No Comprende, It's a Riddle

I know, I know. It's math, right? So I'm not surprised that it has recently come to light that the original 1868 survey of the Four Corners – the only place in the United States where four state boundaries come together – is off by 2.5 miles.

According to readings by the National Geodetic Survey, today's official marker is supposed to sit at blah-blah-blah W longitude and yada-yada-yada N latitude. But according to three different Internet sites for distance calculations (including an FCC site and GPS visualizer) the really real readings actually stand at yeah-yeah-yeah; alrighty-then; and whatever-man-I-believe-you miles.

Then, most likely thanks to all that Red Bull and Doritoes he's spent years consuming down in his parents' basement, some smarty-pants member of the Utah Association of Geocachers used two other Internet sites, Google Earth and the Great Circle Calculator, resulting in a definite determination of a 2.5 mile miscalculation.

Makes you wonder what else we've miscalculated over the past couple hundred years, right? Then again, I'm not really surprised we got it wrong. It's a wonder we could even locate our own feet in 1868, much less anything else using, what, a pencil, piece of paper, and our fingers? Okay, so maybe an abacus was involved there somewhere.

Or maybe, just maybe, the original survey had someone like me along:

Intrepid U.S. Geologic Surveyor Dude #1: Okay, guys, I know it's late and we're all tired, but let's check these calculations one more time. Future generations are counting on us to get this right.

Intrepid U.S. Geologic Surveyor Dude #2: Hey, Moi! (whistles). Get back here and get with the program. We don't need you getting lost again.

Moi: Oh, come on. This is way too hard, and I just broke a nail. How do we know any of these number thingees are correct anyway? Calculators haven't even been invented yet. What do you say we just mark this spot right here, call it a day, and go pound down some brewskies at Ye Olde Tavern down the road? I'm buying.

Still, what to do? There is hardly a family in America that doesn't have tucked away somewhere in an album or fraying cardboard box, a photo of themselves frolicking on the official Four Corners Monument.

Therefore, according to an article in Desert News:

"There's little chance of moving the monument, especially because millions of dollars have been spent to improve it and because the current state lines have been firmly established now for 110 years."

There you go, folks. Commerce first.

319 Days of Sunshine, Except . . .

There are some things in this world you can count on like the time told by a Swiss clock. Like the arrival of a German train. Like the inability of Italians to tell you how they feel without punctuating their opinions with flying hand gestures. I won't list them all here. Just this one: when the International Balloon Fiesta comes to town the first two full weeks of October each year, our weather cooperates with absolutely gorgeous, sunny, warm weather during the week and drizzly, cold, windy weather on the weekends.

I was born and and raised here, so I've had my fill of the fiesta, but I still get chills at the beautiful, preposterous sight of hundreds of bright orbs bobbing merrily in the skies over Albuquerque. I also like thinking about all the millions of happy-hearted folks from around the world who arrive here each year in anticipation of the fun they'll have at the major weekend mass ascensions and Glow-Deos and chainsaw carving competitions. So what if the service in restaurants is tense and the lines at the grocery stores are long? To say nothing of fiesta "fashion" (brrrrrrr). Albuquerque during balloon fiesta is filled with the kind of happy-to-be-here/happy-to-have-you energy that buoys my own heart. And then sinks it, when I realize that it can all be dampened by days like this.

So here's a song for y'all. It cropped up for the first time on my iPod yesterday during a particularly crappy three-mile run. I forgot how much I like these guys and their lush, melodic compositions, slightly melancholic, but not in a deadly serious, hey, which of you buzz killers brought the Joy Division records? kind of way. More in a sun will come out tomorrow but for now I'm floating around in my bathrobe and contemplating my belly button kind of way.

Ohm

Clicky for music.

Given all the schiesse coming down the poleetical pike these days, I oh so feel a post coming on that is guaranteed to offend everyone on the planet and maybe even some aliens in their space ships. But that's next week.

This week, today in fact, I simply want to enjoy the fair. See myself some Fancy Dress dancers. Yes, that's an actual category in Native American Dancing: Fancy Dress. How fabulous is that?

