On a night stop, driving
back from Mexico, Buz and I took up our motel receptionist’s recommendation and
went to a nearby Italian Restaurant.
Everything on the menu looked stunning, an
eclectic mix of dishes from around the world. Buz
chose Osso Bucco but I can’t for the life of me recall what I ate. Was it Lasagne? Or Eggplant Parmigianino? While
Buz selected a pleasant but forgettable red wine, I noticed the exquisitely
attired woman at the table beside the wall had the waiter bring preliminary
sips of this and that, desiring a wine that fit some prerequisite.
Every person in the restaurant that night ate
their masterfully prepared meal with apparent satisfaction, yet I wonder how
many, like myself, can remember a week later what they ate and drank. As I think back to the simple meal provided
on the ferry between La Paz in Baha California Sud and Topolobampo, I can’t forget the enthusiasm with which
Mexican families and truckers received it, and a Sufi story about apricot
pies comes to mind.
A rich man’s favorite pie was made by a poor woman, who agreed to give
him her recipe. However, since his pie tasted nothing like hers, he concluded
her recipe must have omitted something. Off they went to shop together and though
they bought the same items, his pie was no better. Furious, the rich man accused
her of adding a secret component.
Puzzled, the old woman asked: “Did you notice that our fruit seller,
for you, selected his finest apricots?”
“Yes, of course.”
“For a woman of no status, he
selected fruit bruised and overripe, a few still showing green, and some
misshapen. Possibly that is the secret ingredient. Perhaps always assured of
perfection, you cannot have the pie you crave.”
Alexandra Fuller, brilliantly taking up Doris Lessing’s baton on post
colonial Africa with Cocktail hour under the tree of forgetfulness, visited
Mexico recently. In Harper’s January 2012 you can read about this visit in: Her
heart inform her tongue. Mexico has a gentle way of informing the heart.
