LAKE CHAPALA HOMECOMING

Battle worn, retired, yet buoyant I arrived from Detroit City into Western Mexico's heartland accompanied by C.C. (Construction Cat). We took a cab from the airport hauling three suitcases, one of them containing my favorite pillow, several yards of precious fabric, pesticides, rat killer, and a flashlight. My fears are few, but include rats and spiders.

We were to spend that night, behind the high walls that hid our new home on Las Redes, a cobblestone street on the fringes of the town of Chapala. I was arriving to start the beginning of the end of my life's journey; instead, life's process keeps marching on. Once again, I have built an environment much the same as I always have. Only the cast of characters, the setting, and the cost of living has changed. In other words, I am extraordinarily blessed to be living here at Lake Chapala.

The house was built as a weekend party place by a wealthy Guadalajaran and had been long abandoned. It was small and extremely strange inside, but the hacienda porch that was wrapped around it was welcoming. The expansive yard contained not one bush, nothing but perfectly cut grass, a bandstand, and a fancy restroom with a drunken gardener living inside.

It had all been recently painted a flashing fluorescent orange. "Oh my God," I hollered as the saleswoman who was showing the property, full of apologies, tugged at my arm and dragged me out. It was too late; the place had already spoken to me.

After I moved in I added a wing onto the house, and then the second story went up. The construction workers were so nice to be around; they shared their bean tacos with me while I brought them refrescos (sodas), soaking up their smiles while I sat on piles of brick.

They kept giving me estimates that I couldn't refuse; I kept just ahead of them, designing one project after the other. We built an art gallery and painting studio across the back of the property. I swore I would kick the compulsion for construction, and believed I could become a delicate "seniorita" when I moved to Mexico.

My rude awakening came when the window washer fresh from the US counted 47 windows that needed to be washed at $20 pesos a window, or $30 pesos both sides. Had I really sold the historic 19th century Victorian I spent eight years restoring only to buy another with exactly the same number of windows screaming to be washed? Was I again to become a slave to inert materials? I let my gardener go in an economic gesture. I could do it myself in just two hours a day, besides, I thought, I miss smelling the flowers.

"I'm a painter; want to come to my opening in El Refugio?" I asked José, a popular secondary teacher in Mezcala, his students crunching into and around my shiny pickup bed, their parents peering from dark doorways in curiosity.

(Left:) Janice spent a year photographing Mezcala's student dancers (here in their costumes for the famous dance of the old men). (Right:) This exhibit display demonstrates the many designs she has created from those images.

A year later, after eating much dust on the then long dirt road leading into that indigenous fishing village, I had photo documented the student dancers participating in the many festivals there. Kimball Gallery opened, I received a real brass medal as a Jalisco artist and that resulted in being included in a show in the Cabañas, and Jacqueline Stewart appeared in my life.

She masterminded the smashing activities and exhibitions we had at my gallery. Our goal was to foster fellowship between the Mexican and foreign art communities, and we succeeded. Our enticements of free food, entertainment and drinks worked marvelously well in getting even the most reticent Mexican artist to take a bus into Chapala from their distant art communities.

Next, I had a show at the new Efren Gonzalez Gallery in Bugambilias Mall, dying my white hair a temporary orange to match the balloons Efren strung across the highway and became a red head forever. It was a great two years. Then, the Kimball Gallery ran out of money.

There was a knocking at my front gate. "We found a painting studio for you, so you can join us," two of my favorite Mexican artist's chimed enthusiastically in Spanish. It was $1,500 pesos a month, there was a room and bath with a shared courtyard to paint in, located in the rear portion of what was a large art gallery in central Ajijic.

I took it, but turned down the free lunches the groups of men who met daily offered me as I painted in the courtyard beside them. They lunched on Nightmare Soup prepared by the director's teenage daughters in the gallery kitchen. Whatever the starving artists were able to contribute (half developed ears of corn, fish with heads, entrails, chicken tails, overripe tomatoes and other things I could only guess at) were thrown into a large pot and then served with tortillas and hot sauce and a generous lacing of tequila.

