Four Pounds I Won't Be Toting Across Borders Anymore

For years, when people would ask me if there was anything they could bring back for me from the US, I was ready with an answer--peanut butter.

Peanut butter is sold here:  creamy, chunky, and natural.  But almost always in teeny-tiny containers for prices larger than I cared to pay.  Moving to the north made a tremendous difference, the jar sizes are a good deal bigger, but still . . . I had already conditioned myself into importing my peanut butter.

However, when we went to Texas for Christmas, I failed to realize that we were almost out of peanut butter.  So it never crossed my mind on our stockpiling trip to HEB to get that 4-pound jar which would see us through another year.

What to do?  Break down and buy the expensive Mexican stuff?  Nah . . .

See, after every party we attended over the Christmas season, we were sent home with multiple goodie bags.  Of course they're always filled with candy, but to plump up the size of the bag (and maybe to provide some nutritional value?), everyone adds a generous handful (or three) of peanuts.  After February 2ed we found ourselves sitting pretty on a lot of non-salted peanuts.

Do you eat non-salted peanuts?  Neither do we.  (But if you do, good for you!)

Do you see where this is going?  No peanut butter . . . lots of peanuts on hand . . .

Blended without oil

Yep, Clara and I spent a chunk of an afternoon shelling peanuts (Joey tried hard to help).  Then we popped them in the blender, added a little oil and salt, and after plenty of scraping we had peanut butter!

Homeade, sugar-free, natural peanut butter!  Woo-hoo!

While I didn't measure exactly how many peanuts I had, my rough estimates are:
       1 cup shelled peanuts
       1 tablespoon peanut oil (we tried vegetable oil the first time.  Unsurprisingly, it wasn't that good.  I wonder what coconut oil would make it taste like?)
        1/4 tsp-1/2 tsp salt

        Throw it all together in the blender.  Scrape the sides down then the blender is just whirring on nothing (fairly frequently).

Blending with oil (I think I added a wee bit too much)

         The hardest part is shelling the peanuts.  But if you've got a willing 4-year-old who just wants to spend some quality time with you, this definitely counts as quality time.

And yes, peanuts in their shells are sold in massive amounts quite affordable.  We will be doing this again.  And not just because I'm stingy. (Really, I'm not.  Or, I try not to be.)  Just like with the homemade yogurt experiment, I just wanted to try it out, just to see if I could.  After it turns out, I'm kind of like Tom Hanks's character in Castaway when he first lit a fire.  "I've made peanut butter!!!  PEANUT BUTTER!!!"

But then I continue to make the yogurt and peanut butter from scratch because they just taste so much better than the store-bought kind.  And I know exactly what is in them.

Did I tell you that it tastes better?

Final product--on an Oreo knockoff.  Mmmm.

So, if you're like me and balk at the price of natural peanut butter (or, live in Mexico and balk at the price of peanut butter in general), I encourage you to make it yourself.  It's beyond easy.      

One for the Pooper

I never, ever do this, but this year I made a New Year's Resolution. 

I've either picked up a number of bad habits over the last two years or so or I'm just getting lazy or a combination of both, plus a number of other factors.  But after almost single-handedly polishing off a quart of peanut butter ice cream over Christmas, it was clear that I was in desperate need of some changes.  (In my defense, my father-in-law DID buy it especially for me, two days before we were to leave Texas and I couldn't let it go to waste now, could I?)

So I decided that my mantra could be Self Control.  In any given situation that might have tripped me up, I ask myself or, better put, chant to myself, "self-control, self-control, self-control." 

I started off with one area of my life that felt like it was sliding out of control, and before I knew it, it seemed that all my ducks were getting in line.  I paid attention to what I ate, did some exercises, started running again, weaned the baby, read my Bible regularly, did yoga, meditated . . . life was reaching a newfound level of smug perfection.   I was just about to blog about how stinkin' well this whole Year of Self Control was shaping up.

Then yesterday, I was informed by the landlord that I needed to wait around for the roofer.  OK, I'll put off my Monday jog around the Alameda until today.  Then this morning, unannounced, the roofer returned.  Plans shot for another morning.  He left for lunch, promising to return with the landlord, making sure multiple times that I would be around this afternoon.

He never came back.

