The Missus has been after me to take some photos of the view from our front porch and dining room. My camera batteries (both sets) are losing their ability to charge and I’ve been busy taming The Paper That Ate Manhattan. Finally, today, after spending a half-hour in the yard and catching up with dear, dear friends who dropped in for a visit (with goose paté in hand, mind you, cuz my hi-dolla-dolla peeps just roll that way), I grabbed the camera and popped off a few shots.
I missed the golden afternoon lighting by about an hour, but the visit was far more important. One of these days I’ll get around to strolling through the neighborhood and popping off a few more shots. There are street after street of charming older homes.
We had picadillo (I’ve not included a link with a recipe. There are far too many varieties, as a quick Google search will reveal. My mom makes it with ground beef or diced stew meat, potatoes, peas and a chili sauce. To die for.) and beans with corn tortillas and salsa for dinner — a very old-school Mexican dinner, of the sort you won’t find in a restaurant.
It’s an entirely different experience having dinner with the french doors open. Neighbors walk by with their babies and dogs. Kids whiz by on their bicycles. The occasional teen-ager cruises by with his generation equivalent of “Look at me! I’m rebellious! No one understands me!” thumping and rattling from his car.
And we sit at our candlelit table and eat the food of our mothers.