DSC00905  DSC00914Mesquites, Verdolagas, Quelites, y Nopalitos!


In late July and early August, the mesquites drop their crop of bean pods. I like to bite the end off a pod and suck sweet juice evocative of my childhood. Mesquites grew wild in Morenci mostly on las laderas, the hillsides where there were no houses. The pods were like candy to my cousins and me. We relished sucking the sweet juice surrounding the seeds. I liked to break off an end and pull each seed out of a segment of the pod. I spit out the seed after I scraped the fleshy part with my teeth and swallowed the juice. Some of my male cousins, preferred chewing up the pod and spitting out seeds and fibrous mess that remained. It looked like they were chewing tobacco and maybe that’s why they did it. We took a welcome break from playing to collect pods to suck on as we sat near a tree and held spitting contests.

Afterward we gathered pods and stretched out our T-shirts to carry them back to Mama Teresita, our grandmother. She rewarded us with the ledger book recording her cuenta at Madero’s store. We never abused her trust, only buying each of us a Popsicle. They didn’t equal the taste of mesquites, but Popsicles had one thing over mesquites; they were frozen. We often remarked mesquite juice popsicles would be ideal. The only problem was we couldn’t figure out how to get enough juice to freeze.

Mama Teresita dried the mesquite pods on a lámina she kept in Tata’s garden for that explicit purpose. When they were dry, she’d store them in an empty flour bag. Every other day she’d take out bean pods and boil them for Tata’s altole. He alternated between it and a ponche Mama Teresita made with coffee and an egg. He drank these before lighting up his first cigarette of the day and eating breakfast. He told us it gave him strength. Whenever we had a sore throat we also drank a tea made with the beans. Mama Carmela, my aunt, took it every day as medicine for diabetes.

My present home in Tucson is surrounded by dozens of mesquite trees. Most of them have yellow pods, but a few produce yellow pods with streaks of red. These are the mesquite pods I remember as a child so I pluck them from the trees when I’m working outdoors for a quick sugar rush.

Verdolagas, or purslane, considered a weed by some people, was a staple in our kitchens. Mama Teresita and my mother and aunts, each nurtured a patch of verdolagas in their gardens. If they didn’t have enough leaves, they could always find some growing en la ladera. This was often one of our only fresh vegetables, much tastier than canned peas or corn. The mucilaginous leaves had a slightly sour and salty taste. To me, they tasted like lemon juice. Our mothers steamed and served verdolagas with frijoles de olla. I didn’t learn about the health benefits of purslane until I was an adult. Verdolagas are an excellent source of Vitamin A, C, and B-complex. As a child, all I cared about was they tasted good and made beans taste even better. Now I know how healthy they were for us. I had a volunteer verdolaga patch growing in a wine barrel planter several years ago and my father told me they were probably verdolagas de marrano (for pigs) so I didn’t harvest them. Recently, I researched verdolagas and found there wasn’t such a thing.

Quelites were another wild fresh vegetable we savored. Some people may recognize this plant as “pigweed.” Maybe my father confused “verdolagas de marrano” with the common English name for quelites. Quelites weren’t planted in gardens; they were free for the picking on the hillsides especially in sites where a house had burned ages before. They were comparable to spinach or kale. Mama Teresita washed the leaves and tossed them into her large iron skillet to sauté. She added onions and jalapenos from Tata’s garden. The part I enjoyed most was the final squeeze of lemon juice before serving with frijoles. My dad always told everyone I would eat a rock if it had lemon on it. I wouldn’t go so far, but I love anything with lemon juice.

I never saw quelites growing in any of the places I lived until a week ago I recognized a couple of volunteer plants growing in a forgotten pot in my garden. I thought the leaves resembled quelites so I let them grow. They grew amazingly fast and soon developed a tall stem with tiny green buds reminding me of amaranth. I looked up the plant online and sure enough; quelites are in the amaranth family. The plants in Morenci never developed the showy flowers seen in cultivated gardens, but their leaves were appetizing. Little did we know the nutritional qualities of quelites. They provide protein, vitamin A, B, and essential minerals like calcium, iron, and potassium. Mama Teresita and the other grandmothers from Mexico may not have known this, but they knew quelites were good for you.