No one called with basic courtesy to let us know that we didn't have to babysit the house all afternoon on the off chance that that might feel like coming back (like they said they would).  After he was all, "how can you no be here tomorrow morning and not leave me the key?  What about my work?"  (This is also not the first time this has happened.)

What about my work, eh, buddy?  Just because I'm a stay-at-home mom, it doesn't literally mean that I stay at home all the time.  Shocker, I know, but sometimes there are things I really do need to do OUTSIDE of the house.

Oh, and he speaks to me like I'm a five-year-old.  Word to the wise, just because someone has an accent, it doesn't mean that their intelligence is impaired.

Even after leaving a scathing message on my landlord's machine, my rage is still consuming me.   
 
Not very zen-like.  Not very self-controlled.  Not after yelling at the kids a variety of times for the most minor of infractions (I have apologized).  Not after sitting in front of The Big Bang Theory downing countless chocolate-covered almonds and plenty of pomegranate liquor.  So here's another day for the pooper and we'll start over tomorrow. 

Maybe I'll even get some yoga in to let go of some rage so I can possibly sleep tonight. 

But if that roofer shows up tomorrow at 8am (especially after a night of rage-driven insomnia) after specifically telling him that I will not be here (and will NOT leave him with the keys), he'll be getting a verbal lashing.

With very short words, so he'll be sure to understand me.

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

I do realize that my perspective is coming up short here.  I mean, I'm filled with anger because . . . my house is getting fixed?  (Granted, for changes that I would rather not see take place.) 

I do realize that so many people are going through so many circumstances that are so very truly stressful.  My source of stress?  The non-overtly disrespectful roofer. 

I do see the irony, as I am one of the least punctual people that I know.

So boo to that uncontrolled anger that takes my day hostage. 

There's a duck I need to get in line.  Didn't even realize he was part of my duck herd. 

Making the Cutoff

Since Joey's birthday is at the very end of July, I've often wondered--will he make the cutoff for school?  (Or, in my head, be forced to start school a year earlier than I'd prefer?)  Given traditional school cutoff dates, it's pretty much guaranteed he'll either be the youngest or oldest kid in his class.  I've known kids on both sides of the spectrum and they've all turned out well.  I know it's not a big, hairy deal. 

But I really, really wanted him to be older, instead of younger. 

So while we were signing Clara up for school, I asked the principal, out of curiosity, where Joey falls on the cutoff date spectrum.  Her answer rocked my socks. 

Apparently TONS of people were changing their children's birth certificates in order to get them into school early (or late, as my case might be).  So the SEP did away with the cutoff date and said, "if you were born in 2009, you're in the first year of preschool this year.  Born in 2008, Kinder II."  Bam.  So simple. 

So Clara--not Joe--will be one of the oldest kids in her class.  Joe will be smack in the middle. 

Gotta say, I never expected that. 

Way to make things simple, SEP!

I Think I'm Turning Mexican . . .

I'm closing in on 10 years of living in this country and these ingredients have finally entered my kitchen and I--not my husband--are devouring them with gusto!

This amazing salsa comes to us from Carnes el Mirador (a variety of locations in Saltillo, we use the one on Antonio Cardenas, just south of the periferico, to the side of Soriana Lourdes--they have gloriously fat New York strip steaks and some tasty cheddar cheese, in addition to this salsa.  But I go for the salsa).  Anyway, this stuff is crazy spicy and I just keep filling tostada after tostada with the stuff.  Mario and I both sit there eating it, breathing fire from our mouths and then diving in for more.  Our stomachs hurt afterwards and our poop burns, but it is so very worthwhile.  And yes, we can go through a whole liter of this salsa in a weekend.  I wish we had some on hand now.

Squeeze bottle filled with chipotles--where have you been all my life?  Back in the day (like a few months ago), if I wanted chipotles, I'd have to open a can, chop up the chile and then toss it on whatever I wanted to spice up.  I'm a little on the lazy side, so I did not often answer my chipotle cravings.  Now, I just pop open the bottle and squeeze some on my eggs and sandwiches.  Life just got so much tastier!

 

 

OK, so I lied a little above.  Mario does help me eat the salsa and chipotles.  But, in my defense, I do think it's safe to say that I eat a good deal more than him. 

Took the Plunge

All year, I've suffered from a wee bit of stress and a wee bit of guilt about a decision that I put into effect aroundabouts August. 

