Blame it on Liberace; or, The bird, the bees, and some fireworks

Well, now. My magazine from May 20 is much better traveled than I am.

It's a New York magazine (never mind I'm not from New York; I still like it) and was supposed to come to Cuba.

Somehow it ended up at two places first. It was covered with the red tell-tale stamps that map out my mail's detour before it hit Gitmo.

"Missent to DPO 09642" means it was sent to Madrid, Spain.

Then "Missent to 09613" means it then went to Livorno, Italy.  (At least it wasn't Oman this time).

I understand that the photograph of Michael Douglas (as Liberace) is quite disconcerting at first glance. I'm going to assume it was so distracting that a few postal workers along the way put it in the wrong pile. I'm okay that it's well traveled (at least it wasn't a bill). I just wish they would have thrown in a postcard or two.

And I STILL got it earlier than the magazines that are on the racks at the NEX.

Our baby bird has flown the coop. I was going out to my car a few days ago, and something in the bushes caught my eye. It was baby bird!  The little dove was flitting and flying, not too coordinated-like, right onto the top of the fence, and then into the neighbor's back yard. Saw him later on the neighbor's car and roof. I hope he hangs in this area a little longer, and I'm glad he at least made it to flying. It did my heart good to see our little bird was out on his own.


I FINALLY got out and hiked the ridgeline this past week. The dirt and rock trail follows the crest of some large hills surrounding the base, and it has the most beautiful views for miles (of not only US-Cuba, but Cuba-Cuba). I went with a friend and our three kids, who will be in 1st, 2nd, and 4th grade next year. In places, it's quite the hike---steep inclines and washed out trails make it challenging. The kids were awesome---two took tumbles and got a little scraped up, and another was attacked by a swarm of bees, AND they still lasted for a little over five miles. Not bad at all!

Because there was a trail run on the next day (July 4), the trail had flags every few yards with names of servicemen and women killed in war. It's quite sobering hiking by dozens of these names. I don't know what's worse---the majority of  PFCs, probably kids who are 18 or 19, or the higher ranking folks who were probably quite a bit older and maybe had their own wife/husband and kids at home. It's tragic any way you look at it. Probably 2/3 of the flags had blown over, so the kids helped put them upright, which is no easy task since the soil here is like concrete.




And the pot at the end of the rainbow was a trip to McDonald's, of course.  Don't judge; try cheering three tired, sore kids through trails and then YOU tell them "no."


We celebrated the Fourth by going to an outdoor festival for the kids (bouncy houses, face painting, games), then the oldest and I went to watch an all-girl (or mostly all-girl) AC/DC cover band.  Just seeing a group of women thrashing guitars and watching men scream like a bunch of teenage girls made the concert worth it. That, and I never thought I'd hear men scream/sing along as women belt out,"We've got the biggest balls of them all!" It's my all-time favorite double entendre song ever. It never gets old, even if I'm not a teenager anymore.

We also had a great feast with friends, and as with all things here, it was a mish mash of just about everything and most excellent: sushi, apple pie, and ribs. Doesn't get any better than that.

And of course, there were fireworks---amazing fireworks. There were fireworks that made shapes of stars, hearts, and happy faces. I've never seen that before. It was one of the best displays I've seen. I imagine the Cubans also watched in amazement. I wonder what the Cuban guards think as they are watching the fireworks from their perches in the towers, looking down at the bay.

I also thought of my grandfather Dudley and how he would have loved the wonderment of it all. You know, celebrating the birth of our country while living in a communist country; celebrating everything patriotic with friends, including some first and second generation Americans; and being thankful for the Chinese for inventing fireworks to celebrate the most American of holidays. My grandfather was a lifetime firework aficionado. He never got too old to get excited about a firework show. One of the last times we saw him, he pulled a lawnchair into the driveway as we shot some off in the street in front of his house for New Year's.

As I was oohing and aahing and saying "wow" over and over again, I thought how much I hope that in my 90s, I will still be able to find the little things in life exciting and fun. That's how my grandfather lived his life: he still found joy in everyday things, and he freely shared his joy with all those around him. Whether it's a bird that's flown the coop, or the silly looking iguana running across the road, or a huge Owl Moth in the back porch---I try to slow down and remember it's the little things that make life big.

And yes, that even includes getting my magazine with a somewhat bewildering cover over a month late. It's still all good.

Never Thoughts; or, What's Cooking? Not a damn thing.

And now, the latest edition of "never thoughts."

Never thought I would be excited about bread, sour cream, butter, or yogurt being on the shelf of a grocery store. 

Never thought I'd follow a web page to see when people post things like, "Block cheese at the commissary! Really! Get it before they sell out!" 

Never thought I'd have a closet full of running shoes and flip-flops. Didn't think I'd be all excited about a sale on shoes---especially running shoes. Or running shorts. Or lightweight, absorbent socks. Or that I'd be able to run a 10K and not absolutely die. 

Never thought I'd have to scream for my kids to come in at nightfall.

Never thought it would be damn near impossible to visit the United States. Saturday's rotator flight? It has 1 available seat. Again. Ugh. 

