Saving the Planet with Pig Poop

 Here in the troubled Mexican state of Michoacan, on a tour called “Michoacan Cuisine and Monarch Butterflies” led by the Oaxacan chef Susana Trilling, I’ve met a lot of remarkable people. Two of the most interesting are women from the indigenous Purepecha tribe native to this region. Both women have used their talents and courage to improve their lives and the lives of those around them.

 First we met Benedicta Alja Vardas, who came with her 16-year-old daughter Graziella, lugging her carbon-burning grill, from her small village of San Lorenzo to the  Colegio Culinario in Morelia to teach us some of the dishes from her people’s pre-hispanic roots. (Both the cuisine and the music of Michoacan have been declared non-tangible World Heritage Treasures by the Mexican government.)

Benedicta, who speaks the Purepecha language at home, was an orphan who married at 13.  She had two daughters after the age of 20 and rarely left her village.  But seven years ago, in the first  “Encounter of Traditional Chefs” in Morelia, she won first place and has won first place (and often second as well) every year since. Last year the judges decided to make her a lifetime honoree and let others compete.  Although Benedicta had never traveled, in October of last year she was flown to San Antonio, Texas to demonstrate her cooking methods before the Culinary Institute of America.

Wearing her traditional Michoacan traje of  pleated velvet skirt, lace blouse and lace-edged apron, Benedicta cooked several dishes for us.  The recipes were all labor intensive and involved lots of grinding things on the metate—pumpkin seeds, chili seeds, herbs, flowers and of course corn,( including masa dough), which is the  foundation of the local pre-hispanic diet.   Her speciality is Molé de Queso—cheese molé—and a pumpkin-seed-based Atapakua, which is stirred only in one direction until it thickens enough for the spoon to stand up in the pot.

For a grand finale she made tri-colored tortillas our of blue, white and red corn dough.

The second and even more remarkable Purepecha woman chef we met was Calletana (also spelled Cayetana) Nambo Rangel, whose home we visited in the village of  Erongaricuaro.   She has been fighting  for women’s and children’s rights most of her 66 years. One of 12 siblings, Cayetana says, “I get lawyers for abused women and children. I don’t want any woman to be abused because I was abused myself.”

Cayetana was employed as a social worker in her village when, 13 years ago, the Mexican government sent a group of men “all doctors and engineers,” to Colombia to learn about the revolutionary method of using animal waste to create a natural gas that could be used to power a family’s heat and electricity at no cost—and  in a way that emits no carbon into the environment and even  sterilizes the residue to provide nutritious fertilizer for crops. (It can work with the waste from pigs, cows, goats, and even humans.)

“The government wouldn’t pay for my ticket to Colombia because I was a woman,” she says,  “but I wanted to go, so I sold two cows to pay for my ticket.”  When the group returned from Colombia, the only person who understood the technology and installed it in her own home was Cayetana.

Since then, she has spread the word about bio gas and biodigesters (look it up) throughout her part of Mexico.  She has been visited by people from Peru, Israel, Russia, Canada and many other countries, who came to learn the process.  Cayetana can be seen preaching her  gospel on YouTube (in Spanish).  She shows us a letter written to the U.S. State Department in an effort to get her a visa to come to the Illinois to lecture hog farmers on “improving and implementing technology in hog farms,” but the request for her visa was turned down.

On Friday, when we visited Cayetana in her large, immaculate kitchen and watched her cook several pre-hispanic dishes (again grinding on the metate) she insisted we get hands-on experience and learn to wrap corn leaves around a dough of masa and frijoles for corundas.  She also created a stew-like soup, all cooked on her stove which is powered by gas from the waste produced by her three pigs .  She cooks using “Quatros Fuegos—four fires” namely burning charcoal, burning wood, propane gas. (she says she can’t remember the last time she bought a tank) and using the bio gas from her pigs.

 She took us outside to show how the waste from the pigs is mixed with water from a hose, (“You don’t  even get dirty”) and then the waste runs into a tank where it  is converted into gas which fills a huge plastic bag.  The gas is then sent by a tube into the house to the water heater and stove.

