Blog entries for laurafern11

Looking ahead in West Texas

laurafern11 — Sun, 11 May 2008 16:01:30 GMT

Almost two years ago my husband and I found out that his immigrant visa interview had been scheduled at the U.S. Consulate in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, just across the border with El Paso, Texas. We had been waiting for the interview for more than a year, so we were excited, but also terrified. My husband had lived and worked in the U.S. for eight years at that point, and we were more than ready for him to have his green card. But we also understood that he would have to stay in Mexico for some time after the interview. We had been told that could be anywhere from 2-6 months. We were young and childless; I planned to come visit, so 2-6 months really didn't sound too terrible.

During the weeks leading up to his departure I learned a lot of new information, including that the wait was more like 8-12 months, and that some people were denied, and that I had a lot of work to do. Without delving into too much immigration law, I had to present a packet of information to the Department of Homeland Security that would prove I would suffer extreme hardship were my husband barred from the U.S. for ten years. Yes, I learned a month before he left, it was actually possible he would be barred from the country for ten years. My husband had no criminal record, no diseases and I made enough money to prove I could support him. But living in the U.S. illegally for more than a year, followed by departing the U.S., triggers this ten-year bar. Because he was ineligible to adjust status within the U.S., he had no choice but to leave, and therefore trigger the bar.

I set to work on proving the hardships I would suffer if I were forced to move to Mexico or had to live apart from my husband. Things went smoothly in Ciudad Juarez, I mailed in my hardship packet and held my breath. Nine long months (including two wonderful trips to Mexico) later, I received a letter noting his approval and the date of his visa pick-up. Actually, I received that letter just about one year ago today.

We wouldn't reunite until the appointment July, when I decided to meet him in Ciudad Juarez. I decided to drive from Wisconsin to El Paso on my own, planning a mini road trip through New Mexico and Colorado on the way back. I headed out in early July, just me, my trusty red Hyundai Elantra, a cooler of snacks prepared by my buddies Sara and Matt and an iPod full of music and podcasts. I have never stayed in a hotel by myself before, much less in southern Illinois or Northern Texas.

I drove roughly from Milwaukee through St. Louis, across Missouri, through Oklahoma City, and then south to I-20 which cuts across Texas to El Paso and Ciudad Juarez. Clearly, I did not pick this route for its excitement. But at this time in my life, all I wanted was to get away from Wisconsin, spend some quiet time with my thoughts and favorite music, and bring my husband back.

I saw enough oilrigs to last a lifetime in Texas, and drove through countless small towns, wondering what it would be like to live in such a dry, dusty place surrounded by the endless view of flat fields. During the last hours of the trip, driving through the stunning, mountainous areas of western Texas, I rolled the windows down, letting the cooler air in, enjoying by far the most scenic stretch of the trip.

The way the road wound through valleys, between plateaus, raised in some areas, lower in others, I could see lightning and downpour ahead. It's a little miracle (for me) to be in the sunshine and see the ominous dark clouds of severe weather in the distance. Although I’m not afraid of storms in normal conditions, 1,500 miles from home, in the middle of nowhere, driving alone, I felt exceptionally vulnerable. I couldn’t stop wondering if a person would vaporize if their car were struck by lightning, then wondering how this had never occurred to me in my 28 years, trying to think if I had ever heard of a tragic lighting-strikes-motorist story on the local news.

I drove into the storm and saw lightning striking the ground a hundred yards off the highway. I was feeling rather terrifed at this point. It was pouring, but the road was mostly open and it wasn’t slick. I called my best friend – the friend who knows everything about me, the one who I can share any crazy thought with and who will never confirm that it is indeed crazy. She didn’t think lightning could kill the driver of a car – something about the tires. My husband agreed. He was already in a hotel room in Ciudad Juarez, waiting for me.

Despite the itch I had had to drive across the U.S., at this point, I just wanted to be home. I wanted my best friend to be 15 minutes away, not a bad-connection cell call and two days drive away. I wanted to sleep in my house with my husband and put our personal immigration troubles behind us.

