Roasted Butternut Squash, Bell Pepper and Tomato Soup

We’re in a lovely in-between season when we can find summer’s sweet tomatoes and rich, winter squash at the farmers market. This soup was inspired by a crisp walk around the lake this autumn morning. Yes, that’s right, we have seasons in San Diego. I welcome the change in seasons. Summer was light and fun, but as I push forward with ever-growing opportunities, I welcome the grounding nature of fall.

The other thing about seasons changing is that people tend to get sick. I don’t know the exact science of it, but it seems there is some sort of cleansing ritual our bodies like to do. This detoxifying cycle comes to the surface as our cold symptoms–fatigue, runny noses, etc. I experienced a subtle snotty nose over the weekend. I’d been overdoing it a bit–working a lot of hours and sleeping very little. I forced myself to lay low and started popping immunity-boosting supplements (echinacea, garlic, cayenne).

Today on this beautiful morning I felt strong and healthy, but a warm cup of soup sounded nice. I’ve been working at a few farmers markets throughout the week, which means I head home each night with fresh produce, artisan bread and other goodies. I threw all the veggies onto a couple of cookie sheets and roasted, simmered and pureed them into this soup.

Roasted Winter Squash and Bell Pepper Soup

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:

4 small winter squash (or 2-3 large ones)

olive oil

2 teaspoon sweet smoked paprika

salt

pepper

3 bell peppers (or 5-6 small ones), cut into large sections, seeds and ribs removed

1 medium onion, quartered and separated into pieces

3-5 tomatoes (depending on size, cut into quarters if large)

3 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped

3 cups veggie broth

Optional:

Chili oil (saute chili flakes in oil for 30 seconds, turn off heat and set aside)

Chives, chopped

Directions:

Cut the squash in half, lengthwise. Lay skin-side-down on a cookie sheet. Drizzle olive oil and sprinkle the paprika, and a few pinches of salt and pepper on top. Rub everything along the orange flesh. Place the bell peppers, onion and tomatoes on a separate sheet. Drizzle with oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Place each sheet in the oven. The squash will take 25-35 minutes, depending on size. Check by poking with a knife. The sheet with the peppers, onion and tomatoes will only take 10-15 minutes–until softened and some of the pieces are browned.

Let the squash cool for 10 minutes. When it’s safe to handle without burning your fingers, scoop all the flesh off of the skins and into a bowl. Set aside. Discard the skins. (I gave mine to my worms.)

Heat a medium-sized pot and pour in a little olive oil. Drop the garlic into the oil and saute for two minutes, stirring frequently. Add all the roasted veggies, including the squash. Stir for a minute, then add the broth. Add a cup of water. You may need more water to thin it out, but best to start with a soup that is too thick, rather than too thin.

Allow the soup to simmer for 20 minutes. Remove from heat and puree with an immersion blender. If you don’t have one, let the soup cool for at least 30 minutes before blending in small batches in a regular blender. Take care not to burn yourself.

Voila! You’ve got yourself a smooth, flavorful soup. Top with chili oil and chopped chives.

Raw food diet: Day 4 of 30 – Sprouted Red Lentils

Sprouted lentil salad with red leaf lettuce, hemp seeds and carrots.

I got a crazy idea in my head and I decided to run with it–30 days of raw, vegan foods for the month of June. I eat vegan/vegetarian most of the time (though I don’t call myself either, because I reserve the right to eat meat on the rare occasions that I feel inclined to do so).  I figured I’d up the ante a little and try out a raw lifestyle. I’d been looking for a kickstart to eating healthier. I didn’t want to do a juice fast or any hardcore cleanses, but I wanted to try something that would challenge me.

My big addictions to target: sugar and coffee. I’m still eating sugar, but mainly fruit and occasionally some honey or agave nectar. I wasn’t fully prepared my first day and I ate tons of nuts and fruit all day. I didn’t feel well.

