The Simple Life, Part Deux

Cutie Pie and I once visited Costa Rica, and we were treated one day to a tour of the farm of a "very important man," a big landowner by the name of Don Pedro. The richest man in all of Costa Rica, mind you. The tour appeared on an official-looking, glossy brochure, which I fervently wish that I had saved. Because it was a totally classic marketing spin job targeted at the American mind. And being the Americans we are, we naturally had visions. Visions of touring a Costa Rican mansion, with manicured lawns and rolling vistas, and meeting some kind of Latin American Honcho and having a spot of tea with him. Turns out Don Pedro may have been the richest man in Costa Rica, but he had very few teeth, very many cows wandering in his front yard, and a rope belt around his waist in addition to his regular belt. Never figured that one out. His "estate" was apparently entirely hand-built by him - house, animal stalls, everything...nailed and tied-together wood planks with tin roofs. No windows - just cut-out holes in the walls. We were served lunch. And let me tell you, it was probably one of the best lunches I have ever eaten. They served homemade bread and cheese, coffee from his own beans and plantains from his own trees. It was delicious. We ate on an open-air porch. With the cows and horses looking on. Our food was served on sweet little china dishes. He and his family let us make conversation with them in our stumbling, ridiculous Spanish. His daughter picked flowers for my hair and made a big speech when she handed them to me. I didn't understand a word, so she could have been calling me a stupid, wretched American, but it sounded really warm and lovely and generous. We loved every minute of it. We ate many great meals in Costa Rica. All were simple. Fish, mixed vegetables, plantains, beer. It was jolting to come home. Everything suddenly seemed so Loud. So Big. So Fast. And so Overdone. The billboards on I-75 were Obnoxious, SCREAMINGINYOURFACE, whereas before my trip, I had barely noticed them. The portions when we went out to eat seemed big enough to feed entire families. What a waste of mediocre food, we thought. That feeling went away after a few days, but I was sad to see it go. It can't be helped - you are a product of your culture and you adapt to whatever your circumstances may be. But I do dream of that simple place now and again. It's the kind of place where you can hear your own thoughts, without someone or something trying to drown them out all the time. I could use more of that.

My New Favorite Dream

Isn't it the coolest thing to be on a similar wavelength with someone across the miles? I was just reading this post from my dear cousin, which reminded me of a news byte I saw last week. I have already discussed with Cutie Pie, at length, (or he may say ad nauseum) the cost, logistics and possibility of me starting an Outstanding in the Field in Atlanta for my next career. It will never happen, of course, but I was completely enamored with the thought of it for several hours. It combines absolutely everything I love in life. Beautiful places...fantastic, locally grown food - right out of the ground or sea or pigsty, so to speak....great wine, with every course, no less - yum!....great conversation with interesting people. Well, if nothing else... maybe I can attend a dinner. OITF is coming to Atlanta and Florida next year, ya'll. It's a mere $350 or so a couple to sit down to dinner. Hey, it's only money! Let's go! Take a look at this sample menu if you need convincing. OK, I agree...I myself would probably look askance on the pigs feet paté and the chicken liver and gizzard “campagnola.” It sounds a bit like what my poor, southern ancestors may have eaten. Not by choice, but because that was all that was left after they ran out of grocery money halfway through the month. But my, how they've gussied it up eh? I would try it anyhow. In homage. And because I paid a whole lot of money for it. But really, I'm thinking that you wouldn't even have to be this fancy. In fact, in accordance with the simple, fresh, farming theme - you could do a whole lot with simple food and maybe bring the cost down a bit for the penny pinchers like myself who would probably not pay $150 a plate for any kind of food. Unless George Clooney was spoon feeding me or something.

Dinner with Meme

I have the coolest supper club. We not only eat the most amazing food, visit the most amazing homes and laugh ourselves silly into the wee hours of way-past-our-bedtimes...we have these great conversations, too. There's this Question of the Night thing we do. I didn't realize this, but there's an equivalent in the blogging world called the meme. (Learn something new every day). This past week, the supper club's meme was "What was your first car?" which turned into "Tell us about every car you've had since you turned 16." Now, I must warn you, I'm the kind of gal who thinks a car is pretty much a mechanism to get from Point A to Point B, although I wouldn't turn down a red convertible if you offered me one. I once dated a guy who drove (he told me many times) a carefully restored, mint-condition Camaro. He was extremely proud of this vehicle. But when he drove up in it on our first date, I was apparently not as impressed as he would have hoped. He kept hinting around...so, what do you think of my car? And I think I said something about it looking very clean and asking did he recently wash it. (I know, catch a clue right?) I guess he was intrigued by my "feigned" non-interest in his car, and so he spent the next year of our relationship trying to "educate" me about cars. Yawn. In any case...I'm not a gearhead or whatever they call car people. But this dinner conversation was incredibly interesting to me, because I never realized how much of a milestone a car is to a person - myself included. There's always a story about where you were in life when you got the car, who you had to share the car with, what the car's name was, who helped you buy it, why you chose a certain make and model, how the car treated you and how you treated the car, how it made you feel about yourself.... It was all very telling about our personalities, our hopes and dreams at different times of our lives and how The Car is more than just transportation (OK, I'm finally getting it Mr. Camaro!). What was your first car? Mine was a Pontiac Sunbird - black interior and exterior...in Florida. Thaaaatttt's right. (It was implied at dinner that someone probably paid us to take the car instead of vice versa). It was ugly and it was hot, but I loved that car because it was MINE. And there is nothing like driving over the St. Johns River bridge at sunset with the radio blaring, the windows down (AND the AC on - sorry, Mom) in a car that is YOUR VERY OWN. You can't beat it with a stick shift.

This is Why I Don't Cook Breakfast

And what is sadder still? I actually cooked another batch. And it was burned too. I didn't have the heart to take a second picture of the slightly-less burned bacon and burned freezer biscuits I served to my children. This is what happens when Daddy has to work on a Saturday! My brain just does not function at an acceptable level until 10 a.m. Is that so wrong?

I complained bitterly under my breath that I am incapable of making a decent breakfast when Big Stuff piped up, "Don't say that, Mama! It's not that bad. In fact, it's sort of good (as she eyed the bacon suspiciously.) I'm going to eat it." Man, I love that girl.