(Left:) Some of my Huichol friends meet with Dionicio Morelos at the gallery. (Right:) Teo's loom was set up in the courtyard of the gallery when I met him.

The Huichol, the indigenous group of pre-Hispanic people, also hung out there. They spent afternoons squatting around me watching me work. We spoke a similar broken Spanish slowly, lacking in verbs or other vernacular niceties.

There were things I was not told when I rented my studio. Outside the gallery's back door was an alley, strewn with trash. Behind it was an immense partly tumbled stone wall; it was so high I couldn't see over it, but it could be crawled over. Behind that was a large piece of vacant property landlocked by buildings. This is where the San Andrés Huichol community lived.

They set up makeshift tents and cooked over open fires. Our gallery was their entrance and exit to the street that led to the Ajijic plaza. They silently padded through the courtyard in their soft huaraches (sandals) almost not noticed. I grew very fond of José Luis, an elf-like irresistible dancer of spirits as he sighed, "It is beautiful" in English, as I painted. He made me realize the underlying reason the Huichol seemed taken with me. I had rented their bathroom, at least the bathroom of the grown men. They each in turn made a formal request to use it, which I granted, and it again became theirs. After that I became "family."

Teo did not speak English, or understand my Spanish, but, other than that we had a lot in common. We had both lived alone for 15 years. He had a crush on me, and was always waiting when I arrived in the morning to carry my things.

Everything changed after he arrived in the gallery. The alley became a garden, the girls were happier because he helped with the dishes and planted flowers in the courtyard. I took note of his charming smile.

(Left:) Teo was a hat wearing, rope trick twirling Jocotepec weaver when Janice met him at her studio. (Right:) Family pet parrot Maximo grooms Teo's moustache at the Aztec Gallery in western Ajijic.

We made trips to his old hometown of Jocotepec to pick up the parts of an ancient loom, which, when assembled would be the size of a small room. It was set it up in the gallery. His first weaving was a gift for me, a tapestry of Quetzalcoatl, the flying serpent, elegant in black and white, a most marvelous gift. The first time Teo came to my house was to say goodbye. Standing in the kitchen doorway, he told me that he could not find work in Mexico, so he was returning to the US. I made a lightning decision and asked him to live with me.

Hardly pausing he said, "Then will you be my spouse?" When I nodded he asked, "Can I come in to use your phone? I need to tell my daughter I will not be coming home tonight." We were together for five years and nursed each other through serious illness and back to health.

We opened Kimball-Urzua gallery in Ajijic after selling the property in Chapala; then we bought a commercial site on the main highway below Rancho Del Oro. Only 15 feet wide, it is deep, going back like a railroad siding, with walls as high as the property is wide.

It was another party place, a windowless room at the back filled with bunk beds, but with no closet, and just an outside kitchen, dark and dreary. Trudging up rusted metal steps to the roof, we realized the property sits on an embankment and before our eyes lay an astounding 360 degree panorama of the lake, mountains and the charming fishing village of Ajijic.

(Left:) It may have been a rundown previous party property to most buyers, but Janice Kimball saw a gallery with a home hidden within. (Right:) Ahh, Janice's vision has come to fruition. The Kimball Gallery is warm and welcoming.

After a lifetime of altering others building plans, it was an architectural challenge I could not resist. We had lived like pack rats in the one room, our things pared down to the computer, a bed, art and weaving supplies, boxes of photos and writings piled almost to the ceiling.

Teo's loom was set up in the outside kitchen under a clear tarp to keep out the dust and rain as he continued to weave all day, every day. His son, Francisco, set up a tent on the roof, industriously canopied by the blue plastic swimming pool he salvaged from the front yard and inverted over his mattress. When we emerged two years later from behind the piles of construction material we dusted ourselves off and opened for business sans windows and doors. I had again run out of money.

We spent that time wisely, preparing to open the art gallery and weaving studios. Teo wanted to name it Aztec, after the weaving center he once owned on Morelos (now the Tango restaurant), and so it was. It has since been renamed Janice Kimball Studios and Gallery to reflect my history as an artist.

