Searching for bread…
- Our friend, Ann, sent us a present of a Lebanese spice mix called Zaatar, which is added to good olive oil for dipping bread. Ann suggested that the spice was wonderful with Arabic bread. I don’t know if she anticipated that she would raise in my mind’s eye, the images of young men running trays of bread straight from the ovens, pillow-puffed, steaming and fragrant, carrying the trays on their heads down the streets of Istanbul or Jerusalem or Cairo. I’ve seen those boys in all those places, indelibly imprinted in my memory. But when I protested that we couldn’t get Arabic bread here, she said, no, she meant PITA bread. This is, after all, America. She must not have read the evidence that Mexico and New Mexico are indistinguishable to those who are east of Texas and north of Colorado. So I looked for pita bread. Nope. None. I settled for tortillas – flour, of course – which I toasted in a lightly oiled iron skillet and served hot with the oil sprinkled liberally with Zaatar. Mmmmmm, the Zaatar. And, Ann, I finally found pita bread in one of our three grocery stores, on the very bottom shelf of the specialty bread isle – one brand, 3 packages, but fresh.
- We volunteered to bring breakfast pastries to our friend, Skee’s, to eat watching the inaugural celebrations; remember that with the time difference, the inauguration began for us just about breakfast time. The afternoon before, we went to Diane’s in town, and noticed a single chocolate éclair in the case. Since Nicky loves éclairs and my blood sugar was slightly low, I suggested that we rescue that éclair from its solitary future on the day-old shelf and split it. OMG! I have never had such an éclair. I remember éclairs being intact round things of varying toughness with a hole where the machine poked the icing nozzle in and squirted a little stiff and dry cream. And Nicky, the true lover of éclairs from his history with NY and Brooklyn bakeries, swore he hadn’t had an éclair like this in years. Rather than tough, it was tenderly flaky and without weight. It was split and slathered with light, sweet real whipped cream. OMG! I can’t even drive down the main street now – I just know my steering wheel will wheel straight for Diane’s and another one of those éclairs.
Red Paint PowWow or walk? - The Annual Red Paint PowWow was in town last weekend, and I had really looked forward to attending. This area is the historic and genetic home of the Chiricahua Apache Indians and is also the more recent home of a number of other tribes. Every year in January, the PowWow is held at the university; this was actually one of the draws for me to move here! I was attracted to the wide-ranging cultures that co-exist here and was looking forward to attending the PowWow. It was here Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I work on Friday. We had other things that needed doing on Saturday, so had agreed to go on Sunday. But Sunday dawned, like the several days before it, bright and sunny with a promise of 60+ degrees. I just couldn’t stay inside a gymnasium and made (I hope not the mistaken) choice of passing up the PowWow assuming I’ll be here next year and so too will it.
- So we called our friend Steph and met her and her ‘boys’ (dogs) Gray and Fen for a walk up one of her favorite canyons just north of Pinos Altos. We’ve been there before, and know it to be gorgeous and un-peopled so that the dogs can run off-lead. We got about ¼ of a mile up the canyon and found ourselves on an iced track. The last snow and resulting melts had frozen onto the track, making walking more an adventure in ice skating than hiking. At about the one-mile point, Steph suggested we turn around because we had to go downhill on the ice to get back to our vehicles. If it was slickery to get UP the canyon, it was one long slide getting DOWN. It being early afternoon once we, still vertical, reached our cars, we decided to find somewhere else to walk. We followed Steph to another favorite spot less than ½ hour away, but in the next valley. This park was on the valley floor, an expanse of prairie covered with grass and a few trees. Now keep in mind: we were in the same general area, no more than 15 miles apart, but where before we were in a shaded canyon, not cold but cool enough to appreciate hat, gloves and a zipped fleecy while we ice-danced, now we were on a flat prairie, shedding clothes at 65 degrees. Reinforcing the lesson: dress in layers and be prepared to don and shed according to the sun, the breeze, and the time of day.
Inaugurating a vision wrapped in a dream set on a hope, personified by a man. - I cried most of the way through the ceremonies. This is a rare turning point in our national history and individual consciousness, and I don’t think our children can truly appreciate the experience of this; that’s probably a blessing. As a native Washingtonian and a southerner by family ties, I know the truth of Obama’s statement, “…a father who, less than 60 years ago, wouldn’t get served in a restaurant…” DC was Jim Crow in my memory and I saw ‘colored water fountains.’ My mother never stopped using the word, ‘colored.’ I was speechless and unprepared when, in my last visit to mom’s So Carolina home – I was in high school and this was 1966! – my cousins and their high school friends stopped patronizing the better restaurant in town and went to the Dairy Queen for terrible hamburgers, because the other restaurant had hired a ‘colored’ cook and food runner. And this is only one small piece of a long and complicated story of human relations that began so long ago.
- In our memory, we saw people beaten for the color of their skin. We saw Dr Rev MLK stand on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963 and dream of his children being seen for the content of their character rather than the color of their skin. And now we have elected and inaugurated a man truly on the basis of the content of his character.
- So Nick and I decided to celebrate by attending the Inaugural Ball at the Buffalo Dance Hall! We stopped first at Javalena’s Coffee House, and then strolled down to The Buff as it’s fondly known hereabouts. You should know that, aside from significant occasions, The Buffalo is a beer and pool hall dive of poor repute! The guys who hang on the sidewalk outside most days and evening – the regulars – are a scruffy lot, but not ill-mannered when you need to get by. But on special occasions like fund raisers, New Year’s Eve and, certainly, the Inaugural Ball, the regulars retreat to the pool room or just don’t show up, The Buff’s main room is cleaned up, and the dance floor is cleared. And everyone in town shows up to party to live music. At $5 a head!! Unless, of course, you want to make an additional donation because all net proceeds go to the Community Food Bank.
- It is at gatherings like this, and at the Javalina’s own inaugural coffee where the String Beans played live and people brought pot-luck – yes, pot luck dishes to a coffee house that turned into a community room – that you really see the diversity and character that is Silver City. We have a lot of gray heads in town, and many of those gray heads have long pony tails – I’m talking about males here. And many of those gray pony tails still know how to jump to the beat. We were dressed to the nines! Dressed up included the man in 1890s styled black hat, white shirt with little turned collar and black string tie, tied in a bow, all suited in a ¾ length black coat. Dressed up included the man and woman in exuberantly beaded, fringed jackets over black pegged pants. And dressed up included the Viet Nam veteran wearing a leather bomber jacket with his unit and other insignia, plus a patch that read: “If you weren’t there, shut your mouth.” Women wore everything from tube pleated skirts, to peasant dresses, jeans with Concho belts over white shirts, to semi-dressy dresses. We didn’t hold a candle to Michelle in her one-shoulder white gown, but we were comfortable and having fun. During the band’s break, the jumbo tv replayed Obama’s inaugural speech which drew enthusiastic cheers as though the viewers had not yet seen this version of a miracle.
Our sister Maria is coming to visit tomorrow and staying a week, and nephew Dave is coming for a few days following Maria. We’re thrilled that family is beginning to take us up on our invitation to come visit our corner of the Southwest. Someone has to come attest to the veracity of my stories here. I just love this place. Sonnie
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