Adobe Dwellings and Making Tortillas

The joys of adobe. Or maybe I should say the joys of mold. On the left, the lean-to on the back of this building, is my apartment. Notice how the wall is open near the roof. This is necessary. There is no heat here, and if I want heat in the kitchen, I need a chiminea. Which I cannot yet afford--I would have to pay for the chiminea and someone to move it here as well.

There is an electric heater in the bedroom, but when the electricity is out, there is no heat. Br-r-r-r! As a consequence. There is a problem with things molding. Mold grows anywhere there is not good air circulation. Behind furniture, in the bathroom, under things not used.... It is very frustrating. I don't want' mold on my canvases, so I have to move them around a lot, and keep checking to make sure nothing sits or gets accidentally pushed against a wall.

Tortillas:

I can tell when someone is making tortillas. The smoke eases out from under the edges of the roof, and as I go by I can hear the poo-pop-pop of someone's hands on the dough.

A neighbor showed me how to make tortillas. REAL tortillas. She cooks in a kitchen like this mine, open on the top, with open cupboard spaces below the counter (la barra). The tortillas are cooked on a piece of steel, like the lid of a 55 gallon drum, over a wood fire. The metal for this is called a "comál¨. The smoke travels out, through the openings above the adobe walls , below the roof. The comál is a great pan for dry frying. I have one, but my indoor stove is a two-burner hot stove. My comál is too big to work well. I have yet to try it outside.

The woman making tortillas, worked with gentle, focused efficiency. She would dip her hand in a little water, then take a small ball of freshly ground corn (there is a man in town who's business is grinding corn for tortillas), pass it between her hands, with a "pop-pop-pop" firmly patting, between her palms. It made a perfectly smooth flattened ball.

Then, she would open up the press. It is heavy wood, about 10" across. She showed me how the plastic bag she had sliced opened was positioned in the press. A light-weight bag--not too stiff. She placed the ball on the bottom, closed the top, and flipped the lever, and pressed firmly on the handle that crossed over. When she opened it up, there was a perfectly round tortilla.

What surprised me, we her next step. She picked up the tortilla, plastic and all, and set it against the top part of the press. She flipped open the plastic and replaced it, then picked it all up, and flipped it over in her hand, lifting the plastic off the other side, then flopped the tortilla right down on the comál. Looked easy enough, I thought. We didnt' speak each other's language. Just cooking. Then she motioned for me to try the same.

I picked up a little ball of dough, and patted out a tortilla, then put it in the plastic in the press, and closed the lid. So far, so good. Then I opened it, and tried to flip the plastic up as she had done. My tortilla stuck to the plastic a bit. Then I tried to pick it up and remove the plastic from the other side. It stuck, too. Then, I tried to flip it out on the hot comál. Ouch! My tortilla landed crumpled in a combo-pile of flat and rumpled dough.

She helped smooth out my tortilla. Then when it was time to flip them. Her tortillas were constantly moving before me. Toss down, after a few seconds move to the side a bit. Then after a few more, flip over. Then after a few more, flip over again. When it all puffs up, pull it off and put under a towel to keep warm. Incredible! Increible!

My poor tortilla didn't turn too well when it was done. I went back to my new comál in my own apartment and proceeded to make more ugly tortillas. I must say, they are getting better. I had to make Guatamala style tortillas for many days (a thicker, small style) before I could even consider a nice thin tortilla. Still working on good tortillas. This is one of those kitchen skills that take a while to master.

I felt 9 years old all over again, learning to cook. My kitchen skills are strong, for American and European food. I can cook some Asian, too. But not so with traditional Mexican cooking, on traditional materials. Starting life over, right?

Ripe oranges, A lttle painting, My neighbor´s house.

These oranges are ripe off the tree. They were delicious! Some others, left a bit longer, turned no more than yellow, and became dry an flavorless.

An 8x10 panel painting. It now lives in Canada with my friend Audrey. I have work in 3 nations now. I guess that makes me an international artist(?)

My neighbor's house on the right. He bought this house for his young family and is restoring it. A safety team worked for days removing bees from it. Across the street is the open door of the ¨Tienda¨ where I buy small groceries. It is our version of 7-Eleven, and works very well. No ATM inside this one. No cameras, either.

Many days, the electricity is too low to heat water. I really like the locally grown coffee. It's fresh, rich, and well roasted. But I need to use the coffee maker, or boil water. The coffee maker will make coffee on low power--an incredibly rich cup that way. But when there is no power at all, which happens a lot, I turn to my other "stove". This is a keyhole campfire, without the main campfire. Under the the 3 main rocks, there is another rock as a platform for the "carbón¨. The carbón is a very fragrant charred, wood, used like charcoal bricketts. It takes a bit more to heat water since it is not compressed. I start this kind of fire with little peices of pitchwood, and sometimes I have a bit of paper to assist it. Often there is not a scrap of spare paper in the house. (This is a hard thing for an artist to bear!) After about a half-hour, I have water hot enough for instant coffee, and about 45 minutes later, hot enough for real coffee.

Living like this is next to constant camping.

Blogger: User Profile: Katheryne

Blogger: User Profile: Katheryne
It's been a busy couple months. First getting situated in another apartment, then scouting around trying to find materials and help for setting up an easle. Labor is very relaxed, not really interested in helping, even for pay. Not sure I get that one.

Well, I finally got a tripod easle set up with the help of a local friend. People who live here can get more to happen. I find in interesting that I am not the only one shy about interacting with a language barrier. The people who live here, also are shy about talking to me except when they know I can speak some of their language. My Spanish is coming along, by necessity, and after 3 months of dire necessity, I do OK.

The stress of only using Spanish is heavy. By the mid-day, my patience if fried, and I'm tired. Each day is the same one over and over and over. If it wasn't interesting, this would be a nightmare. But an interesting nightmare, it is.

Each day, a little more of what is going on around me becomes a little more visible. One day, I will hear a new word, that I know is used in everyday language. I did not hear it the day before. Nor do I remember hearing it ever before. But one day, there it is, repeated many times in the day. As my understanding of the language grows, it is like a window opening up, a little at a time. A little more light on the subject, one tiny ray at a time.

One day, my best friend was talking to me, and I asked (in Spanish), "Was everything you just said, in Spanish?" My friend said, "Sí." I thought everything had just been said in English. The different-ness had disappeared, and understanding as easy as my native language replaced the strain. I hope soon, every conversation is as smooth and invisible as that one.