Gitano

This is Gitano, when we just brought him to our quinta.  He is underworked and overfed in this picture, thus his obesely barrel shape.  He's a lot handsomer now.  He's a sweetie.  Breed:Azteca, a combination of Spanish and quarter horse.

Wallowing at Square 2

After a hectic but wonderful Christmas season that included six days with the entire family of kids and grandkids in Querétaro--a beautiful colonial town in central Mexico--, too much food, too little exercise, and oddly enough, not enough rest even though I did nothing whatsoever, it's back to the park where I am dragging myself, kicking and screaming, to do a measly 2K on a 6/4 minute schedule: six running, four at a walk. 

Not to get behind on other things, either, I rode my horse last week so long at a sitting trot that I wound up with a muscle spasm in my back.  That seems to be waning, however, and let me tell you, it aint due to acupuncture, either.  I made the mistake of going to my treatment (I have agreed to finish three months of acupuncture for fibromyalgia in order to keep my husband quiet and in exchange for a new Australian saddle worth a king's ransom) and asking for help with my back.  Okay, the massage felt good, but my usual doctor had warned me not to lie on my stomach.  I had to do just that for a massage and acupuncture session for my back, and it set me back a couple of days at least.  The truth is, I place no credence in acupuncture because no one is able to explain the physiological basis for it--that business about "energy" activated by the needles, or "pulling the pain down and away" sounds like bovine faeces to me, folks.  I can think of at least six different reasons why it would work, too, without all the ancient Chinese mysticism having to be true:

• The ever-popular placebo effect, which is quite legitimate and sometimes can last a long time if you renew it again and again.  If it works for you, then go for it.  It's worth it.
• The therapeutic effect of doing something, anything, for a chronic ailment, especially if what you are doing is a court of last resort, or if you are trying to avoid taking medications and need for it to work.  Even going to see a doctor, the act itself, is therapeutic, so acupuncture is surely no different.
• The imposed relaxation of a session, which leaves you lying quietly, with your eyes gently covered with a warm (or cold) cloth, for over half an hour while some kind of calm music aids your relaxation.
• The wonderful magical effect of the unknown--two thousand years of Chinese mysticism coming together just for you.  Every fraudulent remedy offered on t.v., in fact, for losing weight or getting in shape without moving a finger has some kind of pseudo-scientific double talk behind it, along with cartoon portrayals of what is happening in your body--your body being, of course, the ultimate human mystery.
• The persistent Western notion that the mysterious Orient hold truths we haven't caught on to yet.  Yes, perhaps.  But which ones?  And why are we so quick to discount Western reasoning?  For gosh knows how many centuries, Chinese mothers taught babies to eat solid food by chewing the food themselves first and then feeding it to the babies.  Talk about contagion!  No one seems to be hurrying to adopt that particular ancient method (which the Chinese themselves have left off, too).
• The therapeutic effect of human contact.  Acupuncture includes a kind of soothing touch and charming care that of itself is quite nice. 

But let me go on no further.  The whole point of this is that I am going to persist in order to earn that saddle.  Of course, I could get the saddle anyway, but this way my husband will be relieved that I tried everything, and I will be relieved to have it over with, much as I enjoy the sessions.  I mean, they aren't free, and my stingy bone gets activated because I don't think there is a point to acupuncture for me.  If it works for you, have at it.

Meanwhile I struggle on at the park...

The Legacy

On Christmas Eve, after the children had opened their gifts, it was time for the adults to throw dice and choose one of the fine, tasteful gifts piled in the center of the room--good stuff such as a capsule of emergency underwear, fake vomit, a pink plastic tiara, the ever-popular fake dog poop, and the worst Mexican movie ever made.  One of my elegant contributions to the pile was technology's most amazing creation: a self-inflating whoopee cushion.

When the gift was opened, and oddly enough I managed to get it, and tried out, every kid in the house suddenly appeared as if convoked by magic.  There is nothing like flatulence to cause grandkids to gather round.

They took the cushion off, and throughout the house the same event was lived over and over again: a total silence, then a magnificent emision by the whoopee cushion, and a huge explosion of delighted childhood laughter.  Apparently they tried out the cushion in every room and on every surface, vying for the best effects.

Karina and I, who were more or less incapacitated by laughter as well, became quite philosophical.

"Your legacy," said Karina, wiping tears of laughter from her face.

"Yeah," I said, "a couple of whoopee cushions and some fake shit!"

The thing is, it is quite true.  If a parents' job is to transmit to their children the ruling values of the culture, then ours as grandparents is to make sure the civilization process doesn't go too far.  Our main concern should be the preservation of silliness in all its life-saving glory.  My office has been populated by patients who may have had all kinds of fairly unique problems, but a lack of silliness has been a common trait shared by most.

