Spoof and Other Observations

 

Spoof and Other Observations

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Last week my article garnered surprising comments. The older women seemed to get a hearty chuckle. The younger women were horrified. The men were silent.

It was a spoof! I thought that was obvious. I also know that when I speak I have such a serious face that people often mistake my humor.

The important point though, the only important point, is that I know that the only person I can make happy is myself. And that is a full-time job!

Meanwhile, see the smile on my rainy face. Last night the rain poured, plunged, out of the stormy clouds, our first full-on, hard rain of the season. Never mind how happy a few sprinkly showers made us feel. This is pure joy.

The hot season is over—daytime temperature dropped 20 degrees. Rain is a daily do. I will not have to drag hose for five glorious days. I can say that every day.

Without that daily chore, what will I do? Let me tell you a little bit about living here in Oconahua. I love living in Etzatlan. I love living in Oconahua. The first time I came to Oconahua, it was to tramp over the ruins, talk to the on-site archeologist, to learn about the digs.

The second time I drove through the town deepened my fascination. This trip was to visit new friends, Ana and Michelle. Driving out of this little town of maybe 2400 people, I remember thinking, I could live here. Each time I came that feeling gained a little more weight until decreasing mobility gave me the impetus to make the move to a smaller home.

I miss my wrap-around windows. I miss my Etzatlan friends, all within a short walk. I miss my extensive garden. I make the most of what I have, my herbs, five pots of geraniums, my papaya tree planted in a large garbage can, my two containers of food plants.

No location is perfect—or every location is perfect. My choice. My grass is greenest.

The other morning I cut off seven non-bearing squash blossoms, stuffed them with a sliver of cheese, dipped them in egg, dredged them in masa, fried them in butter. I make the most of what I have.

The next day, for entertainment, I rested my forearms on a window sill and watched a prize-winner of a tractor pull a cultivator over what will become, once again, a corn field. I say a prize-winner tractor. It would garner admiration and acclaim in any antique tractor show. At a guess, I’d say this one is vintage 1930s. Same with the cultivator.

Maybe one would have to have grown up with tractors to understand my fascination. We had older tractors on our farm. I don’t recall that we ever had a shiny new sparkly tractor. But none as old as this fine specimen.

One of the joys of living in the Garden of Mexico is the variety of fruits and vegetables I’ve never seen before. I make a point to try everything and certainly have my favorites. I like to explore their various uses.

Ciruela, trust me, it is unpronounceable. In Spanish every syllable is pronounced and don’t forget the Spanish “r”. Cir-u-e-la. And vowels are pronounced with different sounds than ours. (Seerrr-ew-((long)) a-lah) Now put it all together with speed. Ha. Enough of language lessons.

This lovely native plum is delicious. However, much like the chokecherry we know, it is more pit than pulp. Ciruelas are the size of marbles to ping-pong balls. Common use is as an agua fresca, a delicious drink, refreshing and healthy.

Ana brought me a nice bulging bag of reddish-yellow plums.  Given the similarity to our own fruit of comparable pit-pulp, I wondered if ciruelas would make a good jelly.  

It was a hot and steamy day in the kitchen, worth every salty drop of sweat in a hot kitchen, and, yes, ciruelas make the best plum jam ever!

I’ll end my rambles for today with a dog story. On the far corner of my concrete patio area, overhung with a plumeria tree, there was a 4’ x 6’ area of weedy dirt. I decided to grass it over. My friend Leo brought me the sod and created my small “lawn”. My mutt Lola immediately claimed it as her own. She rolled and rolled, joy evident in every muscle, the biggest smile ever on her doggy face. If she’s not wriggling, she’s perched in the grass, overseeing her kingdom, making sure all is well in our world.

Don’t try to tell me I don’t have a full life.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

June 19, 2025

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