Tequila and Magic in a Mexican Garden
By Mad Coyote Joe
Looking
over at the kitchen window, making sure that his wife Norma isn’t watching,
Santiago reaches into the big burlap bag and produces a half empty bottle of José
Cuervo Traditional Tequila. He slowly takes a generous gulp of the
golden brown liquid. Smacking his
lips together, he utters, “Madre de dios, I needed that.”
We
are in the garden collecting hibiscus flowers for Norma. After they dry she will use them to
make Jamaica tea. I am thirteen years old and spending
the summer in Guadalajara, Mexico with Santiago and Norma. Years ago they
worked on my grandfather’s avocado farm in Escondido, California. They are both in their late seventies.
“
Now you want to be careful to pinch the stem just below the base, like this,”
Santiago said, carefully removing the flower from the bush. “Turn the flower facing up and gently
slide your fingers inside without crushing the flesh of the flower or
disturbing the delicate core.” The
old vaquero gets a little smile
on his sun darkened face and continues, “Trust me mijo, one day, when you have a senorita, she will be very happy that you know how to do
this.” He reaches over messing up
my hair, while patting me on the head and then goes on. “Pinch this part, called the pestle, at
the base and carefully remove it. Then take off the green cup that surrounds
the flower, make sure there are no little bugs and then drop the flower into
this burlap bag.”
As
he drops the deep red blossom into the bag, he gestures with his calloused
hand, suggesting that I start picking.
“Be gentle, and do me a favor, hurry every chance you get. I don’t pay
you nothing for nothing.” He says with a grin. “Every time you pick one of these flowers a new one will
grow back the next day.”
Checking over and then dropping one of
the flowers in the bag, I look up and ask “Why?”
The
lines around the old man’s face tighten a little, as his smile grows and I can
almost see the story coming into focus behind his eyes, “Well… a long time ago,
a beautiful woman lived in a little Casita,
that eventually was added onto and finally became our big house that you see
before you. Her husband got hurt
and could no longer work.
“How
did he get hurt?” I ask.
“How
do I know? Maybe he worked in the
circus washing the elephant’s balls and the elephant sat on him. Whatever happened he couldn’t
work.” The old man pauses, taking
another slow sip of the tequila, “Ahh! Que bueno… Soon the couple had no money, not even for food. The woman was very worried and would
cry every night right here, on this very spot. One night a little fairy was out collecting moonlight and he
heard her and asked why she was crying.
She said that she needed work, anything to feed her family. The fairy, feeling sorry for her, said
he would try to help. He touched
the earth and said something in a secret language that only fairies know, and
then he disappeared.
I
break in, going along with the story, “A fairy… really abuelito, did you ever see a fairy?”
“Gordito hush!” Santiago says, as he sharpens his focus on me
raising his index finger, in an attempt to look serious. “Pay attention. The next morning the very first one
these bushes, popped up right here where her tears hit the ground, and the bush
had one perfect red flower. It was
so beautiful that the woman thought it must be a sign of good luck. She put it in her hair and went to town
to look for work. Times were hard
and there was no work to be had, but richest man in the town was having café’
on his terrace. The wonderful scent of the flower intoxicated him. Looking up he saw the beautiful woman
with the flower in her hair, and had to have her. He offered her money to spend the night with him. She was so desperate that she
agreed.
The
next day, when she left the rich man’s home, she was overwhelmed with guilt,
and went to the church to pray for forgiveness. As she looked into the font of holy water, in her
reflection, the shame of what she had done was as clear on her face as the
perfection of the flower that was still in her hair. And then it happened, as she touched the surface of the holy
water, she saw her sins disappear while the flower shriveled and died. Then the dried up flower fell from her
hair, into the holy water, which instantly turned dark red, like the blood of Christo.”
“Was
it blood?” I asked.
“No,
the holy water just turned the color of blood. The woman went to the confessional and told the Padre about the rich man and the magic flower. He thought it must be a sign from god,
so he absolved her of her sins.
She went home with food and told her husband that she had paid all the
bills. She was free of guilt and
her husband had no suspicions.
When
the Padre saw the holy water that looked
like blood. He worried it would
scare away his flock, coming to confession. He couldn’t just throw it out, so he blessed himself and
drank it.”
“What did it taste like?” I ask?
“I
don’t know, but it looked like blood and the padre had the cajones to drink it! The next
morning when the woman went outside, the bush had grown a new flower, just as
beautiful. The woman, thinking
that it might be a good idea to make a little more money to put aside in case
of hard times, put the flower in her hair and went to town. Another rich man fell under the flower’s
spell and this time they went to a hotel.
Again she felt the guilt and again she went to church and again the
flower shriveled and died along with her sin, but this time, not wanting the Padre to know what she had been doing, she caught the
flower before it fell into the holy font.
She went home and tossed the dried flower into a big empty vase. This went on for a while; every day a
new flower, everyday more money and her husband never suspected a thing. And their little shack soon turned into
this big beautiful hacienda.”
Santiago
takes the flower I am working on out of my hand and inspects it, “Good, make
sure the center is all gone, it will make the tea bitter.” He drops my flower into the bag and
pulls out the bottle taking another sip.
As he savors the tequila he thinks about the story, then he continues.
“I tell you Mijo, living a lie is a
funny thing, it eats away at you.
Finally the woman could take it no longer. She went and told the Padre what she was doing. The Padre made
her promise to quit. Then he told
her about drinking the holy water.”
“Did
she quit?” I asked.
“Yes,
she did, but the bush kept making flowers. She would pick them and put them in the vase, which was
filling up very fast. She decided
she should get rid of the flowers before they caused any more trouble. Remembering the Padre’s story, she made a tea with them and served it to her
husband… the same Jamaica tea we
drink today.
Maybe
it was the holy water and maybe it was her sin and the tea was delicious and it
quenched her husband’s thirst; but not forever like the Padre who was never thirsty or needed another drink as
long as he lived.”
