by Augusto Andres
Our seasons come and go, leaving wakes large and small.
Kingdon and I sit in his wooden fishing boat, drifting slowly into the end of the ever-narrowing Esefjord. Before us, a double vision unfolds—snow-flecked, forested peaks and serpentine waterfalls cascading behind tiny cottages perched near the shore, perfectly mirrored onto the surface of
Augusto Andres visits an unusual museum and is moved to delve into unresolved issues from the past.
On a warm October morning in Egypt, I ventured into Cairo’s labyrinthine Khan Al-Khalili market to lose myself. I passed stalls of gold, sliver, and brasswares, brightly patterned galabeyas and linen scarves draped across narrow passageways, colorful bowls of spices shaped into delicate, powdery pyramids.
It is a mild afternoon in Morelia and warm streams of sunlight filter in from the open-air courtyard of the house, brightening Yuyo's kitchen. Although I've been in this room many times, I‘ve never really taken a good look around and a part of me is disappointed by what's not here. I admit to having some romantic notions of the Mexican kitchen. I picture beautifully decorated, clay pots bubbling over with savory pozoles, an oversized copper kettle simmering frijoles de la olla, a sturdy hand-fired comal roasting deep-red chiles anchos. On the countertop of blue and white tiles from Puebla, I see an aged molcajete, the secrets of previous generations ground into the well-worn basalt tejote.
