The Psychological Circus Leaves Town

30 Jan 2024 5 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in food, grannys landing, Mexico, Renovating the Hunting Shack, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s a candle flickering on my left. On my right, Elon Musk, with the tips of prayer hands at his chin, stares from the cover of his life story. The dregs of winter loom sunless and drab through the window in front of my desk.

Internet is sketchy on days like this. But I can breathe again.

The past three weeks have been a race to get my loft space guest-ready. That meant mudding, taping, sanding, and painting non-stop to hit the January 25th deadline of the lunchtime arrival of Jessa and Dan.

A paper and pen list with each task and its to-be-completed date posted on my refrigerator in plain sight was my archaic method for achieving an on-time finish; that and the vision in my head. I could see it, the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. The Tiffany-type lamp glowing. A cozy seating area by the flickering (electric) fireplace, and the new rug.

It would be a push. I knew that. But when I want something badly enough, Driven is my middle name.

Gwen helped the first day.

She placed the mesh tape over all the joints between the sheets of drywall. Then, she went home. For the next few days, I slathered joint compound (mud) over the tape, wielding a smoothing tool with a twelve-inch blade, determined to have learned from my ignorant first attempts at mudding a year ago.

The ceiling of the loft slopes from seven feet at the highest point, down to about three feet ten inches at the outside wall. For some of the work I squatted and ducked. For some, I stood. And for about one-third of it, I needed a ladder. Then, just to be sure I got a full calisthenic workout, every few minutes I bent to set down the mud and pick up the screw gun.

There’s a sweet spot for sheetrock screws that requires just the right amount of pressure so they come to rest slightly below the surface of the drywall. When done well, the mud smoothes over them and they completely disappear. Many of them needed an extra zap to sink them to the proper depth. I was meticulous. I wanted to get as close to perfection as an amateur possibly could,

My energy held out for about three hours every morning. Then, right shoulder, elbow, and wrist aching, I’d stop for lunch and rest. Rarely did I have what it took to go back to it the same day. To keep going, I counseled myself, Just a little longer, Sherry. Then you won’t have to do this part again tomorrow. Or I bargained, One more hour now and you can quit early tomorrow.

When I finally crossed mudding off the list, I thought the worst was over. How soon we forget. Sanding created woes of its own. Smoothing the walls wasn’t bad, but the ceiling was another story. Powdery dust fell into my eyes. I tried goggles. In seconds, they were coated and I could see nothing. Every wrinkle in my face was a ghostly line of white. The shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints that sustained the brutal workout of mudding, were now challenged in new ways. Oh! And did I mention my neck? All that cranking my head back to look upward as dust mixed with tears and mud oozed out of my eyes, meant a nightly dose of ibuprofen to ease the pain and let me sleep.

Then morning would come again!

When sanding was complete, every surface in my house sported a layer of grit. I knew there was no point in cleaning until I’d wiped down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the loft, and that had to happen before I could paint.

Neighbor Bear told me to check in with him, suggesting that he might have some things I could use. I left the dust and strolled over to his house. He moved into his unfinished residence on September 30th and was still unpacking boxes. In the process he’d come across paint (about 90 gallons of various colors) and painting supplies. He sent me home with rollers, brushes, trays, and eight gallons of random satin, gloss, and eggshell. There were various shades of white, a cream, two browns, and something called amber glow which turned out to be blaze orange. It was the 22nd. I had three days left.

As soon as I got back to the house, I wiped down the walls and ceiling of the loft and entryway with damp cloths. Then mopped the floor. Puffy little clouds no longer accompanied each footstep. Once that was done, I tackled the main living area, vacuumed the upholstery and the rug, dusted the top, sides, and insides of the furniture, and scrubbed the floor. I’d forgotten what clean felt like.

I should have stopped to rest, but I was running out of time. I knew the next day meant a run to town to get groceries, a 70-mile round trip, and prepping meals for my guests. So, I broke open the first can of white and began. I rolled the walls, then up and down the ladder for the ceiling, on hands and knees with the paintbrush for the plywood floor in the entryway, and with the roller again to cover the rough chipboard floor in the loft.