Nopalitos and their fruit, tunas, were a delicious delicacy. The prickly pear paddles are laborious to prepare for cooking, but well worth the effort. The cactus spines hurt when they pierce your skin, but the little hairy glochids are worse. At least with the spines you can remove them with tweezers, but tiny glochids have barbed shafts and they are hard to extract. They cover the nopal paddles like an army protecting its territory and one small patch can detach and embed hundreds of glochids in your skin. This I know from experience when I’ve transplanted nopales to another area of our desert property.

Luckily in Morenci we were blessed with spineless cactus. Mama Teresita called them nopales españoles. She said españoles who first came to Morenci to work in the mines brought the cactus with them. If true, then the first nopales taken by the Spanish to Spain came from Mexico and were brought back! Grateful not to have to work as hard scraping the nopales, Mama Teresita and my aunts cultivated these nopales in their gardens. My mother took paddles of spineless nopales to her new garden in York when our homes were destroyed to mine the copper under Morenci. I have spineless nopales growing in my garden, taken from my mother’s garden. They’re a living memento of Morenci I gladly share with other people who grew up in Morenci.

My grandmother picked only smaller, younger nopalitos because they were tenderer than the larger thicker paddles. The spineless cactus contain a few spines so she scraped the nopales with a large knife to make sure they were clean. She cut them into long narrow strips then diced them to her preferred size. At this point the nopales exuded babas, lots of slimy babas, similar to okra. Mama Teresita didn’t like the slime and neither did I. She cooked them for about 5 minutes in boiling water to reduce las babas then emptied all in a colander and repeated the process again. Draining the nopalitos in the colander left them ready to be used in various ways. One of her favorites was to fry nopalitos with eggs for breakfast. I preferred to eat them with beans. Need I say nopalitos have a lemony flavor to them?

As with mesquites and quelites, nopales contain Vitamins A, C, and B complex. They also have a generous amount of calcium and magnesium, potassium, iron, and plenty of fiber. Nopales are recommended for people suffering from diabetes and high cholesterol because they provide 17 amino acids— eight of which are essential for the human body. I’ve noticed that we rarely had diabetes, high cholesterol, or high blood pressure when we lived in Morenci. After moving from Morenci and we stopped eating “weeds,” most of us developed those illnesses. Nowadays, studies have shown that these vegetables are good to help prevent or reduce the effects of many of those ailments.

The nopales also sport attractive blooms in late spring to cheer the soul. I wouldn’t recommend picking those flowers to place in a vase. It’s best to enjoy them in their desert setting and leave them to develop into tunas or cactus fruits. Tunas on a cactus are even more colorful than the flowers. The fruit is sweet and juicy, reminiscent of watermelon combined with strawberries. Tunas contain many of the same benefits as nopales and are worth the effort to remove their sharp thorns. After those are removed the pulp is ready to eat, but like mesquites, the seeds are spit or cleaned out.

In Morenci, Mexicanos didn’t think of mesquites, quelites, and nopalitos containing all these wonderful nutrients. Our grandmothers and mothers knew these were good to eat and good for us. They were part of our daily diet. When the miners union called for a strike against the company lasting more than a few months and times were lean, we were grateful we had learned to eat and love these native plants because they were free.



Tuna del Nopal



Prickly plum cactus juice,

Kick-a-poo joy juice—

Healing elixir of the ancients

Good for all that ails you


Purple red fruit

Atop nopal paddles

Even desert animals

Know its benefits


Too tired to do?

Prickly plum juice

Dispels fatigue

Jumpstarts energy


Diabetes plaguing you?

