Good morning,
Do you remember what a
treat "free time" was in grade school? It would be raining and the
recess time got converted to in class free time, or the teacher would have such
a tall pile of paper work to grade and enter that rather than finish a lesson,
she would catch up on old work while us kids played freely. Remember?
Well its
hard to count a day as free when your on vacation in the tropics, with no
schedule and no real reason to look at the clock, free time is somewhat
arbitrary if not relative. Still, the rain that surprises this day without
notice made for a calmer, more relaxed collection of activities.
The outside of the house is large and vast, much unlike the city buildings I am used to living in where the end of one wall simply meant the beginning of your neighbors. Here, my sister is fixing the plumbing situation to our washer. Having a mechanic for a sister is awesome, there is never much around that cant be solved. Above, Mathi and Tony watch with curious eyes.
Some flowers from our
side yard, just under where we hang our clothes out to dry. Their long stems
and bright yellow color make for great art subjects and flower pressings, as
the splats of flicked orange on the curvy petals are as unique and varied
as a fingerprint.
We are living in a very
remote part of the country landscape, that is for sure. There are no
supermarkets, there are no post offices or police stations and the roads to and
into the community of houses are literally still being cobbled together. The
closest thing we can call a town is just a ten minute bus ride away, El Quinche. Quinche consists of a single church
(Still the tallest building around), a wonderful market where fresh fish and
vegetables and fruit are sold at in multicolored bunches. Every Sunday, people
come to the center (the Church), and gather for food, dancing, and mass.
Pictured here are traditional Ecuadorian dancers making the most of their
allotted time. In a day, there are maybe twenty different groups that perform
for the crowd. Some bring there own instruments, all dance, march, and
sing in spectacular fashion utilizing all the bright colors indicative of the
native people.
As you can
imagine in a town centered around a church, the days leading up to Easter great
make use of the market stalls to sell all sorts of necklaces, figures, and
trinkets to the wondering crowds people. All the individual items can be
overwhelming. There is almost every kind of token you can imagine here, all
with the signature cross attached in some obvious or subtle way.
Mmmmm, pan dulce! The
direct translation meaning sweet bread, the basic bread and sugar combo is a
huge hit with coffee for breakfast anywhere south of the States. Do you see?
Can you guess which one is my favorite?
Walking through the market
place is such a treat coming out of japan. Here the markets are all covered
because rain showers and sunshine come and go like bipolar patient
with acute anterograde amnesia. The covers that protect the
stalls however make for great light and shadows, I only wish I had my a better
camera like my sisters to really capture the tension. Here, I am walking behind
Emilie as she wanders around and between all the sweet smells and bright
colors.
Like I said,
walking through the markets is a treat. Not that there are non in Japan, of
course we can find fish markets and farmers markets in the land of the rising
sun. The difference is the product. In the island nation, where most of the
land is used to grow rice or live, growing things like vegetables and
fruits is more than difficult, its a matter of economic choice. Here in
Ecuador, like my home in California, there is plenty of room to grow many
things, including fruit. The sweetness of the berries, the tangy smells of
mangoes and peaches, and the grassy hints of earth and soil still on green
vegetables pulled me left, right, and back to stalls we had just passed. Not to
mention that in Japan, these items are high if not the highest priced items. I once
saw a mango priced at $15! For one mango! And today we passed a treasure of
strawberries that in my local market, would have easily gone for $300 - yet
here at the market the locals gave away free samples and bunched together huge
bags of berries for merely a buck. I love it.
Back to another thing that I love, this dish is ceviche de camaron. Camaron is the name for shrimp, this is basically a shrimp soup, but its not the only way to eat cevihe. You can order just about any kind of seafood ceviche and have it made fresh for you - that is kind of the point when dealing with seafood. Now, for my Mexican friends , this is not what you are used to. Here civiche is has a broth to it, and we sprinkle dried banana chips or seeds on top to soak up some of the liquid and give the plate a nice crunchy taste - which I enjoy eating very much. The other way, the way I was first introduced to eating ceviche as a child was simpler. That is, cut shrimp or octopus or whatever, raw shashimi style, and "cooked" with a little acid provided by a generous squirt of lime juice over it all. Memories of fresh civiche so recently plucked from the ocean, so recently cut and served on a platter that you could sometimes still see the reaction of nerve endings still wanting to fire, causing the shrimp tails to move ever so slightly....
This rare photo of me almost didn't happen. I was playing around in the living room when I heard my grandmother call for my older sister, who was also in the room with me working with the kids, teaching them how to sow. Seeing that she was busy, I came to see what my grandmother had called for. When I did, she brushed me off and told me "its nothing." Typical. See, my grandmother is old school. She must not believe that men ought to, or simply can't, function in the kitchen.
It took some work to convince her to let me help her, that my sister was busy in the other room. Not right away, I slowly started building my case. I told her that I lived on my own, and that I couldn't eat out every night, that's ridiculous. I let her put it together that I must have cooked for my self at least sometimes, and moved forward with telling her that I had in fact, true to my word, made yapingachos before in my home. She threw me a look of interrogative skepticism. I smiled.
Eventually she did let me help her. But before she let go of the spatula, she looked me square in the face and said that I had better not mess up. I can understand that. It was her name on the dinner menu and I knew that any deviations from a recipe and technique she had been perfecting for 88 years would be grounds for permanent and ultimate dismissal. And at best, if I did what I was there to do, no credit would be given.
The last thing she said to me in Spanish after I convinced her was, "you had better not mess up, or you're going to church tomorrow and asking for forgiveness." She wasn't joking, and I swallowed hard.
The finished product. Not bad, not at all bad. This is one of those pictures that I am going to look back at and almost taste.
Dishes rinsed, washed, and dried, the kids mobilized upstairs while the adults once again stayed up talking and playing a bit of music under the stars. Yet, it felt like a movie night, and with all the kids asleep, I voted for the classic comedy from my childhood, Kingpin. I haven't seen that movie in years, yet all its crud humor and off colored jokes still made us laugh. It was good to forget about the hospital life, if just for one night, and we all slept soundly that night, all in the same house, all with lighter hearts.
-A
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