 Cayetana insisted we work before we got to eat the feast we’d prepared.  in her flower-filled courtyard we toasted her with sweet lime water flavored with Chia seeds before she and her aged mother Lupe hugged and kissed us and waved good-bye.

(Tomorrow—Monday, Feb. 14—we are going to the  remote area near Zitacuaro  where the Monarch butterflies are  gathered.  We’ll be back in Morelia on Tuesday night and I’ll report on the butterflies as soon as I get internet access.)

Let St. Anthony Find Your True Love (A Valentine Day Ritual from Mexico)

On Tuesday, arriving in Morelia, Mexico on Day One of the Monarch Butterflies and Michoacån Cuisine tour, I didn’t see a single butterfly but did learn about a place that may be more efficient than E-Harmony and Match.com in helping single ladies find the man of their dreams.

It was San Miguelito, the restaurant in Morelia where we ate the first night.  It calls itself a “Restaurante, Bazar, Galeria, & Museo” and they’re not kidding. 

 In addition to scrumptious Mexican food, they sell Day of the Dead figures, Botero-like fat little angels, a wooden chair that is also a skeleton, and aprons imprinted with Guadalupe.

 But the main draw is the back room, which, in addition to dining tables and chairs, holds more than 700 images of St. Anthony of Padua all UPSIDE DOWN.

For over twenty years, according to proprietor Cynthia Martinez, single women have been thronging to this room to beg St. Anthony to intercede for them and send their destined mate to their side.

 There are bulletin boards filled with photos and thanks from satisfied customers who have finally met their soul mate.

Here is what you have to do:  take 13 coins of the same  denomination from two bags hanging nearby.  Line up 13  coins on the base of the main St Anthony statue.  Walk around the statue 13 times.  Pray to St. Anthony.  (Suggested prayer below.  The restaurant also provides a Spanish-language version.)

There is a three-hole notebook below the statue on which you can write your specific request.  One woman covered 21 pages detailing her requirements in a mate.

Nearby is a shelf holding some of the dozens of notebooks  which have been filled in the past two decades with single women’s requests.

Back in the U.S. I had heard that people wanting to sell their homes would bury a statue of St Anthony in the front year, upside down of course, to speed up the sale. (A new friend, Christina, tells me that that’s actually St. Joseph.)

I think the point of the St. Anthony ritual is that, when your wish is fulfilled, you will release the saint and turn him back over.  But the St. Anthonys at San  Miguelito restaurant in Morelia have been standing upside-down for so long, while bringing couples together, that I  don’t think they have any hope of landing on their feet again.

Here is a poster on the restaurant’s wall advertising the Saint’s miraculous powers to lead you to love.

If you want to try this ritual at home:  get your own statue of St. Anthony and 13 identical coins and give it a try.  Here is a suggested prayer I found on the internet.  If you would like to have the Spanish-language prayer given out by San Miguelito Restaurant, write me at JoanPGage@yahoo.com.

Oh Wonderful St.Anthony, glorious on account of the fame of thy miracles, and through the condescension of Jesus in coming in the form of a little child to rest in thy arms, obtain for me of his bounty the grace which I ardently desire from the depths of my heart. Thou who was so loving towards miserable sinners, regard not the unworthiness of those who pray to thee, but the glory of God that it may be once again magnified by this request which I now make to you. Amen

Thoughts on Turning 70

(The photo shows my mother and myself in 1943)

When you turn 70, (as I do on Friday, Feb. 4) you can’t consider yourself middle-aged any more.  Let’s face it, you’re wicked old.

In 1985 my mother died at 74 of cardiomyopathy and my father died at 80 not long after, but he spent his last years lost in dementia, which may or may not have been connected to his Parkinson’s disease. I think we all keep our parents’ ages at death in the back of our minds like a bad omen.  A male friend of mine was convinced that he’d die of heart disease at 62, like his father, and didn’t relax about this until he passed that milestone year.

I used to think the best time of life was when your children are young and all sorts of accomplishments are still possible in your future.  But now I think that, for women, crone-hood – life after sixty—is the best time of one’s life.

