Vexations and Conundrums

Mise En Place

Just when I was feeling all smug and satisfied with my preparations for my ultimate demise, along comes correspondence in my inbox which outlined a checklist for getting one’s affairs in

order. This list was more comprehensive than other lists I had seen. And the ideas were important and necessary.

I ran through the actions my husband and I needed to take, according to my latest information. I had eight important items to discuss.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” he replied when I broached the subject at what I thought was the right moment. He had been fed and wasn’t working at his desk. He hates to talk about death plans.

I would have to do better on my sales pitch. I selected the final wishes letter, which plans the funeral in deep detail, outlining the cremation or burial, what type of memorial one prefers, and spelling out where the gathering of friends and family will be hosted. This got his attention. He began to think about who he wanted to speak about him at the celebration of his life.

He has a strong preference about the location for remembrance. I talked about food and libations. If we both leave earth together, what if the family decides to save money and just offer soft drinks and some cheese and crackers? I want a proper white wine served at the funeral home we like. Red wine isn’t allowed due to spillage by the griefstricken mourners, who I imagine fainting as they succumb to the thought of losing us forever. And if alcohol is offered, there will have to be nice food to go with it for sobriety’s sake. My mind swirls with menu options.

Then there is music to consider. Should it be soft jazz or classical? We have so many choices. All of these considerations relate just to the final wishes letter!

The letter of instruction for our executor is even more challenging. This letter sets out responsibilities, has a contact list for important items attached, and contains passcodes and locations of keys. A great deal of administrative planning is involved with this item. My husband’s eyes are glazing over, and I can see his enthusiasm plummeting.

I change tack and tell him we may want to consider leaving a letter to our adult children about life philosophy, explaining the importance of giving back to the community, what we held significant in our adult lives. He shows interest. I don’t mention that the new way to do this is to make a video. Add film production and he’s off to the hills.

Of course, all these arrangements will need to involve our lawyer, again. My husband is looking through the refrigerator. This is my clue to pause this subject for now, to be visited again shortly. The seeds are sown.

Suddenly I am interrupted by a call on my cellphone. Two of my sisters are sharing the duty of caring for my mother, who is experiencing health setbacks. My sisters have distinctly different personalities and work styles. The sister calling me is not happy about how the kitchen functions when meals are prepared.

“There isn’t organization, and ingredients aren’t set out in advance. Things get spilled all over the place!” she laments, complaining about our sister’s chef style. “She doesn’t know mise en place!”

I wouldn’t know mise en place had I not taken French cooking classes. I almost laugh at this observation. I remind my sister that each personality approaches tasks differently, and a certain amount of flexibility is required as she and my other sister cooperate on jobs.

After I end the call, I realize how related my mother’s care is to me planning the end of my life. Mise en place, or everything organized early and in correct order, will make for a better end result.

Now I need to decide when to broach this subject again with my husband, in an upbeat and cooperative style, for best results.

Katina Pontikes

Connie finally found an apartment she could afford, a one-bedroom, first floor on Lake Chapala in San

Juan Cosala, Jalisco, Mexico. It even had a garden where she could plant some flowers. San Juan was the village where the maids, gardeners and laborers lived. Connie was thrilled to see where the common folk lived amongst the lush flora of central Mexico. This was paradise compared to Norwalk, California. Although Connie’s friends had been against her marrying Ralph, she was a widow who didn’t like being alone and, besides, he had most of his hair. Connie remembered how she felt when Ralph said, “We’re moving to Mexico.” She was afraid of the unknown but the chance of getting out of a second-story, one-room apartment with two month’s rent past due was a relief. And she appreciated that she would have the opportunity to learn about a place she’d never been.

They drove right through, two days and nights, feeling the warmer air and sunshine as they progressed south. They arrived at their new home and it made them smile. The small house was surrounded by hibiscus and bougainvillea. Connie had never seen so many flowers in one place. Beautiful, dark-eyed children were playing in the street. Connie and Ralph settled into their San Juan Cosala home.

It wasn’t long before Connie had them signed up with Chapala Med. Like everyone else, their lives were impacted by the pandemic and Connie wanted them to get vaccinated. Over breakfast, she asked, “Ralph, Honey, when are you going to see about getting a vaccine shot?” Ralph grunted and continued sipping his breakfast Corona. Connie continued, “You better wear the COVID mask I got for you. The Governor of Jalisco says that it’s required. And I think you shouldn’t wear cowboy boots with those plaid shorts. You look silly.”

Ralph retorted, “Nobody tells me how to dress. I have my rights. Besides, the mask tickles my nose.”

Connie looked down at her feet and responded, “Don’t go out without your mask. The governor said it’s required.”

“How’s he going to enforce his rules? With his cops? They live on bribes.”

“Ralph, you said we could retire in Mexico. We are guests here. It would be better if we followed their rules.”

“Hah! Mexican rules, you’ve got to be kidding.”

With a weak smile Connie looked up at Ralph and said, “No, Ralph, dear, your, ‘My way or the highway’ didn’t do it in the States and won’t make it here in Mexico. They’ll put you in jail.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No. I like it here and besides, we can’t go back home with all we owe there. If you want me to be your wife here you’ll go along with the Mexican ways. I’m serious. Do you understand me?”

Ralph grunted over his shoulder as he went out the door carrying his mask saying, “Yes, dear! See ya’ later.”

When Ralph returned later that day he entered the house, leaving the door ajar.

Connie asked, “You get your shot?”

“Naw, they don’t have any yet.”

“That’s too bad, Hon. What should you do?”

