This week was my birthday. We went out to dinner Friday night to one of the new little restaurants popping up in Bacalar. Per a recommendation by our local residential list serve, we heard they had vegan options and good prices,. We dandied up a bit and headed the three miles into town.
A Xolo is a hairless Mexican dog which dates back to the Aztecs.
I am a person who would almost always choose to eat at home, but Lisa needed a break, and Alice insisted on paying, so off we went.
Happy birthday to me.
When I asked the waiter, in Spanish, what was in the vegan tacos, he replied, “cauliflower, it’s like broccoli only white “. I thought I would fall off my chair laughing. He clearly doesn’t have a lot of experience with vegetables! The tacos were delicious with their hecho a mano, handmade blue corn tortillas. I would definitely go back. The music wasn’t too loud. The food was tasty and I’m still laughing.
Last week, I was hugging the toilet and not after a night of debauchery in Cancun. Truthfully I’ve never been a debauchery kind of gal, but back in my youthful days, when guys in Mexico would keep the drinks coming, I learned about alcohol the hard way.
Celebrating my 21 birthday in Mexico. Heading out for a night on the town with my best girl.
Now, after living a sedate retired life in Mexico for seven years, I’ve never been this sick. And I’m still not sure what caused the intestinal upset, fever, etc. A course of antibiotics seems to be doing the trick and upping our hygienic game is in the cards. We buy all our produce in a small town mercado. It was probably only a matter of time, although outbreaks of things I can’t pronounce occur in the US food chain all the time.
A lovely small town market in Bacalar.
Wednesday I left for the much postponed trip to the US Consulate in Playa del Carmen, to renew my expired passport. The bus ride was quiet and socially distant. The required masks contributed to the tranquility and I curled up and slept most of the four hour trip.
First trip out in a pandemic.
The little boutique hotel that I had booked turned out to be a real gem. The room was $45US and included a full-on off the menu breakfast. My stomach was finally starting to accept food and I enjoyed it immensely.
House of the Flowers Seafood soup for dinner. Very typical Mexican food.
Playa del Carmen was hopping and the little I got to see hobbling around on my still painful ankle was mostly mask-less. Turning my paperwork in at the consulate was the easiest and least painful part of the trip. I’m now sitting in the bus station waiting for the return trip to Bacalar. If I had postponed yet again, I probably would have been able to enjoy myself more. And against the voices in my head, the consulate wouldn’t have cared a bit. Oh well, live and learn.
Last summer, to occupy the time of quarantine, I mailed art-cards to friends and family. I painted post card sized pictures and mailed them in Bacalar. It’s a fun way to connect and let my grandchildren and others know that I’m thinking about them.
Nights in the 50s have been a delight.
This past week I began to hear from card receivers, my brother, niece, a cousin. Frankly I had mailed the cards and forgotten about them.
I knew that mail from Mexico took its own sweet time, but eight months!
Every few weeks, I routinely stop by our tiny post office and check our mailbox #16. This week, I casually mentioned to the post master, who is quite familiar with my mailing habits, that the cards I mailed in May had just arrived in the US. He gave me a Mona Lisa smile and shrugged. I laughed and went on my way. The trouble is, you can’t have it both ways. That shrug can be both maddening and charming, depending on the job you need to complete, or the deadline you must make.
This week I registered myself and my mother-in-law for a Covid vaccine. The over 60 crowd is up right after medical first responders. Hopefully the appointments will arrive sooner than my postcards. Fingers crossed.
Making garlic soup is about as close to comfort food as it gets for me. I have always used it for medicinal purposes as well as a very yummy meal. Just add crusty bread and you have heaven.
Oaxacan sculptor Josefina Aguilera.
I love soup’s versatility and lack of fussiness. There really isn’t a recipe. Sometimes it’s an “empty out the refrigerator” soup before going Sunday shopping. Of course that means you have to have a supply of vegetables needing to be eaten. Carrots are a staple.
Crimini mushrooms in Bacalar, a rare find.
For medicinal purposes, I use an entire bulb of garlic. Anywhere between a clove and a fist-full will work. The soup can be made on the stove, in a slow cooker or, my favorite, the Instant pot. However you choose, the intense aroma will fill your house and possibly the entire neighborhood.
I tend toward Italian herbs, but follow your preference.
The soup base can be made from liquid from having steamed vegetables, canned tomatoes, a purchased vegetable cube, or meat if you prefer. Chicken soup is a time honored cure for what ails you. I prefer a vegetable soup.
I love white beans.