If that is, you are lucky enough to have good health.  Two years ago I was collecting classmates’ bios for the book distributed at our 50^th high school reunion in Edina, Minnesota. I realized how many classmates had died (39 out of 331) and that many were struggling with serious illness.  Also a number of my friends have had their mobility compromised by hip or knee problems and other ailments.

I’ve been very lucky this far, which is something that I think about every day.

When I sit down in the morning with coffee and the newspapers, I’m profoundly glad that I don’t have to show up an office at 8 a.m. with five newspapers in my hand, then read them and mimeograph a news summary for my company’s management before ten a.m.  That was my first job in Manhattan, working for Lever Brothers.  Now all executives get their daily business news instantaneously on their I-phones or Blackberries or laptops.

I admit, I’ve become addicted to the computer, which I think is the most important innovation in my lifetime.

When my mother died in 1985, she had never touched a computer (although my father actually sold huge, hulking Univac computers to companies before he retired.) When she was pregnant with me—in 1940-41-- my mother spent the time compiling a book-sized family history of our ancestors, typing it up laboriously with lots of carbon copies, and distributing it to her eight siblings and eventually to her children.  Think how much easier that job would be today!

Another computer phenomenon is the social networks, especially Facebook, which many people consider invasive and dangerous.  But it has created a worldwide community which can share news and ideas and opinion instantly.

Consider this—on the first day of February, two young women who are among my “Facebook friends” each gave birth to a daughter—one in Omaha and one in Connecticut-- and they both announced it to the world on Facebook before they were wheeled out of the delivery room.  One even posted an album of photos of the baby, before and after the umbilical cord was cut.

Also, I’ve heard from friends with relatives who are soldiers in, say, Afghanistan, that an expectant dad in the military can watch his wife’s entire labor and delivery live on the computer (I guess through Skype.) This is, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing. Of course if the dad didn’t have to go to war, that would be an even better thing.

Sometimes I imagine explaining things like this to my mother, who would have loved the internet.

The goal that motivates me to exercise on the stationary bike most days and go to Pilates lessons is the hope that I’ll stay alive and mobile long enough to be a grandmother. My friends become inarticulate when trying to explain how grandchildren can transform your life.

It seems to me that when women turn fifty, they’re likely to give their husbands a big cast-of-thousands celebration and ignore their own birthday, but when they turn 60, many of my friends celebrated themselves with the party or trip they’d always wanted.

And when women enter crone-hood, they often channel the creative energy they used to spend on home, children and jobs into some long-hidden passion-- designing jewelry, writing a book, gardening, volunteering their talents to a philanthropy. They allow themselves to do what they always wanted, but never had time for. A friend of mine, a couple of years older than I am, went from wife, mother and chef to law student, then lawyer, then judge, then a state chief justice. A run-in with cancer slowed her down and she retired.  Now she’s enrolled at Tufts University’s Cummings Veterinary School so that, aged 70-plus, she can fulfill her childhood dream and become a veterinarian. (And she relaxes with horseback riding and tap dancing!)

I, too, went the “discover-your-passion-at-60” route and turned away from journalism (although I still do it) to re-discovering art, which was my major in college until I realized I could never earn a living at it.  So I started taking lessons at the Worcester Art Museum, exhibited in some local shows and sold some paintings.

As long I can get around and handle my own luggage, I intend to travel to places I’ve never been and take lots of photographs (mostly of people) and then turn the photos into paintings.  Last month I wrote about a night spent watching sea turtles hatching on a beach in Nicaragua and heading into the sea.  I called it a “bucket list” experience.

Next week I’m off on another one.  My husband is giving me the birthday gift of a

culinary tour in Mexico with chef Susana Trilling, traveling around the state of Michoacan to witness the migration of the Monarch butterflies.   Susana has a cooking school in Oaxaca (called Seasons of My Heart) and I’ve been on unforgettable tours with her, far, far off the beaten path to many parts of the country, but this is Susana’s first Butterfly tour and I know it’s going to be amazing

There are a lot more trips on my bucket list and I don’t know how much time I’ve got left to make them, but, free of the drama, responsibility, worry and insecurity of youth, I’m entering my seventh decade with anticipation (and hope) that this will be the best one yet.