The second (and most major) addiction I am tackling is coffee. I didn’t drink coffee much a few years ago, but I’ve upped my intake, especially the past six months. It’s my “go-go-go” juice for my busy schedule.

Cob mixing–clay, straw, sandy soil and feet! We constructed a bench with this stuff.

Day one was hard. I helped with a cob building workshop, which began with a 45-minute drive to the farm. A drive that’s usually lovely with a cup of coffee. But on this day I was groggy as hell. Not only from the lack of coffee, but because I went on a beer and burger binger the night before. I know, I said I’m a vegan most of the time, but I hadn’t had a burger in close to a year and I figured the eve of my raw foods diet was a last-chance opportunity for my meat craving. I went for it, knowing I was about to tackle some real self-discipline the coming month. I knew it was a bad idea to eat junk food and drink multiple beers, but I did it anyway.

The workshop turned out to be fun, but I felt tired much of the day and I couldn’t get the fantasy of a cup of coffee out of my head. The weather was overcast and cool, making me want a warm cup of java even more. And later when it warmed up, all I could think about was an iced Americano from my favorite shop, or anywhere. I thought about taking an easy out and letting coffee be my one exception for the month, but I’m no weakling!

Day two wasn’t as bad. I stocked up on a few items like raw, sprouted hummus and kelp noodles. I still wanted coffee all day. Probably worse this second day.

Day three, I felt high. I was working at the farm. I felt useless at first–spacey and unhelpful. I didn’t want to tie knots on the tomato trellis, I didn’t want to do anything. As the morning progressed, that fog transitioned to more of a focused daze. I could handle the tasks at hand, but still felt a little off. I chowed down more food than usual during our lunch break– a salad with the raw hummus, a “spaghetti” with kelp noodles and a sun-dried tomato sauce and a homemade date-seed-nut energy bar–scarfed it all down and I felt good.

Now it’s day four and I’m getting it. I’ve been spending hours scrolling through raw food blogs to find ways to diversify my diet. This is how I discovered sprouted lentils.I’ve got multiple jars of nuts, seeds, etc. soaking and sprouting. I’ve got recipes and new ideas for dinner in my head. I’m making plans to start fermenting a napa cabbage in the refrigerator. I’m soaking chopped napa cabbage and sliced daikon in preparation for kimchi.

My whole way of “cooking” has shifted. I’m not properly outfitted. I’m working with a small food processor, a small (almost useless) blender and a juicer (thank you Melinda!). Ideally I’d have a bigger food processor, a high-powered blender and a dehydrator, but I’m making do. The preparation for raw foods is mainly in planning ahead of time. I’m going to make chili tonight so I need to soak my walnuts now or, I want lentils for my salad on Friday, I need to start them now. Just get a few jars going and work with what you’ve got. 

This is just an experiment for me. I want to see how my energy changes, I want to tackle a few addictions and I want to explore new cooking ideas (sprouting, fermenting, etc).

Why sprout lentils or anything else? Sprouting germinates the seed/legume/grain which makes for easier digestion. The process also increases vitamin content and neutralizes phytic acid, which prevents humans from absorbing minerals like zinc and iron. Sprouted lentils taste great on a salad and I’m thinking they’ll be delicious ground up into a spicy dip. MmmmMmmm.

Sprouted Lentils

Ingredients:

1 quart mason jar

sprouting lid (or I use a piece of cheesecloth w/ a mason jar ring)

lentils

water

Directions:

Fill your jar about 1/3 of the way with lentils. Make sure they’ve been looked over for rocks or other debris. Fill the jar with water and soak for 8 hours or overnight.

Secure the sprouting lid (or cheesecloth-and-ring) on the jar and pour the water out. Rinse with fresh water and drain again. Set in a bowl or other dish at a tilt, so that the lentils can continue to drain. Rinse and drain about every 8 hours, or at least twice a day for 2 to 3 days.

Once the little sprouts appear at least 1/4-inch long, secure them with a lid and store them in the refrigerator. Use within a few days.

