I Ate His Liver With Some Fava Beans And A Nice Chianti

Ah, Neiman Marcus. The Mothership. Just thinking of their cosmetic world creates a visceral longing . . . like an opiate addiction. Say it with me: Tom Ford. . . Chanel. Your muscle memory just unconsciously reached for your credit card, right? For one as poor as I, how did I ever frequent Neiman’s, either on-line or in person at the original Dallas Mothership? Once upon a time I experienced such a desire to return to the Mothership that I ordered a pair of sandals, on-line, from a satellite phone in West Africa. Great sandals. 

Today a grocery store satisfies my shopping addiction. The mere idea saddens me and should serve as a cautionary tale to any Costa Rica resident without a JetBox account who was or is a shoe or perfume lover – how are the mighty fallen?

I don’t know whether Auto-Mercado reigns as the best grocer in Costa Rica, but in my mind there exists nothing better. Is the store truly so full of wonders such as berries and pickling cucumbers, or have I simply lowered the bar? I think of Auto-Mercado as being on par with Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, Central Market, and the Food Halls at Harrods. So clearly the bar hasn’t merely lowered, it’s crumbled. Nevertheless.

Our closest Auto-Mercado is a two-hour drive. Add a minimum hour for shopping and 30 minutes for lunch at the Subway® next door and we’re talking about a six-hour outing. And what has, you ask, the Auto-Mercado that our local grocers have not? Let’s list just some of it:

• Iceberg lettuce. Heck, a variety of lettuces in a real produce section.
• A deli counter with sliced cheeses and cold-cuts from around the world. Think Boar’s Head. Think Reuben sandwich.
• An in-store bakery with everything from flat-bread pizza to bagels and warm-from-the-oven French breads.

See The Way The Handle On Those Pruning Shears Matches Her Gardening Clogs? That's Not An Accident.

This year Chanukah begins on Christmas Eve . . . right through January 1. This is very exciting for me, and we have plans all weekend with wonderful friends. Rusty doesn’t celebrate Chanukah; I celebrate both Chanukah and Christmas. I'm excited about the holidays, as always. About 2017?  . . . that remains to be seen. Anyway, bitch that I am, my gift to you this year is a typical Kathy rant. Actually I’m still on that volume-versus-weight rant.

Sometimes I just need someone or some authoritative text/entity to agree with me on a fact that I know to be true. For example, in my recent endeavor with lime curd the recipe called for 150 grams of lime juice. This obvious error in the recipe consumes my thoughts. One cannot measure a liquid by weight. Would 10 grams of water occupy the same volume in a measuring cup as 10 grams of honey? Of motor oil? Mercury?! Of course not, and it’s making me crazy that the Internet contains a great recipe with an unforgivable error in a critical measurement. And I wonder why my lime curd is overly tart. Liquids are (or should be) measured by volume, be it milliliters or fluid ounces. I cannot let it go. Naturally my husband was and still is thrilled . . . or not. He simply wanted some authentic French Madeleines.

So it's the holidays and I should play nicely . . . should being the key word. A few days ago I did make Madeleines for that darling man o' mine. And the recipe read, thankfully, fluid ounces of melted butter. Got that? Fluid ounces of melted (i.e., a liquid) butter. Ah, but here in Costa Rica our butter contains so many additives that when one melts the happy product of a happy cow you’ll find all sorts of things floating on top (and, for you true cooks and bakers,  I’m not simply referring to the milk solids). These floaters must be skimmed before measuring the butter. So if I need four fluid ounces of butter, I’d better begin with six-plus ounces from the stick of solid butter. Surely you’re following my reasoning in this rant. No? Well let’s move to another topic . . . one of my favorites: grammar and the misuse of English words.

I Think This Just Might Be My Masterpiece

Those 15 pounds I lost while in Texas? They're back. Still, 'tis the holiday season, and one anticipates a certain amount of weight gain . . . except perhaps in this land of year-round beach-going and tiny bikinis.

Some people enjoy participation in competitive sports. I am not one of those people. Well, I do enjoy golf; but arguably golf is more of a game than a sport, and a drinking game at that, which explains my love of the game. Baking constitutes my new competition.

My friend Becky introduced me to The Great British Baking Show. It’s baking, not cooking, my friends. Need I explain further? Those Brits . . . unlike so many U.S. Food Network competitions, the bakers of The Great British Baking Show speak with politeness and humor . . . not to mention that delightful accent. You’ll not find aggression – no hostile rivalries as with the U.S. shows. What you will find is pastries and breads galore, beautiful in appearance and with almost unbelievable flavor combinations. Cardamon, masala chai, and basil . . . together in a single dessert -- what genius home-cooks think of this stuff? Nevertheless, while watching in Texas I wanted to scamper away from the T.V., raid Becky’s pantry, and prepare items such as malt-cream and ginger-lime cream horns or marula liqueur and coffee crème brûlée. Then there are the classics: éclairs and cream puffs, for which one needs the pastry dough known as pâte à choux (or choux pastry). Pronounce it with me: pah-ta-shoe.