Silliness can sometimes get you through very tough times, so here's to my legacy: children exploding with laughter, a pool of fake vomit on the kitchen floor, and the song of the whoopee cushion.

I couldn't have asked for more.  Life is complete.

Still launching..

As you can see by how little I've posted since last week, there has not been a spare moment around here, what with family in residence, parties, and cooking.  The big tamal supper has been eliminated and we are eating Italian, but that is not happening until tomorrow when I may have more time. 

My trainer and I are considering starting a group for fibromyalgia patients.  I really like the idea, although I am not overly confident that we will get any takers--people with fibro tend to have much more pain that I do, and in spite of that, they need to exercise.  But when it is that uphill, well, it is easier to go in for yoga.  That doesn't do much for your cardiopulmonary conditioning.

I am pleased to announce that Gitano's trot has improved and is no longer the unmitigated torture it was when he first came to me.  He has figured out we are not going to ask him to do that idiotic dancing he was taught to do by some nincompoop who thought he was doing something akin to the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, so now Gitano has lightened up and is beginning to get some verticle, springy movement.  He seems to be doing well adjusting to being with us, and as with most friendly horses, he is a goodie glutton.  That means carrots or apples. 

Out to run tomorrow; I suspect I have a foot injury, but with fibro you can never tell.  Tomorrow may clear up my doubt.  Man, aint old age a bitch??

Mission control

My kitchen this morning was like the launch of a space vehicle.  Since our U.S. family arrives on Wednesday, I decided to bake up a batch of cookies for neighbors, vets, consuegras, and other people I like to remember at Christmas with something homemade.

I had decided on chocolate chip cookes, loaded with--of course!--butter.  By the time I had mixed up my multiple batches, I could smell the motor of my industrial-strength mixer as it began to struggle.  I fired up my gas oven and my electric counter-top convection oven, got out every baking sheet and wire rack I own, and spent an hour leaping from counter to ovens to racks at a pace that left me no time even to go to the bathroom.  As the cookies began to come out of the ovens, I thought there wouldn't be enough and that I was going to have to bake biscotti to complete the gifts, but once I started filling the containers, there were just enough cookies to give everyone a really fine dose of butter.

This afternoon, it's Yucatan tamales with mole poblano filling, but those I'll freeze until time to serve them on Christmas Eve.  My mouth is watering as I write this!

Not to get behind, I am also trying to get out the last cooking class assignment for my course--thin-crust pizza with tomato sauce, baked on a baking stone so damned hot it may heat the whole house until tomorrow night and beyond.  This I will have to take a picture of, so I'll post it later.  I am going to serve it with a salad.  Right now I'm also making a carrot soup with one of Julia Child's tricks--cooked rice in the soup that makes it so creamy you only need to add a mere dribble of the real thing at the last minute.  (This is from her book, "The Way to Cook", her last.)

On the running front, I am going to slow to a swift march to see if that helps my fibromyalgic back pain--it's right between the shoulder blades and can even wake me up if I have to turn over! If the jolting of running isn't affecting it, it will be back to the faster pace after a week's pain trial.

Racing against the butter...

Maybe it's all the rest I get between runs, or the acupunture, but I have been feeling much better lately.  It could also be the melatonin capsules that I take at night, who knows?  But that means my exercise is still alive and I have a fighting chance of offsetting the amount of butter my recipes call for.

After yesterday's excess (it wasn't just good mac and cheese, it was epoch-making), today we are having something sensible (chicken tostadas), but since my daughter and her girls are coming to lunch, I broke down and made apricot pecan bars--redolent from the oven of--natch--loads of butter.  I even got vanilla ice cream for the girls to eat with the bars.  The only way for us to survive here when I make desserts is to have guests for lunch and send them home with any leftover goodies.  I'm with ya, Julia, on the food police!

Butter

As I stood at the stove grating nutmeg into the roux for my gourmet mac and cheese, it occurred to me that I had some leftover butternut squash ravioli filling thawed out in the fridge, and wouldn't that be good mixed in with the roux and the pasta?

After I mixed the pasta and the milk sauce with butternut squash, and after piling on three kinds of cheese, it thought maybe I'd better omit the breadcrumb topping this time.  But no, those buttery bread crumbs bake up to a toasty, savory crunch, so I put my French bread in the food processor and processed away.

Then as I was about to melt the butter to add to the crumbs, I remembered that I also had some brown butter hazelnut sage sauce left over from the ravioli, so why not use that to butter the crumbs?  After all, everything I had in the pasta melded with the nutmeg-parmesan-pasta-cheese theme.  So that's what I did.

I'll let you  know later how this turns out, but in the meantime, the calorie count is obscene.  Julia Child would be proud of me though--there is enough butter in this dish to satisfy even someone who said you just couldn't have too much butter.  I think maybe you can.  I think maybe I have.