Wide, open spaces

zone

IF YOU STEP from our house out to the street, hang a right, walk about five blocks and look sharply over your left shoulder, this is what you’ll see.

Mountains, some humble homes, trees, wide open spaces and a railroad track that heads to the Pacific coast and the commercial shipping hub at Lázaro Cárdenas.

I took the shot during a 30-minute exercise walk I made yesterday morning with my child bride and our closest nephew, the one I once called the Little Vaquero, the Little Cowboy, but he’s bigger now and no cowboy. He’s a soccer goalie and nearly 15.

He had spent the night with us, which he does every now and then, but not nearly so often as he did when he was much younger.

I’m not sure why this scene caught my eye. Maybe it’s the new year, and this wide-open space represents possibilities to me. To me, a new year is like a clean slate.

And then we walked  home and ate waffles.

Waffles & snowflakes

waffles

WE’RE A HEALTH-conscious couple, and we watch what we eat. It’s partly why we are so slim and beautiful.

Although we love waffles, we rarely eat them because they are not healthy. However, special occasions call for celebration, and we decided Wednesday morning to breakfast on waffles, a Trump fiesta with Canadian maple syrup.

However, just as my child bride was about to turn on the blender and waffle iron, the electricity went out, and it stayed out for an hour due to work in the street.

So we ate the usual cereal, but with a grin. At least I was grinning. My lovely companion still is uncertain about Trump, being Mexican and listening to Mexican news sources, which are just as left-wing as CNN and MSNBC.

There is no Mexican version of Fox or Breitbart.

However, she’s as conservative as I am, and she knows that I always know best, so she’s coming around, slowly.

Mexico has focused entirely on Trump’s border wall and his sometimes ill-phrased statements about Mexicans.

They know nothing about other U.S. issues like tax cuts, veterans’ matters,  federal debt, entitlements, BLM, Islamic terrorism, Mohammedan “refugees,” safe spaces,  PC lunacy, Common Core, joblessness and so on.

Alas, to Mexicans, it’s all about them and their God-given right to sneak across the border whenever they feel like it.

Our waffle extravaganza was delayed one day, but not canceled. We waffled our hearts out yesterday instead.

Like election night, it was very tasty.

* * * *

01_snowflake_1Left-wing snowflakes are in a state of hysteria and meltdown. Here are some hilarious examples:

  1. A guy named Jerry Kang, who is UCLA’s vice chancellor for “equity, diversity and inclusion,” held an event last night to process the shocking election results.
  2. At Cornell University, a “cry-in” was held on the Quad. “I’m quite terrified, honestly,” one snowflake opined.
  3. Thousands of poor losers blocked the entrance to Trump Tower in Chicago. They said they are against fascism, racism and war. Where this stuff is breaking out in the wake of the election is not clear.
  4. Snowflake high school students and teachers, about 1,500 of them,  staged a walkout Wednesday in California to protest Trump’s fair-and-square election victory. They’re just not gonna take it, you hear?
  5. In New York, thousands of leftists took to the streets howling obscenities about Trump’s victory, “rape culture,” racism and all that silly razzmatazz.

I remember the day following the shocking (to conservatives) re-election in 2012 of Weepy Barry.

We were gobsmacked!

But did we stage cry-ins? Did we block entrances to buildings? Did Republican ghetto-dwellers riot in the streets, as happened in Oakland after the Trump victory?

Of course not. We just hoped for a better day.

And here it is!

Object of envy

New Image
How it looked today, June 30 of 2016.

HERE I SIT on the veranda, just in from the morning walk around the neighborhood plaza, something I do most days to maintain my boyish physique and high humor.

I am an ideal object of envy. No job. No money worries. My health is good. My wife is young and beautiful. The weather is wonderful. Waffles and maple syrup (100%) await.

Birds sing. Burros bray. Horses neigh. Dogs bark. Hogs oink. All within earshot, night and day. And last night till 2 a.m., musicians howled on the plaza, so we slept with earplugs, something that doesn’t warrant envy, alas.

Hereabouts 11 a.m., the sky is blue and white. The temperature is 69. My utility bills are low, and my grass is high, green and damp. My wives are all alive and my daughter too.

I have no dogs, no cats, no outstanding bills, and both of our cars run smoothly though they could use a wash. It’s the rainy season, a constant battle for self-respecting vehicles.

The waffles are ready now, I’m advised. The maple syrup too, the daily second breakfast around the hour of 11.

It’s an enviable position in which to find oneself.

The call of cow

cow

AS A CHILD, I loved milk. I drank gallons of it. My mother tried to control me, but she was rarely successful.

If it was in the house, I was on it like puppies on a bitch tit.

I harbor fond memories of milk with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And there were sandwiches of sliced banana, mayonaise and peanut butter too.

I’m still fruit for peanut butter.

In late adolescence, I found myself in the military. One aspect of military life left me giddy, and it was in the Mess Hall where there were literally faucets of endless milk, and you could drink as much as you pleased. And I surely did.

All through my adult life, I drank milk with most meals.

And then I moved to Mexico where milk is sold differently than anything I had previously encountered.

Ninety-nine percent of milk in supermarkets is not sold refrigerated. It sits on the regular shelves in hermetically sealed cartons, room temperature.

My reaction: Yuck!

This stuff cannot taste right, I told myself, as I placed the first carton in my shopping cart.

But it did taste right — after it was chilled — so my milk habit continued as always in my early Mexican years. Then I got married, acquiring Mexican relatives.

When I had lunch with these people, I would drink milk. They would drink Coca-Cola, water or — quite often — nothing at all. And they would snicker and roll their eyes at my milk.

Especially the kids.

Gradually, I quit drinking milk with lunch and supper, though I still pour it on my morning cereal. It was not so much peer pressure, which I am not very susceptible to, it was simply a different world, a world in which few people drink milk.

Nowadays I drink water with lunch and supper.

I still drink milk on my breakfast cereal and with the occasional waffle and maple syrup, all of which screams out for milk, but that’s the limit of my milk. Habits perish.

This morning, pouring milk on my cereal, I wondered when Mexico first started selling milk at room temperature in hermetically sealed cartons. I asked my wife if that was how her family got milk when she was a child. No, she said.

Her family’s milk came from a street vendor who poured it out of stainless steel containers into the family’s pots, or something like that. That is still common in Mexico.

Straight from the cow. I see these street vendors often.

But I get my much-reduced milk intake from the supermarket in the hermetically sealed cartons. These cartons wait on the kitchen counter until they’re needed in the fridge.

And like so many things here, it seems so normal now.