot enough, then I imagine the bacteria cultures won't be "properly encouraged" to multiply sufficiently to turn 2 quarts of milk into yogurt.
• Dump the milk/yogurt mixture into the crockpot, put on the lid, wrap in an old towel (not sure this is 100% necessary, but it makes me feel like the crock is better insulated).
  
• Let sit for 8-12 hours.
• Voila! Yogurt!
  
• But to make very plain yogurt palatable, I add a teaspoon of vanilla and 2 heaping serving spoons of honey to the crockpot in the morning (after it's been working it's magic all night).
• It's good to eat right out of the crockpot, but once it's been refrigerated, it will have the more traditional yogurt-y consistency.
  

If yogurt is roughly sold for 22 pesos a liter, I can make this for almost half the price! (My OXXO sells liter bags of Sello Rojo for 9 pesos a liter . . . awesome! Plus, the empty yogurt containers are no longer multiplying at such an alarming rate.

And, if you want some granola to go along with your homemade yogurt (Best. Breakfast. Ever.) Here's my recipe from Better Homes and Gardens:

(Except for the oats, honey, and oil, all other ingredients are optional.)

• 2 cups uncooked oats
• 1/2 cup flaked coconut
• 1/2 cup coarsely chopped peanuts or almonds
• 1/4 cup sesame seeds
• 1/2 cup honey
• 1/3 cup cooking oil
• 1/2 cup raisins

Combine all ingredients EXCEPT raisins in a bowl, then spread the mixture on a greased cookie sheet. Bake at 300 degrees Fahrenheit for 30-35 minutes, stirring after 20 minutes.

Remove from oven. Stir. Break into clumps. Once it's mostly cool, transfer it to a storage container, or else it will harden and be difficult to get off the pan. Makes 6 cups (I don't quite believe that number. Seems a lot less to me, but maybe I just eat too much of it at a time).

Enjoy!