Three things kept me psyched up enough to face each grueling day:

  1. Crossing completed tasks off the list
  2. Visualizing the finished project
  3. Wanting to please my guests

On the 24th, Gwen brought over their queen-size air bed, a magnificent thing that inflates itself. By evening, the loft was a charming guestroom. I messaged Jessa: I’m ready for you tomorrow! Within moments, she answered: Mom! Were coming on the 28th, not tomorrow!

I don’t know how our wires got crossed. I looked back in my messages and nowhere did I find any dates at all. But what a gift, three whole days to rest! The psychological circus that had kept me going for the preceeding weeks, quietly rolled out of town.

When they arrived twenty minutes early on the 28th, homemade Loaded Vegetable and Barley Soup was simmering on the stove. Creamy butter sat ready to be slathered on Mexican bolillos, and Gwen’s cranberry-apple galette waited in the wings for dessert. Tucked in the fridge for the evening meal, four potatoes lay scrubbed and ready for baking, and a side of peas. There were sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella with bay leaves for Caprese salad. A whole chicken stuffed with lemons and cloves of garlic, would become Lemon Garlic Chicken done on the rotisserie in the air fryer.

Between lunch and happy hour, we traipsed next door to Gwens to bake lefse. The equipment was set up and ready. Gwen gave a quick tutorial, and the rolling began. It was Jessa’s special request to revisit that ancestral ritual from her childhood and no wonder. She’s a pro! She rolled each round to a perfect transluscent circle, ‘like Grandpa used to do,’ she said. Somehow, Dan’s Scandinavian background didn’t give him the same leg-up. The dough stuck to his rolling pin, and when he did manage to get one ready for the griddle, it resembled the shape of a turnip, or Africa. Fortunately, he could laugh along with us, and his tasted just as good as the perfectly formed ones.

It was a wonderful visit, but the joy of having them here reached its apex when they hugged me goodnight and disappeared into their private loft room with the fireplace flickering on the freshly painted and almost perfectly smooth walls and ceiling.

As the Light Returns

22 Dec 2023 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, food, Holidays, Solstice, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

“…This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking, where the past
lets go of and becomes the future;
the place of caught breath, the door
of a vanished house left ajar…” Margaret Atwood

We celebrated last night.

In the northland, days slowly shrink away until sunset is complete by 4:30 in the afternoon.

For me, Winter Solstice is a sacred time. After living for ten years 8 degrees south of the equator, where the sun rises at 6:30 a.m., and sets at 6:30 p.m. 365 days a year, the vast differences in the length of daylight from summer to winter here, the spring to fall cycles of birth and death, the drama of all that, must be given a place.

I was immersed in Balinese culture. I felt first-hand the power of their rituals, their honoring of nature, their acknowledgment of unseen energies, their deep respect for the animate and inanimate, and I changed.

Or perhaps something dormant within me woke up. My shamanic Viking ancestors knew what the Balinese know.

Until then, I was skimming the surface, living a half-life, unaware of what I was missing. When I broke the surface and plunged into the realms of the unseen, everything magnified, especially my capacity for joy.

Once that metaphysical line has been breached, there’s no going back.

So last night, we four codgers channeled our ancestral energy. We paid homage to the darkness and welcomed back the light with fire, drumming, and feasting. Individually, we let go of worn-out beliefs that no longer serve us, making room for new growth.

We had a blast, ok? We challenged our stuffy, Scandinavian comfort zones. We stepped outside the boundaries of the same old same old. We honored the past and welcomed the future. We ushered in the light.

Then we feasted on colorless food true to our Norwegian and Swedish roots. Lutefisk with melted butter, potato/parsnip/pear soup with walnut/garlic/parsley garnish, and lefse. The peas and cranberry sauce added a festive pop. And bread pudding for dessert made a sweet finish to a magical night.

Life Is Letting Go

27 Nov 2023 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in food, Holidays, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , ,

The car is tucked into its new garage space. The doors are finished and ready to be hung. It’s supposed to be warmer on Wednesday; a southwest wind. We’ll do it then.