Nectar del nopal

Balances sugars

Better than pills


High blood pressure?

A spoonful of tuna juice

In a glass of water

Brings it down


High cholesterol?

No need for statins

Opuntia ficus-idica

Lowers LDL



Add tunas

And nopalitos

To your diet


Cancer prevention?

Studies show

Prickly pear nectar

Kills cancer cells


Ancient food

Ancient medicine

Find it in your local desert

Free for the picking!




Elena Díaz Bjorkquist ©2012



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Eating the Elephant

The Waiting

For a long time now, I’ve likened writing to therapy. It’s a cheap way to get my thoughts in a row, to temper the negativity of my life with the positivity. Through writing, I’ve learned new things about myself that I otherwise might not have ever uncovered. I’ve analyzed problems and worked through complicated, conflicted emotions. Writing has helped me take ownership of my many imperfections and to cultivate self esteem not only in spite of those imperfections but because of them.

Indeed, this very blog has at times been my virtual chaise lounge where I’ve spilled my guts, trying to figure just who I am. I’ve served as my own therapist, relying entirely on myself to unravel the knotted twine of my life, my feelings, and the problems I face.

But I’ve learned something over the past six or seven months that I’ve just recently become comfortable enough to admit and…

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Car Problems

Car woudn’t start yesterday morning. Poor thing wouldn’t even turn over it’s engine, just kept blinking it’s running lights like it was sick. We couldn’t get ahold of the mechanic at the dealer because it was Sunday. Today we had to wait until past 7:00 to reach him. The good thing was, they sent a towtruck to get us and provided us with a rental for however long it took to fix the car.

We figure it was probably a battery problem because last Monday we took the car in for its check-up and oil change. They found the battery and cables were corroded. A new battery was installed, but no cables because they weren’t in stock. They were supposed to call us when they came in a day or two later. No phone call. I’m glad the car didn’t have any problems when we went up to Casa Grande on Saturday to have lunch with our son and his girls. I guess sitting in the garage overnight, did something to the cables.

Bad thing was getting the car out of the garage. The towtruck operator tried jumper cables but they didn’t work. When the battery goes out on these new cars, nothing works. We couldn’t even open the liftgate in back. Good thing we didn’t lock the car or we probably wouldn’t have been able to get in. The car finally was pushed out on some roller things and then loaded but it took an hour.

It’s very frustrating when you don’t have a car, but the dealer came through so we can make Kurt’s doctor appointment this afternoon. The repairs, the towing, and the rental are all covered by the dealer. We have a comprable rental although not an SUV so it’s hard for us to get in and out of it.

The mechanic should never have left us drive the car home until they had the parts, but they’re making good on all of it. Just that our morning was shot dealing with all this.



Morenci Poetry

I’ve been writing poems about Morenci. I wake up every morning for the past week with a new poem in my head. What’s strange is that I retain most of the words until I can type it out. Sometimes later that same day, others in a day or two.

I’m trying out a new program called Blogo to see if I like it and want to buy it.

Snow in the Desert

Maybe what makes snow so special for me is that we don’t get it very often in the desert. New Year’s Day we walked out to a winter wonderland, totally unexpected but a welcome change. Our dogs, Tito and Lalo, ran around and reveled in it much like kids would do. Seeing the white stuff on the cactus lifted my spirits and I enjoyed sprinting after the dogs. Lalo is a black malte-poo so when we came in the house, his face was white from sticking his nose into the snow. Tito, is white, so it didn’t show up on him.

By noon, the sun had melted all of it. The only evidence left was the dripping off from the roof. Our house has a flat roof so it must have collected a couple of inches of snow. All our garden plants were well watered. As much as I like the snow, I don’t like the cold that comes with it. Several years ago, we went to Minneapolis for a family reunion at Thanksgiving. It snowed and desert dweller that I am, I froze. A couple of years ago, we went to Boston so I could attend a writing conference. It snowed. Even with a heavy coat, boots, gloves, scarf, and hat, I froze. I’m not used to the cold.