(Left:) Francisco spends his days creating paintings in yarn at a 300-year-old mesquite family loom. Its design is the same as those brought to the new world on Spanish ships. (Right:) Francisco's concentration pays off in his extraordinary weavings.

It has not been without struggle, but we have been able to finish the construction, acquire furniture, look respectable, support various animals, and help numerous friends — all in all, quite a modest success. Teo has been able to retire and Francisco has taken over the generational tradition, still weaving on these ancient looms he learned to weave on when he was a child. Teo taught him to weave on the same loom Teo had learned the art from his grandfather before him.

Francisco is passionate about weaving. I can see him here, weaving on these ancient looms long after I am gone—maybe the last of his kind—and it pleases me. I love not knowing where my beginnings will take me — journeys are so much more interesting that way.

An opportunity presented itself that led me to discover the expatriate spirit of this extended American/Canadian community, a connection I had long neglected, when I was offered the opportunity to exhibit (and sell) our paintings and weavings during the months of February and March 2010 in the office and Neill James Library of the Lake Chapala Society. It was perfect timing, I was happy to have a nice tribute paid to as closure to Teo's weaving career.

Janice and Francisco are well prepared to continue to create interlinking projects…just as Janice did with Teo, her step-son's father.

Gringos sometimes make me nervous. I get the feeling that I can't do anything right, and yup, sure enough I get foot in mouth disease. The tables were turned on me as I showed up at the LCS with an overkill of paintings and weavings to hang in every possible spot, I must have been acting as if I was waiting to be hit or something. And the response of the foreigners there?

I was met with smiles, the smiles were everywhere. I actually began to feel a little comfortable, and then I noticed that they spoke English. "Thank you, thank you," I kept saying; boy, was I ever hungry for English. My Spanish is falling victim to my hearing loss and my growing impatience with it.

My belief is this; it's not what you get, when you get what it is you are going after. It's the process that makes the life. The process needs to enrich you and give you the desire to carry on. The product is just the end.

My story will always be a familiar one to me; my life process is much as it has always been, no matter how much I try to change it, I am still carrying myself around with me. I get up to self-made deadlines and create more projects in my sleep. My mind sometimes skips; I love too much and I get too angry.

Returning home from the Lake Chapala Society I shout at Francisco and my bilingual helper Fernando, from whom I have never heard anything but Spanish. "I hate Spanish, I am sick of Spanish, from now on this is an English-speaking household!"

The cats look up and Maria, the turtle, dives back into the water. Maximo, the parrot, shouts "Good morning."

Francisco says "I learn Engliss," and Fernando says, "Me too," and I know, for sure, that I am home, no matter what language we speak.

HUICHOLS AND COOKING

The Three Culture Kitchen

By Janice Kimball

What an opportunity for growth it has been to inadvertently create a family from three cultures. From left above are Jalisco Huichol Teodoro, center, author Janice Kimball, and right, Maestro Teo's son Francisco.

Gradually, during the past year or so, readers of Living at Lake Chapala have read over my shoulder as I've recorded the twisting and turning details of the evolution of my life since my retirement and escape from the hurried and harried art and home restoration worlds in Detroit.

Once my studio and gallery were completed at my Chapala home, I had everything an artist with a passion for the Mexican culture needed — except a community of other artists and people who understood my work.

I took the only reasonable step to alleviate the gnawing inner void of separation: I began sharing my art, meeting artists and art lovers. Eventually, I found I was not only integrating into Lakeside's gringo art world, but more importantly I was earning the acceptance of the Mexican artists. Much to my surprise, I discovered an opportunity to also open my kitchen and my home to a third art culture — the indigenous Huichols who come to Lakeside to sell their intricate symbolic work.

I found my place when I moved Kimball Gallery, which I'd orchestrated to foster communication between the Mexican and Expat art communities, into the back half of the gallery of Dionicio Morales, the head of the regional ejido (agricultural) community on Colón, in Ajijic.

It was an amazing time for me with the men overflowing into my painting space, spilling the expected intrigue and political posturing as the artists (in a constant state of excitement) worked with varying levels of success with local, state, and federal governmental agencies during the final stages of building and opening Ajijic's Casa de Cultura.