I’ve never been a baker. Even box cake mixes presented a challenge in my youth. Years ago I tried all that French and Danish and Viennese pastry stuff and became well acquainted with the term epic failure. Why I waited until moving to Costa Rica to perfect my baking skills remains a mystery. I’m baking in a country without good quality (I’m not seeking great) butter, flour, and sugar. And then there’s the challenge of making meringues in a land of high humidity. Adding to the challenge is the absence of seemingly simple items such as bread flour, cake flour, and those items that surely you always keep in your own pantry, muscovado and caster sugars. It gets worse. Recipes from The Great British Baking Show are easy to find, but what on earth is strong white bread flour? Is there a weak white bread flour? Is icing sugar the same as confectioner sugar? [Yeah, it is.]

The Trick, William Potter, Is Not Minding That It Hurts

Today we’re going to jump around while discussing my experience with the year 2016. Alert one: adult language is involved.

I’m in love with John Oliver. If you don’t know who John Oliver is, you might just stop reading now. Of course I’m truly in love with my husband and friends and family; but John Oliver holds a special place in my heart. 

I understand the Constitution of the United States, but I simply cannot and will not accept that John Oliver should be prevented from being President by something as silly as his birthplace. Again, if you don’t grasp the implication of this opinion, you should certainly stop reading now.

We own flags. We have dear friends here in Costa Rica who tease us about our flag collection. Member of Norway’s royal family celebrating a birthday? We’ve got the flag. Bayern’s futbol team doing well? We’ve got the flag. But when packing all of these flags during our move from Texas, I questioned seriously why I was taking our hurricane flag. After all, Costa Rica is too far south to experience a hurricane. Or is it? 

This week the hurricane flag was hoisted. The prognosticators for Hurricane Otto know little more than those for any tropical depression. Hurricane experts are like the pollsters . . . their work of late is unpredictable. Like snow in Texas . . . I’ll believe it when I see it. Nevertheless, the idea of a hurricane on Thanksgiving day brought a delightful sense of anticipation, which was one of the few delightful things about 2016. Tomorrow I’m going to begin work on a new flag for the year 2016. A flag for whose sentiment I can take no credit – you got it: John Oliver.

Where's My Wandering Parakeet?

My youngest sister-in-law possesses many talents. But the gift that I find most endearing, most charming, is her ability to loudly call Kah-Kaw, Kah-Kaw, as if imitating some bird. I know of no bird that actually makes that sound. Undoubtedly there exists some bird somewhere that calls Kah-Kaw, Kah-Kaw . . . I’ve simply yet to encounter this bird. I can rule-out all Costa Rican parrot and toucan species (even macaws) as well as hundreds of birds from North American and from Western and Southern Africa. Nevertheless, I’m confident that somewhere some bird indeed calls Kah-Kaw, with Patti’s hint of a screech and her head-turning plaintive cry.

My first trip to Costa Rica was over a decade ago. We stayed in Northern Guanacaste near or on Playa Conchal. Way back then our resort was part of the Meliá Hotels chain: it’s now part of the Westin group. Anyway, over the course of a few years with friends and family we made more than one trip to that lovely property . . . played golf, took the requisite bus-in-the-tourists day-trips to local sites, and foolishly believed that we were experiencing Costa Rica . . . despite the fact that we never left the resort but for the dive trips that departed from the beach and the day trip(s) to Buena Vista Lodge.

Anyway, perhaps Patti cried Kah-Kaw prior to our holiday at Playa Conchal, but I date her first bird-like calls to that trip. It was an effective and efficient way to announce loudly yet unobtrusively that cocktails are served . . . or we’re on the way to your suite for sun-downers. Now I say unobtrusive because let’s remember the piercing, blood-curdling sound of the howler monkeys. Compared to a vociferous troupe of howlers, Patti might as well have been whispering Dinner is poured from her bungalow many meters away. Patti became widely recognized for this talent, which was quickly adopted by our group of friends and family and was subsequently carried throughout the Western Hemisphere to many Mexican and Caribbean resorts. Hey, in the days before mobile devices, it worked. 

Well, Clarice . . . Have The Lambs Stopped Screaming?

If there were only a few foods remaining on the planet, I’d hope for dolmas and hummus . . . and lemon meringue pie. I could eat dolmas three times daily and probably never tire of them. Rusty possesses less enthusiasm for the stuffed grape leaf. No one knows why. Similarly, he’s not the fan of hummus that I am. That said, he dons an air of indignation when I state to anyone that Rusty hates hummus. I make hummus often and I usually eat all of it, save and except that first spoonful out of the food processor when I ask Rusty to taste-test for seasoning. So perhaps hate is too strong. But believe me, of every item in our refrigerator, hummus is probably Rusty’s last go-to food. 