Never thought we would have to give a graduation card in Spanish because there are absolutely no other ones available. (The kid did think it was humorous, even if he didn't understand a word of it). 

As much as I love winter clothes (scarves! hats! mittens! cashmere!), I don't miss winter. Or fall. Or spring. It's pretty much summer here, all year long. 

I can bitch and complain and moan and groan over what I do miss, but that list has somehow, miraculously, gotten shorter. 

It has all come down to this: food. 

I miss food. As in, good quality produce and meat. I miss farmer's markets. I miss locally grown food. I miss the comfort food of my childhood. I see many of the people I love in relation to food. Grammaw = purple hulled butter beans. Granny = lemon pound cake (Aunt Irene's recipe!)  

Paw = jars of fresh green beans.  Mom = shrimp étoufée or gumbo. Dad = homemade peach ice cream or orange sherbet.

I spoke about this at a wedding once, about how food can seal a deal. I really think the turning point in a relationship with a colleague was when she took me to a restaurant called The Southern Kitchen in Tacoma, Washington. I was so homesick at the time---living in grey, depressing Washington, feeling isolated from my family, having a hard time making friends, and with a small baby---that one small gesture of kindness made me realize I could hang with that chick the rest of my life. I almost cried in my grits, biscuits with white gravy, and sweet tea. It was that good and the trip there meant that much to me.

Waffles in Cuba? No, silly. It's Brussels. 

(That same friend and I, fourteen years later, spent a few weeks last summer eating and drinking our way across Europe. I'm happy to say that we don't have to have food for our friendship to flourish, but it does make for some great memories along the way).  

My group of friends in Texas and I would meet once a month or so and discuss what we were reading---all over a nice, home-cooked meal, potluck style.  

Food is what brings people together. I love going to our friends/neighbors' house here for a meal (and usually a card game). I've learned to keep a bottle of wine in the fridge for last minute invitations. 

Not Cuba---Beefsteaks in Germany

And if you've been to my house for a meal  consider yourself a rare species. Why? I have horrible anxiety about cooking for people or for planning any type of event. I am not a foodie. I'm the antithesis of a foodie. Food is, well, something you need to live. It's not special. I don't understand my friends who pay big bucks for organic heirloom tomatoes (and then want to talk to me about it---bo-ring). I don't even really like tomatoes. I can read and follow instructions to make most recipes, and I know some tricks and shortcuts. I can proficiently work a pressure cooker, a food processor, and I love my fancy stand-up mixer. But cooking is just for eating, and that's not terribly exciting, either.

I just don't get obsessing over perfect meals---maybe because I've spent over 1/3 of my life at the table with children. And children, as we all know, are messy and sometimes disgusting in their eating habits and tend to prefer hotdogs over most anything else. Once you've had a child barf the meal it took you 2 hours to prepare all over the dinner table, well, you kind of lose interest in dazzling and just go for the quick-and-easy.

So we have ascertained that I don't especially enjoy cooking, but I do enjoy the company of my friends. 

And I have never been crazy about shopping, but now, I loathe it. 

The fact I'm having to spend so much of my time thinking about shopping lists and planning for the unexpected and having to improvise on the fly is killing me. 

I'm not putting all the blame on the commissary---after all, all groceries have to be barged or flown in. I guess many fresh ingredients can't make that voyage. And we are a small base (only store = commissary/NEX combo), so I shouldn't be surprised that we don't have the room or demand for several things I used to buy in my trusty old HEB in Texas. 

But I still have frustrating days. 

Today is a prime example. Went to the commissary to get ingredients for something I'm making for tomorrow night. I knew we don't have liquid shrimp boil here (we aren't in the South, after all), but with our more-than-ample liquor section, I figured we would have clam juice. Surely people are making Bloody Marys, right? But no shrimp boil, no clam juice. Plan C: make a seafood stock using chicken stock that comes in that funky little paper container. Nope, they don't have that either. 

And I'm out of ideas for Plan D. Actually, we'll just use that crappy stuff full of salt that comes in a soup can. They don't even have a low sodium version. 

See? I'm pissed and bitter. This would be how that alcohol mysteriously always ends up in the buggy. And how I end up taking 2 Excedrin Migraines every single time I come back from grocery shopping.

Also, I wanted to make brats tonight. Got the brats, got sauerkraut, but no buns. They are out of buns. 

*sigh*

It's like this EVERY SINGLE TIME I come to the grocery store. The blame is on me, not the commissary. I'm just not patient or creative enough to wheel around the store 30 times finding improvised ingredients for Plan B, Plan C, Plan D, and Plan E. I've never lived anywhere where I had to do this for almost every meal. I see why people give up and buy junkfood for their families. I refuse to do that (most days, anyway)---but it is SO tempting. 

Bacon pancakes and Heineken for breakfast. Not Cuba; Amsterdam.

And don't get me started on restaurants. I dream of bowls of Vietnamese Pho, platters of Tex-Mex migas, or plates of German Jagerschnitzel (all which we had locally in our town in Texas).

Even though some people think living on an island near the beach MUST be like being on vacation all the time, life here isn't necessarily easy. It's all about adapting and improvising, and we've done a relatively good job thus far on almost every aspect of our life. 

I'm just having a really tough time with this one.