“Joe, at the clinic, said that El Paso is flooded with vaccines. I should go there for a shot. I can probably get it under my old company medical insurance. I’ll stay with Bart, my old work buddy.”

“You cancelled our insurance when you left work. You said the insurance companies were money grubbers that gave you nothing in return for your money. Don’t you still owe Bart from that loan he gave you before we came down here?”

“He’ll let that slide when I talk to him. I’m going. It’s the only thing I can do. Loan me the money for the plane ticket. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get back.”

Connie responded with a tired, “Yeah sure.”

Ralph left for El Paso on Saturday. While he was away Connie enjoyed the warm, bright sunshine and the friendliness of her Mexican neighbors. She fell in love with the bright colors that grew in big pots in her patio garden. In her mind she referred to it as her Garden of Eden.

A few days later Connie was wearing the colorful skirt that Ralph didn’t like. She had purchased it at the tianguis. Its bright colors caught her eye as she walked by. It was a forbidden, impulse purchase. She was humming while watering her plants when Raul, the landlord’s young gardener came into her yard. He greeted her with his usual sparkling smile, “Good afternoon, Señorita. I will move those pots as you wished the other day. Is not the Señor here?”

“Oh, hello, Raul, good to see you. No, he’s in the states trying to make a deal. I have no idea why.”

“Very well. I’ll move the pots as you wished. That is una falda bonita you are wearing today. It makes you look like a young señorita.”

Connie blushed and mused, “What a gorgeous guy! Such bright brown eyes. So much curly, dark hair. And that red bandana tied around his forehead. He looks like a pirate.” Connie found herself smiling into Raul’s face as she drawled, “Why thank you, Raul.”

Raul looked straight into Connie’s eyes and said, “What else can I do for you, Señorita?”

Bernie Suttle

By Tom Nussbaum

It started as a joke. It became an obsession.

The four of us, strolling through Portland’s Festival of the Trees, were enjoying and evaluating the dozens of Christmas trees decorated by the region’s largest corporations and most identifiable big businesses. The trees had themes. One was adorned in Disney paraphernalia, another in Barbie dolls. There was a tree depicting a Dickensian Christmas and one covered in forest animals, reflecting a “Walk in a Winter Wonderland.” Even the Portland Trailblazers sponsored a tree, its black and red ornaments and decorations reflecting the professional basketball team’s colors.

The Festival of the Trees was a fund-raiser to help the less fortunate enjoy the holiday season. Proceeds from ticket sales and the sale of the trees, bid on at the end of the weeklong display, bought food and gifts for needy families and individuals. The highest bid for each tree not only won the tree, but a team of decorators to set-up the fir in the winner’s home.

“Which was your favorite?” I asked as we aimed toward the exit.

“The Raggedy Ann and Andy tree,” Cindy said. “But I’ve always loved Raggedy Ann.”

“I liked the “Under the Sea” tree with all the fish,” Gary said. “I am a Pisces, after all.”

“The one with those ugly miniature Model-T cars. It was horrible,” announced Wendy. “How could anyone decorate a tree in black, metallic cars? I loved it.” Wendy had always been the oppositional one, the one marching to a different drummer.

Oh, there was a tree adorned in drums.

“Which was your favorite?” Cindy asked me.

“I liked the one covered in oranges. Who would have thought a Florida citrus fruit or the color orange was an appropriate motif with which to decorate a Christmas tree in the Pacific Northwest?” I paused. “I think it would have looked better on a white or flocked tree, though.” I paused again. “You know what would look good on a white tree?” I asked.

“No,” Gary and Cindy said in unison.

Wendy was staring at a tree covered in coffee themed decorations. “Those strings of brown coffee beans don’t show up against that dark green. But the little red and green mugs and coffee makers are cute,” she said.

“Pink and purple. They’d look good on a white tree,” I continued. “If I were to have a tree, I’d cover it in pink and purple.”

Of course, the likelihood of my having a Christmas tree was minute. As a Jew, my childhood home was without Christmas trees. Instead, we had a menorah. It was a lovely symbol, a touching tradition, and it offered a warming glow. But it was no Christmas tree, with all its decorative possibilities.

When I moved out in my early twenties, the idea that I could have a tree never dawned on me. That was something goyim did, Mom had said. Besides, I didn’t have an attic-stashed treasure trove of decorations

But on the Christmas Eve following the Festival of the Trees, Cindy, Wendy, and Gary presented me with two boxes of simple glass ornaments, one full of pink orbs, the other purple. “For next year,” they chimed. And I had a starter kit.

That simple gift blossomed into a collection of ornaments ranging from pastel to hot pink and soft lavender to deep purple. But the ornaments were not limited to basic shimmering balls. There was a pink poodle, a purple Elvis, pink ballet shoes, a cluster of purple grapes, pink birds, a purple car, a pink Santa, a purple Star of David, and shiny shapes that defied description. Most were store-bought, but some were given. And some were found on the street, like the pink baby pacifier and the lavender hat veil, separated from a mystery chapeau and doomed to a gutter death until I spotted it seductively waving at me.

The collection grew and grew until I prepared to move to Ajijic. I can’t move all those delicate, breakable decorations to Mexico, I thought, so the glassy, glittery assortment of holiday whimsy was given to a second-hand store with the hopes it would be sold intact. But it wasn’t. The ornaments, to my disappointment, were sold individually.

I looked at the situation, however, through rose-colored glasses. I get to start a new collection of pink and purple ornaments in Mexico, I realized. And I have. There’s a pink gecko, purple dangling earrings handcrafted by a local artisan, and lavender starbursts.

Does anyone know where I can get a shimmery, shiny purple taco? Perhaps stuffed with pink camarónes?

Tom Nussbaum