Snowed Under

You folks in the Midwest  are hunkering down right now for the Big One—a storm that will drop maybe two feet of snow on you.  Cry me a river.  Here in Massachusetts we’ve received four feet of snow in the past month and that is just 2.5 inches short of the all-time record of 50.9 inches in January 2005.

And now they’re predicting 15 inches or more in the next three days. We’ll be watching those dirty frozen mountains in the parking lots melting far past Easter.

So here are some photos I want to share with you.

Up on top is our street sign—Nelson St—where it connects at our corner with Route 140.  (We’re just on the Grafton side of the Shrewsbury line.)  As on every other street in Massachusetts, you have to creep fearfully forward in your car onto the highway because you can’t see around the drifts if a monster truck is hurtling toward you.

This is how our swimming pool looks.  There’s a tiny fish pond at the far end of it.  I wonder if the fish are surviving in there under all that snow.

This is the picket fence that divides our front yard from the lower back  field where the pool is located.

I would like to offer the icicle coming off our roof (below)  to the Guinness Book of Records as the largest icicle in the world.  It reached the ground long ago, and, as you can see, it incorporates several phone lines and such. Has anybody out there got a bigger icicle than this one?

I keep waiting for it to fall and take out our electricity but so far we still have lights—and the Christmas lights on the front-door wreath and the lighted family of geese on the front lawn are still lighted because no one can get to the outdoor electric plug, so the geese are burning brightly under the snow.  Today I saw a spot of green emerge that is the mother goose’s hat.

Here is my car as it looked when I started cleaning it after the last storm.  The young man with the snow blower is from the father-son team who come around and plow our driveways. (Upper and lower driveways.) They’re making a whole lot of money this year and whenever there’s a snow holiday, the teenage son goes skiing.  He really likes snow.  During the last storm, his father’s truck and plow got stuck while clearing our driveway and they spent nearly an hour getting it unstuck.

I grew up in Minnesota and tend to scorn the complaints of  Massachusetts natives with the comment, “You Yankees  don’t know what a snowstorm is.  Back in Minnesota we sometimes had to get out of our house through the second floor window.”

But I sure can’t remember an icicle back in Minnesota to compare with this one.

Liminal Stages and Death on the Internet

I thought I’d introduce this subject with a photo of a fabulous horse-drawn hearse that I saw in Granada, Nicaragua.  The coffin rides like Sleeping Beauty inside the glass compartment, and you’ll notice that the horses are draped with crocheted blankets.  "Why?" I asked.  "Because this is a very serious time,” I was told.)

My husband claims that I’ve been preparing for death ever since my twenties--over 40 years ago.  I guess that’s what you get when you marry a hypochondriac with a gloomy Scandinavian background. (Remember in "Annie Hall" when Diane Keaton and Woody Allen were breaking up and sorting out their books? She said something like: “All the books with ‘Death’ in the title are yours.”  You should see my library.)

So about death. Like everything else, dying has apparently been transformed by  the creation of the internet.  I think we’re all familiar with on-line memorial pages where mourners can post their condolences and memories of the dear departed.

In today’s New York Times (Jan. 25) there’s a front-page story reporting that  funeral homes are now offering bereaved families the opportunity to invite friends and relatives who can’t make it to the actual funeral to watch the services live on the computer and then re-view the tape over and over again. Some of the companies offering this service to undertakers are FuneralOne, and  Event by Wire.  Even the famous Frank E. Campbell funeral chapel in Manhattan is introducing a webcasting program.

Some funeral directors offer the on-line funeral service for free, according to The Times, and others charge $100 to $300.  A family can make the funeral broadcast open to the public or issue invitations along with a password. (I wonder, does Evite do funerals?) This service has allowed the military colleagues of a Marine killed in Afghanistan, for instance, to view his hometown funeral including the arrival at the airport, the graveside ceremony and the 21-gun salute.  The father of the young Marine said he watches the funeral over and over again on the computer. “I don’t know why, but I guess it’s healing.”

