Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border
Yep, it’s true.
After more than a year of writing about Mexican food on this blog, I finally took the plunge and signed up for a diploma program at the Escuela de Gastronomía Mexicana.
It’s a cooking school that specializes in Mexican gastronomy, and it’s conveniently located near my house — just a short bike ride or 20-minute walk away.
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We had an earthquake last night. It happened in the middle of the night — I was sleeping when suddenly I heard the house creak, and some rustling sounds. Then our apartment started to gently sway, like a swing being pushed by the wind.
At first I thought: should I get under the desk in my office?
Then I thought: hey. This is actually kind of nice, as far as earthquakes go.
I know it’s a ridiculous thing to say, because a much stronger earthquake here in 1985 destroyed much of the city and caused thousands of casualties. I’m not being cavalier here and saying that earthquakes don’t matter. I’m aware of what nature is capable of.
But a Mexico City earthquake, up to this point in my life, has been much easier to handle than a Southern California earthquake. The latter starts out with a sharp rattle. It immediately wakes you up — or at least, it woke me up as a kid — and then, before you can even get out of bed, the shaking gets harder, faster. It’s like being a spider stuck in a jar, owned by a giant child. At any minute he’s going to toss you to the other side of the house.
Mexico City earthquakes, on the other hand, ripple and undulate. You’re not sure immediately if it’s you that’s moving or the house.
In fact, the first time I experienced an earthquake here, shortly after swine flu, I thought I had come down with a bout of dizziness. Took me a good five seconds to realize: wait. I don’t have dizziness-induced swine flu. Crap, this is an earthquake. Then I ran out the door, my heart pounding. (Note: not a good idea.)
Of course, the worst thing about any earthquake, gentle shakes or no, is that we really don’t know how bad it’s going to get. Will it be a 5.5? An 8.5? Will our apartment building be structurally sound enough to handle it? I’ve heard that after the 1985 quake, new apartment buildings were built with extra earthquake protection measures. But you really just never know.
In any case, I’d much rather experience that terror while swaying and undulating, rather than erratic rattling and shaking. Give me Patrick Swayze over Joan Crawford any day.
*Photo above is of damage from an unknown quake, not last night’s minor quake in Mexico. Swiped it from a website about Bible prophecies.
I’ve got moving brain. Been up since 6 a.m. this morning, thinking about whether the TV is going to fit through the curved entry way, how to pack up the rest of the kitchen, and how to take the pantry items over without spilling everything, because I don’t have any small boxes left. Wait — I can use the laundry basket for pantry stuff. Score!
Wish I had a button to turn it all off. Maybe I’ll gift myself a spa treatment when this is all over.
Because it’s all I’m thinking about anyway, here are a few shots of the new place.
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It hit me yesterday that a year ago, we probably couldn’t have done any of this.
Our Spanish skills weren’t yet good enough to find a place completely on our own, or to call and transfer our cable and home phone accounts to the new place. I still internally scream at Telmex for charging me 280 pesos to change my address, but at least I understand the customer service lady. And I don’t throw the phone down in disgust when nobody picks up until the fourth try.
A year ago, it would’ve been much more stressful to navigate the rental contract and fiador intricacies; I would’ve worried about seeming like a helpless gringo to my new landlord. I’m still slightly helpless — I rely on “cómo se llama, es que no sé la palabra en español” a lot — but at least I knew to ask her for a copy of the last electric bill, and a copy of her insurance policy. And dude: she is a sophisticated lady, and not, as my mom used to say, one of my little friends. (One of my mom’s popular lines when I was a teenager: “Don’t use that tone with me missy, I’m not one of your little friends.”) Our landlady is a professional person, and I am able to be completely professional with her.
We’re now comfortable with the small things about the move, like how the heck we’re going to hang the TV up on the wall. (Hiring a local service.) And which dear friends we could ask to take some of our framed pictures over in their SUV, to lessen the chances of the movers breaking anything. (Thanks, Carlos and Daniela.)
What I’m trying to say with all of this is: it’s funny how you go about realizing that your new home is truly home. I’d felt like that after six months here; but really, it’s still continuing to happen, slowly, with these types of small achievements. And all this makes me feel really good, and proud, because you know — I want to embrace life here. That was the whole point of moving to Mexico City.
I don’t often allow myself any pats on the back, but this time I am allowing myself a tiny one. We are chilagos, people. Chilangos!
Pictures of the new place to come.
We got the apartment in Roma! We’ll be in the new place as of June 1.
I’m really excited. When we went back to sign the papers, the apartment looked even better than I remembered. The bedroom I’m using as an office actually gets a lot of sun, and the walk-in closet is muy amplio. We’ll have a pantry and a dishwasher — I thought the latter was an urban legend in Mexico City, but it isn’t! — and two very nice tiled bathrooms. And we will not be on the first floor anymore, living next door to an office, where the owner just happens to take on Sunday-morning construction projects at 8:30 a.m. (This happened to us yesterday, the morning after we went out partying with friends and got home at 3:30. A power drill grinding into the wall when you’ve had just a wee bit too much tequila… not. fun. at all.)
Wish I would’ve thought to take a picture of the building, but I’ll post some later. In the meantime, gotta start hacking away at my moving task list, which is now about 100 items long.