The entryway and loft are insulated. Outlets and switches wired. All of my lighting fixtures have arrived. Today, I’ll do the math to determine how much sheetrock I need, and the next time the truck goes to town, I’ll go with it. We’ll bring back a load.

Then why am I morose?

It could be the landscape. I look out on a collage of grays and dirty browns. Snow-drops swirl in the bitter air. The tiny dots of white don’t yet qualify as snowflakes. Minnesota is at its least attractive after leaves have fallen and before a veil of white descends from the skies and blankets everything.

But I know it’s not that.

It’s the fact that I can’t let go of the ambitious dream to build an entrance from the garage into the house with stairs ascending to the loft. I scheduled that into my work plan. I bought a Diamond Pier, and we pounded it into the solid clay dirt. It will support the corner of the room that houses the stairway. But these are things I can’t do alone, and I have no control over the time others are willing to devote to my project.

The thing is, this part can wait until spring. I’ve already resigned myself to that fact. But I haven’t quite let go. I want it too much.

Letting go.

I let go of my children as they reached adulthood and found their own paths. I moved over forty times, letting go of homes that I loved. I let go of partners when it became more painful to remain. I let go of friends when distance created too much space between us. I let go of youth. I let go of beauty. I made peace with the loss of my parents.

And salt.

A random blood pressure check about a week ago horrified me. Holy crapola! What happened? A quick scan online of the causes of high blood pressure and I had my answer. Salt. Some people are sweet lovers. My Waterloo is salt, tons of it on a giant bowl of popcorn that I eat at night, by myself, watching my latest TV series addiction.

In the grocery store, I started checking labels for sodium. OMG! I had no idea. Not only was I eating my daily allowance in that bowl of popcorn, I was OD-ing throughout the day on everything else. I made a vow to radically reduce my intake. In doing so, I let go of food having flavor. Eating isn’t much fun anymore. Popcorn with no salt, and no-salt butter, is foul! I hope my tastebuds will adjust. They haven’t yet. But I’ve gotten my bloodpressure down to the low 120s, and that was the goal.

Rachel Gordon, MA, MED, writes in her blog, Humble Warrior Therapy:  …the practice of non-attachment – of letting go of our ego’s constant grasping and clinging – helps alleviate our suffering and increase peace of mind. Non-attachment doesn’t imply that we let go of our plans, pursuits or goals; rather, we practice changing the energy or tone of our pursuits, focusing on the journey rather than the destination.

Life is letting go.

And letting go is redirecting energy and focus. I can do this. Needless to say, I’ve had practice. There are a thousand other things that deserve my attention. Yes, there’s sheetrock, mudding, and taping, paint, and flooring. But Winter Solstice is coming. Then Christmas. And Valentine’s Day. And Spring Equinox. And Easter…

There are cookies to frost, a tree to trim, lefse to bake, and rituals to be performed. By the time all of that has been accomplished, the snow will be gone. The ground will have thawed. We won’t be bundled in multiple layers of clothing just to keep from freezing to death.

The journey will have brought me into right timing. Then…

We will build it.

Non-attachment. This is the life-skill to master. So much suffering can be avoided if we learn to focus on the journey. And, as we reach the destination, we finally let go of life itself.

Moving the House to Granny’s Landing

28 Aug 2022 24 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in 2022, food, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

I tried to imagine the process. I lost sleep thinking of the ditches, the lumpy field, the mature hardwoods lining the road. I obsessed. Even if he managed all of that, how would Leighton, the mover, maneuver the house to fit exactly on its foundation? Had we made it the right size?

I wrote about building the foundation in Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay. Three, seventy-year-plus old farts (my sister, brother-in-law, and me) dug sixteen holes, five feet deep, and secured posts to support the platform that would hold the house. In a few hours, I’d know if our combined math skills had withstood the test of time.

Me: “How will we know if it’s square?”

Gwen: “If the lengths of the diagonals are the same, it’s square.”

Me: “How do you figure the length of a diagonal? Doesn’t it have something to do with the Pythagorean theorem?”

W: “Only on paper. Right now, all we need is this…” He whipped out the tape measure.

Me: “Oh”

I am beyond lucky and so grateful that these two have my back. They’ve done it all many times and have answers to questions I don’t even know enough to ask.