It was time of midday gatherings while munching on pork rinds and peanuts and preparing "nightmare soup" from the day's motley contributions of fish heads and limp vegetables. It was a world where women were not usually welcome. I was excited to witness the theater of it all, but I could not understand a word of their tequila-laced, rapidly running Spanish.

They teased me and laughed at my turned-up nose as they sat in my chairs lapping up their bad soup while I ate my peanut butter sandwich. I valiantly continued painting in my unfamiliar painting style on the shared veranda. Eventually even I noticed attention being paid to my hard work from the corner of other artists' eyes, yet, surrounded by others, I was still alone and left with the longing for dialogue with another artist.

(Left:) Several area Huichols spent a good deal of time at Dionicio's Ajijic gallery. (Right:) Maestro Teo's centuries-old mesquite loom was set up at the gallery to help draw tourists in to see our work.

It was in this setting, and in this mood that I met my two Teos, who brought their art into my life and their two cultures into my kitchen.

Teodoro, a Jalisco Huichol distinguished by his blue tunic and distinctive, wildlife-embroidered trousers that mark him as an outsider even among most of the many other Huichols who come to Lakeside to sell their intricate art. These other Huichols come down from the state of Nayrit, a community in the Huichol nation that sits on the opposite side of the Sierra Madre from the Jalisco Huichols, with whom they warred for years.

Because of this century-long conflict, Teodoro was quite alone here. He lived in the alley in a makeshift tent in exchange for keeping the gallery safe, as Dionicio came and went at will. He spoke Spanish awkwardly as a second language and was, like me, an outsider on the periphery of the gallery's inner courtyard where the tight-knit gang of artists always hung out. He was a young man, still in his teens, and longed for his new wife and baby left behind in the Sierras. With the two of us on the outside, looking in trying to keep up with our halting Spanish, we bonded quickly.

One day Teodoro asked me in his direct, very formal way if he and his wife and baby could move into my now empty Chapala gallery in exchange for them doing my gardening and house cleaning. When I sadly said no, Teodoro quickly followed up with another question, "Can I bring this up again at another time?" I did not have the heart to say no to him a second time.

(Left:) To blend into the crowd while traveling for several days by bus to reach his home in the Sierras, Teodoro donned western clothing given to him by an American photographer. (Right:) Weaver Teo Urzua was a hat wearing, rope twirling Mexican just back from the US when he came into Janice's life.

Before he left for the mountains to bring back his little family, Maestro Teo entered the Ajijic gallery scene. Maestro Teo, a weaver, was returning to Mexico after spending 20 years working in the United States.

As the elder in the gallery roster, he was granted respect among the other younger artists. Since I had a pickup, Dionicio gave me the task of bringing Maestro Teo's loom from his Jocotepec home so he could set up in the front of the gallery. It was a great mystery to Dionicio that tourists walking up and down Colón rarely looked into, let alone entered the gallery. He hoped the remedy to that situation would be the sight and sounds of Teo (equipped with a quick and smashing smile) weaving on an ancient loom would lure them in.

With Maestro Teo's appearance, the courtyard became cleaner and the flowers, again nurtured, began to bloom. Dionicio's daughters were no longer slaves to the piles of dirty dishes after the lunches of nightmare soup. As Teo helped them with their chores, their laughter floated into the courtyard.

The two Teo's began hanging out in the kitchen, and the Maestro set me a special place at the table, and told me there would be no more fish heads in the soup — I discovered that traditional fish soup could be a dream instead of a nightmare.

Teo's Headless Fish Soup
(Traditional Jalisco Caldo Michi)
Serves 6

2 kilos carp, cleaned and cut into thick slices
3 zucchini, sliced
2 carrots, peeled and sliced
1 medium onion, diced
2 fresh yellow chiles, sliced
6 cups chicken broth
1 handful cilantro, coarsely chopped
Fresh or dried oregano
Salt and pepper to taste

Garnish:
Thinly sliced cabbage
Limes, cut in quarters
Additional chopped onion and cilantro
Hot sauce

Bring broth to a boil with the onion. Add the other vegetables and simmer 15 minutes and then add the fish, salt, and black pepper.