I also want to buy some art. See if he is here again this year.

I own one of his drawings but would love to be able to afford more, more, more because Maldonado is muy talented. I guess I can take solace in the fact that I just don't have the wall space, never mind the budget.

I'm hoping Kabu is here again this year as well. Again, lack of wall space means I'll be able to pay the mortgage instead of trying to coordinate one of his massive canvases with my office decor. But, look how awesome!


I do think I'll cheat just a little bit though and push the envelope of the question: just how many pair of chandelier-style Zuni petite point earrings does one girl possibly need? Oh, you'd be surprised.

Also in Moi's plans: champion rabbits, fowl, and beef.

And, of course, I plan to stuff myself silly, sat fat cals and political incorrectness be damned.



I know that some of you have your own fairs coming to town this weekend and are, in fact, just as big of fair freaks as I am. If so, I'll raise a deep fried Snickers bar in your honor around noonish today. If not, well, what in the heck are you waiting for? Nothing more fabulous on a late summer day than the smell of fresh horse poop.

The Fruit of our Labors

This is a repeat of a post I wrote last year. But since it's time to do this all over again and I'm lazy, I'm reposting.

You know how some people say, "It feels like home?" Here in New Mexico, we say, "It smells like home."

For about four to six weeks every year, starting around the middle of August until the end of September, the air in New Mexico is filled with the smoky sharp smell of roasting green chile. So much so, in fact, that if you happen to arrive at the Albuquerque International Sunport during late summer/early fall, it's the first smell that hits you as you get off the plane. Not jet fuel. Not the musty smell of too many bodies crammed into too much filtered air space for way too long. The chile smell trumps it all.

That's because this is the time when chile farmers across the state begin harvesting their crop, a staple of New Mexico's economy for over one hundred years and part of our culinary culture for way longer than that. Today, New Mexico is the largest producer of chile in the United States and one of the top in the world. Our farmers are responsible for producing over 60 percent of the chile consumed in the United States, one of which is a variety of cayenne variety shipped primarily to hot sauce makers in Louisiana. Another one-third of our chiles go into making paprika. Over 8,000 acres of chile are harvested each year – that's mucho dinero right there, Party People.

But not only is chile a vital part of our economy, it is also a fruit unique among all other fruits, a vital part of our culture and our blood. New Mexico State University in Las Cruces has an entire research program devoted to its cultivation. It is here in the university's Chile Pepper Breeding Program (the only one of its kind in the world, by the way), that some of the most distinctive New Mexican chiles have reached their fruition: Big Jim, Rio Grande, Sandia. As well as the chile that in 2006 was deemed by the Guinness Book of World Records as the hottest in the world, Bhut Jolokia. To give you an idea of how hot it is, the average jalapeno measures in at about 10,000 Scoville Heat Unites (SHU). Bhut Jolokia measures in at 1,001,304 SHU.

In addition to containing in one pod more vitamin C than an orange, chile also has addictive properties. I've seen what happens when people withdraw from the stuff and I know what it feels like myself. Giving up smoking was easier than living without chile the few times in my life I've had to do so.

(A quick note in case you're wondering about spelling: here in New Mexico we spell chile with an "e." That's the Spanish word for the fruit. In fact, nothing will mark you as an out-of-towner, gringo, or complete moron quicker than spelling it any other way.)

So, anyway, as you can imagine, when the chile's been picked, I'm a roastin' and a stuffin'. Here's how it goes:

1. Hit any local grocery store or street corner – nine times out of ten, someone's roasting there.
2. Pick a bag, any bag. Most run thirty to fifty pounds.
3. Pay your roaster (most bags run between ten and twenty dollars).
4. Wait fifteen to twenty minutes for your chile to roast.

Here's what the chile looks like before it's roasted.









And this is what it looks like afterward.















A note of caution: once your chile is roasted go immediately home. Do not stop anywhere else, not for gasoline, not for a shoe sale at Banana Republic, not for a little old lady crossing the road. The longer that chile remains in your car, the more likely you are to have a Pulp Fiction moment, only not with blood and brains, but with scent. Which will take, like, one bazillion years to air out.