Wake-up coffee and breakfast were finished when W sounded the alert. “He’s here!” I glanced at the time: 9:00 a.m. Leighton said he’d come between nine and ten. I gave him an A+ for punctuality and raced out the door.

W and I jumped in the gator and took off while Gwen leashed four-month-old Freya, their German Shepherd puppy, and walked with her to the site of the action.

When we arrived, Leighton was already at work.

I took hours of videos and ran three phones out of battery power, but I’ll spare you most of them and cut to the chase. The adrenalin rush when the house started to move is impossible to describe.

His father moved their house when Leighton was a baby. That was his practice move. From then on, he was in the business. At an early age, Leighton became his right-hand man and inherited the company when his father passed. This professional guy had thirty-plus years in the business and it showed. His every move was fluid. It was clear he’d done this so often it was inscribed in muscle memory. He didn’t even have to think.

On his prior visits, Leighton assured us that the two, right-angle turns at ‘T’ intersections with deep ditches on three sides, were nothing to worry about. W had already spent hours clearing trees from the right-of-way and had a stack of potential firewood to prove it. But as the house approached the first corner, and the machine pulling it dipped in and out of the ditches, I’ll admit my mind went to scarey places.

After that first masterfully executed, impossible hairpin turn hauling two tons of house, I began to relax. From the beginning, Leighton had said, “No problem.” Sometimes my vivid imagination is a terrible thing. I obviously have trust issues. Maybe that’s typical for a woman who has spent most of her adult life depending solely upon herself. But this post isn’t about introspection or self-analysis so, back to the story.

The house trundled merrily down 578th Lane faster than it would have if I were driving. The massive tires absorbed every rut and bump in the gravel road. The house seemed to float

Lieghton polished off the second turn as elegantly as the first.

As he pulled the load across the field toward the platform, Uncle John and Aunt Joyce arrived to watch. My aunt and uncle never come empty-handed and this was no exception. We’d feast on their goodies when the work was done. I introduced them to Leighton, whose perpetual smile never wavered. He joked that his job was a spectator sport.

Up to that point, precision hadn’t exactly been necessary. Big beams, big wheels, big house…there was wiggle room. Now, there was a 20′ X 22′ foundation platform and a more-or-less 20′ X 22′ foot building to set on it.

Gwen, W, and I had measured as best we could, but winter frost heaved the ground under the house and it was torqued. One end sat for years approximately nine inches higher than the opposite end. I’d been assured it would even out once it was on its new, perfectly level foundation. But what if our measurements were off? What if – I was sweating.

I don’t think I fully believed any of this was really happening. I’d pictured it in my mind for months, but in my heart, I’d remained skeptical. As I watched, my home came to rest squarely on the platform, set down as delicately as a bone-china tea cup. Cheers went up from the peanut gallery while I swallowed the lump in my throat and fought tears.

It was perfect from the start to Aunt Joyce’s pizza-and-chocolate-chip-cookie finish. As the sun sank slowly in the west, there it sat, my house at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay.

Now it’s time to turn this abandoned hunting shack into a home…wish me luck!

The Devil Made Me Do It…almost!

12 Aug 2022 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, food, Mexico, Shopping Tags: , , , , , ,

I’m addicted to the Tuesday Market in San Miguel de Allende. It is total sensory overload.

Sights bedazzle in a profusion of color. Tables mounded with clothing, jumbles of shoes piled high, cascading vegetables, fruits, woven baskets, serapes, electronics, tools, cookware, candy, makeup, toys, wigs, and handbags. Caged birds, bunnies, chickens. Flowers, handmade furniture…

…and sounds, a low burble of voices like ocean waves in the background. Strolling guitarists. Vendors yelling, Barato! Barato! Barato! to a chorus of chirpings, cluckings, and an occasional cockadoodledoo.

In the midst of that: Food.

Señors and señoras mixing, patting, grilling, frying, chopping, creating scents that tantalize, luring me to checkered cloth-covered tables with my plate overflowing. The air is chewable. Its drool-worthy aromas permeate every pore until the last shred of resistance succumbs.

