Reflections

The Phoenix Suns basketball game in Monterrey, Mexico

October 20, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Crayton and I visited Monterrey this weekend to watch the Phoenix Suns, his favorite team, play the Philadelphia 76ers. It was a pre-season game intended to spread the NBA love in Mexico. (This marked the 18th time the NBA has hosted a game in Mexico — the most in any other country besides Canada.)

The whole thing ended up being this really cool, Mexican/American hybrid experience. Jay-Z and Rhianna and FloRida blared through the stadium speakers, while the announcer gave a play-by-play in Spanish. (“Dos puntos para Andre Iguodala!”) Vendors trudged up and down the stairs selling salted peanuts with hot sauce, cotton candy, and those little plastic hand-clappers.

I bought some Japanese-style peanuts, rolled in chili powder…

… And then listened to Steve Nash greet the crowd in Spanish. (He’s my favorite player.) Click below for an audio clip.

Before the game, an announcer warned fans — most of whom appeared to be locals, in jeans and T-shirts and the occasional designer handbag — not to rush the court, or use any “obscene language.” Surprisingly, everybody was exceedingly polite. (Are these the same Mexicans who throw beer at soccer games?) From our seats, somewhere around the 12th row, it was so quiet that we could hear the players yelling at each other. “Red! Red!” a few Sixers kept shouting.

You could also hear the referees, without their microphones.

“Hip check! Number one-four!”

Crayton kept grumbling: “Replacement refs.”

The stadium, a smallish venue with two tiers of seats, was about two-thirds full. Felipe Baloy, a bald, tattooed soccer player for the Rayados de Monterrey, sat two rows in front of us with his wife. During halftime he posed for photos with fans.

The Suns shot horribly during the first half, but there were still some NBA nuggets to keep the fans entertained. People gasped when one Sixers player, racing to keep a loose ball inbounds, dived into a row of journalists, who ducked to avoid getting creamed. Andre Iguodala had some beautiful shots that people applauded, even if, you know, the 76ers were technically the away team.

Mostly everyone stayed until the end of the game, even when it was obvious that the Suns weren’t going to win. After the game, people filed out in an organized fashion, and we found a cab easily in front of the arena. The cabbie asked us what had been going on, and we told him.

“Perdimos!” I said, dejected.

“Eh — the Chicago Bulls are better anyway,” he said.

Crayton snorted.

Overall, I’d go to an NBA game in Mexico again in a heartbeat. The seats were cheaper (we had awesome seats for the price of nosebleed seats in Dallas); the beer was cheaper, and they sold bananas drizzled with chocolate. You can’t beat that.

Honey, are those dark circles under your eyes?

October 12, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Our flight from New York was delayed last night, so we finally walked in the door at about midnight. We set down our bags and collapsed on the couch.

I stared off into space for awhile. Then I happened to glance over at hubby.

A black, purplish looking bruise had formed underneath his eye, starting from the corner of his eye and tracing underneath his eyelid.

I frowned.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong with your eye?”

He shrugged.

“You have something on your eye!” I said, a little panicked now. “It looks like a bruise. But it wasn’t there before. And — ” I peered at his other eye, where a faint smudge of black had bloomed, and now appeared to be spreading. “You have it on your other eye too!”

He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. “It’s probably nothing. I’m tired.”

“No, it’s not nothing! This has never happened to you before. Those look… really bad.”

Suddenly it hit me that maybe Crayton’s blood had gone sour. Maybe he’d stretched himself to the point of exhaustion, and these two bruises were signs that he cannot live this crazy, work- and travel-all-the-time lifestyle anymore. Maybe he was about to have internal bleeding from the exhaustion, and what was I supposed to do?

Then he spoke.

“You know what?” he said. “I was reading the newspaper. It’s probably just newsprint.”

He raised his harm and rubbed his bruised eye. I winced. But sure enough, the black smudges disappeared.

“You know how I rub my eyes all the time.”

I frowned again. Really? That was it?

“I don’t know…” I said.

“I’m fine.”