Quinoa Salad with Fennel, Radish and an Orange-Ginger Vinaigrette

Fennel perplexed and thrilled lots of folks in my CSA program this week. They either traded it in for something more familiar or grabbed an extra. I knew I wanted to use mine in a salad, but I wanted it to be a special salad.

I had plans to sleep under the full moon, Friday, at the farm. We were having a potluck and overnight event for the students. I scanned food blogs for something different and found a Bon Appetit recipe that sounded tasty. Plus, I happened to have everything I needed to make it–red quinoa, an orange, ginger… everything!

I left out the pecans in the original recipe because one of my fellow farmers is allergic to nuts. I used a beautiful watermelon radish, which added to the nice color in this salad. I was particularly grateful that I had a chunk of ginger in the refrigerator, because the gentle spice complimented the fennel. I didn’t have any shallots, so I substituted some leek instead. Onion would work too.

adapted from Bon Appetit

Ingredients:

1 cup red quinoa (any kind will work, but the red quinoa looks nice)

1 fennel bulb, sliced thin and a few loose fronds

1 large watermelon radish (or a few small radishes of any variety), sliced thin into bite size pieces

1 medium-sized orange

1/4 cup olive oil

1 1/2-inch piece of ginger, grated or chopped very fine

1 shallot or a few small slices of onion or leek

Preparation:

Add the quinoa to 2 cups boiling water. Turn the temperature down to a low simmer and cook until all the water is absorbed. Let cool before adding to the rest of the salad.

Mix fennel, loose fronds and radish slices into a bowl. Set aside.

Cut peels off the orange, making sure to remove the white pith. Cut the orange into slices. Squeeze each slice, catching the juice in a small cup or bowl. Put the slices in the bowl with the fennel and radish. Add the olive oil and ginger to the orange juice and mix with a whisk or fork until combined.

Pour the vinaigrette over the fennel, radish and orange and mix around to let it marinate. Add the quinoa when cooled. Mix and serve.

Avocado-Basil Dressing

I allowed many moons to pass without updating this site. To be honest, I almost closed it down. My journey through Mexico meant the world to me and gave me more clarity than I’ve ever experienced. I felt more sure of what I wanted out of life and that was to live more closely to the land.

I started work for a cooperative that distributes food from local farms to San Diego residents. To say I LOVE MY JOB is an understatement. I get to talk to people about fresh, organic food and bring it to them. I feel as though all of my experiences have led me to this.

I also began “farm school” through a local educational farm that focuses on sustainable agriculture. This means to me that we are growing food in a way that creates the least negative impact on the earth and provides nutritious, organic food for the community. I love this too.

My soul feels fed which makes me able to feed others too. Quite literally, I’ve been sharing food with others through a serendipitous series of potlucks with different groups of friends. Everyone raved about an avocado-basil dressing I made to top raw slices of zucchini on one occasion and a kale-cabbage salad on another.

CREAMY AVOCADO-BASIL DRESSING

Makes about 1 1/2 cups

Ingedients:

1 avocado
big handful basil or lemon basil
1/2 lemon squeezed
1/4 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons agave nectar
1/3 to 1/2 cup water
salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

1. Blend all but the water, salt and pepper.

2. The mixture will be thick. Add water to your desired consistency. Keep thick for a nice dip or thin out more for a dressing. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Blog from Mexico #6 / San Miguel and Bernal, Parades and Rocks

After a couple of evenings on the rooftop terrace in Guanajuato and one exceptional night out salsa dancing, I was friends with Mikey and Jim. I said goodbye, not sure if I’d see them again, and then I was off to San Miguel de Allende on a bus. I had a Couchsurfing host lined up there and so I went to enjoy a little tranquilo, a little quiet, in a smaller town before moving onto Mexico City.