Clearly, we're here for a discussion of food and not the myriad adventures experienced with our recent guests. Yes, we visited Buena Vista Lodge, the Diria coffee tour and Rio Celeste. But before we delve into those adventures, let's cover food . . . one of my favorite topics.

My brilliant friend Rob visited us for a few weeks. The first week of his visit Rob was joined by his darling sister, Jenny. Jenny was a special treat in that we'd never met her and were delightfully surprised at every turn. But back to my beloved Rob. Rob eats. Rob cooks, but mostly Rob eats. Rob is easy to please when it comes to cooking; but he’s not easy to fill-up. Did I mention that Rob eats? Long before Rob’s arrival we had discussed making sausage . . . for selfish, hunger-driven reasons, of course; but also as sort of a tribute to our mutual friend, EBJ (in my mind, the Sausage King of Detroit). 

I Told Those Guys What They Wanted To Hear . . . I Said, Uh, Yeah, Sure. But It Was All Lies.

Green Bee Eater, Botswana

So why weren’t the bird photos on the last post my own photographs? I’m a photographer. Believe me, I’m a photographer. Sometimes I amaze myself; though I concede that when you take over 5,000 photos, the law of averages states that you'll get a few dozens great shots. Still, this photography-in-the-tropics thing is different. Very different.

My friends, Maggie and A.Kaye are both artists in every sense of the word. A.Kaye is a professional photographer; but to describe him only as a photographer doesn’t scratch the surface of his talents. Maggie’s artistic skills span all mediums, including video/film-making. Anyway, they are always inspiring to me. Recently A.Kaye and I have had a little eMail discussion about my willingness (or lack thereof) to broaden my use of our very sophisticated camera equipment. Of course I balked. I’m a creature of obsessive-compulsive habit. 

I was sharing this little eMail relay with Rusty when Rusty pronounced that Pinterest would tell me, step-by-step, how to shoot anything I wanted (with a camera . . . I sold my 20-gauge and 300 Win Mag). I replied, sarcastically, I bet there’s even a YouTube video to teach me. Right? Only about 400 million, Rusty announced. Again, creature of habit. Books! I’m a read-a-book kind of gal. You can learn anything and everything from an actual book. What a world, what a world . . . we’re all so accepting of the Internet, and I’m no exception. How are the mighty fallen!

So I said aloud to Rusty that Pinterest is the new heroin dealer. Then I realized that Pinterest is far more powerful with a longer-reaching arm than merely one single drug dealer. 

Dear God, Pinterest is the new Cosa Nostra. 

They supply all manner of ills/vices; are accountable to no one; and creep dangerously, often covertly into your email and personal cyberspace life. Pinterest is an insidious addiction. It will consume you . . . and I've had my first taste of its heroin-Kool-Aid.

Life Moves Pretty Fast. You Don't Stop And Look Around Once In A While, You Could Miss It.

The new year brings us just one more good reason to move to Costa Rica: the month of January. With January come large flocks of parrots and toucans, the chicle fruits, and explosions of bougainvillea blooms. Why January? Why now when everything is dry with no hope of rain?

As if we don’t always have multiple troupes of howler monkeys, we now have a monkey lure. It’s called a chicle tree and it bears fruit. Who knew? We have several of these protected chicle trees. Monkeys love this fruit, which is popular world-wide for human consumption, too. Just behind Rusty’s garage/play-room our closest chicle is only about 10 meters from our railing. You’d think that 35 monkeys would do some real damage to a tree, but they’re very careful in their fruit harvest. 

The parrots and toucans are less careful. Let’s have a quick tour of the birds in our neighborhood with the clear understanding that the descriptions below (while accurate as to each bird) are only my opinion; and I'm not an expert on anything.*

The Amazon kingfisher can always be spotted on a branch at the river crossing that leads up our mountain. I learned to love kingfishers in Africa. They will dive-bomb into the water to snatch a tiny minnow-type fish in that long, strong bill.

The orange-chinned parakeet looks like a parrot in size. Don't think little pet-store birds. These fellows have some heft, and they're loud. We spent weeks trying to confirm this parakeet's identity. Indeed, our birds are the orange-chinned parakeet . . . though you'll see little orange in this particular bird. The orange is most easily spotted while they are in flight passing within just a few feet of our terrace high above the forest floor.

The blue-crowned motmot is easy to spot, especially in silhouette due to his tail. But sunlight brings out his beautiful blue color.