Two weeks ago, the cover story in the Sunday New York Times Magazine of Jan 9, 2011 --“Ghosts in the Machine”-- was all about what happens to the words and images of yourself that you’ve posted on the internet—after you die.  Will you be remembered by your last foolhardy Tweet?  By those embarrassing photos on Facebook? Entrepreneurs, according to The Times, are popping up who will manage your digital afterlife for a fee—acting as a virtual executor who will categorize, file, organize or just do away with your on-line self. 

Andy Fish, the artist and instructor who taught me about blogging and Photoshop and computer illustration, says that he plans another kind of digital immortality—in which he can communicate with his fans from beyond the grave.  Andy often writes  a week’s worth of posts for his blog,  www.AndyFishWrap.blogspot.com , and then schedules the dates on which they will be posted on Blogspot.  Using that facility, he plans to post an annual message on his birthday well into the next century, even if he’s already gone to his reward.

Death, of course is one of life’s major passages. So why not make some plans for it ahead of time? 

For a woman’s group I belong to, with a different topic for discussion every month, we once wrote and read aloud our obituaries. It was a worthwhile exercise.  Leaving a draft of one’s obituary probably would be helpful to  survivors as part of your  internet estate unless, like my husband, you already have an up-to-date bio on your computer for public appearances and press coverage.

(One of Nick’s colleagues at The New York Times back in the day was the head obituary writer. He was always amazed that he could get in to see anyone—no matter how important—by mentioning his job.  Every big shot cares about what his Times obituary will say about him.)

Speaking of life passages, daughter Eleni Gage just launched her blog “The Liminal Stage”, on New Year’s Eve, which she calls “The most liminal night of the year".  The subtitle is:  “Navigating a modern world with the help of time-tested traditions.”

"Liminal" comes from the Latin word for “threshold” and Eleni has packed several liminal moments of her own into the last year: getting engaged, then married and moving from Manhattan to Miami. 

Here you see her at her wedding in Corfu, Greece, about to toss a decorated wedding bread to the single ladies behind her (a Corfiote twist on throwing the bouquet.)

Eleni  majored in Folk Lore and Mythology at college and, like me, she really loves learning about traditions, rituals, superstitions, divination – in all cultures.  She writes on her blog:

“It’s precisely because people get anxious around liminal stages, and the questions they raise, that cultures develop rituals designed to bring comfort, protection, and luck…My family is Greek so we throw pomegranates on our doorstep to invite abundance, and sit down to a meal in which a lucky quarter (wrapped in tinfoil for hygiene) is hidden inside a meat pie. …Whoever finds the quarter is guaranteed a good year, an extra little burst of confidence with which to face the unknown future. That’s the point of rituals, and of this blog–to invite luck, to celebrate a given moment, and to use traditions to do what they always have–to give yourself the tiniest sense that you can control what happens to you, even if that’s just an illusion.”

 You can find Eleni’s blog at www.TheLiminalStage.com or by clicking on the title in my blog list to the right.

Ode to a Chair (And Some Windows)

(Please click on the photos to make them bigger.)

When I travel, I seem to be drawn to photographing windows and doors.  And chairs.

The windows and doors intrigue me, I guess, because they hint at the mysteries that lie within.  I always want to open the door or peer in the window, but I never do.  I just take a photograph.

I even made a series of notecards featuring Greek windows.  Here (above and below) are eight of the shots.

Chairs, especially the caned taverna chairs that you see all over Greece, often painted blue, seem poignant to me, as if they’ve been abandoned or are waiting in vain for the old Greek men who used to sit in them, drinking ouzo or coffee and playing tavli, all the while clicking their worry beads in one hand.

Just now, when I traveled to Nicaragua, I was fascinated by the beautiful chairs I saw everywhere there—which were mostly rocking chairs—wicker or bentwood, Thonet style.  They were so graceful and elegant, with their S curves and lacey designs. (The wicker ones piled together  below are in a colonial mansion in Granada which is being restored.)

La Gran Francia, our hotel in Granada, even had some chairs attached to the wall as decoration.

In Granada, every small shop seemed to have a rocking chair inside or outside the front door, where the proprietor could sit and watch the world go by.  Many small homes had the same thing.