If you don’t mind the heat, add an inch of pealed chopped ginger and/or a piece of fresh pepper. I leave the pepper whole so it can be scooped out and not surprise anyone with a mouthful of fire. Living in Mexico, the shop owners laugh when we buy one Serrano pepper. Compared to the locals, we are wusses when it comes to our heat tolerance.
I don’t guarantee that garlic soup can cure Covid, but it sure couldn’t hurt. There has been quite a bit of research to prove its benefit in fighting colds, lowering blood pressure, improving high cholesterol and a myriad of other health challenges. Have fun and do report back your experience.
The year nineteen-seventy (1970) began a shiny new decade. It was the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, which was also the theme for my high school prom and the year I graduated. We would have had our fiftieth reunion this past year if not for Covid.
Year book graduation picture 1970The Dawning of the Age of AquariusMy mother bought the gloves. I never wore them again.
The Vietnam War was in full swing. Nightly news was full of student sit-ins, protest marches, women’s liberation, Stonewall (1969) and Kent State (1970). As a budding adult, I never participated in anything that turned violent.
March on Washington 1967
The large march I did attend in New York City (1971) involved chanting anti-war slogans and passing around a bottle of Snaups. I felt very grown up. Richard Nixon was president.
Anthem for a troubled time. John Lennon 1971
I know that not all protests at that time were peaceful and I’m sure some folks wanted to overthrow the government. For the most part it was the PEACE movement, identified by rainbow colors, long hair, pot smoking and lots of sex.
Our senior class trip to Washington DC. North Hunterdon Regional High School Class of 1970
These and many more are the memories that have been swirling around my head as I have been glued to the evening news, appalled at the images of armed rioters storming the halls of our nation’s capitol. If I avert my eyes, it feels like they’ll get away with it, which I know is not true. My first step in extricating myself from the drama is to quit talking about it. I will pass on all the salacious details of arrests that only raise my blood pressure. It’s time to join John Lennon and “Imagine” living life in peace. If only the crazies would stay home!
On Monday of this week, the cast came off my broken leg (Taking Staying Home To A Whole New Level). I had been counting the days, hours, minutes… I had it in my head that I would be able to start walking and getting my life back. How silly am I?
My passport (Living On Borrowed Time) had expired in mid-December and I admit to some anxiety about being without a valid passport while living in Mexico, in the time of Covid. My renewal appointment for April was canceled outright due to the shut down. Finally in December I got a date that I had to postpone after breaking my left fibula. It was only a small break, nothing dramatic. So why was I still in pain four weeks later and wanting to rip the cast off with my teeth!
I rescheduled with the US Consulate for January seventh. I would travel by bus to Playa del Carmen, a couple of hours away. I would spend the night and give myself plenty of time to take a taxi and be at the appointment by noon. Sounds like a plan, right? Crutches be damned.
Sometimes my life feels totally upside down.
Only I didn’t count on the level of discomfort I’d still be in when the cast came off. I must have sprained my ankle pretty badly on top of the fracture. It’s still swollen and bruised. No weight bearing for two more weeks. That didn’t keep me from plowing ahead with my plans. Hotel reserved, check. Bus ticket purchased, check.
On Wednesday morning my beloved spouse sat me down and informed me in her most loving, sincere tone, that I was out of my mind. I wanted to object, be right, and revolt, but that small voice that I so wanted to ignore, knew she was right.
How many times has this happened?
We’ve arrived at this place in our relationship after twenty-six years where we trust each other. She’s got my back. I also know that my stupid decisions aren’t without consequences to her. I know I’m selfish, but I try not to be insane. So the best laid plans were cancelled, again. The consulate will reschedule and I’ll have more time to heal. The blog I had hoped to write for today was postponed as well. Oh well, it’s not like any of us are going anywhere any time soon.
The world was a very different place ringing in the New Year 2020. Lisa and I were on the trip of a lifetime, celebrating our 25th Anniversary and Lisa’s recovery from two surgeries (cervical and heart) in 2019.
Ringing in 2020, we were onboard the cruise ship Azamara fulfilling a lifelong dream of traveling through the Panama Canal. Little did we know until much later how we dodged the Covid bullet that stranded many people cruising all around the world. Luckily we disembarked January 5, just in time.
Should old acquaintance…🍾🎤🎼🎺Conga line extraordinaire.
New Year’s Eve was spent positioned off the coast of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. It was the most amazing blowout celebration we’ve ever been part of, fireworks and dancing, and the last time we dressed up for ANYTHING.