I didn't enroll my daughter in school.  *gasp*

Nationwide, in Mexico, school starts at the tender age of 3.  Every day.  All day.  (OK, for preschool it is just 4 hours a day.)   But 4 hours a day for 5 days a week?  To me, that just seems like a lot for a three-year-old. 

So I made the executive decision and said, "nope.  She'll start school when she's four." 

Clearly, this is not a terribly radical idea.  The first year (I think the first two years) of preschool aren't obligatory.  My niece didn't go to the first year of preschool.  Nor did my comadre's kids.  And most of my friends' kids here are homeschooled.  But every now and then I'd feel a little bit ribbed that she wasn't in school yet. 

And the older she's getting, the more I'm sure she'd enjoy preschool.  She's really interested in other kids.  She loves drawing, pretending to write, stories--all things academic.  I have no worries that she'll do well in school.  But this first year just felt like pushing it. 

But it is now February, and February is the month to register children for the following school year.  So we took the plunge, pounded the pavement, and checked out the schools near us to make a decision.  I limited our school choices to those schools within walking distance.  That left us with four options:  two Catholic schools; a secular, bilingual private school; and a public preschool.

For years, when walking past this bilingual private school, I was always secretly in love with it.  I dreamed that I'd send my kids there (and perhaps would eventually work there).  The grounds are just beautiful and visible from the street.  It's a sweet, small school.  They advertise that the have a pool.  In addition to English, the students also learn French.  I was sold even before talking to anyone about the place.

However, in the bottom of my heart, I did hold some misgivings.  Those beautiful grounds reminded me a lot of the last school I taught at.  Those grounds and play equipment were also beautiful--until one was close enough to realize that most of the play equipment was broken and the kids were not allowed to use it.  The students in this school (including my preschoolers) were meant to pound out workbook page after workbook page.  They failed to pay me the entire month of May and still owe me 2000 pesos. Clearly, I do not want my children to go to such a school.

And one interview with the director--who I'm sure will tell me anything I want to hear--will not be enough to sniff out what the school is really like.

But we went and interviewed with the director.  We came during recess time for the preschoolers.  The playground equipment was usable.  The students were well supervised.  Both Clara and I were in love with the place, and the director just reinforced my good opinion of the place.  I was ready to sign her up.

Until I saw the price tag.  Monthly, it wasn't much more than I expected.  But the registration fee was 7500 pesos!  That's two months' rent!  I was about to pee my pants about that, but Mexico City Man wasn't too put off by the price.  So we could still consider it.

Catholic School #1 was nice, and about half the price of the beautiful school.  However, we didn't get to see the kids in action and the walk from our house is up one VERY steep hill.  I'd be Iron Woman after climbing that hill with a stroller twice a day.  Still worth considering.

Catholic School #2 scared me off on their website by hanging pictures of Mary over every classroom's blackboard.  Had they hung a crucifix, no problem.  I may be Catholic, but I grew up Protestant, so Mary and I have a bit of a strained relationship.  They may be fine, but I don't think I want them teaching my kids religion.  And this school was farther away.  No dice. 

The public preschool is on the way to the park where we go running, and last year when Mario was working second shift we'd be coming back from running when school was getting out.  The kids seemed happy enough.  However, neither Mario nor myself have any experience with public schools in this country.  Being educated in public schools in the United States, I want to believe they work.  But public opinion here is against me.  That being said, having worked in private preschools in this country, I know that it's not necessary for private preschool teachers to have any kind of training in teaching at any level (let alone preschool).  However, public school teachers--even preschool ones--have to be trained to be teachers.  And the preschool ones are trained specifically for early childhood education.  There's a plus for the public school!

Furthermore, friends of mine who still have their kids in private schools (as opposed to pulling them out for homeschooling) complain about the teacher turnover.  A friend's daughter in first grade has had--as of February, only halfway through the school year--four different teachers.  Yikes.  While many people may (rightly or not) complain of Mexico's teacher's union as being the scourge and shame of education in this country, I think I'm pretty well guaranteed that teachers in the public schools stick around for the entirety of the school year.  And I've seen it that when parents complain in private schools that that teacher's job may be at stake.  Let me tell you, when the administration has the tuition-paying-parents' back rather than the teacher's back, it makes for pretty inefficient teaching.  I'm quite confident that parents don't have that kind of clout in the public schools.  Ironically, as a parent, that really does make me happy. 