San Miguel lacked tranquilo that weekend. I arrived in time for the town party in which they honor the church saint with drinking, dancing and parades. And fireworks. Hours of fireworks throughout the night. I considered leaving after the first restless night, but I stayed because I had a whole studio apartment to myself for free. There was no electricity and I couldn’t figure out the heater for warm water, but I couldn’t argue with free.

I went out the first afternoon to watch the indigenous dancers with their colorful skirts and their headdresses. The town was full and jovial. There were more gringos here than you could shake a stick at. I heard Texas drawls around each corner. I didn’t like it. I tried to go home to my studio, but got stuck in the center of town by the parade and the thick border of bystanders watching. I tried to break through for half an hour, with no luck. I ate a gordita and sipped some jamaica instead.

The next day I got up early. I saw all the same dancers from the previous day setting up for a second parade. I hurried past them and out of town to visit the botanical garden. With canyons, wetlands and a few waterfalls, it was exactly what I craved—a little nature. I felt restored.

I stayed a couple more nights and headed to Queretaro. There wasn’t much I looked forward to here except a big rock. I read about La Pena de Bernal on a blog. It’s the third largest monolith in the world, behind Sugarloaf in Rio de Janeiro and Gibraltar in Spain (which I passed up the chance to see a few years ago, not knowing the significance of its size). For a few weeks I thought about that rock of Bernal. The locals consider it to be an important energy spot. I wanted to climb it. I almost didn’t, but then Mikey told me via Facebook chat that I’d regret it if I didn’t. I reckoned he was right.

I set out for the tiny town of Bernal by bus. It was a one-hour ride outside Queretaro. I arrived and walked past the vendors trying to sell  me keychains, past the restaurant proprietors trying to serve me lunch and straight up the hill to the rock. When I got up the hill, there were still more vendors with trinkets and beer. They each greeted me and asked if I was going to climb the rock. It didn’t take more than 20 or 30 minutes to go as far up as I could go.

The rock and me. Pena de Bernal, Queretaro.

It was steep but not as challenging as I’d imagined. Still, there was a lovely view and a nice breeze up high. I wanted to climb the rest, but that required climbing equipment. A week before, I contacted a Couchsurfer host nearby who is also a climbing guide, but never heard back from her. I walked down and headed to the main drag to catch the bus back. I had no other business in Bernal, but I was glad I got there and climbed the rock.

San Miguel Parade

Botanical Garden, San Miguel

Blog from Mexico #5 / Guanajuato

I’ve gotten caught up in Mexico. The food, the places, the language—it’s what I wanted when I left California, almost two months ago. I wanted to conocer, to get to know, Mexico.

I left the hands of my cousin in Zacatecas to embark on some solo adventure. I was nervous as hell getting on the first of four buses to Guanajuato. This was it, I thought, I’m on my own now. I navigated each bus station, no problema, thanks to my tedious notes. I felt anxious. I didn’t want to get stuck in some in-between town, walking through the streets at night, looking for a hotel.

Before leaving, I considered staying in Zacatecas. Maybe the point of this journey was to get to know Mexico through the life of my family? Maybe I should go back to the ranch?  But I knew that I wouldn’t be happy if I stayed. Part of all this was proving to myself that I am fine on my own.

As my final bus took me from the outskirts of what could have been any Mexican city, to the historical center of Guanajuato, my heart melted and I knew I’d done good to come. Tall, stone walls stand along the streets at the entrance, providing a foreground that reminded me of the walled cities of York and Edinburgh. Hundreds, probably thousands, of houses of every color sat perched on every available nook on the hills behind.

The bus wound itself around narrow, windy, cobblestone roads and eventually dove underground on one of the streets built below the city. Here, I stepped out at the Mercado stop and climbed up a short flight of stairs back into the light and life aboveground. I asked the first person I saw for directions to the city center—a local fishmonger working at a stand outside the market. He pointed up the main road, as did the two or three other people I asked along the way.