Once home, pull out your box of these:



And these:

You think the smell is sharp? Try what happens when chile hits a hangnail or, God forbid, your eyeball. DO NOT TOUCH YOUR BARE SKIN WITH THIS STUFF. Unless, you know, you're into that kind of thing . . .

Anyway.

Proceed to stuffing your freezer bags. I leave my chiles unpeeled before stuffing, but that's up to you. I find it much easier to peel them once they've been frozen and thawed. Simply hold under a bit of running water and the skin slips right off.

Here's what my kitchen counter looks like when I'm done. A dozen or so small bags for Moi and S.B., three large bags for friends. Let them cool an hour or so, then plunk them into the freezer. To use, defrost overnight in the fridg'.


I do this every year. It's one of the things that connects me irrevocably to home and one of the reasons why I can't leave New Mexico. Yes, I could do as my childhood friend now living in St. Louis does and that's ship it in. But I'd miss the smell greeting me at the airport, the inevitable debate in line at the roasters between those who pitch for Chimayo and those for Hatch, the beauty of the ritual itself, one of the most cherished in the culinary world.

So, yeah, we New Mexicans are pretty over the moon about our chile. We put it on everything. We make door knobs in its shape. We celebrate it with hoity-toity, internationally famous fiestas (which, I must admit, I joyfully attend each year). We've even made an Official State of New Mexico Question out of a common refrain at local New Mexican restaurants: "Red or Green?"

Referring, of course, to your choice of red or green chile sauce. Red, unlike green, is not roasted. It's left to hang on ristras to dry, after which it is reconstituted, mixed with garlic and other spices, and Cuisinart-ed into a smooth sauce.

Moi? I'm mostly a red gal, which I order with rolled enchiladas, in posole, over menudo, and over toast with slabs of cheddar cheese. Green I reserve for mornings over eggs and in an enchilada casserole dish that has been passed down for several generations among the Hispanic families in my hometown. Another option is to order Christmas style, which is both red and green together. But that's way too much of a mucky mess for Moi.

Want to learn more and enjoy some real purdy pictures while doing so? Then please pick up a copy of home girl Carmella Padilla's The Chile Chronicles: Tales of a New Mexico Harvest.

Twenty Twenty Twenty Four Hours to Go

And I don't want to be sedated. I DO want to eat a bunch of carbs and surf the sofa, though. Which is exactly what I will do, stuck here in between my love and my agony.

One of Our Fifty Is Missing

That's the title of the back page feature in New Mexico magazine, and it refers to the fact that even in today's 21st century, many people around the country and the globe still seem to think the Land of Enchantment is, in actuality, part of Mexico and not the United States.

I've been getting this as long as I can remember. As a kid, my NYC born 'n' bred cousins used to ask me if we had indoor plumbing and running water. Oh, and if the local Indians lived in tee-pees. Never mind that New Mexico farmers have been moving water across vast distances of land in a sophisticated series of interstate acequias long before the Pilgrims even touched their tacky-ass buckled shoes on the shores of the New World and that only Plains Indians did the tee-pee thing. To the contrary, New Mexico's native peoples have been living in highly organized townships called Pueblos for over 1,000 years and, before that, in highly organized cliff dwelling communities for gah only knows how long.



In fact, one of those pueblos, Acoma's Sky City below, is the oldest continuously inhabited community in the United States, believed to have been established sometime in the 9th century AD. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Jamestown.



Makes you wonder what in the heck fire we're teaching kids in our schools, huh? Because people are still confuzzled about New Mexico's official status. Witness this over-the-phone exchange, reported in New Mexico magazine, and relayed by a secretary of a Los Alamos, New Mexico (you know, where the nuclear bomb was invented?) firm, trying to order something from a company located somewhere on the civilized Eastern Seaboard:

Customer Service Rep: And where would you like this order shipped?

Secretary: 123 Main St., Los Alamos, New Mexico.

