All though I grew up in Miami, I also consider the rich Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina home away from home.
We used to summer at grandmother’s home which she had owned since the 50’s. A perfect wooden A-frame, stocked with the musty smells of beautiful old books, my favorite was an illustrated Goldilocks from the 30’s (wonder where that is now?) cigarette butts rimmed with her pert pink lipstick, whiskey (any kind would do), Mexican hand-painted amate paper framed in wood hanging on the walls, deviled eggs in the kitchen and us kids outside, playing in the foggy, rainy, beautifully lush, wet weather of summer.
I have incredibly fond memories of hiking up Whiteside mountain (watch out for bears they would say!), picnicking at sliding rock (so cold even in summer!) and hunting for wild flowers all while gobbling down wild strawberries, blueberries and blackberries we’d find along the way. But my favorite thing by far, was fishing for trout. My sister, brother and I became so adept at catching them, my mother demanded that if we caught anymore we’d have to clean them ourselves. So graciously we obliged and each summer we’d eat way more trout than any black bear could ever want.
Flash forward 25 years to Central Mexico, and here I am, with all these memories of North Carolina and trout.
For my husband’s birthday last year we took a day trip to a typical puebo called Sultepec. Along the way we stopped to eat at a small log cabin along the road’s side for trucha (trout). And driving there, through the grand, smokey pine forests I was brought back to summers with grandmother in North Carolina, wild flowers, bumble bees, trout and all. And when I ate that sacred trout o’ mine it was better tasting than I ever knew it could be, not to mention I was thrilled because I did not have to clean it.