I paid for one night’s stay at the hostel I’d found online the previous night, wondering if I should have worked out a discount for three or four nights. There’s usually room for negotiation with 3+ nights, but at this point I wasn’t ready to commit beyond the first. I dropped my bags in my dorm room, where it appeared I had the room to myself (score!).

I walked up a spiral staircase to check out the rooftop terrace. I’d seen it in a photo online and it was the only reason I had shelled out $20 pesos more per night here, rather than a cheaper room elsewhere. The view proved worth it. The terrace faced the pretty, little houses stacked up the hill, with colonial buildings and trees mixed into the landscape. At sunset, the light painted the whole scene with a dreamy golden hue.

I rushed downstairs for my camera, though it’s hard to capture a landscape like that unless standing at the perfect vantage point. The stark, unlovely rooftops between the hostel and the golden scene stuck out enough to prevent a decent composition. I took a minute to take everything down in my mind instead.

Back down below, I met two Aussies staying at the hostel—Mikey and Jim. I didn’t know at the time that we’d end up on some adventures together, but we did. That first evening they told me that they’d worked in Canada for some time, drove through the States, sold their car once they got to Mexico and were hitchhiking farther south. I asked where they’d been in California and they said they drove down the coast, stopping in San Francisco and L.A., until they headed east for Vegas. Typical foreigners I thought, they always go to Vegas. I told them they’d have to visit San Diego next time.

Mikey reckoned, as Australians reckon everything, he wouldn’t visit the country again. “America is great and all,” he said. “But it’s full of Americans, isn’t it?”

What a douche, I thought. Who insults someone to their face?, and so nonchalantly. He must have mistaken me for one of those Americans who travel and talk trash on the States. We met one of those types a few weeks later in Oaxaca and she really got me going. I had had a shot of the locally-made mezcal and a Dos Equis or two earlier in the night, but that only gave me the confidence to say what I would have otherwise kept to myself. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of where you come from,” I shouted to her as we walked away.

But before all that, I was nervous. Though I’d been speaking only Spanish in Zacatecas, I still got wound up about interacting with anyone. This anxiety made tasks like getting something to eat feel like a chore. I thought about it for at least an hour or two before I’d begrudgingly go out to find something edible. There were nights when I went to bed hungry because I didn’t want to deal with what seems simple now—walk to a taco stand, a gordita stand, an elote, corn, stand and order something. Pointing works, ask cuanto? (how much?) and hand over your pesos.

That first night in Guanajuato I ended up at a restaurant with a boldly-colored décor inside. Before I had a chance to fully peruse the menu at the front and consider whether I could afford to eat there, an old man sitting with a jovial crowd beckoned me inside. “Buena comida,” he said as he waved me in. Good food.

I walked inside and sat near his group hoping they’d invite me to join the party. They didn’t and I didn’t care. I felt happy just to sit near them and glance over at their smiles as they enjoyed each other’s company and their bottle of tequila. I ordered one of the cheaper items on the menu, chicken enchiladas covered in mole. I savored the dish slowly with a beer and a jamaica.

Everything in the room—the tables, the chairs, the walls—was bright blue, yellow and red. The chairs had large fruit painted on them that reminded me of the gaudy cookie jars and other kitchen goods for sale along the streets in Tijuana. The wall to my right was covered from floor to ceiling with crosses and sacred hearts that looked like they’d been grabbed up from every corner of Mexico—wood, metal, carved, painted, engraved, with Jesus, without Jesus, etc.

To my left there were dozens of Day of the Dead skeletons on display. One of the ladies from the party climbed up a chair and a table to check them out and asked if she could buy one. The owner came over and said “sure” and gave her a price. She looked over at me and said something about it being pretty, but I didn’t fully understand her statement. I responded with a polite smile and a nod.

I paid my bill and walked back through the romantic, moonlit streets of Guanajuato, past embracing couples, gardens and mariachi bands, satisfied that’d I’d gotten somewhere.