In Every Job That Must Be Done There Is An Element Of Fun. You Find The Fun, And Snap, The Job’s A Game

There’s this product in Costa Rica called Duranza. Think varnish. I suppose that in some areas of Costa Rica home maintenance presents only a minor challenge due to a cool, dry climate. Perhaps that maintenance issue is similar to parts of the U.S. 

In North Texas we’d semi-annually clean gutters, hose-off window screens, etc. And occasionally even a brick home requires areas of new paint – but not often. Well, living about six kilometers from the salty Pacific, less than 10-degrees north of the equator, up a mountain with wind (and now with dust in the dry season), home maintenance becomes an entirely different game. 

In this climate, just as one can sit and literally watch the grass grow, one can also watch the sun leach-out the wood’s moisture and color, not to mention its original coats of Duranza. It’s freaky. And our home is made of two things: concrete and wood. Wooden ceilings, doors, cabinets, eaves, and window trim. Obsessive-compulsive gal that I am, I made a quarterly little to-do list. Hah! Quarterly? Did I really believe that we’d only need to perform these little to-dos quarterly? Clipping shrubberies is a weekly task. And don’t get me started on weeding the majority of our 1.65 acres.

Now . . . Bring Me That Horizon.

New Year's Eve. And I'm thinking that one of the top reasons to enjoy the expat life of Costa Rica will be tonight's festivities. This, from the gal who generally hates New Year's Eve. Resolutions -- bah! That obligatory must-have-fun thing -- bah! Finding the perfect dress . . . again, bah! Why do people make resolutions for a new year? Why not for each new month, week, day? This phenomenon is completely beyond my comprehension. I've not made a resolution in years (except for that November-gain-five-pounds-by-baking thing).

I Don't Like The Way You Say With Your Face All Scrunched Up, "You're French, Aren't You?"

I'm half French, so why wouldn't I love the French? And they speak French! Not some bizarre Canadian language erroneously called French. The French speak beautiful, genuine French. 

Let’s have a little language lesson. In French the word for or is ou. In Spanish the word for or is o. Would you like steak ou chicken? Do you prefer roses o tulips? In French the word ou (for or) is pronounced ew . . . as in ew, that raw chicken is slimy. In Spanish the word o is pronounced just as it’s spelled: oh . . . as in Oh how I love France.

Rusty cannot abide my explanations of Latin-based Spanish words and sentence structure through comparison to French. He’s had it! He’s even verbalized several times this week that he is sick of hearing me say, Well, in French . . . .  

We Are Protected By The Enormity Of Your Stupidity, For A Time.

Our dog constitutes 98% of my life's meaning. Rusty knows this. In fact, Jill The Pill occupies about the same percentage of Rusty's priorities in life (or so he claims) . . . which is really bizarre considering that his tools occupy about 98% of our 1.65 acres, more or less. So if we're working with percentages here, that leaves about two percent of our love and energy to devote to each other. Yep . . . sounds about right. I'm lying: last night we played a Christmas song game that Rusty found on the Internet, made Texas-style tamales, and had a generally fabulous evening. Plus, The Stars won.

Okay. So about our Sunday trip north to the Auto Mercardo -- we decided to visit the store in Coco versus Tamagringo. There is simply nothing good to be said about Tamarindo. Oh, wait . . . as my mother would say: if you can't say something nice, come sit by me. No, wait . . . . that's Sally. As my mother would say: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So here's something nice about Tamarindo: it is far from us.

Speaking of dogs and mothers, I know parents of human children who are more devoted to their pets than children. Of course, these parents are my age with grown children requiring fewer hands-on parenting skills; but my point is that the devotion to our pets knows no bounds. Here in Samara we have Perlita the Wonder Dog. Her owners coddle her. Yeah, Bill, you know you do. Then there's Miss Marley, second cutest dog on the planet. I want Marley's life. I want to be reincarnated as C&M's dog. Such a life. And Bonga certainly leads a charmed life, but she's a Tico dog and has her own Tica agenda. This doesn't mean that she's neglected. Hardly. Bonga gets what Bonga wants; but her wants fall into the simple-life category.

This? Why, I Can Make A Hat Or A Brooch Or A Pterodactyl . . . .

Reason number 38 to move to Costa Rica and enjoy more free time:

Pinterest is the answer. 

What was the question?

I lived a happy life until . . . one day my friend Sally spoke one word: Pinterest. Blah, blah, blah. Another Internet site in which I have zero interest. Like Facebook. But wait, Sally insisted, I must show you the miracle that is Pinterest, how it works, and what you can do with it. I patiently, if not enthusiastically observed the demo. So Pinterest was fine for someone like Sally. Someone who has crafty coursing through her veins. Someone who can take an antique ironing board and make art (she really can . . . and that was years before that detestable portmanteau: Pinterest). 

Years pass.