Newsprint. Of course. He’d been reading The New York Times on the entire plane ride home. We sat there in silence, and the flutters disappeared from my stomach. My blood-gone-sour theory dissolved, dusted onto the imaginary newspaper pages that now filled my head.

I gave him a tiny smile. He smiled, too.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling absolutely lame. “But really, you never know….”

Exploring my Southern side in Anderson, South Carolina

September 17, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Every time we visit South Carolina, I marvel at how Crayton and I, two people with such different backgrounds, ended up together.

To get to my grandmother’s house in Pico Rivera, outside Los Angeles, we take the 10 to the 57 to the 60 to the 605.

This is the road to Crayton’s grandmother’s house. It’s outside Anderson, South Carolina, which is about 40 minutes from Greenville.

We call her Oma. In the South, grandmothers generally have nicknames.

At Oma’s house, which she shares with Crayton’s grandfather, Bpa, they usually eat poached eggs on toast in the morning. Today I hovered over her shoulder and watched. She cracked them into a small skillet half-filled with water, and then spooned the water over the top when they got runny. She served them on warmed plates, kept in the oven until serving time.

My own grandmother has been known to buy pan dulce from the local bakery, if her certain favorite granddaughter is visiting around breakfast time.

I just love coming here though. We talk slower, move slower. We’re more polite. Crayton develops a cute little twang in his voice, and tells me things like, “Mash that light.” (That means turn the light off.)

On Oma and Bpa’s sunporch, you can look out over their wide, green backyard, and listen to the breeze flutter the leaves on the trees. (I’m doing that right now.) Just noticed a spider sunning himself on the screen.

When we visit South Carolina, I’m reminded all over again how lucky I am to have married into a family that doesn’t know me entirely yet, but loves me anyway. That warmth is what I want to pass on to my own kids someday. (And they’ll be doubly lucky because they’ll have their Mexican-American side, too.)

“Your great-grandmother used to call me ‘dah’lin,’ ” I’ll tell them. “She had an accent that you could listen to all day.”

Five things to love about Huntsville, Alabama

September 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

One beautiful baby boy.

With the most luscious thighs, and plump little marshmallow feet.

The deviled eggs from Mullin’s Restaurant, a Huntsville classic. The filling is creamy, with just a hint of mustard.

BISCUITS. LOTS OF BISCUITS. Oh god these were good.

The lush, pretty trees growing alongside the road.

Spending time with some of our favorite people in the whole world.

We’re on to South Carolina next.

Should Latinos disdain Rick Bayless because he’s white?

August 31, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

If perhaps you missed this controversial blog post on a Chicago Tribune-affiliated blog a few weeks ago, let me tell you about it.

Blogger Teresa Puente’s point was this: Rick Bayless has lately been anointed as the father of modern Mexican cuisine. And that’s a shame, because he’s white. So many other Latino chefs deserve to be recognized, she says. Why doesn’t the media focus on them?

As soon as Puente posted it, criticism flew that she was racist and deserved to be fired. While I think that’s a wee bit of an overstatement — ignorant and angry seem like more fitting words than racist to me — a kernel of her argument is right on. White chefs do dominate American TV. And yes, the media have a tendency to adorn one person as the holy expert on everything, just because it’s easier, and we’re all overworked, and some people have great PR reps who actually call you back by your deadline.

But Rick Bayless deserves his accolades. He is not the new kid on the Mexican block. His first cookbook came out in the 80’s, and actually had penciled drawings of dried chiles in it. And recipes for aguas frescas. Can you imagine what that must have been like back then, when “Mexican food” meant a greasy rolled-up tortilla covered in cheese? Hell, I barely looked at his first cookbook for the first time a few months ago, and it still blew my mind.

Lots of people heap praise on Diana Kennedy, probably the best-known authority on Mexican cooking. I own two of her numerous cookbooks, but haven’t done much beyond flip through the pages. Rick Bayless’ books, on the other hand, I’ve devoured. It’s like he really wants me to succeed and know the cuisine. Sometimes when reading Kennedy, I feel like if I don’t dry and grind my own corn for tortillas, I suck as a cook.