Blog from Mexico #4 / Relating and Zacatecas city

I left the ranch with my aunt. I wasn’t permitted to travel alone. It was a quick, 1-hour ride from Villanueva to Zacatecas. I didn’t need my aunt to escort me, but I think she enjoyed the chance to get off the ranch and I liked talking with her.

At the beginning of the week, I didn’t have much to discuss, but as we spent more time together, I realized she was pretty open-minded for a 70-year-old woman. She loved to hear about my travel. When she introduced me to someone new she prompted me to rattle of a list of the countries I’ve visited. She always added Italia, though I’ve never actually been to Italy. I wondered if that were somewhere she might have gone if she had the chance.

Prickly pear, or “tunas” as they’re called here, can be found everywhere. My aunt said, rich or poor, everyone eats tunas.

We spoke about love and relationships. Her husband drank and mistreated her. She kicked him out of the house. He lived with another woman in Aguascalientes until he died 15 years ago. She still wears her wedding ring. A simple gold band that looks like it fit looser long ago. I could understand—religion runs deep here and divorce is a big deal—but I couldn’t relate.

I had been in a four-year relationship that had ups and downs, until I decided to get off the roller coaster. That was nearly a year ago. I moved to the other end of the state, but our breakup continued for months. We saw each other occasionally. We talked, we barely talked and then we didn’t talk anymore.

I knew this trip would make me think of him. He and I discussed traveling around Mexico even shortly before I left. I imagined bringing him to the ranch and the interactions between my gringo boyfriend and my Catholic, Mexican family. Yet here I am, sola, with everyone asking why I’m not married.

My aunt and I made it to the city and decided to eat first. I asked where my dad ate when he visited. “La Cabana” she said. I delighted in learning little bits like these about my dad. He always ate tacos. I opted for the chicken covered with mole—a rich sauce made with spices, chiles and chocolate. With a side of rice, three kinds of salsa and bottomless tortillas, I left with a happy stomach.

After a bus ride to a pretty green house, my cousin, Rosaura, opened the door in her pajamas. She hadn’t expected us. I found out later that my dad made arrangements for my stay through her dad in Las Vegas, but neither one had spoken with her. She welcomed me in without hesitation. Familia!

