Okay, I didn’t know what to title this, I just wanted to say Ay Chihuahua. Let’s say this post is about food and fiesta and I’ll try to stick to those themes.
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Mangos. At least one a day. Why eat fruit in Illinois, I often wonder. When I buy a mango at home in Illinois I follow the mediocre experience with dental floss. Not so, here, where the fruit is picked ripe each day.  Purchased at the mercado, the orange, rose, and green skin is marred with a few black dots. Hey, it’s probably organic and is not a candidate for a photo op. Slit it lengthwise, twist the halves apart. With a spoon, scoop out the juicy orange flesh from the pitless half, pry out the pit and just keep going. Then you must gnaw at the pithy pit. All right, I admit, the gnawing part requires that I floss my lower teeth. Morgan from our tiny blue tile kitchen, just declared his mango, out of sight.
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Mostly we cook dinner (cenar) at home and eat it on the terrace overlooking the city–Morgan, Jim and I. But yesterday we went to the Warren Hardy school potluck at their otherworldly hacienda. Various whimsically painted little buildings are built upon the hillside, and on a lower level is a blue Mexican-tiled free form pool. Very colorful, very lovely, and all built with cheap Mexican labor. I told Warren I was happy to help fund his paradise, which he graciously appreciated, but I would never be able to live luxuriously amongst the very poor. Many of the guests–students from the school–are rich Americans living in San Miguel. When admiring a dish of pulled chicken in a red sauce, its owner replied, Oh, I didn’t cook it, the maid did. This is a class of people who have maids, many of them. Guess I’m too much of a peasant myself to feel comfortable with servants–working at a wage fit for a slave.
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Gotta finish this so we can go to the mercado for cafĂ©, leche, jalapeños, pepinos, tostados, esparragos, but not before I go up the hill to the club, which is funky and lovely and where I swim—or play in the water–every day. Adios Amigos.