Sunday, June 27
After enjoying the carne avovada at Sadie's in Albuquerque so much during our trip, we decided to spend at least part of our Sunday trying to approximate the experience. Unfortunately, none of the search engines I tried could find anything for "carne avovada" except "Did you mean carne adovada?"
Not wanting to give in to Internet thinking, I kept looking, but all I could find were raves about the carne avovada that bloggers had eaten at New Mexico restaurants. When the official New Mexico cuisine site had no mention of the dish, I began to suspect that I was looking for a variant. I looked at a couple of recipes and concluded that what I would make from the carne adovada recipe and the carne avovada I have enjoyed so many times at Sadie's are as similar as I could reasonably attain, even if I were to use Sadie's own secret recipe. So I downloaded the carne adovada recipe and spent the last hour mixing up the marinade.
I have New Mexico red chile powder on order from amazon.com, but my local grocery store had only California red chili powder. It's similar in that it's red, made from peppers, and powdered. I reasoned that my first attempt would be aimed at learning the procedure, so I went ahead. With the marinade mixed and applied to the pork, it looks exactly like what I was expecting. The recipe says to marinate for at least twelve hours and roast for 4½ hours, so it'll be awhile before I have a final judgement to report.
Tuesday, June 22
The trip to Mississippi for my class reunion was a big success on almost every front. I saw old friends I haven't spoken to or seen in many years, and I renewed my familiarity with the places of my childhood. I ate thin catfish in Mississippi and carne avovada in New Mexico. I endured hundred-degree heat in Texas and saw snow on the mountaintops east of Provo. On the downside, I missed seeing a couple of old friends I had hoped to visit with, I learned that, even with a Yakima Rocket Box on top, my new car doesn't have nearly enough room for twelve days' worth of luggage, and I ate enough to gain twelve pounds.
The reunion was very enjoyable. I didn't remember having many friends in high school, but I had a lot of friends at the reunion. I remember being much less than cool as a teenager, but nobody was less than cool that night. Even people I didn't expect to remember me were like old friends. I last went to a reunion in 1984, back when we were still young enough that the women were moving heaven and earth to look younger than they actually were. This time, 26 years later, none of that shallowness remained. With a couple of notable exceptions, we all looked to be in our middle sixties, and nobody seemed to care. I think we may have grown up.
My across-the-fence back-door neighbor from the house on Claiborne Avenue was there. She was one of the few girls with whom I had a date during high school. We had been interested in each other back then, but at different times, I'm afraid. She had gone through a recent divorce, an ordeal with which I could sympathize. She has always been intelligent and optimistic, and I hope those qualities can carry her through.
The most notable exception to that comment about looking our age was a woman who had grown up from a girl on whom I had a hopeless crush during high school. At the twenty-year reunion in 1984, she had matured into an incredibly beautiful and gracious woman who greeted me with genuine warmth--warmth I would have killed for twenty years before. This month, 26 years later, she still struck me as a beautiful and gracious woman, and once again she greeted me with warmth befitting fond memories. We should all mature so gracefully.
I was pleasantly surprised that the faculty adviser for our high school newspaper attended the reunion. The most vivid lesson of my high school days was his admonition to avoid the trite in journalistic writing. I spoke to him and told him that nearly every time I see my local paper, I shake my head and utter the word, "trite." He smiled but was unsurprised. "It's terrible," he said.
On Sunday morning after the Saturday reunion dinner, Kris and I drove around Jackson to see the places that still occupy my childhood memories. We drove past Poindexter, Hardy, and Provine schools. We drove past the houses on Claiborne Avenue and Pecan Boulevard. We drove past Westland Plaza and Metro Center, both of which looked like the ruins of nuclear war. We drove past Livingston Park, which looked like a jungle. We drove past my old church, which I had been led to believe had been razed to the ground. The building was missing its beautiful stained-glass windows, but it was still standing tall when we drove by, and the words "Capitol Street Methodist Church" still stood over the front door. Fowler Buick, where Dad worked for forty years, had closed its old showroom on North State Street (as had all of the other new car dealers on the block), but the dealership was still very active in Brandon.
We bought gasoline in Brandon for sixty cents less than the same 87-octane regular in Richland. In fact, except for one road agent in southern Idaho who had the only gas for thirty miles, nobody had gasoline as expensive as what we still pay in Washington.
I'm thinking about retiring in Albuquerque again. I haven't given up on the Washington coast, but the value of living near civilization can't be ignored. I wouldn't have much need for my boat in the New Mexico desert, but I'll need to sell it pretty soon, anyway. And my favorite restaurant in the world is still in Albuquerque.
While I was in Jackson, I shed a few tears over my parents' gravesite. My last visit was nearly a decade ago, when we met in Jackson to get the last of Dad's stuff out of the house. I should have put some fresh flowers on the headstone, but I was too depressed to do much of anything.
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