My aunt left shortly after to return to the ranch. My eyes got teary when we said goodbye. Though I hadn’t seen her for 20 years, after one short week she was my family, my friend.

 ~~~

At my cousin’s house, I had Internet access for the first time in a week. Consequently, Facebook was the first place I used English while in Mexico. I was pleased with my decision to fly into Zacatecas. Had I first arrived in Mexico City, where more people speak English, I’d probably taken the easy way out and used my first language. This is what happened in Ecuador and Spain on previous travels. It’s easy to get stuck on the “gringo trail” with bilingual business owners and English-speaking travelers.

With my family, I had to use Spanish. Sometimes I spoke in circles and other times I had to admit defeat and move on to another topic. I didn’t bring an English-Spanish dictionary and carrying around my laptop to pull up Google Translate whenever I couldn’t think of a word wasn’t practical.

That first day, I got a whirlwind tour of the city. My cousin’s husband, Fabian, drove us to the pretty, colonial city center to walk around. I tried to remember statues, buildings, fountains, but I didn’t recognize anything

Red, green and gold decorations filled the streets for La Independencia, Independence Dia. There was a noticeable police presence. Police officers dressed in black from head to toe, stood in the backs of trucks with big, intimidating guns. On the ground they carried smaller guns and set up metal detectors near the Plaza de Armas, the big plaza where hundreds, maybe thousand, would gather at night to watch fireworks and shout, “Viva Mexico!”

Zacatecas locals with Muslim costumes for a battle reenactment.

We drove up to La Cerra de la Bufa. The main tourist attraction in Zacatecas is a hill that overlooks the city with a church, an observatory, restaurants and gift shops. My parents named my sister, Patti, after the saint of this church, Patrocinio. I don’t know if there’s any nice way to put it, but I was always grateful for dodging the bullet with that name. Though, here in Mexico, Briana isn’t easy. Everyone thinks I’m Diana or Adriana.

Hundreds of costumed locals of all ages walked up the hill. Some dressed with crosses and others with crescent-moon-and-star emblems. They appeared to represent a battle between Christians and Muslims. I realized I knew next to nothing about Mexican history. Fabian graciously attempted to explain the battle to me, but I only caught the gist of it. My espanol needed more work.

La Cabana Restaurante. Our first stop in Zacatecas.

Blog from Mexico #3 / Slow days, family ties

Life at the ranch was slow. I woke up late each morning, around 9 a.m. I blamed it on the time difference since we’re two hours ahead of California here. Then I thought it was because my bedroom was rather cool and dark. Finally, I figured it was both plus my lack of a schedule or responsibilities here—no work, no dog to take out for a run, nothing.

I spent my mornings drinking coffee and writing. I visited with other family members. This wasn’t always easy since my aunt doesn’t talk to most of them. Here, like anywhere else, exist the politics of family life. One aunt is angry because the other inherited the family home and some (grown) children don’t talk to their mom because she kicked their father out of the house 30 years ago. People hang onto these issues and despite the fact that they live within a five-minute walk of each other, and in some cases next door to each other, they don’t talk.

My dad mentioned that I should visit my Tia Angela. I went over to her house and introduced myself. She had no idea I was in the country. I got the usual onslaught of questions—How old are you? Are you married? Do you have kids? Do you work? Then I’d answer all of those questions about my brothers and sisters too.

Cousins, Sihifredo and Rosa, and my Tia Angela in the red.

She also badgered me about why I was staying with Socorro and not with her. Rivalries. I was there in time for a late breakfast. That’s when I got my first taste of menudo. I saw the light, bumpy squares of flesh floating in the red broth and I knew I was in for something interesting. I hoped that I’d like it, but I couldn’t take the texture. It was like soft, bumpy octopus. I wasn’t totally sure what I was eating. When I asked what it was, my aunt simply said, “Caldo.” Soup.

She wanted me to sit down, rest my legs and watch TV with her. I didn’t want to. I tried to excuse myself back to my home at Socorro’s. She insisted that I stay. She sat me down on a bed and told me to take my shoes off. She brought me ramen noodles and juice and watched while I ate. I really wanted to go. She said I could leave after I finished some of my noodles. Ugh. So I did and I left, promising I’d come back again before I left. I waited until my last day and went for a brief goodbye. I got stuck there for two hours watching Laura–sort of the Oprah of Mexico. It was time to leave the ranch.

Blog from Mexico #2 / Well fed, there are always tacos.

My room at the ranch.

We left the airport and entered the town of Villanueva. We stopped to eat, but at 7 p.m., every shop, every restaurant in town was closed. “Porque es Domingo?” Because it’s Sunday? I asked.

My aunt explained that shops close early every day because of violence that sometimes spills into the town from the outlying hills where The Zetas, a Mexican drug cartel, conduct operations.

