jewelry so was glad to be outside and away from temptation. Bad enough that I was surfing the Internet for an area rug to put in the family room. I hadn’t mentioned this pursuit to Jason yet. He was still muttering about a rug I bought in San Francisco, although I’m delighted with that purchase. I love colorful rugs, and our floors are tiled here in El Paso so they need a bit of softening underfoot.
Now who, among the food providers at the opera party, had come to the meeting? I glanced around the table. Vivian, who had provided a mountain of shelled shrimp (available at the Albertson’s for a price) and a spicy sauce; Dolly Montgomery, little rolled sandwiches with a chile-cheese spread inside (Jason said he thought they’d come from the university catering service, about which I wish I’d known); Barbara Escobar, tiny pastry puffs stuffed with tuna salad; Olive Cleveland, a cauldron of very good chile con queso with a burner to keep it warm; and Maria-Reposa Hernandez, mixed hors d’oeuvres from the Portable Fiesta. Her husband was the lawyer.
I ordered, as planned, a cup of tortilla soup and a half Lone Star sandwich. If I’d ordered a bowl of the soup, I wouldn’t have been able to eat dinner. It has a rich, spicy broth and is crammed with veggies, chicken, tortilla strips, and melted cheese. I’d have eaten every delicious bite in the bowl and been uncomfortably stuffed. Not that the Lone Star sandwich isn’t good as well. The Magic Pan has an array of sandwiches with a wonderful raspberry-chipotle sauce slathered on the buns. The meat in the Lone Star is, as you might expect, beef.
I’m told that cattle, not to mention sheep and goats, once grazed on long grass in our area.There are still ranches, but the cattle now have to walk their poor legs off to find enough grass to get them through the day. As far as I know, cattle don’t eat cactus. People do, but I have yet to treat myself to that pleasure. For all I know, some of the prickly things in my yard are edible and I should be harvesting them and putting them up like a good pioneer woman. Ha!
“I want to go inside,” said Barbara Escobar, the youngest among us. She has that heavy, dark hair with absolutely no split ends to disturb the patina. Her skin is smooth and quite light; I’ve heard her make disdainful remarks about Mexican Americans with dark skin and obvious Indian heritage, like Luz Vallejo, who is a handsome woman, in my opinion. How determined people seem to be to distinguish themselves from others on the basis of the smallest differences in skin color.
“It’s freezing out here,” Barbara complained.
She probably enjoyed the summer heat, although I couldn’t imagine it. I’d heard that August had produced a temperature of 106 degrees. Fortunately, I wasn’t in El Paso last summer to experience it. I’d probably have turned my thermostat to seventy and refused to leave the house. Peter Brockman claims that his solar house, situated properly in relation to the sun, heavily insulated, and possessed of thick walls and deeply overhanging eves, doesn’t need air conditioning at all.
I’d been fascinated to hear this, having read that the Spanish colonists had oriented their haciendas by jamming sticks into the ground and studying the shadows before placing a house that would fend off both heat and cold. My interest, based on our high electric rates for refrigerated air conditioning, had dissipated when Vivian Brockman said, “No matter what Peter thinks, I keep the air conditioner on from April to November.”
“Well, are we going to move inside?” Barbara demanded. The others had continued to chat while she complained.
It was only in the mid 60s, bracingly comfortable to my mind, but they agreed with Barbara, so we picked up our glasses and moved into the big room with its huge stone fireplace and plank tables supported by the bases of antique sewing machines. All the chairs were mismatched, the tables sporting flowered
Now who, among the food providers at the opera party, had come to the meeting? I glanced around the table. Vivian, who had provided a mountain of shelled shrimp (available at the Albertson’s for a price) and a spicy sauce; Dolly Montgomery, little rolled sandwiches with a chile-cheese spread inside (Jason said he thought they’d come from the university catering service, about which I wish I’d known); Barbara Escobar, tiny pastry puffs stuffed with tuna salad; Olive Cleveland, a cauldron of very good chile con queso with a burner to keep it warm; and Maria-Reposa Hernandez, mixed hors d’oeuvres from the Portable Fiesta. Her husband was the lawyer.
I ordered, as planned, a cup of tortilla soup and a half Lone Star sandwich. If I’d ordered a bowl of the soup, I wouldn’t have been able to eat dinner. It has a rich, spicy broth and is crammed with veggies, chicken, tortilla strips, and melted cheese. I’d have eaten every delicious bite in the bowl and been uncomfortably stuffed. Not that the Lone Star sandwich isn’t good as well. The Magic Pan has an array of sandwiches with a wonderful raspberry-chipotle sauce slathered on the buns. The meat in the Lone Star is, as you might expect, beef.
I’m told that cattle, not to mention sheep and goats, once grazed on long grass in our area.There are still ranches, but the cattle now have to walk their poor legs off to find enough grass to get them through the day. As far as I know, cattle don’t eat cactus. People do, but I have yet to treat myself to that pleasure. For all I know, some of the prickly things in my yard are edible and I should be harvesting them and putting them up like a good pioneer woman. Ha!
“I want to go inside,” said Barbara Escobar, the youngest among us. She has that heavy, dark hair with absolutely no split ends to disturb the patina. Her skin is smooth and quite light; I’ve heard her make disdainful remarks about Mexican Americans with dark skin and obvious Indian heritage, like Luz Vallejo, who is a handsome woman, in my opinion. How determined people seem to be to distinguish themselves from others on the basis of the smallest differences in skin color.
“It’s freezing out here,” Barbara complained.
She probably enjoyed the summer heat, although I couldn’t imagine it. I’d heard that August had produced a temperature of 106 degrees. Fortunately, I wasn’t in El Paso last summer to experience it. I’d probably have turned my thermostat to seventy and refused to leave the house. Peter Brockman claims that his solar house, situated properly in relation to the sun, heavily insulated, and possessed of thick walls and deeply overhanging eves, doesn’t need air conditioning at all.
I’d been fascinated to hear this, having read that the Spanish colonists had oriented their haciendas by jamming sticks into the ground and studying the shadows before placing a house that would fend off both heat and cold. My interest, based on our high electric rates for refrigerated air conditioning, had dissipated when Vivian Brockman said, “No matter what Peter thinks, I keep the air conditioner on from April to November.”
“Well, are we going to move inside?” Barbara demanded. The others had continued to chat while she complained.
It was only in the mid 60s, bracingly comfortable to my mind, but they agreed with Barbara, so we picked up our glasses and moved into the big room with its huge stone fireplace and plank tables supported by the bases of antique sewing machines. All the chairs were mismatched, the tables sporting flowered
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