When this food touches the tongue, long-dormant taste buds explode. The sauces, salsas, moles, the unique mixtures of herbs and spices, and the freshness of every ingredient, have made Mexcian food legendary throughout the world.

Do Not Touch signs don’t exist at the Tuesday Market. I cannot resist running my hands over exquisitely embroidered linens, absorbing the soft textures through my fingertips.

There’s a smaller version of Tuesday’s Market every Sunday. Some of the football stadium-sized structures sit empty.

There’s less congestion and fewer choices which isn’t always a bad thing. I’ve become a fan.

Last Sunday I went early and headed to the tables where dozens of scarves had been dumped in heaps. I love scarves and it didn’t take long for the world to dissolve around me as I focused single-mindedly on the hunt.

At one point I removed the glasses I wear for distance and hooked them in the V-neck of my shirt to better see the patterns up close. A tiny voice whispered Those aren’t very secure, you could lose them. I ignored it and continued my fevered searching.

After paying for the two treasures I found, I started to walk away. The distance was blurry. I reached for my glasses.

Gone.

Dismay buzzed through me. I rummaged through my purse and dumped out the contents of my shopping bag. Nothing. I patted down the front of my shirt, looked under the tables where I’d been standing, and started frantically ripping into the piles of scarves. In a combination of mime and frustration, I told the vendor what had happened. He, too, dug in, helping me look. By then, there were other people at those tables on their own personal mission. After a futile ten minutes, I gave up and left for home.

My emotions ran the gamut. I was angry at myself. Due to leave Mexico in ten days, I needed those glasses to navigate the massive Dallas/Fort Worth airport. As near-sighted as I’d become, deciphering gate numbers on the overhead boards to find my connecting flight in one of five terminals would be impossible. A shiver of dread replaced anger and dismay.

The next moment, laughter.

Truth was, I hated those glasses. I’d gotten them in Bali and specified to the optician that I needed correction for distance. When I picked them up, the young woman was delighted to explain that she’d made certain the glasses were not too strong so I could still see to read while wearing them. I felt irritation bubbling up. I could read just fine without glasses. I wanted to see leaves on trees and faces on people a block away. But, in true Bali-style, I swallowed displeasure, smiled, paid, and thanked her.

My distance vision was improved only slightly, and the frames I had chosen because they were lightweight and virtually transparent, were flimsy. But the purpose was served. As I transferred flights at multiple airports on my trip back to the States from Bali, I could see well enough to decipher signage.

From the beginning, my intention had been to get new glasses in Mexico. But I’d put it off. Now, with just ten days until departure, my hand was forced.

The joke was on me.

A tickle of excitement replaced dread. I searched online for optical shops in San Miguel. One had five stars and ten great reviews but the only pictures were of cute glasses – none of the shop itself. They had a Facebook page. I pulled it up and sent a message explaining the situation, asking if it was possible to get glasses before I left.

Even though it was Sunday and the shop was closed, within minutes I had a response. Come at 12:00 tomorrow and your glasses will be ready by Friday. Overjoyed, I typed in, Please make that appointment for me. I will see you at noon tomorrow. Thank you!

Even though Google Maps said it was an eighteen-minute walk I left the house at 11:00 a.m. My over-eagerness got me to my destination forty-five minutes early. I stepped through the open doorway into a space no larger than a walk-in closet and stopped. The gray upholstery on the three chairs lined up just inside the door was stained. Dingy walls hid behind taped-on pictures, notices, and advertisements that fluttered gently on breezes from the open doorway. Placards, a mirror, and miscellaneous clutter occupied every inch of the L-shaped, display-case countertops.

I’d seen optical shops at Luciernaga Mall. They resembled Visionworks, or America’s Best Eyewear in the U.S., modern, bright, and clean. But, I’d learned in Bali that businesses catering to ex-pats mimicked the slick appearance a foreigner would find comforting with pricing to match. Those that served locals always had a different aesthetic and more personal service at a fraction of the price. I proceeded into the shop.

A man and woman were seated behind the counter eating lunch. The woman stood as I approached. I told her I was there for my 12:00 appointment. I could see the man hurriedly wrapping his food. No! I said. Please eat. I’m early.

