A Dinner in Uruapan - Level 4, DO NOT TRAVEL

The three Morritas (women) in the large kitchen with a high ceiling exude a joyous charisma immediately. Pots boiling, pans sizzling, woman laughing. The afternoon air warm with a light breeze and a nostalgic feeling of childhood, I sit on a stool at the high tiled kitchen counter.  

My friend's cousin, Anna, has invited us to the avocado orchard (huerta)  where she lives in Uruapan Mexico, for dinner. She is an experienced chef, and Ricardo "warned" me to have high expectations for this early-evening meal.  Introductions in broken Spanish (on my part) and better English (on theirs), I place the bottle of Arroqueńo Mezcal I brought from Oaxaca on the counter.  Excited about the delicious smells steaming from the busy stove, everyone partakes in sipping the strong clear alcohol out of small clay cups. The Mezcal is followed by bigger gulps of cold Mexican beer to quench our afternoon thirst.

 "This is going to be the best guacamole you've ever had", Ricardo tells me. As if I needed convincing. We head outside under large leafy avocado trees. "We'll just pick them up from the ground", Ricardo says. "Check to make sure they are soft enough and the birds haven't been eating them."

 "Ok", I say, in a dreamlike state of warm sun, surrounded by lush plants and a small buzz from the Mezcal. Feet softly brushing through the leaf-covered grass, birds echoing each other overhead. 

 "The dogs eat avocados too", he explains.

 "Is this too firm?", I ask.

 "Yeah, just the softer ones, without any big bites taken out."

 We easily find plenty of avocados for the five of us and return with a full bag to the kitchen. Still laughing, the three women are talking in a rapid Spanish that is beyond my comprehension, only occasionally offering some translation or questions to me in English. 

 "Do you eat trout?" Anna asks.

 "Si, ahuevo!" I say.

A boy and his younger sister enter through a side door followed by their father in his early 40's. The man shakes my hand and greets me in English with an educated sounding Spanish accent.  They share a short, more traditional exchange with the others, and off they go down the wide hallway past the kitchen.  Natalia's children give off the sense of confident independence for such young kids.

We are at Natalia's house which is centered on the avocado farm. Next door is her mother's house, a senator in Mexico and frequently out of town on political business.  We are in Uruapan, a large town and farming community.  One of the main global locations that avocados come from  is this region of Michoacán, a central state in Mexico.  Surprisingly, a week ago the town was locked down with violence between rival narcos.  A clash between the Jalisco cartel and the local narco gang, Ricardo tells me.  This is organized crime and primarily targeted attacks. Nonetheless, when bullets fly it is obviously dangerous.  As I sit in this peaceful family home meeting Natalia's family, it is hard to imagine that just days prior, the roads were barricaded and a travel advisory level 4 (do not travel) had been placed on Urapan by the U.S. State Department. 9 people were killed in a gang-related attack. 

"Yes, I think this is the best guacamole I have ever had!", I say, dipping another crispy corn tortilla into the perfectly salted, limed, and mixed bowl of smooth fresh avocado.  Appetites deepening with sips of Mezcal, dinner is ready.  It is time for the savory pots and pans to relinquish their contents. First up is a lightly oiled trout filet cooked on an open frypan with garlic and other mild seasonings. Buttery mashed potatoes, rice, refried beans, and steamed vegetables nearly fill my plate. There is just enough room for the bright pink shrimp to surround one edge and a small hill of guacamole on the other.  Digging into the trout, it flakes away perfectly, bone-free, soft and lightly fried.  This is the best trout I have had (high praise coming from a family of fish eaters out of the Pacific Northwest).  The meal feels traditional yet modern, the flavors simple but deep.  Lime, Mezcal, and cold beer accompany the spicy salsa.  I attempt to slow down and savor each bite, taking time to sip and listen to the quick conversation in Spanish.  I allow myself to simply be there, enjoying the full sensory experience of foreign food and foreign language.  

Slightly overwhelmed by flavor, language, and Mezcal, I am glad when Natalia directs us outside to the orchard.  Two older cleaning ladies that have been in and out of the house take our plates to wash them. Natalia and Anna engage with them cheerfully, their laughter is contagious.  Everyone receives a canvas bag to pick fruit and vegetables growing around the farm.  The sun is low, not quite set. A large waxing moon can be seen through the leaves of the avocado trees.  Natalia's daughter is ready to join us.  Not only join but lead.  The exuberant five or six-year-old takes us to the squash vines along a fence. There we begin a squash toss. Natalia picks out the ripest squash and tosses it to me. Giggling, her young daughter holds up her canvas bag trying to catch the flying squash. Limes, avocados, and fresh blackberries line the way as we walk through the trees.  Tiny berry-sized tomatoes grow wild on a vine along an old stone wall that the girl attempts to climb, eventually, successfully with her mother's help.

Shadows growing darker in the trees, night changing the evening sky from orange to purple, east to west the light fades.  Natalia's daughter leads us with confidence down the dim grassy path back towards the house. Back inside, the mother and daughter ascend the stairs to bed.  Ricardo and I join his cousin and Barbara to continue to practice Mezcal tasting in her living area on the ground floor of the house.  Anna's space is small but also has a clean roomy feel with its high ceiling and large paintings. A thin cotton veil of Frida's face hangs over the kitchen window.

Looking at it, Anna says, "I have three months to paint twelve of those."

Barbara looking proud. 

 I ask, "what are they for?"

 "It is for an art exposition in New York in May, I really need to start", Anna tells me.

Barbara is originally from Uruapan but spent many years in San Francisco.  She is happy and engaged in the evening conversations.  Her thin face shows pain though, she wants to talk about politics and the world with strong assertions of someone who hasn't accepted that "this is how things are." To her, the world is open to possibility, to change and evolution, maybe even revolution.  We each are a tiny drop in this flow, in the momentum of the human world.  Our actions have reactions whether intentional or not.  

Natalia joins us again, her daughter asleep in the house.  She brings a strong influence to the gathering with her clear elegant way of speaking, laughter readily available.

 "This is the first permaculture farm in the area", Barbara tells me.

 "Well, maybe not the first", says Natalia who has expressed knowledge and practical action on permaculture and environmental sustainability throughout the evening, but always in a tasteful, humble way. 

"You looked like a Mennonite today", Anna says, laughing with Natalia who was wearing a long black-sleeved dress earlier.  Now in sweatpants, Natalia takes the small hand-rolled joint passed from the right, completing the circle.  Clearly not a Mennonite.  Laughing, we chase the smoke with a "cheers" of Modelo from our plastic stools in Anna's small kitchen.

Little is said directly about the recent violence but there is an underlying awareness of it in the conversation.  A tension lingering in small comments, “pot is part of the problem here”, and as night approaches, “stay the night, it is safer to not drive now”.  We protest, but continue drinking the light Mexican lager which helps convince us not to risk the drive home.  

Ears buzzing with night sounds of crickets, head buzzing with the mellow smoke and liquid relaxant, I lean against the wall.  Food brought us together, laughter broke down our walls, open- unassuming conversation connected us.  New ideas, old ideas, ideas from generations past and the forward-thinking of this life we participate in.  An experience of the human cultural flow.  People that have found meaning and a livelihood in creativity, in asking life's questions.  People that answer life's questions through art and food and sharing small parts of each other.  Uncomfortable in moments of linguistic confusion, how I should be, where I should be, but I am here and that feels good, I am thinking and that feels right.

Currently Reading: The Dharma Bums, by Jack Kerouac

"This is the impossibility of the existence of anything (which was a strange place for that strange true vision)."  p.130