Anyway, I’m all for empowering Latinas, and newspapers creating platforms for people to subscribe to blogs with names like Chicanísima. (The blog is part of a community site owned by the Tribune Company, comprising bloggers from all over the city.) But I think Puente just set us back a few steps by embodying the stereotype of the angry minority woman throwing out baseless accusations. Wish she would have done her research before posting.

Back from America, and halfway Mexican again

August 24, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

We got back from our USA vacation last night, and I’ve realized there’s some sort of sign on our heads saying, “Search our luggage!”

When we went through Mexican customs, I pressed the button and the light turned red, which means the customs agent pulls you over to the side and makes you unzip everything. (This has happened to us four out of five times.) Luckily it was a cursory search. The agents looked under our clothes and then waved us on.

“You could have brought quinoa!” Crayton said.

“Eh,” I said. “I’ll just appreciate it more the next time I eat it.”

We did bring back a ton of goodies, though. Among them: good ol’ Kentucky-made bourbon, which you can’t buy in Mexico.

And dark chocolate M&Ms, which I promptly demolished when we got home. Notice the sexy lady M&M on the cover — I felt a little pang of nostalgia remembering how ferociously dark chocolate is marketed to American women.

Ghiradelli chocolate squares are impossible to find in Mexico City, if you don’t have a car and time to spend hours looking for them. So we bought them at duty free.

And I trucked back some crystallized ginger, for salads/breads/stir fries or chocolate-dipping experiments.

Among my other U.S.A. booty: wax paper and parchment paper, which none of the grocery stores I visit ever seem to have; discount designer jeans from Nordstrom’s Rack; a grill brush; lots of cookbooks and a few crime novels. Also snagged two cookbooks from my grandmother’s old stash, and I can’t wait to go all Betty Draper on them. (Sweet potato ham puffs, anyone?)

When we were coming back, I couldn’t decide whether our visit was too short or just right. The day before we left, I was sitting in my friend’s car in Seattle and staring out the window at the trees, and the light rail, and the nice grocery stores. I commented something along the lines of, “I don’t want to go back!” Although, of course, I did. I just didn’t want to leave the friends we only see once a year. They cheered while Crayton and I sang Sussudio at karaoke. They loved our jamaica flower quesadillas. And they were very patient and curious with all of our Mexico stories. I’m sure I’d get bored hearing them after awhile. (“And then we woke up without water… again.”)

It’s interesting, though. Finally, after seven months of living here, I’m not as conflicted about where my home is anymore. I live in Mexico. I’m a cuidadana here. The U.S. is a great place to visit, but that’s not where my heart is right now.

Today — with my tiny washer/dryer whirring, and clean dishes drying in my dish rack, and the cars occasionally honking outside the window — life seems just as it should be. Especially now that I have those Ghiradelli chocolate squares.

Burgers, fries and pies

August 19, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I may gain five pounds on this trip, but I don’t care. Sometimes a girl needs a cherry milkshake. With real flecks of cherry in it.

Got one yesterday at Big Tom’s Drive-Inn in Olympia, and it was everything I hoped a cherry milkshake would be. Sweet. Tangy. Creamy. Difficult to slurp through the straw.

Oh, and I got a burger and onion rings, too. It came with a side of “goop,” a mix of mayo and mustard and sweet relish. It’s the yellow stuff below.

Then I made cherry pie later.

Today I’m doing bikram yoga for the rock-bottom American price of $15 (it’s $22 in Mexico), and hopefully I will sweat out all the toxins from yesterday.

But when I come back, I’m having a slice of the blueberry bread that’s in the oven right now.

Off to Los Estados

August 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Just a heads up that I’m heading back to the USA starting tomorrow — Crayton and I will be in the Seattle area for a week, visiting my mom and good friends.

On the recipe list is a sour cherry slab pie, because my mom is the coolest ever and bought some Washington State sour cherries for me. (I’m drooling at the thought. With ICE CREAM!) We’ll also be in Dallas for a night tomorrow, where we’ll hopefully be eating at Eno’s and drinking at Cosmo’s.

