A busy week watercolor painting to capture the beauty of Merida, Mx.
Displaying our work.
Five days of painting the diversity of parks, churches, fountains, fruterias, even trains, culminates tonight in a party with music, dancing and food. People will come to peruse and hopefully purchase at silent auction.
Iglesia Santiago (Saint James)
No pressure here, just an agreement to produce five finished paintings in five days.
Ready to go.
However, my plan is to exit the party early to see Bad Bunny perform in the Super Bowl half-time show. I want a packed, rowdy bar where everyone is drunk and cheering. Mexicans love US football. The show will be epic with every Spanish-speaking country glued to the tele. Let’s do it!
This man has so much heart as he tells the audience that we don’t know what tomorrow brings, live today and love one another. You don’t need to speak Spanish to understand that.
The AIDS activists of the 1980’s coined the motto Silence=Death to protest the government’s non-response to thousands of gay men dying of an unknown disease, HIV.
It wasn’t until I went to work for the City of Austin Health Department that I paid much attention. When my job was testing anyone and everyone and later giving out HIV results both negative and positive, that I was really aware of the crisis. I once gave positive results to a pregnant woman who didn’t speak English. I probably wasn’t the best person for the job but I was it.
More marching in the 90’s weren’t we cute?
This week I’m seeing influencers of all stripes, comedians, chefs, artists, exercise trainers, dancers and athletes etc speaking out against the horror that is going on in Minnesota USA. Silence surely equals death. The pressure is on not to stay quiet.
Lisa and I could not have predicted any of it, but we knew long ago that we did not want to live in the US. I feel guilty for not protesting or being able to take action. After all, I’m an old hippy who marched in New York City with thousands, protesting the Vietnam War.
Diversion Equity Inclusion
My effort to do our part has been awareness of political contributions by various companies to Trump and refusing to give them a nickel, including Amazon, Whole Foods, Target, and Home Depot. It’s time to put our money where our mouth is, so to speak. I know it’s not a lot but every bit helps, at least I’d like to think so.
A veterans’ hospital nurse who tried to help.
So this is Dos Tortas not being silent. I’m sorry it took two white people being killed for people to take to the streets. Here in Mexico we have met numerous people who were evicted or self deported. Their lives have been turned upside down. Some have no family, and don’t speak Spanish. Others like us are relieved to be away from the chaos.
Please look around your sphere of influence. Speak up or at least get to know your neighbors. Let’s do what we can to put a stop to it. We owe it to future generations.
I have always been a creative of one sort or another. I’ve crocheted hats, knitted socks, doodled, quilted, painted, gardened, baked, sewn clothes, danced, kept a diary and written this blog.
Baby socks I made for no particular reason.
And still I tend to think of my art as secondary, inconsequential, and not terribly important. When in fact it is who I am.
Texas Star, A gift for my mother-in-law that was returned to me when she died.
While recently in Austin I got to see lithographs by Salvador Dali priced at six figures. Some of his drawings don’t look that much different from mine. Maybe you have to be dead to have your art appreciated.
Visiting the Salvador Dali exhibit with my niece.
And then this TED Talk by Amie McNee came across my screen. The Case For Making Art When The World Is On Fire. None of us would argue against the world being on fire, but make art? That seems like fiddling on the Titanic.
One of my wilder creations.
My suggestion is to take the time to listen to her passionate message. It has made me committed to putting down the phone and iPad. This week I dusted off and tuned the ukulele I HAD to have and has sat in a corner for too many years. Perhaps struggling to play it is just what this old brain needs.
Dusted and tuned.
Next week I will be in Merida, Yucatan, for five days, watercolor painting on site around the city with a group of fellow artists. I remember how scared I was the first time I joined this group. There was a wide range of talent, including one woman who had never picked up a paint brush in her life. Her fearlessness inspired me.
It’s been a lovely visit with friends and family in Austin, Texas. Here are some photos from the week.
My great nephew Dart. He should be named Tank.Such a good boy when he’s sleeping. Austin Public LibraryAn architectural marvel. Great place to people watch.The Sistene Chapel Experience Bringing Michaelangelo to Austin.Lots of looking up.Austin’s new to me skyline. Nothing like Tex-Mex.My eldest son.Viewing Salvador Dali prints with my niece.
We will return to our regularly scheduled program next week.
I am visiting the States and staying with dear friends Isa and Laird in Austin. When they say “welcome home” they mean it.