There were shelves of frames on the wall opposite me. I had just enough time to visually decide which ones I would try on before the young woman motioned me to join them behind the counter. I squeezed along the narrow space between the display case and the shelves of frames to reach the 3′ X 5′ exam area. It was only then that I realized the optometrist was in a wheelchair.

He was thorough and meticulously professional. When the examinations were complete I was told my glasses would be ready after 5 p.m. on Friday. I floated home, buoyed by happiness and relief.

Two days later, I set out for the big Thursday Market planning to locate the scarf vendor and see if my old glasses had been discovered. As much as I disliked them, it wouldn’t hurt to have a spare pair.

I arrived at the right location only to find that now it was occupied by electronics. I wandered until I found a couple tending tables arranged in a horseshoe shape covered with mountains of scarves. It was an area at least five times larger than the one I’d visited on Sunday, but they weren’t the same vendors.

To make certain my dilemma would be understood, I’d written the details in Spanish on a scrap of paper. I fished it out and handed the note to the woman. She read it and explained to the man what it said. They exchanged a few words. She told me to wait and returned a few minutes later to say that I should come back next Sunday. Those vendors weren’t here today.

I’d done what I could. I turned my attention to the hunt.

I like to systematically work my way from one end of the tables to the other. In this case, I had about six heaping yards of scarves to peruse. I was deep into it when, digging underneath, I touched something that shouldn’t be there and pulled out a black vinyl wallet.

Heavy.

I unzipped it and caught my breath.

Money. Lots of money.

There was no one around except the vendor man, and he was seated with his back to me, looking the other direction.

I have to admit, my first thought was to tuck that bounty (I estimated it to be about $500 US) into my bag and head for home. But my gut squirmed threateningly at the thought of keeping cash that wasn’t mine.

Minutes ticked and my mind raced. Nobody had visited these tables since I’d arrived so the item had to have been lost before I came. It was a woman’s purse – if I turned it over to the man I could just about guarantee it would never find its rightful owner. By this time I’d secured it in my bag and was innocently studying scarves. I decided that whoever had lost it would undoubtedly be back. I’d hang out there, minding my own business but watching for anyone who looked frantic. That seemed the best bet.

Forty-five minutes later, I’d reached the far end. Other shoppers had come and gone but no one had asked about a lost purse. I decided to rummage back through and see if I’d missed a particularly exquisite specimen when the woman who had helped me with my note approached. She said something in Spanish. In response to my blank stare, she whipped out her phone and typed into Google Translate then handed it to me. Did you find my black purse with money in it?

It was hers!

I smiled and nodded as I opened my bag, and said, Si, tengo. Yes, I have it. A strange look crossed her face when I handed it to her. She thanked me and I turned back to finish my task.

As always, I’d acquired a greater supply than I intended to buy. I weeded out a few, debated over one, a bold lavender and cream stripe, then discarded it and handed the others with the correct number of pesos to the woman whose wallet I’d found. She took the money, put the scarves in my bag, then paused. Slowly, she turned to where I’d tossed my cast-offs. Before I quite knew what was happening, the lavender and cream was in my bag. A gift.

As I walked down the mountain toward home, I pondered the strange abundance, the extra scarf in exchange for a butt-load of money. Again, I felt revulsion, the squirmy-gut nausea that had washed over me at the thought of keeping the lost purse. Bad karma.

The energy of this outcome was pure, clean, guilt-free. Dark thoughts silenced, the right choice had been made and rewarded. I had an extra scarf.

What’s with this Mexican salt!

15 Jan 2022 10 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, food, Mexico, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

When I took possession of my new home in San Miguel de Allende, there were perks. First of all, it was completely furnished right down to salt in the shakers, and there were two of them. There was also a bag of flour and a glass canister of sugar.

I didn’t have an oven in Bali, only a cooktop. The stove in my new kitchen looked to me like it belonged in an appliance ad straight out of Bon Appétit. I eyed its six burners and monster oven suspiciously, waltzing around its giant glass door that stared at me like a judgmental eye. I promised myself, and that eye, that soon, very soon, I’d set about re-learning how to bake.

