The Basket at the End of the Room: A Small Change That Gave Back Our Evenings

There is a particular hour in every Mexican home, and I believe in every home anywhere in the world, when the body has finished its proper meal and yet the hands still wish to be occupied with something to chew, to taste, to bring to the mouth while the eyes are fixed on the television or while the conversation stretches long after the plates have been cleared. In my mother’s house in Oaxaca this hour was sacred, and it was also dangerous, because the bowl of chicharrones or the plate of galletas sat precisely where everyone was sitting, within the reach of an arm that barely had to extend itself. (more…)