Great, I thought. My parents were right.

A few days before I left San Diego, my dad heard a news report on a Spanish radio station. The Zetas left three heads on ice at the home of a government official in Villanueva and threw the bodies into a nearby pasture. This caused a small frenzy of concern from my parents. It got to me a little, too.

I figured the drug cartel violence was only in the northern states. It is, mostly, but here my aunt confirmed that rarely, but occasionally, people are killed or kidnapped. Just like anywhere else, I said. She agreed.

Gorditas de frijoles.

We found a taco stand, still open. My cousin suggested I try the tripa, but I wasn’t ready to chew on cow stomach. Not yet. And I wasn’t ready two days later when another aunt placed a bowl of menudo—more stomach in a red chile soup—in front of me. I politely gagged my way through half of it before proclaiming that I was llena, full.

I ordered my tacos with adobada—which is pork marinated in a red sauce. Do you eat chile?, my aunt asked and pointed to two bowls of salsa, one red and one green. Yes, I nodded. She was surprised that I liked spicy food.

The following few days as she cooked for me, she found that I like chile in everything. Not usually, but why not? She made gorditas, which are round snacks of corn maize, like tortillas but thicker. Gorditas can be stuffed with veggies, beans or meat. I bought two from a street vendor for 10 pesos, less than a dollar. I remembered eating them hot off my grandma’s stove when I was little. My tia made a big tub of them, half with spicy beans and half with a little cheese and slices of red and green chiles.

 Besides not letting me cook or even make a cup of coffee, I haven’t been permitted to ride a bus alone or wash my own laundry. I’m grateful, but I expected my family here to understand that women in the United States are more independent. I thought when I told them I’ve lived on my own and traveled around the world by myself that they’d understand.

Here’s how they understand: My 50+-year-old cousin, Margarita, wants me to call my dad and ask him if I can stay at the ranch longer. She wants to teach me the beautiful crochet and embroidery work that she does. I can stay if I want, I told her, I don’t have to ask my dad for permission. She gave me a “Sure, whatever” look and continued stitching away. I don’t think she believes my intentions to travel 700 miles to Oaxaca and beyond, sola. On my own.

Mi prima, Margarita.

Blog from Mexico #1 The airport, the animals, the aunt.

I’ve surfaced from a long break. I had to have fun this summer. I spent lots of time at the beach. I didn’t cook much—it was too hot. I ate salads from the salad bar at the natural food store. I danced. I bought cute dresses. I ate out at restaurants. I tiptoed into the dating world. I sat around fires talking about life with new friends. I needed it. I had been a still-depressed-over-my-break-up hermit for too long. I had fun.

As the carefree allure of summer wore off, I pondered my upcoming trip to Mexico. I began to feel grounded. I started writing again. My Kickstarter campaign wasn’t successful, but I had committed to traveling, regardless. As the date of my flight approached, I felt ready. For what, I wasn’t totally sure.

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After three hours in the air, I exited the plane and entered the bright yellow and red building, Aeropuerto Internacional de Zacatecas. I didn’t have the easiest time without full use of the language. “Quantos maletas?” one of the airport security employees asked as he checked over my declarations form.

“Qué?” I asked. “No hablo mucho español.” I don’t speak much Spanish.

He only appeared slightly annoyed as he searched for an English version of the form. “How many bags do you have,” the man behind me explained.

“Uno. Tengo uno,” I have one, I told the security guy and turned around to thank the man behind me, though he hadn’t seemed so much helpful as impatient.

I sent my belongings through the final X-ray check. After I got the okay to retrieve them, one more security official took a look at my declarations card, pulled me aside and asked me repeatedly if I had any comida, any food, with me. Candy, chocolate, anything? What about in the top of your backpack, he asked, pointing to a little zippered pouch.

“Zapatos,” I said as I unzipped to show him my sandals. He was satisfied and I went on my way. (It wasn’t until later I remembered the pot brownie in my purse that a friend had gifted me a couple of nights before.)

I walked down a corridor and rounded a corner to enter the lobby. A room full of unfamiliar brown faces stared at me. Overwhelmed, I walked past them. I figured it best to wait for the crowd to thin out before I attempted a search for mi tía, my aunt, Socorro.

A short, stocky man walked over to me and asked who I looked for. My parent’s paranoia about the dangers of Mexico had gotten to me a little before I left the States. I hesitated for half a second before I said, “Socorro.” He nodded and told me that he was my cousin, Damián, and that I should wait there. He returned with a dark, older woman in a knee-length skirt, stockings and a sweater. I had remembered a lighter face, but I recognized her piercing blue eyes.

She asked if I recognized her. Un poquito, a little bit, I said. She laughed. Her chuckle sounded exactly like that of my Tía Francisca, her sister. I had arrived.