A few days later, a friend posted a picture on Facebook of shortbread drizzled with dark chocolate. Saliva sprayed into my mouth. That was it, the challenge that made me want to bake again.

I found a shortbread recipe online: butter, flour, sugar, salt, vanilla. What could be easier? The next day I trotted down the mountain to Super Bonanza, a tiny grocery in the middle of the town center, and bought butter and vanilla. The other ingredients had come with the kitchen.

Putting that recipe together took forever. I was so out of practice, so careful…except when it came to the salt. I thoughtlessly unscrewed the cap while holding it over the flour/sugar mix already in the bowl. A shower of granules fell in. I didn’t think it was much, but I lessened the amount I added and slid the pan into the oven, did the calculation that would translate the Celsius numbers on the knob into Fahrenheit, and crossed my fingers.

Soon, a rich vanilla-y scent permeated the house. Ahhh, yes. This is why we bake.

I felt more than a little proud of myself when I pulled out the tray of perfectly browned shortbread. I could hardly wait for it to cool so I could sample the goods. You know how it is when you expect food to taste a certain way? Your mouth prepares. You lean into the bite and…

The spit reflex happened without thought or premeditation. That tiny morsel flew off my tongue way faster than it had gone in.

What in the name of everything unholy is with this salt?

Good thing I live alone. I hadn’t said that quietly.

I checked the recipe again: one-half teaspoon salt. I double-checked the ring of teaspoons. I’d used the correct one. Maybe more had fallen in when I unscrewed the cap than I thought. Or, maybe it had localized in one corner of the dough – the corner I tasted. Maybe the rest was fine. I tested a piece from the opposite corner with the tip of my tongue, shuddered, and dumped the entire contents into the trash. Well, I thought. That was disappointing.

I let a week go by and avoided making eye contact with the judging stare of the abandoned oven. But I’d invited a group of new friends over for brunch and planned to serve fruit, a quiche, and scones. Both the quiche and the scones required baking. It wasn’t the oven’s fault, I told myself. The oven is your friend.

The quiche recipe called for cheese, lots of it. Cheese can be pretty salty I reasoned, so I didn’t add the salt the recipe suggested. But the scones…I hemmed and hawed…should I chance it? I measured oh so carefully and skimped on the 1/2 teaspoon asked for. They came out of the oven looking absolutely gorgeous. Apricot Cream Cheese Scones. I had to try one.

I bit into a corner. NO!!! IT CAN’T BE! SALT! HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE SALT! They, too, were inedible. I was disappointed and so angry. I swore up a storm in that kitchen. I couldn’t believe that such a tiny amount of salt could be so utterly disastrous.

Later, when my friends had gathered around the table I told them the story and asked, “What’s with this Mexican salt?”

They looked at each other confused, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads. “I’ve never noticed that it was any different,” one said. The others agreed.

“Well, mine sure is!” I grumbled, then the conversation turned to a more interesting subject.

A day later I whipped up a batch of carrot hummus and left the salt out entirely. By now I’d dumped the contents of both shakers into the trash to make certain I’d never have that problem again.

But I’d put two cloves of garlic in the hummus and it was overpowering. (What’s with this Mexican garlic!) I thought sugar might offset the intensity so I stirred in a couple of tablespoons and tasted.

WHAT???? NO WAY! SALT?

Then it struck me. I stuck my finger into the canister of sugar and licked. SALT. When I’d baked the shortbread and the scones it wasn’t the 1/2 tsp of salt that wreaked havoc…it was the 1/4 cup of sugar that wasn’t sugar at all! Who puts a huge amount of salt in a big glass canister? Who does that?

And then I laughed,

and laughed,

and laughed!

I immediately went to Señora Petra’s little shop next door and bought all her carrots. Then went back home and made a huge quantity of carrot hummus without garlic or salt and stirred the ruined batch in, bit by bit, taste-testing as I went. It was perfect.

I’m glad the problem is solved and I’m friends with my oven again. But talk about a lesson in assumptions! What’s with this Mexican salt, anyway? It’s not sugar, that’s what!