Through the Looking Glass

Two Things

I was reminded of two things over the last two weeks, as Patricio and I road-tripped through three American states and six Mexican ones. We went to buy a car for me: a very gently used Toyota Matrix at an even more generous father-to-daughter discount. After a year and a half of internal struggle where environmental ethics battled with a need for personal freedom and safer mobility, Patricio and I took a flight up north to drive back with a car that would call the Mexican roads its new playground.

I remembered all the times driving south on Interstate 25, after shopping trips to Colorado with mom and dad when we'd pass caravans of used cars--some hitched one behind the other--destined for El Paso and the country across the border. Legalizing American cars in Mexico, until recently, was much more inexpensive than buying the same thing within Mexico itself. I wondered at the hoops these traveling car dealers must have had to jump through to make the process work. And wondered even more if it was really worth it.

Now I understand that it was, and often still is. There is a widespread fascination in Mexico with owning American cars, not only for the caché that might come with it, but a more pressing delight in getting a set of wheels for a price more commensurate with the low salaries most people have to settle for. Exactly why we drove south ourselves.

And as we drove, passing through the long, dry, menacingly beautiful state of San Luís Potosí, I remembered the trips my family would take to Kansas, visiting my grandparents on their farm. With wheat fields flanking the road on either side, both growing toward harvest or fallow with wild grass, the stalks and leaves always seemed to bow and wave toward the car. I let myself anthropomorphise, imagining that the wheat was welcoming us there, to a place that wasn't home, but still a place where we belonged.

as humanish beings, like desert Ents who, if one was patient enough to watch, might begin to move around wherever they pleased. As if frozen in some sort of exultant dance, their outstretched arms seemed to welcome us back. The Joshua tree had become the new wheat. Though highway-side plants contain levels of lead that only the constant traffic could contribute, I still stifled the chiding voice of "yet another car destined for a city with far too many." I reminded myself that freedom can be a welcome thing, too.

In San Luís, it was hard not to see the Joshua Trees near the highway

Red and Green and Grown All Over

The mountain pass to Cuernavaca can make for a beautiful drive. Sloping fields of grain dot this season's landscape with sheaves of harvested stalks, little golden pyramids lashed together at the top. The forested descent into the city along the libre, or toll-free interstate road, also treats eyes attuned to December, with roadside vendors and small, local greenhouses selling a plant native to this particular neck of the woods. Poinsettias, or nochebuenas as they're called here, are big and red and lush in their pots, often more than tempting enough to take home.

Wednesday found us headed in that direction, paying a holiday visit to some friends. We let ourselves indulge in the idea of having nochebuenas as a red carpet rolled out for our arrival, a welcoming of color and an advent for Christmas soon to come. Nochebuena is the word in Spanish for "Christmas Eve," an evening graced with the flower's bright red leaves since the Catholic Church began to spread through conquered Mexico.

Rife with legends, Christian, pre-, and urban, the flower has a life of story, as well. And thanks to a U.S. ambassador to Mexico, the flower has both a name and an existence widely prevalent in the English-speaking world. The poinsettia is a bit of Mexico in the Christmas traditions up north, and like the first samples sent to South Carolina by Joel Poinsett with enthusiasm and hope, I'm sending out greetings in the same spirit of promise, wishing every dear reader a beautiful string of celebratory days: a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year--Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo.

herbaceous renaissance man

i remember wondering about plants when i was small, wondering who was the first to try a coconut, a cranberry, a toadstool, a tapioca root. i also wondered who figured out how to make something of universal usefulness with papyrus, cotton, hops or bayberries. i wondered if they considered themselves something like scientists, observing closely, blessed with imagination and fearless leaps of faith. and i wondered how many died in the learning process. the truth is that i still wonder, and i'm taking my expatriate memorial day to remember with a good deal of respect all those nascent nature experts who have, in their way, served so honorably that they've become the stuff of myth and legend.

i started wondering again yesterday afternoon in cahuacán, as the cow's head, prepared barbacoa style, appeared from inside it's maguey leaf wrapping. i briefly wondered who first ate a cow's tongue, because my first time eating it was an unexpectedly pleasant experience. slices of that mouthy muscle, resting in the middle of a tortilla and smothered with lime juice, green salsa, and prickly pear cactus salad, were both tender and toothsome. patricio, stationed at the butcher's block, was particularly pleased.

but i couldn't help thinking of those maguey leaves, and the plant itself, and the myriad manifestations it's parts have had here. a member of the agave family, the maguey is one hundred percent mexican, and seemingly one hundred percent useful. the picture to the left shows doña julia's row of magueys. following is my top ten list of how those magueys could be used (they're already serving as number 7):

1. if the flower stem is cut without flowering, "honey water" gathers in the plant's center. this can be served right away as a sweet drink, fermented to produce pulque, which can be distilled to make mezcal.