I drove on, reaching the edge of the storm. The highway straightened, heading up a hill. It looked clearer ahead, the rage of the storm still active behind me. I reached the top of the hill, amazed that it was not clearer, but completely clear. There was a bright, sunny day on this side of the hill, just two miles from the lightning and downpour. I pulled over, took out my camera and got out of the car. I went to the back of the car, leaning on the hatchback, and snapped a shot of the dark storm I had just come through. Then I turned around – looking ahead at the sun, drenching the hills and clouds with light, enjoying the hot, dry air – and took another photo.

cooking adventures

laurafern11 — Thu, 08 May 2008 21:27:58 GMT

On those days when I wish I could abandon responsibility for life as a vagabond, cooking international food helps me focus my energies on something productive, and hopefully, tasty. Picking up some obscure herbs or sauces at the Lanexang Asian grocery or finding a rare mamey fruit at Supermercado El Rey reminds me of all the food discoveries I have made in China, Thailand, India and Mexico.

This past winter, while working at an event with my friend Britta Kramer of Private Palate Personal Chef Services (www.privatepalate.com), we started talking about traveling. She was interested in visiting Thailand, but I was planning a February trip to Mexico with my husband.

"Why don't you come along?" I suggested. Flights are running just $300 round-trip from O'Hare, I explained. And that was that.

We eventually settled on two weeks in Mexico, including several days with my husband's family in Libres, Puebla, a week in the city of Oaxaca, one of Mexico's food capitals, and a much-needed four nights on Oaxaca's Pacific coast beaches, also known as the Costa Chica.

Britta planned to turn this trip into a culinary adventure, and I had no complaints. We spent the days with my mother-in-law touring the town's colorful markets, hand-making blue corn tortillas from scratch and learning to make cactus salad and Mexican lamb stew.

We bussed to Oaxaca and immediately discovered the draw of this famed colonial city. The town center (zocalo) is surrounded with gorgeous, historic buildings, the whole area lively with music and activity, the food simply fabulous. Oaxaca is known for molé, a rich, flavorful sauce that usually goes with chicken or turkey. It's known to have dozens of ingredients, including various dried chiles, nuts and chocolate.

After spending two days seeing the sights we started looking for the right cooking class. I called one small cooking school, Casa Crespo, after seeing its web site. I had an awkward Spanish conversation with the owner, who welcomed us to come check out his small B&B and set up a class two days later. We happened to be just a few blocks from the place at the time, so we wandered over.

The owner, Oscar Carrizosa, is a painter, chef and host. Along with a colleague he holds reservations-only dinners in the lovely courtyard of the house, teaches a few cooking classes a week, and runs the two-room B&B. We were sold on the class in a few minutes. We would have breakfast the day of the class while discussing the menu, walk to a nearby market and purchase what we needed, then come back to cook for a few hours, and eat the results together. His classes were cheaper than some of the other Oaxacan cooking schools and because it would be just Britta and I, we could chose whatever dishes we wanted to learn.

The morning of the class we enjoyed strong local coffee and fresh bread with homemade jams of jamaica flower and a fruit called tecojote (no idea what that is in English, but it's delicious). We headed to the local market to get what we needed, Oscar pointing out herbs used for the temazcal steam baths traditional in Oaxaca. He also explained that vendors sitting on the ground in the market with their items on a cloth in front of them are likely selling products they grew themselves outside the city, while those with permanent stalls likely buy wholesale and resell.

Returning to the house, we heated the griddle (comal) to start roasting tomatoes and peppers for salsas. We rolled out dough (maza) for the homemade tortillas, soaked rose petals for a special ice cream and chopped various items for a special fruit molé with chicken. One appetizer consisted of the flowers from a squash plant stripped of their stems, opened and stuffed with a piece of fresh cheese, battered and fried - a sort of squash flower relleno. Combined with one of the salsas - toasted dried chile peppers, garlic and onion, the flavors were spectacular.

The photo shows a shrimp and fish soup we made pre-Hispanic style. We put together a simple tomato and fish base, threw in the raw shrimp and sea bass, and then added a fiery hot river rock to each bowl. The dishes sizzled and boild instantly, cooking the seafood to perfection in moments. We garnished with cilantro and jalapeno. According to Oscar, centuries ago the Aztec people cooked fish in this manner. It was fun to watch, and exceptionally tasty.