In wealthier homes, the rocking chairs were on the inside—usually near the central courtyard, positioned to take advantage of the garden views and the cool breezes that would flow through the house because the huge doors were left open, protected by wrought iron gates.

When we traveled to the island of Ometepe, created by two linked volcanoes in Lake Nicaragua, every little casita had its rocking chairs on the veranda, so you could sit and admire the view of the lake below, seen through the tropical trees, with background music from the monkeys and exotic birds.

Life in Nicaragua seemed so much slower and more contemplative, and everything was designed to make the most of the view. 

And when we traveled to Playa del Coco, staying in one of several villas looking out at the waves of the Pacific Ocean, there were plenty of rocking chairs or Adirondack chairs placed for the enjoyment of the surf and the sunset, which was different every night but never failed to provide lights and colors better than any Fourth of July fireworks display.

One of the lessons learned in Nicaragua was to just sit and rock and really take the time to appreciate the view/ sunset/ breeze or passing street scene.  I think that’s part of what Dominique Browning was talking about when she entitled her blog Slow Love Life. 

Birthing Turtles in Nicaragua (part 2)

Yesterday I wrote about the sea turtle whom I called Olive (because she was an Olive Ridley turtle) who climbed onto our beach in Nicaragua under the protective eye of the Turtle Police and thought about laying her eggs here, but changed her mind and went back into the sea

Last night, about nine p.m., I was treated to a once-in-a-lifetime experience when Emilio (who is originally from Nicaragua and is now married to our daughter Eleni) took us two beaches away to La Flor Wildlife Refuge, one of seven beaches in Central America which protects the sea turtles who flock here in mass arrivals of thousands at a time (called arribadas) between August and December.  Each female turtle will lay as many as 100 eggs and bury them in the sand.

Then, 40 to 50 days later, the eggs hatch and great flocks of baby turtles emerge from the sand (usually at night) and crawl to the sea, building up their muscles during this dangerous trek when they are at the mercy of seabirds and other prey.

They launch themselves into the ocean and begin to swim--traveling as far away as Chile and Alaska.  Then, when the females are ready to lay their eggs, they return here to Nicaragua.

The biggest nesting crowds come in  November and December, so their eggs are hatching now.  The park rangers who man the  refuge are there day and night.  For about ten dollars (five dollars if you're local) they let you visit the beach at night and watch the babies emerge and  head for the sea.

Last night, when we arrived, they handed us a basket of baby turtles which had emerged during the day and been collected for their protection until nightfall.  They told us to follow the path straight ahead and to deposit the babies on the sand three meters before the surf.

They gave Emilio red cellophane to put around his lantern and warned us to take photos only without flash--I complied. (The baby turtles will follow any light in their effort to get into the water.)

On our way to the beach we encountered a group of visitors gathered around a large female turtle who was straining to lay her eggs in the sand.  We knew it was not our friend Olive from the day before, as she had a chunk out of her shell from a shark bite.

 Farther down we saw several huge flocks of babies emerging from the sand.  I dragged my feet and scuffled along, terrified of stepping on the babies

 Just ahead of the water we deposited "our" babies on the sand and then shouted encouragement as they headed for the light held by Emilio as he stood in shallow water.  He wanted to help the front runner  along, but we insisted he practice "tought love" so Speedy Gonzalez, as I dubbed him, developed the strength to swim to Alaska.

We stood, feet planted in the sand, while many babies crawled right over our feet and began to swim.  It was a thrilling experience--certainly one to put on your "bucket list" of things to do before you die.

Beside watching the birth of countless baby turtles, I saw the stars for the first time last night in all their splendor--a bowl of stars overhead, the familiar constellations I had studied as a child, but behind these familiar stars, there wasn't darkness, but a strange, foggy , bumpy background of light, like a chenille bedspread with a  faint glow.  I figured it must be the light reflected from far distant galaxies I'd never seen before.

The rangers at the refuge keep a hand-written chart of how many turtles come to lay their eggs each year.  The figure varies greatly from around 87,000 to as high as 186,000.  They predict from the numbers so far, that this will be a record year.

We all felt blessed to witness the birth of one of nature's  bravest and most endangered creatures.