2. it's a bottle of mezcal, not tequila, that comes with the worm, and that same worm is one of two kinds that live in maguey plants, harvested more often to cook up and eat than to drown in a bottle of mezcal.

3. the leaves, or pencas, can be used to wrap up barbacoa meat, infusing it with flavor. they are also known, when roasted, to cure various illnesses--either applying the penca on the skin over the affected area, or reduced and ingested like cough medicine.

4. the pencas are very fibrous, and those fibers are used to make rope, brushes, matting, coarse burlap-like cloth, embroidery thread, or the cords to tie up a penca full of barbacoa.

5. pencas make good roofing material, much like a palm leaf.

6. speaking of roofs, the flower stalks, or quiotes, can also be used as roof beams.

7. the spikiness of magueys lends itself to good fencing, too. planted side by side, rows of magueys often make effective boundary lines.

8. those spikes found on the tip of each penca make excellent nails or sewing needles.

9. its roots can be worked into brooms and baskets.

10. the maguey can also be used to make furniture, toys, ornaments, paper, and soap.

i first saw a maguey in arizona when i was nine, pointed out as a "century plant" that sends up its stalk of flowers only at the end of its life--usually eight to twelve years, despite it's hundred-implying name. the otomi people call the maguey "el árbol de las maravillas," or the "tree of wonders." i also call wondrous the discoveries of that maguey's multiple marvels; those ancient discoverers, lost from memory, have left behind a legacy that still effortlessly renews my childhood wonder.

little green leaves

today is the feast of saint isidore, the farmer. it isn't a day celebrated with any fanfare, but it's the day after we spent most of the afternoon in cahuacán, surrounded by cornfields and orchards. while patricio mowed the grass on the upper terrace, i unlocked the gate that leads to the lower terraces, cultivated on the slope of a hill by my father-in-law. lined with fruit trees, the terraces are home to small autumn crops of broad beans and corn. may, though, is plum season, and i spent a half hour filling my mouth and jacket pockets with the tiny, sweet, garnet globes. i remembered the little church in tinaja, new mexico, dedicated to san isidro in a time when the small community made a living from the land at the foot of tinaja peak, it's flat, round shape reminiscent of it's namesake--a large earthenware jar.

patricio's parents share most of what can be picked and savored when those fruits and grains and legumes become ripe. the trees and plants produce so much that they ask most everyone they know to take some of it home. when i arrived last september, friends and family came and went with bucketfuls of pears, hard but sweet, delicious when stewed. my in-laws effortlessly live san isidro's example, sharing what they harvest, in what sometimes seems a miraculous multiplication of food.

here at home, though, there's not much need of san isidro's crop blessing. though i suppose we could use our carnation and gardenia petals to steep in wine, sweeten desserts, or flavor jasmine tea, the garden is mostly just pretty and ornamental. but when patricio walks through the front door proudly and does this:

i know he's silently talking about our one and only future food source, a nogal, or pecan tree.

a brief stop in abilene, texas last november marked patricio's first joe allen bite of barbecue, first time to meet our beautiful friend, lori, first wide-eyed balcony view of the paramount theater, and first walk through my alma mater's campus. those 208 acres were almost entirely deserted, except for a handful of people gathering pecans between the library and mckinzie hall. we decided to follow their lead.

a dozen of those pecans made it back to mexico on the return trip, and the ones that escaped snackdom were planted by patricio in a pot out front. only one of the nuts sprouted, but it's growing with singular enthusiasm. i do hope san isidro looks kindly on our little nogal. i like to imagine using it's future fruits in chocolate chip cookie dough, what alinne and i are going to whip up together this afternoon as a a sugary gift for her family. i also love watching patricio's regal nogal pose every time he tracks its progress, sharing its little miracle of green life with us. we'll see. we're nuts about our tiny tree.

buena suerte

we have a new, baby plant in the uribe-cooper household. and along with it, we're told, good luck was also potted. the tiny aloe vera, or sávila, came from pedro and laura's garden, riding home with us on sunday afternoon and finding itself patted into place in the middle of an old, pink ceramic dish. i must say it: if it were an animal, it would likely qualify as a cute trifecta candidate. not sure what i'm talking about? you apparently haven't yet stumbled upon cuteoverload.com. they deal in all things furry (and sometimes otherwise), but i think their cute rules are applicable in my lucky aloe's case. according to the experts, the "coveted cuteness trifecta" occurs when a photo capturing a critter (or critters) achieves at least three rules of cuteness. i say the baby aloe's done it, and here are the rules to back up my claim:

rule of cuteness #18: dainty paws. (leaves are a paw's equivalent, right?)

rule of cuteness #2: look helpless. (i prefer "vulnerable." call me a quibbler.)