Isa and I shared a tiny office at the Health Department many years ago. People told me to be “careful.” She’s difficult and hard to get along with. I found out later that they were telling her the same thing about me.
Yet we hit it off fabulously. We once closed the office door in the afternoon and danced to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie and laughed until we cried. It is still our song.
I did the Heimlich Maneuver on her one day when she was choking on a carrot. She tells everyone that I saved her life.
I can’t count how many times we’ve stayed at their home. Lisa stayed for months after neck surgery. She helped Isa prepare for their exploratory trip to Costa Rica before Covid.
I was here to hold Isa’s hand while she cried over Laird’s early-onset alzheimers diagnosis.
They have visited us in Mexico, stayed in our home and sat naked on the dock in the sun.
I love being in their home, surrounded by pictures of their grandchildren. They don’t fuss. I am always welcome. Laird’s bearhug is the same although I don’t always know if he knows who I am.
Family
I am truly blessed to have these people in my life. They are our family, no strings attached, which is the best kind to have.
When I lived in Central Mexico in the seventies, a friend lived upstairs over… I don’t even know what to call it, a bread production company. At his invitation we dragged ourselves up before dawn to visit the bakery where traditional Mexican rolls, bolillos were made.
There was a huge rounded brick oven where bread was baking. Heavenly rolls, pillowy on the inside, crisp on the outside. They are cousins to the French baguette, left over from the French invasion of Mexico in 1838. The fragrance was swoon-worthy.
Several men in white aprons stood at a table where golfball-sized rolls of dough were already lined up, clearly this was an all-night job
Here was where the magic came in. With each hand they grabbed a ball of dough. Two dowels, like miniature rolling pins rapidly flattened the dough. One side was crimped toward the center, flip, crimp, voila, an ambidextrous miracle. The dough was set on long trays and popped into the wood burning oven. At five am, they melted in our mouths.
The bakers encouraged us to try their two handed roll and crimp.The results had them rolling with laughter. They made it look so easy. We looked foolish.
Coming to Bacalar, I eagerly looked for bolillos. There wasn’t even a bakery in 2013. Today a poor facsimile is sold, mostly used for tortas or sandwiches. They’re not even crispy!
$.15 cheap and filling.
The bolillos of my youth are still sold in Mexico City and thereabouts. Mostly mass-produced with highly processed flour, they leave much to be desired.
This past week, a British chef in Mexico City made a disparaging remark about Mexico’s “bread culture”. Dear God did a shit-storm ensue. Chilangos (from Mexico City) are very sensitive to the “gringo invasion” and how it’s changing traditional culture, food and dress.
The bottom line was that yes, the poor quality of Mexican bread needs to be addressed but NOT by foreigners.
Here in Bacalar we have a friend who has a delightful restaurant, Madre Masa or Mother Corn. Reading the room, they began adding pastries to the menu and then large loaves of sourdough bread. I am a huge fan, buying enough to ensure they never go out of business.
My daily breakfast.
Back in the day I used to make my own bread. Those days are long gone.
So are we part of the gringo invasion? Yes and no. We’ve lived in Bacalar twelve and a half years. We speak Spanish, contribute to the economy and pay taxes.
Madre Masa is always hopping.
MadreMasa caters to tourists, many from Mexico City who also buy sour dough bread. Yes, the culture is changing. In my opinion it is due to wealth acquisition and an ever changing global population. It’s easy to blame foreigners but there’s a much larger conversation that needs to take place with respect and kindness. For now I will continue to enjoy sourdough bread with no guilt or apology.
I have been quite sick this past week, and something in the fistful of pills I’ve been taking is causing me to have nightmares. Not the stabbing scarey type but, well, last night was the sad, nostalgic kind that woke me in tears.
When snow was fun!
When did I come to hate Christmas? Once upon a time, my Dad would wait until us five kids were all nestled and snug in our beds, to turn our living room into a Christmas wonderland. He stayed up all night, putting up the tree, assembling bicycles, and stuffing the stockings. Wide-eyed, we truly believed that Santa had come.
Once upon a time.
I remember in high school, turning out the lights in our library, (I use the term loosely) and bathing in the glow of blue lights reflecting off the tinsel, and listening to Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis and Andy Williams. Thank you (NOT) Ghost of Christmas past for stirring up long forgotten memories.
As our own children grew, the scene changed. I can see us in the kitchen, laughing, cooking and recreating my favorite holiday treats, dates stuffed with walnuts and rolled in powered sugar, celery stuffed with cream cheese. I guess we did a lot of stuffing, mostly our faces.