We drank Coronas (which are much tastier in Mexico!), got to know Oscar, learned a few tricks of Oaxacan food and left the class extremely satisfied, in both mind and stomach.

Hiking El Rancho

laurafern11 — Wed, 07 May 2008 02:44:43 GMT

My husband was born in a beautiful and impoverished settlement in the hills of rural Puebla, Mexico. Several years ago I had the opportunity to visit his rustic birthplace, a location he usually refers to as "el rancho." I knew his family had never owned or lived on a "ranch" (the dictionary translation) with cowboys, horses or herds of cattle, so I had few expectations of what this place would be like.

We took a day trip, driving just a few miles from his parent's current home up into the hills, which were significantly greener and lusher than the dry flat plain of his town. Driving into what I would now call a settlement, the dirt road winds past some very modest houses, more like shacks - concrete, wood and pieces of scrap metal or other materials pieced together to create functional spaces for the simple people who subsist in "el rancho." There is no business or commerce of any sort here. Everyone in the rancho knows what house you can go to buy a coke or a loaf of bread, but there is nothing obviously commercial here. I ponder whether this existence without marketing and advertising is actually something of a luxury.

The sky was perfectly blue that day, the air crisp and cool, the sun warming us pleasantly. We took off on foot and went to meet one of my husband's uncles, a slim, weathered man, tanned skin, hands reflecting a lifetime of labor. He greeted us warmly and invited us into his family's simple, wooden house. The closest thing I can compare it to is a log cabin, from the 1800s. They had a separate building for cooking, with a sort of fire pit and comal (griddle) for making tortillas and toasting spices and peppers. Chickens ran around between the doorways in true free-range style. In their open yard area, they had assorted livestock, a goat, a pig, some geese. I was strangely delighted. Growing up suburban, albeit in Wisconsin, known to most outsiders as a land of farms, this was one of the first times in my life, besides a yearly trip to the State Fair, that I had any contact with farm animals.

After a brief visit, which is mostly a blur since my Spanish was really struggling on this particular trip, we hiked on, my father-in-law taking the lead. Heading across a ridge, the green hills dropping off at our sides, the air calm and quiet, my father-in-law spotted a man at least a hundred yards away, and began to whistle. This whistle, in fact, held a specific meaning for these two men, and my husband later explained that it is common practice between siblings, cousins or friends to share a unique whistle to get the other’s attention. In this case, my father-in-law used his whistle to alert his presence to his old friend near the bottom of the hill. The man looked up, whistled something back, and my father-in-law set off in a different direction, without a word. My husband explained that they had just communicated quite basically that they would meet up below. Huh.

We walked on and passed the spot where his parent's newlywed "house" had once been. Today it was just a small field, a few disintegrating bricks barely marking the tiny structure where my mother-in-law had given birth to my husband. We said hello to some elderly neighbors and hiked on to visit another relative on a different ridge.

The home of the elderly woman we met consisted of three concrete buildings perched on a hillside with a spectacular view of a dozen rolling green hills. She kept her own goats and chickens, as well as a small garden. In one of the buildings, red, blue and yellow corn hung to dry, eventually to be removed from the cob, cooked, ground and formed into the most delicious tortillas. Another building housed her fire pit and comal, and the third her "kitchen" and living area.

It amazed me that her "kitchen" had an American-style stove complete with an oven and a refrigerator. Inside the oven she stored prepared tortillas and empty serving dishes. The stovetop was equally unused. There were a few items in the fridge, but just about everything the woman ate was fresh from her own hands, her own animals or her own piece of the earth. My husband later told me that several of her grown children work in the U.S. and had purchased the modern appliances. I chuckled imagining some sort of delivery truck bringing this old woman a never-to-be-lit stove down the narrow walking path to her house.

