The Meaning of Pancakes

We were living in Casa Limones, a ramshackle villa held together with duct tape and prayer and surrounded by loops of barbed wire sitting atop the ten foot security walls. There was marble --so, so much marble-- but no oven or stove. It was my first six months in Mexico and they were hairy.

We made do with a massive crock pot, a toaster oven and a temperamental hotplate purchased for 170 pesos at the local supermercado. Spoiler alert: 170 pesos does not buy much in the way of a hotplate.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. Making meals in less than ideal conditions --something I knew I could do-- was an oddly welcome diversion from the things that didn't inspire so much confidence, like living in a developing nation or building a life with someone who wanted me to share a closet.


(I'm 90% sure that Hermès is the United Nations 50th anniversary version of Envol which they only made in 1995. It's my go-to funeral scarf. Way to go, wardrobe mistress.)

In fact, I only had one major come undone and it happened three years ago today.

I am Episcopalian and it's been rough moving to a country where you can be any denomination you like as it's Catholic.

So what does anyone in the diaspora do? Try to keep up as many personal practices as possible.

I read compline, listen to Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge each Christmas Eve --if you've never listened to Once in Royal David's City accompanied six competing strains of Norteño music, you're missing out on one of life's more bizarre experiences-- on Shrove Tuesday, which just happens to be today, I make pancakes. On Wednesdays I wear pink.

Lo, truly these are my people. Saint Alban's Washington, D.C. represent!

My first Shrove Tuesday in Mexico all I had was a cast iron comal and the aforementioned hotplate, but hey, if you can make pancakes on a garden hoe --well, technically hoecakes on a garden hoe-- surely I could make it work. After all, I baked a pineapple upside down cake in a foil-wrapped liquor box in fifth grade (my Girl Scout leader didn't mess around) how hard could this possibly be?

Answer: Very.

I'm not sure exactly what went wrong, but those botched flapjacks represented every doubt and fear I had about leaving my cushy, WASPy first world life for adventure and romance on the other side of the border and I lost it, big time. All manner of varyingly viscous liquids started leaking from my face --a rare occurrence for someone who remembers being the only third-grader in Ms Reisswig's class not to need at least a discreet shirtsleeve at the end of Old Yeller-- and I poured out my heart to sweet, confused Hot Latin Boy who, after drying my considerable tears, went on a mission to find someplace in the state that would sell a desperate-looking man unos hotcakes at three in the morning.

It's been nearly two years since we left Casa Limones and threw out that hateful hotplate. The comal is used for tortilla warming and frying the occasional piece of jamon and I still miss being able to go to a church that doesn't automatically think I'm going to hell. Yes, I'll make pancakes tonight, this time on a top-of-the-line gas range in a comfortable, fully equipped kitchen. And who knows? Maybe they won't turn out. The world is a funny old dog and even milk, eggs and flour aren't immune to its vagaries.

No matter if they emerge perfectly golden or mysteriously raw and burnt, this time I'll be okay. I didn't need those pancakes to stay Episcopalian and I don't need a parish either. Both are wonderful when done correctly (i.e., warm, nourishing and best covered in maple syrup) but neither are absolute requirements. I may have tacos in my belly (hint: I definitely have tacos in my belly) but I've got pancakes in my soul.

Happy Valentine's Day: Inquiring Minds Want to Know...

What exactly is this valentine trying to say?

(via Vintage Everyday)

Bathtime, Colbert-style

Oh internet, I have been unwell.

One month ago, Hot Latin Boy and I threw the tiniest of fetes to mark the beginning of Epiphany and among the guests was a delightful toddler whose two great passions seem to be harassing my dog and spreading pestilence.

My sweet Dozer entertaining the wonderful (but contagious) Julieta

While it's all very charming for a doe-eyed two year-old to shake her ringlets and cry "Dozairrrr mi vida!" the moment Dozer manages to escape Julieta watchful gaze, I am now on day 29 of a cold for which she is the cherubic yet drool-covered ur-source and it has not been pleasant.

It has, however, allowed me an excuse to ignore our normally conservation-minded attitudes towards utilities and partake in long, blissfully hot showers using one of the wonders of the Latin world: a steady and cheap supply donkey's milk bath products.

I've been intrigued by baths in asses' milk since the night I met Claudette Colbert.

I am sad to say it was only through a flickering screen, but like all first loves it was powerful and true. In later years I developed an affinity for her based on our mutual traits of being long on glamour and comedic timing but tragically short on space between collar and chin (Noel Coward, as I'm sure we all recall, once fumed he'd wring her neck if only she had one) but during that stolen moment cross-legged on my grandparents' oriental rug I saw a remarkable woman with remarkable hair doing the most remarkable thing I'd ever seen: bathing in a Roman pool filled entirely with milk.

great face, no neck: it's like looking in a mirror

It was asses' milk to be specific and I had happened across an extremely edited version of Cecil B. DeMille's pre-code epic The Sign of the Cross. In its most notorious scene the comely and buoyant Colbert portrays Poppaea who, as the historic empress was wont to do, frolics naked in her bath while issuing commands and sapphic quips to the various handmaidens and tale carriers who come and go. 

Studio reports have it that the actual liquid was made with powdered milk that started to curdle under the set lights, but for a young girl whose toilette took place in the slightly less decadent environ of my grandmother's pink bathtub, it was the bathing situation against which all others paled.

I've named the donkey "Poppy"

Sure, getting a disapproving rubdown with a bright blue slick of mineral oil by a dour Swedish woman certainly has its charms, it was not quite on par with being attended to by a cadre of daringly-clad handmaidens ready to powder and perfume at will

Nowadays, the pre-code handmaidens aren't as much of a sell, but when I had the opportunity to try some bath products actually made with donkey's milk from Grisi, the 150 year-old Italian/Hispanic toiletry company, I couldn't very well resist.

And you know? It really is quite lovely.

At least it's a far sight better than weird royal jelly thing HLB brought home several months ago or my unfortunate attempt at transforming a bar of Zest we'd never use into a body wash with oatmeal and various offerings from my garden (however bad you think that could be, you are nowhere near the reality. HLB didn't even want to put it down the drain since he was afraid it would find its way into the ocean)

I'm sure whatever real donkey milk in it is minimal and it's just as much about the idea as the application but a bit of glamour and wish-fulfillment in an otherwise mundane task is just what the doctor (and empress) ordered. Good thing too, since Julieta will be here again next week.