2020 was an opportunity to stay home, reconnect and remember what is important. We worked at not complaining and finding joy in the small things. There will always be ups and downs. Certainly a worldwide pandemic was not on anyone’s playlist. I appreciate seeing the optimism for 2021. Myself, I will continue to keep my expectations low. I’m not sure we’ll be cruising any time soon, or ever again, and that’s just fine.
Seven years ago before we retired and moved from Texas to Mexico, I used to crochet hats. They were one of a kind, artistic, colorful and sometimes a bit zany creations. I often sold them off my head or took special orders. One day, a woman from my yoga class asked me to make a hat for her elderly aunt who lived in a nursing home in South Texas. The hat wasn’t particularly for warmth but to cover her thinning hair. I remember my grandmother wearing a wig because her pink scalp and the loss of her precious mane caused her anxiety. I told Betsy I’d be glad to.
One of my more eclectic creations.
I wove my magic including bits of sparkly yarn. What white haired diva doesn’t love a purple hat. Mona was thrilled with her topper and promptly ordered two more! My guess is they got her compliments, started conversations and helped her make connections, something we all crave and comes less frequently as we age.
Mona had someone take her picture to send to me.
On this Christmas Day I awoke and was surprised to find a message from Betsy. We’ve somehow managed to hold onto each other’s contact information. She had seen a recent holiday picture of Mona exchanging gifts with family.
And there she was, wearing one of my hats. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to receive that note. What made it especially endearing to me is that Mona is 102 years old. What a Christmas gift!
We never know when sometimes the little things are actually the big things. Wishing you lots of little joys when strung together create wonderful memories and a wonderful life. They certainly do for me.
DOS TORTAS
Update on Mona. She turns 105 next week and is sharp as ever. 6/23
Sitting on the couch this week with my broken leg propped, I have been thinking of you and remembering our family Christmas traditions.
1999 Our commitment ceremony with Terry and Steven.
Every holiday was defined by the menu and our mutual love of feeding our extended family. Seven layer bean dip was great finger food that we noshed on all Christmas Eve. Tamales with the green sauce that Lisa loves brought the kids to the table and home when they were older. We sat around your table eating, laughing and putting together an Italian feast for Christmas Day. What started out as spinach lasagna morphed into stuffed shells to save time. I can smell your spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove. Everything was tucked into the refrigerator to be reheated on Christmas Day. It was a simple, elegant meal that we all loved.
2012 Dylan and wife Maria with their son Hunter, Grandpa Frank who turns 93 this month, son Cullen and daughter Felice, cousin Lincoln, Lisa and me, Terry and husband, my former and kid’s dad Steven.
Christmas morning was the best. Showing up at your house early to wrap my hands around a mug of coffee and peruse your beautifully decorated table of Christmas breads and homemade cookies. Nuts and dried fruit and your famous bourbon balls were displayed on festive plates. Thank you for all the hours you spent making them. Unfortunately the only pictures are in my head.
Thanksgiving but close enough.
We spent many years watching our children grow and eventually showing up with their children. I tear up now thinking of how we didn’t know about the twists and turns life would take, preventing us from experiencing that extraordinary time again. Life is like that, but doesn’t keep me from occasionally wishing I could have held on a little longer. I am supremely grateful for those memories and our relationship. You have been a blessing and the sister I never had, only better.
Stela wishes you happiest holidays.
DOS TORTAS
Lisa’s mom Alice joins Luna, Stela, Lisa and me to wish you a peaceful holiday.
The extent some bloggers will go for a story! Last week I got all kinds of sympathy and prayers for the discovery of three bulging disks in my neck and the resulting pain and crankiness. Then Monday afternoon while walking the dogs, I fractured my left fibula! I seriously could have found something else to write about, but nooooo.
My beautiful jungle walk.
While on my afternoon dog walk, I casually stepped and heard a distinctive crunching sound. Oh, that’s never a good thing. As a result, down I went, almost in slow motion. While laying on the ground with dogs freaking out around me, I watched a knot swell up on my ankle. Dear Lord, what have I done?
Inflammation, the body’s natural response.
My mind was going to worse case scenario, broken ankle, surgery, pins, hospital stay, yikes. As it turned out, it was a small fracture of my left fibula. The cast went on with instructions to put NO weight on my foot for four weeks. You never know how much a thing like this limits your activities until you’re trying to get to the bathroom on crutches. Not fun.
Sometimes a picture says it all.
Thank you to my wife (who’s birthday is today) for picking up the slack. The dogs are all confused as to why I am laying in bed, and what this wheeled, walker thingy is. My head is unfocused on pain medication. Christmas plans for a trip to the beach have been postponed. We have a whole new meaning for “Stay At Home!”
the adventures of dos tortas 
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