Living at the base of Mount Lemon, we can go up the mountain whenever it snows. We rarely do so. Instead, I’d rather appreciate it when it snows on the desert.

Snow on cactus

Albóndiga Soup

The fragrant aroma of roasting meatballs permeates the kitchen! I spent the morning making 5 pounds of albóndigas for soup. I used to make albóndiga soup for as many as 50 people to serve during our Christmas tamalada while tamales cooked.

No more. The days of big parties are over. These albóndigas will go in the freezer and be ready for making soup and serving at small intimate dinners. If my guests are willing to listen, I’ll read them a selection from my short story “Albóndiga Soup” about the never-ending, life-sustaining soup that nourished Morenci people during a hard strike.

I like to roast the albóndigas. It gives them a richer, more nuanced flavor. This is how my grandmother did it. I also use cooked rice in them. I know some people put uncooked rice in the meatballs but I’ve tasted other people’s albóndigas and chewed on hard rice. I freeze the meatballs on the cookie sheets after they cool off, then when they’re completely frozen, I put them into a freezer bag. That way there’s no frost, and no fat. I make the soup stock from scratch using beef broth, onions, garlic, and cumin. After I add the water and bring everything to a boil, I add the albóndigas. When I’m ready to serve, I add fresh mint. The albóndigas already contained mint in them, but including fresh mint in the soup adds more flavor. I serve albóndiga soup piping hot with sides of limes, pico de gallo, and bollios. Yum! Who’s coming for dinner first?

As I made the albóndigas and smelled them roasting in the oven, I thought of my mother, Natividad Díaz Herrera who died on this date, 14 years ago. In my grief, I made albóndiga soup with my granddaughters, Gabby & Manda helping me to roll them out.

The night of the wake, with all the family gathered, I saw how this soup soothed all our souls that night. The menudo my brother prepared was barely touched. As people savored my soup and commented on it, more came to be served. It all went and I didn’t get to taste even a spoonful of it. But no matter. Seeing mi familia, mi Mama’s familia, feasting on this life-sustaining soup is a memory that will stay with me always, especially when I make and serve it.

At tamaladas, I’ve had non-soup eaters tell me, “Don’t give me too much, I’m saving myself for the tamales.” Inevitably they were the ones that came back for seconds and thirds! I don’t know what makes this simple soup so special but I wish I had the never-ending one I wrote about in “Albóndiga Soup.”

How Rude

Three and half-year-old granddaughter Kayla is an avid fan of reruns of the old TV series “Full House.” It was a favorite of her grandfather’s and mine when it originated. Kayla is a lover of words and expressions that appeal to her, so it comes as no surprise that she’s adopted Stephanie’s frequent saying of “how rude” into her ever-increasing vocabulary. Kayla knows how and when to apply the expressions she picks up.

Recently when we went up Mount Lemon for a brief vacation in a cabin in Summerhaven, we stopped at one of the popular points that looks out over Tucson. When we got out of the truck, and started to walk to the point, we had to make sure we didn’t step on dog droppings.

I said, “It’s good that people bring their dogs to enjoy nature, but it’s unfortunate that they neglect to pick up their poop.”

“How rude!” Kayla said.

We continued walking out to the point and found huge rock formations defaced with graffiti. I commented on how people couldn’t enjoy nature without messing it up for other people.

“How rude!” Kayla said.

The next day, we went for a walk in one of the Coronado National Forest picnic areas. It was the day after Labor Day and the picnic areas looked like disaster areas littered with the disposable debris of people’s picnics. One table not even twenty feet from a trash can still held used paper plates, balled up paper napkins, bunched up aluminum cans, and plastic forks. There were even lemon rinds and dried up strawberries.

“The people couldn’t even bother to pick up their trash and throw it away.” I said.