Meanwhile, she gathered some fresh turkey eggs, chopped up some tomatoes and peppers and started preparing a meal of rancho eggs for us over the fire. We sat with her in the dark, smoky room, my husband and her catching up for the years since his last visit. The conversation a blur, I focused on the food, so delicious it was amazing. It oozed the flavor of pure, fresh ingredients.

I spent the rest of the afternoon romanticizing (in my own mind) a life free of the trappings of the modern world. No traffic, no filling up the gas tank, no credit cards, no noisy neighbors, no technology, almost no consumption at all. Perhaps it is a lonely life, but from the look and voice of the woman, one she enjoys – living off the earth, producing for herself, receiving the occasional visitor from near or far.

Christmas in a small, Mexican town

laurafern11 — Mon, 05 May 2008 21:09:27 GMT

I am a lifelong Milwaukeean, raised in Elm Grove, educated in Madison, now a happy homeowner on Milwaukee's south side. My husband is from Puebla, Mexico. He came to the U.S. to live and work as a young man, and we met and married nearly four years ago. At the time we met I was infatuated with China and its culture. I had visited twice and lived there for a year during college. Chinese characters appeared in my dreams and I was constantly trying to wrap my tongue around the correct pronunciation and tones of words like Zhang and Deng and Xia.

The Spanish I had half-heartedly learned in the Elmbrook school system had slipped to the back of my memory. Over time, things switched. My cross-cultural relationship and work as a restaurant manager made speaking Spanish and encountering Mexican culture everyday occurences. In ways atypical for most residents of historically segregated Milwaukee, I intermingled with my city's Mexican immigrant community and began to acquaint myself with the culture and landscape of Mexico itself.

Let me say that I am not the typical resort traveler. I am interested in experiencing places and cultures that are different than my own. I leave my life in Milwaukee to escape the speed and conventions of the United States, and I don't expect things to be done the same way in other countries. I want to relax and enjoy myself on vacation, but what for me is relaxing and enjoyable is often different than what many travelers want.

In December 2006, I was in Mexico visiting my husband while he waited for approval of his green card. I wanted to experience Christmas in Mexico, and all I knew was that it was a lot different than how we celebrate in the U.S. It is, in fact, almost unrecognizable. When I think about Christmas my first associations are shopping, red & green, egg nog, family gatherings, and presents. Second thoughts include church, a Christmas tree, the birth of Jesus and arguments between family members. I realize that is cynical, but it represents my problems with how I celebrate the holidays, and perhaps explains why I often long to experience them in different ways.

In my husband's smallish town, Christmas is more about community. Residents of different neighborhoods alternate days to host la posada. Every evening for the ten days that lead up to December 25, the town's residents stroll down the designated streets, chatting with neighbors, kids chasing one another and stealthily tossing small fireworks. Everyone is out in front of their house, many serving passersby from huge pots of steaming ponche, a cider-like drink made with cinnamon, sugar cane and a myriad of fall fruits. The really generous houses also hand out crispy, fried, sweet pastries along with their ponche. You walk, grab some ponche, chat with the neighbor, and move on with your warm beverage.

The idea is to simulate Mary and Joseph going house to house searching for somewhere to stay before eventually settling into the famous manger. The streets in town are decorated with strings of multi-colored paper cut outs, hanging across the streets, roof to roof. Even in that act, there is co-operation between neighbors. They must hang their decorations together. There is no competition to have the best, brightest, most expensive-looking decorations.

Suddenly, there is activity down the block, kids will gather in the street between two houses, shouting with excitement, a long rope dangles a pinata controlled by one man on each roof. Someone finds a bat or a sticks and starts swinging. Eventually it’s broken, the candy falls out, the children diving for their treasures, laughing and playing.

Back in individual homes, Christmas trees are rare. Kids don’t make lists or expect video games or even new clothes. I’m not sure if this is totally typical, but in my husband’s home, there aren’t any gifts exchanged at all. Everyone goes to church, my mother-in-law prepares food, my father-in-law works in the market like he does every day, and a few evenings during las posadas they go out and enjoy the ambience of their town. The weather is cool for Mexico. Some kids weat coats and hats, but for a Wisconsin girl, it feels just right in jeans, a hoodie and flip flops.