Our children in Mall Santa fotos.
Over time I began to resent the shopping, wrapping and hunting for the perfect gift. The lines at stores, endless traffic, jammed parking lots, and general over consumption. I declared, “no more gift giving!” I’d had enough.
My first Christmas gift from Lisa (1994) A “coupon ” book of dreams.
Moving to Mexico definitely lifted the stress, but I’m afraid the trees, music and holiday everything have crept in even here. My mother-in-law usually wants gifts and for us to put up her tiny plastic tree. This year we’ve all been sick and she doesn’t even care about that.
So there are no decorations, music or signs of Christmas at all. For the most part, I’m fine with it, but I wish the Ghost would leave me alone!
And in the words of Tiny Tim, “God bless us everyone.”
Making eggnog is a true labor of love. Separate the eggs and whip the whites until they form perfect peaks. Beating egg whites was always accompanied by the story of how my grandmother used to achieve perfection using only a fork and willpower. Her forearm must have rivaled an Olympic weightlifter.
Nan on her 81st birthday wearing a wig because she hated her thinning hair. She lived just shy of 95.
Next came the heavy cream, again beat into submission. Vanilla, nutmeg, all came together in Mom’s glass punch bowl, only used for the heavenly concoction.
My grandfather who asked us to call him Uncle Ed so his coworkers wouldn’t know he was a grandfather.
Christmas dinner brought family together. My grandmother and Jewish grandfather were long divorced, but that didn’t keep them from both showing up. My grandfather’s sister, Aunt Tillie was a favorite guest as well. Uncle Jack made a foursome and the folding table was brought out for a raucous game of poker, complete with trash talk and accusations of cheating.
Uncle Jack lived to be 100. His daily drink of Jack Daniel’s never slowed him down.
Mom proudly presented the “perfectly chilled” eggnog, high cholesterol in a glass. When no one was looking, my dear uncle brought out his flask and dumped the contents into the eggnog. Of course this meant that the children could not partake, not to mention that neither of my parents drank.
Mom and I dancing in my kitchen.
I’ve never seen my mother so angry, and that’s saying something. Lightening was flashing from her eyes. I think if she could have gotten away with it, there would have been a Christmas Murder that year. Ah, siblings.
I invite you to whip up this delectable treat. Feel free to empty your flask, but only in your own glass, please. You’ll never drink store-bought again.
When writing about siblings last week, I remembered that this week is the twenty-fifth anniversary of my brother’s death from brain cancer. I thought I’d repost a blog I wrote earlier this year and take a week off.
I am reading the book, Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano. It’s the story of four sisters, their individual personalities and how their close and connected lives fall apart due to death and questionable decisions. It has me thinking about my four brothers and where we’ve ended up as adults.
My oldest brother once told me that the worst day of his life was the day I was born. Nine years older than me, he was the fair-haired solo grandson and center of my parent’s universe. As the only girl and eldest of the next four children born in six years, the blame fell to me. He taught me about sexism, refusing to include me in the rough-housing because I was a “girl.” I adored him. He came for a visit to Bacalar in December 2023. Since then we talk every few weeks and enjoy long conversations.
2023 Bacalar
My next brother and I were always tight. We had special names for each other when we were little, Boody and Sany. My mother used to say that she held us, one under each arm to go to the bathroom. We were eighteen months apart. Today we talk every weekend like clockwork and he is my best friend and confidant. I’m not sure how he got to be so smart but I greatly appreciate his calm demeanor, insights and advice.
A year apart in high school.
Brother number three and I haven’t spoken in a year. When I had my accident last September (2024), he called both Lisa and me multiple times a week, to check on my condition and progress. I felt cared for. That all changed with a world-exploding US presidential election in November 2024. We were on opposite sides of the aisle which left me in shock. Many families deal with political differences by simply not talking about them. We’ve butt heads too many times and this was the proverbial straw.
Don’t I look happy?
And my youngest brother, who I was very close to, died in 2000 of a brain tumor. His daughter is now in my life and I feel blessed to have her.
Frozen in time. 1958-2000Undiagnosed brain cancer. The world changed a few days later.
I haven’t finished the book but I’m hoping that the sisters work out their differences. For me, three out of four connections aren’t bad. I don’t hold out hope that brother number three and I will work things out. And don’t give me that, “but you’re family”. Some things blood doesn’t seem to be able to heal.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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