rule of cuteness #14: if an everyday, small item makes you look small, it's cute.

click on the picture to the right and tell me i'm mistaken. i'll bet you can't. our little baby aloe is just spiky and green and cute all over.

now, you are wondering, "so it's cute. what does that have to do with luck?"

well, nothing. i got carried away.

the luck, according to laura, accompanies an aloe when it is given to someone as a present. the now-flowering plant from which ours sprouted was a gift to laura from her mother, which was probably an offshoot of a gifted aloe, too. if you feel the claim to luck is a dubious one, that's okay. while i love the idea of serendipity, i'm not much a believer in random luck, either. what i do believe is that luck is like a baby aloe: an offshoot of something bigger. and i'll posit that that something bigger is friendship.

i feel like i've lived twenty-nine years of luckiness, and when i search for the source of it all, the analysis always leads me to a friend. every job i've been offered owes its existence to a friend. the opportunities i've taken were largely presented by friends, too. each trip i've ever taken was far better because of friends, and those friends have shared the luck of learning about more than just good destinations. my friends are why i've loved every place i've lived. my parents and my brother are three friends likened to treasures, and the relationship i have with them is one that almost anyone would consider lucky. i met the love of my life through a friend, and he, in turn, promised to be my best friend forever.

my luck, it seems, has always been my friends.

and now i have two new, very dear ones. there's no doubt in my mind that the aloe will bring us good luck; it's a sign of the friendship that pedro and laura gave with it.

all you friends out there: thank you. thank you for being my lucky little aloes.

i think it would still smell as sweet

the word "tree," having repeated it to myself about fifty times in the last thirty seconds, sounds terribly funny right now. probably one of those vestigial germanic words we get to pull out of the english language stew pot when we speak or spell it out, it's short, but deceptively simple. involving some fancy tongue-work to keep those consonants under control in a single syllable, saying "tree" is a tiny linguistic miracle. sprouting from the closed seed of the mouth, tongue behind teeth, it grows outward into a double-voweled umbrella of clean, green, ebullient and--let's be honest--funny sound.

in the southern reaches of europe, latin words simmered and stewed in the cultural cauldron of spain; through chemical reaction of linguistic cookery, arbor transformed and softened to árbol. opening out subtly, then reaching downward into a strong trunk of second syllable, árbol is yet another way--more mellifluous perhaps--of naming those leafy, needly things.

perched on a rocky outcropping, potted or planted in the ground outside, trees--árboles--send roots through their soil, anchoring themselves to what they need. sometimes it seems they survive beyond reasonable odds, and i'm glad for those tiny biological miracles, since the odds of life without them would be slim as an aspen sapling.

forests, in close communion of roots and shade, harbor a magic that makes fairy tales real. but i doubt they'll ever achieve the power to captivate an imagination in a startling instant like that of a solitary tree. i argue the truth of that statement with another spanish word as my main defense: insólito, or that which is singular, in every sense of the word: being only one, but being remarkable--that which delightfully pulls you away from your platonic conception of a tree's form. allow me to prove my point.

driving into the city, toward the tree-lined, forgettable, café-dotted streets of polanco, stands an irridescent, blue-windowed building:

where a window pane might complete the smooth exterior is, indeed, a tree. an árbol, if you will, completely and captivatingly insólito. i've had many a turn--i give it now to you, to contemplate, to come up with commentary and your own ideas of metaphor. have fun.

mimi would have loved them

as our plane circled down over mexico city on saturday afternoon, the boy sitting behind us nearly pressed his nose against the window as he looked over the urban sea spreading out beneath us. after pointing out to his mother a shimmering rainbow that reached into the bottom of the valley, he then noticed something that would hold his attention for the entire descent. i didn't understand when he began repeating, "look at all the purple trees!" his voice reflecting both surprise and incomprehension, his inner rolodex flipping through bits of knowledge as he tried to register what they might be. at first i thought the combination of rain and smog was casting a violet tint over the treetops below, but as he continued to draw his mother's attention to the trees again and again, i snuck a peek past the gentleman to my left and i suddenly understood. the boy was getting a lottery-winning view of the city's jacarandás. 

i remember the first time i saw a one in bloom, provoking my own wide-eyed "wow," with the question "what is it?" immediately following. patricio and i had taken a weekend trip to the colonial mining town of taxco, and as we wound our way down the cobbled street, a curve in the road opened to an enormous tree, covered in bluebonnet blossoms. the answer to my question rolled off patricio's tongue like water over river rocks: jacaranda.

a signature ornament of spring here, they remind me of the strawberries-and-cream hued tulip tree that transformed the view of our new york apartment into something a little closer to lovely. the jacarandás here elicit a similar reaction. the purple trees are real, a veritable pot of lavender gold at the end of the valley's rainbow.