CSR : We don't ship out of the country.

Secretary: That's fine, but this address is in the country.

CSR: No, you said to ship it to New Mexico.

Secretary: Yes, New Mexico is a state in the US.

CSR: Sorry, but we can't ship out of the US.

Secretary: Do you have a supervisor I can talk to, please?

[Long pause.]

CSR Supervisor: This is Tim. Can I help you?

Secretary: I hope so, Tim. Your employee doesn't seem to understand that New Mexico is a state in the United States, and so refuses to ship me your product.

Supervisor: Well, that's true. We can't ship out of the country. I'm sorry ma'am.

Secretary, raising her voice a little: Have you never even heard of the state of New Mexico? It's one of the big, square ones? It's right between Texas and Arizona? It's one of the 50 United States?

Supervisor: I'm sorry, it's just our policy not to ship out of the US.

Secretary: Tim, let me get this straight. Your company is going to lose a $14,000 order because the people in your customer service department are too moronic to know or comprehend that the state of New Mexico is a part of the United States?

Supervisor: Yes, ma'am. That's our policy.

Secretary, completely exasperated: Well, I guess there's nothing more to be said, is there?

Supervisor: No, ma'am. Have a nice day.

The Writing on the Wall

Two years ago we had a February/March snow season like few I've seen around here. One storm after the other blew in, dropping twelve, fourteen, eighteen inches of snow at a time. Of course, working at home means I can usually get on the driveway pretty quickly, shoveling it clear in between bouts of work to ensure that I'll be able to escape to the wilds of civilization for Starbucks and sushi sometime before the Second Coming. (What about SB, you ask? Well, Party People, SB is rarely home during these monumental events, spring being the best time for him to go to work moving power across 'merica's midsection. And I have the upper body muscles to prove it.)

Anyway.

Not only does snow pile up on our driveway, it also piles up on our satellite dish. Those of you who work at home know how muy importante it is to have working television at all times. So, on with the snowsuit, the snow boots, and the long broom to make the dangerous trek out back to knock the snow off the dish. Halfway there, I heard it: a rumble like distant thunder and then a swooshy sound like sand being pushed by a wave breaking on shore. The sound was coming from above me and I looked up just in time to witness a huge chunk of eighteen inch high snow come rushing down off the roof to land on top of my head. The force knocked me to my knees, the snow covered me completely. But within seconds I put those shoveling muscles to use and was able to burst forth into the sunshine. And complete my mission to free my satellite dish from being likewise smothered so I could spend the afternoon watching Fashion Television.

Since people die in roof avalanches, come summer, we did the responsible thing and called ABC Roofing to install all new gutters and snow breaks. No more roof avalanches.

But I'll never forget that feeling – however momentary – of being buried alive. It sucked. But that's how I feel this week. Part of what I do for a living, other than coming up with my own words, is making the words of others sound much better(er). And that's what I'm doing this week. Fixing other people's words. Lots and lots of them. Which can actually be harder than coming up with ones of my own. Hence, the buried feeling.

So I got nothing much else, except to tell you that I'll be posting about Muffins on Da Baking Blob soon. Oh and this:

Beyonce and Jay-Z got married this weekend. Did you hear they had 100 bazillion Thai peasants pick with their 1,000 bazillion nimble Thai fingers over 100 trillion perfectly bloomed orchids to decorate Jay-Z's Tribeca loft as part of their Twu Wuv ceremony? Sweet jeebus, that's excessive. Even by Moi's whack ass excessive standards. Then again, what else would you expect from a woman who never met a prom dress gone horribly wrong that she didn't turn into a personal fashion statement?


About Jay-Z I have nothing to say. Except that it looks like he buys a lot of shiny, silky stuff. Does he rap?

The Mountains and Moi

"It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe." – Muhammad Ali

Usually, come right about now, my young girl's fancy turns to the latest collection of spring footwear and flirty skirts. But the IRS is holding Da Shoe Fund hostage, so instead, I am thinking of mountains.