It’s funny. Last year I don’t remember there being such hoopla in the States over Cinco de Mayo. Or maybe there was and I ignored it because it seemed normal. This year, multiple friends in the States have asked me about Cinco de Mayo celebrations here. My Twitter feed and Google Alerts have blown up with various Cinco de Mayo party tips and recipe ideas.
It seems a little strange, because people in Mexico — or at least, people in Mexico City — don’t celebrate Cinco de Mayo. No one has the day off. There are no two-for-one margarita happy hour specials. (Chilangos don’t drink margaritas, unless they have American friends in town.) No one really throws any parties, and there aren’t any parades in the streets. The latter is really saying something, because there are parades for just about any holiday here.
Mexico City’s largest newspaper, El Universal, doesn’t even mention Cinco de Mayo on its website today. There is a big story on Paulina Rubio being pregnant.
The truth is, Cinco de Mayo has become more important in the United States than it has in Mexico. Kind of cool, isn’t it? It’s the one day out of the year when we get to acknowledge that Mexico has influenced who we are as Americans, through food and drink and music. (For a little Cinco de Mayo food history, check this AOL News story, which traces the American roots of a few popular dishes.)
The most important part of the holiday, to me, is the idea that Mexican influence and Mexican-American identity are positive things, and not anything we should ignore or view with suspicion.
My senior year in college, my roommates and I threw a big Cinco de Mayo party and I remember being really happy about it, because at the time — living in Boston — I felt pretty culturally isolated. (Most Latinos in the city then were either Puerto Rican or Dominican.)
I remember standing by the stove for much of the night, and not minding it at all, because I was warming tortillas and making quesadillas and who knows what else. People seemed very impressed that there was another way to warm tortillas besides in the microwave. And very few people had ever had homemade Mexican food before. We played mariachi music and I wore an embroidered Mexican blouse, which I promptly spilled red enchilada sauce on. It was a great night.
For a detailed history on Cinco de Mayo and how it’s celebrated in the United States, I highly recommend Wikipedia.
Feliz Cinco de Mayo to you!
Yesterday morning I called the broker’s wife, who was my original point of contact. She said someone else has already submitted a rental application. (This person looked at the apartment before me, if that matters.)
I said: “But I told your husband to call me if anyone else was even close to submitting any paperwork.”
She said: “Oh, he didn’t tell me that.” The deal still isn’t final; she promised to call me in the next few days if for some reason it doesn’t go through.
Both Crayton and I took this as a sign that the apartment wasn’t right for us — we haven’t spoke to the owner, and we’re not going to fight for a place that has already made us feel weird, before we’ve even moved in. So, this morning I called the Roma apartment broker and told her we’ll take it. Just waiting on a confirmation back.
I really, really appreciate everyone’s thoughtful comments on this whole situation. Even if the apartment hadn’t been taken, we would’ve made it known that the broker’s comments made us uncomfortable (even if recognizing housing discrimination is an Americanism, it’s worth mentioning to people who are courting foreigners as clients), and we would’ve definitely made sure that the Korean family wasn’t being bumped out of line because of us. In the end we weren’t willing to take the apartment and ignore the other factors.
Anyway: thanks, again.
I’ve been feeling much better, gracias a Dios. Crayton’s urging me to “take it slowly,” so I will be working at about half my normal speed. (Which means: No crazy cooking, no sitting at my computer for six hours and no intense workouts at the gym.)
I am super excited to get back to the blog, though. I cannot wait to tell you about the pancake guy. And the potato-pea croquettes! And my trip to the Xochimilco market.
Normal posting should resume tomorrow. Hope everyone had a great weekend!
Wow. I take a week off and Crayton writes the web’s definitive treatise on Hot Mexican Weather Girls. This ended up being the most traffic-drawing post on this blog, ever.
I’m hoping he has a few other fun ideas up his sleeve this week. I’m still not feeling well, so I’m going to take another week off to rest.
Because umm… to be completely honest… I didn’t rest every single day last week. I cooked Indian food with Alice and went shopping at Green Corner and met up with friends for lunch. Paid for it toward the end of the week, when I was so tired, I had to sit in bed all day. This week: I PROMISE. I am not going anywhere. I’m under strict orders from Crayton. (Who is probably watching the hot Mexican weather girls at work right now.)
This week I’m going to sit on my bed with a few good books and my laptop, and watch endless episodes of The Closer, because Crayton hates that show. (He compares Kyra Sedgwick’s faux-Southern accent to fingernails on the blackboard.) Gonna watch a bunch of movies, too.
If you have any movie recommendations, let me know! I’m running low on titles.
See you in another week, hopefully healthy.
Haven’t told y’all this, but for the past few months I’ve been fighting a cold/ear infection that I can’t seem to shake. It goes away for a week, then comes back. This is despite me visiting doctors and taking antibiotics.
Traveling like an insane woman hasn’t helped. So starting today, I’m taking a week off to do nothing — no blogging, no running around town eating, and no cooking. Or rather, no intense cooking. Scrambling eggs is probably fine. With some sliced zucchini. But I’m not going to go on a crazy quest to create the perfect crunchy exterior on a square of grits, which is what I was doing a few days ago. (The result, if anyone cares: pan fry it for like 5 mins per side.)
Crayton will pick up some of the slack around here, and he’s already told me he has some great things to tell you about hand-dryers.
As far as the bug goes, I visited a lab this morning for a throat culture. Guessing that as soon as the docs pinpoint the bacteria, we’ll be able to nail it.
Hasta soon!