Simmer uncovered for another 15 minutes or until the fish is almost done. Add oregano and fresh cilantro, cook another 2 minutes.

Offer thinly sliced cabbage, quartered limes, additional chopped onion and cilantro, hot sauce, and a basket of tostadas.

Note: My "American" spin on this Mexican recipe is to use any ocean fish bought filleted and cut it into chunks to add to the broth. I find it much easier and I do not like the idea of fish bones in soup. Teo buys the carp from a fish farm in Jocotepec, but it can also be purchased in the Jocotepec central market or fish market every day.

Oddly enough, Teo always eats sliced bananas with his Caldo Michi. He does not consider this the least bit unusual.

Maestro Teo appeared at the gate of my Chapala home on a Sunday while I was preparing the gallery for Teodoro and his family. When I invited him in, he wouldn't budge from the kitchen threshold. Hat in hand, he told me he had come to say goodbye. He was returning to the United States because he wasn't finding work here, and he had no money.

I envisioned going to Ajijic every day, not seeing him waiting my arrival at the gallery entrance, warming me with his smile, anxious to carry my things. I remembered the flowers he planted outside my studio door as the others teased him unmercifully about his preoccupation with pleasing me. I thought about how I would have to give up the fantasy of having a gallery where he would be there keeping me company, where I would never have to cook or carry anything again. As I studied him I realized a decision was in order.

"You do not have to go back to the United States," I told him, "You can live here with me."

He didn't need to think about the offer, he only replied, "As your spouse?" When I said yes, he asked to use my phone to call his daughter to let her know he wouldn't be coming home that evening. He was never to speak a word of English, and I spoke only a bare smattering of Spanish and understood very little of his words. We offered each other protection, and that is what mattered.

The Maestro had already settled in when Teodoro returned with his teenage bride Angelica, and their baby. In the beginning he led her into our shared kitchen as if she were blind. She was so shy she sat mute, her eyes cast to the floor as he cooked for them.

From the time I spent in the Sierras I knew that she had cooked tortillas squatting over an open communal fire, had never sat at a table, used utensils, opened a box, seen a refrigerator or a sink. The meat they'd eaten was dried and their other staple food, scrambled eggs, was scooped up with tortillas.

I once watched a Huichol man take a pan to a muddy stream filled with half-wild pigs, chickens and a mule. He pounded the pan against his knee and whopped to get the livestock to give way so he could wash the pan — actually I suspect the washing of the pan was to impress me.

From that experience I knew she would not be the best kitchen helper, as apparently washing dishes is not in the woman's domain. I was right. In time she did learn to cook, but refused to light the stove, and preferred to wrap up food and keep it in their room, to avoid using the refrigerator. She only washed dishes at Teodoro's insistence, when he glared and stood nearby with his arms folded across his chest.

Teodoro's lessons on modern hygiene and their frequent showering together were much better received. Angelica was not pretty, but had a regal quality that I admired. She wore her traditional clothing like a princess, and as the daughter of a powerful shaman, in a way she was.

Maestro Teo set the tone and rules that governed our kitchen behavior, a method that came quite naturally to the two Teo's. Our food was our business and their food was theirs, yet we often wound up cooking at the same time, patiently waiting for an empty burner, and then ate grouped around the kitchen table.

I was uncomfortable on days when they ate only tortillas with salt and envious on days when Teodoro made strange, delectable smelling dishes using cumin and other exotic spices. These he prepared with vegetables bought at a great discount when they were on the verge of being overripe, and from the special deals he arranged with the owner of a butcher shop that catered to upscale restaurants. He bought their discarded trimmings, and along with the fresh chicken necks and tails he bought from the neighboring chicken rotisserie, they ate healthily and well.

Our three languages and the misinterpretations were comical, even to us. We had an incredible comfort level with each other, even Angelica who understood little but sometimes giggled in a melodic jingling way at our laughter at day's end.

We learned a lot from each other, and I learned a lot about cooking on the cheap. I learned that costly ingredients do not always make a better meal. I learned that a first priority is to have bellies full; the second is to be able to savor it.

