We’ve attended a number of weddings here. Most have been large extravagant events; Mexican – American, Mexican – Spanish or Mexican – Mexican weddings with hundreds of guests and costing thousands of dollars.
This was different; very different.
Rod had told me that his assistant, Juanita, and her boyfriend Chucho, after five years together, were finally planning to tie the knot. Furthermore, Chucho had asked if I would be willing to be one of his witnesses. An honor I was sure but I didn’t know quite what to expect. I was told that it was to be a civil wedding with a magistrate, no church, and only immediate family in attendance. It was to be held at Juanita’s family’s modest home.
As we were ushered into a small windowless room with bare brick walls and introduced to various family members, I felt that we were overdressed in our jackets and ties. We declined the offer of refreshments and were offered seats around a small table as we waited for the magistrate to arrive. Children played loudly in an adjacent room, darting in and out of the door only pausing briefly to cast a glance at the gringo (me).
Within a few minutes there was a rap on the front door and a petite, well groomed woman in a pink suit was ushered into the room. Clearly on a schedule, she got right down to business instructing the bride, groom, parents and witnesses where to stand around the table.
As she was reading off the names of the witnesses she got to my very gringo name and shot me a glance. “Habla español?” she asked me.
“Poquito,” I replied.
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked on mine, as if to say “Well you’d better be able to speak enough to answer the questions correctly!” I felt a little nervous.
The first question was pretty obvious; “Did we, the witnesses, know the bride and groom?” However, when she said the groom’s name she said “Jose Jesus.” I’d never heard Chucho’s real name (nearly everyone in Mexico has a nickname) but I resisted the urge to say anything smart and just said, “Si,” along with everyone else.
Then the next question came which sounded something like, “Did we know any reason why they should not be married?” But then I thought, “Maybe it is like the custom’s form where you answer the same to every question . . . but what if it isn’t?” So I just followed the lead of the other witnesses and said my “No” with apparently undetectable hesitation.
The magistrate proceeded with the ceremony which probably took another five minutes. Thereafter the witnesses were asked to sign three copies of the wedding certificate. I squeezed mine into the requisite tiny boxes.
The documents were then passed to the parents of the bride and groom. This is where I experienced the most unique aspect of the whole event; the parents didn’t know how to sign their names. Without hesitating, the magistrate passed them an ink pad and had each of them place their thumbprint in the appropriate place on the documents.
After brief applause and an embarrassed kiss exchanged between the bride and groom, we were ushered up a narrow stairwell and through a low doorway onto the rooftop. There we found folding tables covered in white table cloths. Rod and I took our seats in the corner in the shade.
Almost immediately we were served food; a plate of pork in a black mole sauce accompanied with Spanish rice. This was immediately followed by a steaming bowl of pozole with all the fixings. A bottle of their best tequila was placed on the table.
As tends to be typical at these humble events, we received better service than anyone else. In fact, much of the time it was the bride or groom who were serving us or asking us if we needed anything. We kept telling them that we were fine and that it was their day, not to worry about us.
The wedding cake, like all the food, was homemade. It was a delicious tres leches (three milks).
In the states these people would be described as being in poverty; generations living together under a single roof. But they are not poor. Their floor is concrete, not dirt. And for a celebration of this sort they have an expression, “Echar la casa por la ventana” which translates to “throw the house out the window.” In other words, we spend what we have to spend and share whatever we have and we’ll worry another day.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Pescado con Salsa de Mantequilla
When Rod and I travel by air we make it a habit to browse the magazine shop and look for cooking magazines in Spanish. We kill time waiting for our flight by flipping through the recipes looking for something interesting. Then we bring them home and ask our maid to cook them for us. (One big advantage to having a maid who can read!)
This is one of my favorites. Although once I translated it I realized that I am really sacrificing health for taste. (Read into that butter and frying.) But it is so good!
Pescado con Salsa de Mantequilla
(Fish in Butter Sauce)
Salt & freshly ground pepper
4 fish fillets (Tilapia or Red Snapper)
1 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons olive oil
Butter
¼ cup small capers
2 Tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 Tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
½ teaspoon lime juice
1. Season fillets with salt & pepper on both sides. Dredge fillets in flower and shake off excess.
2. Fry fillets in oil over medium heat, three minutes per side or until they are firm and golden brown. Set aside.
3. To prepare the sauce, melt 1/3 cup butter. Remove from heat when butter begins to darken. Add the capers, vinegar, parsley and two Tablespoons more of butter. When the additional butter melts and the sauce thickens slightly, stir in the lemon juice and mix well.
4. Pour the sauce over the fillets and serve immediately.
Serves 4
(Rice and broccoli make good side dishes for this entrée.)
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