Ginger with Haiku

Today I made scones for Alma del Sol, which has become my standard culinary contribution as the most unlikely bed & breakfast maître d' of all time. I love making bread, any kind of bread, because it combines the essential pleasures of mixing, measuring, kneading, and heating up. We should all do it sometimes. It doesn't hurt to have a good crew around, either. Wicho passed back and forth through the kitchen whistling his three-note birdsong, which gets under my skin but massages my ego at the same time because I know these notes are just for me. I emphasized the importance of ginger to him, since he'll be making the scones after I leave. Cristian was "enfadado" today, meaning bored and sick of mopping and ironing. He made sure I understood that he was bored, not angry. These Mexicans are proud of how they can keep their temper. Cris wore a navy blue turtleneck in the ninety degree heat--maybe he felt turtly. Kiti, the perpetually cute teenager, bubbled with enthusiasm for the world between bites of the leftover crystalized ginger with chocolate (an unmatched combination). And Hugo, the dear man, told me about the wonders of "Zorba the Greek" while dancing some steps to gypsy music playing on the University station. Then he leaned over the counter as is his custom and leafed through 'The Joy of Cooking' while bouncing around ideas for a dinner he's hosting next week. Prosciutto stuffed with crab meat, anyone? Taquitos with potato and salt cod? Coconut flan? Hell yes.

A Haiku.

Tonight, dunked hot bread
In penny-colored bucket
Filled with your red wine.