Now, don't get me wrong--there are some very good private schools out there.   I've worked for one of them (it wasn't my last job).  I do think that all the schools we looked at would give our kids a good education.  But this is preschool.  And my only two goals for my kids in preschool is that 1) they get some socialization  and 2) they perfect their Spanish.  Given the facts we know about our options and the pricetags attached to each school, we decided that the public option will fulfill those goals at least as well as any of the private options.  Possibly better.     

So we signed up Clara on Tuesday.  Let me tell you--forking over 300 pesos (for parents' association dues) instead of two months' worth of rent--that felt pretty good.

Dragging My Feet

A few months ago, I mentioned a thought of giving up the blog.  It was a passing thought.  I didn't really mean it. 

But then the husband stopped working nights, so instead of hanging out with you all in the evenings, I thought it might behoove me to spend some quality time with the husband instead.  (Tonight he's spending quality time with Quentin Tarantino--otherwise known as JillyRepellant, so here I am.)  The four-year-old stopped taking naps, so internet is out of the question during the day, as she'd be happy to spend her day looking at photos of her friends (and imaginary friends) on facebook.  And if the computer of on when the one-year-old is awake, he is not content unless he's pounding every button he can reach.  Skype conversations have been rather torturous lately, until I feel compelled to banish the boy to his bed.  To further complicate any blogging attempts, my computer is on its last legs and is   so . . . .  stinkin' . . . . . . . . .  slow.  

On top of all that, every few months I feel that it just frees my soul to severely limit my internet time.  Unsurprisingly, when I unplug myself and simple live in the real world with real people I feel like a real person!  It's been nice. 

But I guess I've had enough of reality, so here I am again!

Celebrating Day of the Dead

 Ever since we're gotten back from Indiana, each mealtime has been the forum for Serious Questions.  Deep Questions--down where the fish ain't got no eyes.

Who's God?

Why did he make us?

Why do we die?

Why did your Grandma die?

Clara with the decorated Pan de Muerto

Am I going to die?

Is Papa going to die?

Now, these last couple aren't asked in any kind of fear.  Just idle curiosity.  And very persistent curiosity, at that, as they're asked quite frequently.

But all this curiosity is well timed, as November 2ed is known as the Day of the Dead throughout Mexico.  It's pretty much like Memorial Day in the US, just honoring civilians.  Well, veterans can be remembered, too . . . it's an all-inclusive holiday. I've posted on Day of the Dead other years, but this is the first time we celebrated it as a family. 





First of all, throughout October, pan de muerto, loosely translated as Dead Bread is sold at all bakeries.  I buy pan de muerto a little obsessively--basically as often as I go to the grocery store.  It has an alluring, flowery taste that has had me baffled for years.  What is it that makes pan de muerto taste like flowers?  (The scent of flowers, if that describes it better.)  I found a recipe in my yeast package and it turns out that that flowery taste is simply orange extract.

Decorating the Dead Bread

Biggest letdown of the year.

Since we eat pan de muerto so often throughout October, I wanted our pan de muerto on the actually Day of the Dead to be something special, so I tried that recipe and made it myself.  It was wonderful, and a lot of fun to make.


It just wasn't quite like store bought Dead Bread.  (In my defense, the recipe was a little vague.  And I let it rise waaaay to long.)

But it was very, very good--almost like cake.  I'll make it again next year.  It'll just be redefined as "my" pan de muerto.  

a traditional altar (NOT at my house)

Furthermore, as Clara has been asking questions about my grandparents and Mario's grandpa, I decided that we could make a scaled-down Day of the Dead altar.  These are set up in people's homes to remember loved ones.  


On the right is a traditional Day of the Dead altar, remembering one person.

Below is our "altar".  We're all about simplicity here.

Mario's kind of weird about funerals and Day of the Dead, so I didn't know how he'd feel about me making a Day of the Dead altar.  At the same time, I knew it was a valuable teaching moment for Clara, so I went ahead with it anyway, knowing he'd be weirded out about it if I talked with him first.  And when Clara proudly showed it to him, he actually seemed pleased! 

"Oh wow--it's like an altar!"  I translated that to be a pleased version of, "Oh wow--we're teaching our kids to be Mexican, too!"

So we'll keep doing this.  I do enjoy the day. 

Our little "altar"