“How rude!” Kayla said.

It made me think about how inconsiderate people have become, how rude, how uncaring about other people. What happened to the values I grew up with, the values I taught my children, my students? The code of behavior that made us ensure that whenever we were using or enjoying something, whether it was a borrowed item or a picnic in a park, we returned it or left it in the condition in which we found it. We had expectations that others felt the same way that we did and that we would find things like picnic areas in a usable condition.

It’s annoying and sad that this is no longer true. It seems that many in our country have become people who look out only for their own needs and comforts and don’t think about others, whether it’s the people who come after them to enjoy the park or the people who have to clean up their mess.


Elena Díaz Bjorkquist ©September 2, 2014




Easter Picnic Memories

Easter Picnic Memories


Easter was one of my favorite holidays, right up there with Christmas because we celebrated with the entire Díaz clan. The only thing that kept me going through the excruciatingly long Mass and having to sit through it in an uncomfortable new dress and shoes with a new hat that would be my church hat for the rest of the year, was the thought of the family picnic that waited for us afterward.


After Mass, my family headed for home to change into shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes and pack the pickup with ice chest full of soda, beer, and food. My aunts’ and uncles’ families did the same and soon we’d caravan out to predetermined picnic site. My favorite place was Big Lake even though it took us a long time to get there and we had to do it in stages with a stop at Cherry Lodge for a quick brunch.


Even if we didn’t make it to Big Lake, there were other places that were just as much fun, up the Frisco River past the pumping station where the father-in-law of one of my uncles worked, the hanging bridge on the Frisco, Mule Creek, Cherry Lodge, and Guthrie. My favorites were the ones that had a water source, whether it was a creek, a river, or a lake.


The moms and dads settled down on blankets and picnic benches after they unpacked the cars and trucks and us kids set out to explore. With twenty-six cousins, there was always someone to play with. We learned to fish for catfish with our hands, taught by Uncle Chelado who was an expert. We caught guppies in paper cups and built dams in the river to house them.


When it was time for lunch we lined up at whoever’s mom we thought had the best chile verde or chicken mole or frijolitos de olla. It was usually not our own mom because we were used to her cooking. Mama Teresita’s tortillas were prized by everybody so I always first headed to where she was to make sure I got my share.


Sometimes the family got the traveling bug and off we’d go on a road trip after eating lunch to the next place where we’d eat dinner. One memorable Easter we started off at Cherry Lodge, went to Big Lake, drifted off to New Mexico and wound up at Mule Creek. More often we stayed in one place and enjoyed both lunch and dinner there. A weinie and marshmellow roast over a bonfire was the perfect ending to an Easter family picnic. After packing up, we headed back home to Morenci, tired, but happy.

National Poetry Month

I’ve participated in National Poetry Month for the past four years. Not formally on any other website except my own. I’ve always set my own goals but haven’t ever gone for a poem a day for the whole month. This is the goal I’ve set for myself this year. So far, so good, I’ve been able to keep my goal. Eleven days into April and I’ve written eleven new poems! I haven’t had to go into my files yet to start working on revising other poems I wrote last year after poetry month was over.


My calendar when I started in April, was pretty much clear, but now it’s filling up and only a few days are free from doctor appointments, lunches and dinners (to celebrate my birthday), concerts, poetry readings, etc. I like to celebrate my birthday for the whole month, sometimes even in to May when Kurt has his birthday! Getting busier means it’s getting harder to fulfill my goal of writing a poem a day. My back up plan is to bring out those older poems that need revision and work on them.


The new poems will need revising also, but I usually wait a week or two or maybe even three before I look at them again with a new eye. In the meantime, I feel a sense of accomplishment to have written these new ones. It seems like once I start writing, I get in the groove, and poems bubble up out of my subconscious. Most mornings I wake up with a phrase that gets me going or sometimes, better yet, a whole poem is waiting for me to write it down.