Can’t wait to see old friends again. And drink American microbrews.

Bringing an extra suitcase for all the cookbooks, clothes, shoes and the CHICAGO BEARS GRILL COVER we’re bringing back.

See you soon!

My papá de azúcar

July 22, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Our Mexican bank screwed up the PIN number on my debit card, so I can’t use the ATM. Lately I’ve had to ask Crayton anytime I need money.

“Honey? Do you have 100 pesos? I want to take a cab to Polanco.”

“Honey? Do you have 100 pesos? I have my dance class today.”

Of course he doesn’t care, nor does he ask me for an explanation. I automatically offer one because I don’t want him to think I’m spending his money frivolously.

Where did this “his money” stuff come from? As a married couple, we don’t believe in it. His money is my money. My money is his money. We have a pool of “our” money, and we always have, since we got married. Under the budgetary rules we designed, both of us have a set amount of cash we can spend each month on things like dance classes and cab rides. (Or for him, beer and beer.) We don’t need to report to the other person what we’re spending.

But now, well…. a tiny voice inside me has piped up. Maybe, because I’m not working, he controls the purse strings?

Usually it’s just a small pine-nut of guilt and I can ignore it. Because if he controls the purse strings, then that means I’m somehow less equal in our partnership. That the work I do — cleaning, cooking, grocery shopping, social-calendar planning, freelance writing — is somehow less valuable. And I know in my heart that’s not true. In order for this whole “not working” thing to work, I need to believe that what I do matters. And at this point, 95 percent of me does.

The other day, I forgot to ask him for money to pay Lola. It happened to fall on a day when he couldn’t leave the office. So I went and visited him, and it was nice to see him there, in front of his four computer screens. But it was weird that I was there for cash. (I tried to joke about it. “Can I please have my money, papá de azúcar? Thank you.”) He gave me 200 pesos and I left.

But then, when I got home, I realized I needed 100 pesos more. So I had to go back again. This time I felt a teensy bit more embarrassed — a smidge more like a 50’s housewife who needed cash for the hair salon. I got my money and left. Didn’t say hi or smile at anyone.

I know, I know there’s no point in feeling guilty about any of this. There’s no truth to it. I am spending our money. Not his money. We are both equal here.

My new PIN number should arrive by early next week, and I’m sure once I can get my own money out of the ATM, I’ll forget all about this. Can’t wait to buy my own Starbucks coffee without asking hubby for change.

The case of the mangled sleeve

June 26, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Since we’ve moved here, four of Crayton’s dress shirts have developed a hole in the right elbow. Not a tiny hole, either — more like messy, shredded tear, as if someone took a pair of scissors and stabbed the thing. Or, like, yanked on the fabric with his teeth. What’s weird is that even though the hole is so severe, the shirts are perfectly fine otherwise. No missing buttons or threads hanging off.

We’ve both been perplexed by this — and annoyed, because two of the shirts were Brooks Brothers. So C went to work and asked his male co-workers if they had the same problem. Turns out they did. Tear on the sleeve, in pretty much the same spot. With one guy, it happened after he took the shirt to get dry cleaned.

What is going on here? Why does Mexico eat dress shirts? And how do you say “torn dress shirt sleeve” in Spanish, so that I can freaking google this and try to find some answers?

Last night I had some folks over for dinner. With all the men there having been smote by the Shirt Sleeve God, we must have talked about this for 20 minutes. Among the theories tossed around: Maybe Mexican soap is too strong. Maybe it’s the washing machine. (This is my guess, because I washed Crayton’s shirts in Dallas and never ran into this problem.) Maybe it’s the dryer. Maybe it’s the dry cleaning solution, or whatever they use to dry clean things here.

In either case, we have to go buy Crayton some more shirts, because he doesn’t have much left to wear. Luckily there are lots of men’s dress-shirt stores in the area. An unusually high number, actually…. hmmm. Conspiracy?

Better go continue my googling in Spanish. If anyone out there has solved this problem, please enlighten me.

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