We loved our snacks at night in front of the TV, watching programs that I insisted on choosing as the others had a taste for blood and guts. We were a content, if unusual family. Teodoro and Angelica insisted on sitting on kitchen chairs behind the love seat where Teo and I sat — as if we were all on the bus. Meanwhile the baby was scooting around us in her Walmart walker.

Here are some of our shared snack time recipes — try them, they are great. Running a three culture kitchen on the cheap often forbids the luxury of soft drinks. I found that instead we drank a good deal of traditional agua frescas (fruit-ades) made with all kinds of fruit, jamaica, and Teodoro's horchata (rice milk drink).

Just a few ingredients combine to make horchata, the delicious cinnamon drink which is refreshing when served cold and soothing when served hot.

Teodoro's Horchata
While many recipes for horchata are made by soaking whole grain rice overnight and then blending and straining the results, adding sugar, water, and flavorings. Teodoro's version uses rice flour and sweetened condensed milk.
For 8 servings

2 tablespoons Harina De Arroz (rice flour)
One half stick cinnamon — about 3" (or an ample amount of Mexican canela (ground cinnamon)
1 tablespoon pure vanilla
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 cup water

Combine all above ingredients and heat, while stirring, until the mixture comes to a boil. Remove from heat cool a bit and then add 2 quarts cold water. Serves 8.

This drink is good either warm or cold, served over ice cubes. It is also a good punch with orange slices and cinnamon sprinkled on top.

When Angelica prepares the drink for the three of them, she halves the recipe and omits the sweetened milk, and instead adds 4 tablespoons of sugar.

Note: Harina De Arroz can be purchased in most corner stores, or if you prefer, you can buy Uncle Bens rice flour at SuperLake. The Mexican version will be much less expensive.

On days when I feel a little nostalgic for that time and place, and people, I make Teo's Tacos — with my little north of the border touch of sour cream. Instead of putting the mixture into tortillas to make tacos, I use totopos (corn chips or fried tortilla chips) to dip in it.

There are as many variations on this dish as there are meals and families. Here we've added tomatoes and onions, another variation leaves out the tomato and adds mayo. To serve a larger group, add cooked macaroni and crema and serve it on tostadas.

Maestro Teo's Tuna Tacos

1 can tuna, in oil
2 potatoes, quartered
1 large tomato, diced
1/2 cup diced onions
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 handful fresh parsley, finely chopped
Salt and pepper to taste

Sauté tomato and onion in a little oil until onion is limp and transparent while you boil potatoes in water until overly done. Remove potatoes and chop finely, then squash with back of spoon or potato masher. Combine with all other ingredients.

Serve warm with hot tortillas, accompanied with hot sauce. I use this recipe frequently but add more mayonnaise and a little lime and serve it as a dip for corn chips.

Note: This recipe is a common one for poor folks as company fare. They add a small bag of cooked macaroni and instead of the mayonnaise, they substitute a plastic cup filled with heavy crema (cream). You can purchase the crema at corner stores or supermarkets — it's usually behind the counter with the lunch meats and eggs. It is then served spread on tostadas.

I have eaten this many times, but have heard cautions against doing so, as it is said that the cream may not be pasteurized.

Here's a quick and easy appetizer that starts with the roasted small potatoes from the chicken rotisserie store. Now this is right up my alley.

I can cook, but I don't want to. One of the best things about that time was the knowledge that we would all eat, and eat well, with very little intervention from me. There were times that I did produce some easy to fix treats and staples. This sounds deceptively simple — don't miss trying it.

Janice's Potato Treats

1 bag roasted small potatoes from neighborhood chicken rotisserie store
Scant tablespoon cooking oil
2 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese

Cut potatoes into mushroom size pieces, if they are too large. Spread on cookie sheet. Brush with cooking oil. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese. Brown in a hot oven (375 - 400 degrees) for 6 to 8 minutes. Skewer with toothpicks for easy eating.

Sprinkle with chopped parsley as garnish if desired.

You may not be prepared to open your house and your heart to people as did I. Still, I'll never regret the understanding and knowledge I gained in that time and isn't that part of our lives in another country — to absorb some of the culture and experiences that are different from our own?