Specifically:


1. Where hopefully in another few months, lottery willing, I will once again run a gloriously crap time in the 43rd Annual La Luz Trail Run.

And:


2. Which should be fully clear of snow by, oh, July, giving us a small window of opportunity to hike it before the monsoon season starts in preparation for the possibility of:



3. Which isn't Everest. No, it's better. It's Africa.

Lady Madonna, Running Shoes on Your Feet

Today is the day when thousands of folks throughout New Mexico and the Four Corners region hit the roads to walk to El Santuario de Chimayo, a tiny shrine in northern New Mexico, halfway between Santa Fe and Taos. They start their journey – many of them carrying crosses and photos of loved ones – in the dark hours right before dawn on Good Friday, and by Easter Sunday, arrive in Chimayo to join what can be up to 10,000 worshippers that pass through the doors of this 200-year-old chapel. Considered the "Lourdes of America," Chimayo represents to the faithful not only a place of worship and prayer, but also of healing, as exemplified by the "miraculous" crucifix of Our Lord of Esquipulas and of the sacred earth inside the El Posito, under which the crucifx was discovered.

A note left inside the chapel from a visitor from Las Cruces, New Mexico, reads: "If you are a stranger, If you are weary from the struggles in life, Whether you have a handicap, Whether you have a broken heart, Follow the long mountain road, Find a home in Chimayo."

Or, if you're like Sister Madonna Buder, you just keep on going.

Over the past twenty-six years, this 76-year-old Catholic nun has competed in 37 marathons, 300 triathlons, and 33 Ironman Triathlons. At age 75, she became the oldest woman to finish the Kailua-Kona Ironman World Championship. She did it again a year later.

Like many pilgrims to Chimayo have done, she started her journey as a way to seek healing for a family crisis – her brother, she discovered, was battling alcoholism. Sister Madonna says she made a deal with God, offering her suffering in training for and running her first-ever race (Spokane's Lilac Bloomsday 12K) in exchange for the grace her brother would need to stop drinking.

Every race since then, she's raced for a cause, whether public – like the thousands of dollars she's raised for Multiple Sclerosis – or personal and private – like the Ironman she ran in the name of a dear friend battling cancer.

Which just goes to show you, you can either believe in miracles, or you can go out there and make your own.

Mute Monday: Mother Nature

“They cannot scare me with their empty spaces between stars – on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places.” – Robert Frost

Mute Monday: March

Mute Monday: Pinnacle

Jessica Alba is a Dumb C-Word

Because, obviously, she's too busy getting high (or spray on tanned or whatever it is movie stars do to la, la, la, la, la themselves through the empty spaces of their lives) to do more than superficially surf the town in which she's making yet another one of her crap-ass movies.

In an interview with TeenHollywood.com about her recent movie, The Eye, Alba says of Albuquerque, Moi's beloved hometown and the city where the movie was shot:

In Albuquerque there's really only one restaurant that's pretty good. You can only take Applebee's and Chili's so much. Our big day was hanging out at Walmart for five hours. It was like, 'Yeah Walmart!'

Obviously, the bitch has never heard of the fact that Albuquerque is one of the oldest and most historic, culturally diverse, architecturally stunning, and downright fascinating cities in the history of the universe.

Did she go downtown and see this,
one of the greatest extant examples of Pueblo/Deco architecture?

How about this, home of world famous iconoclastic architect, Bart Prince?

Did she climb this?

Visit here?

Shop these?

Dine here?

or here?

How about here?

(Oh, I forgot. Bitch don't eat.)

Did she take a stroll along here in the morning?

Cool off here in the afternoon?

Party here at night?

Did she buy any of this?

Or talk to them?

Obviously, not.

Look, I love the fact that Albuquerque is rapidly becoming a top notch movie-making destination. We even have some brandy new studios and Moi's very own father is making fine pocket cash as a movie extra. But actors are notoriously stoooopid and that we do not need. It's bad enough we have a pea-brained despot for mayor.

So please, all you Hollyweird folks: just do your job, spend your money, and then go home. And once back in Fantasy Island land? Keep your mouth shut.