Let me go on record as stat- ing that Sra Brady is a fabulous cook. She makes the estufadas that dreams are made of. I have no problems with her culinary skills, it´s just some of the ingredients that bother me. I understand that coming from a large family accustomed to getting by on a small income, she is of necessity an expert in the field of Mexican soul food. Being quite stingy by nature, I appreciate her frugality, but only up to a point. I keep telling her that things are not that bad, that we can afford the more edible parts of the chicken, but it does no good. I open the fridge and behold a few kilos of chicken feet taking up the whole freezer compartment. The vegetable drawer is full of expired radishes. Sure, great, the entire trip to the grocery store cost less than the taxi home, but the catch is that someone has to eat all those premeditated leftovers to make room for beer. Then there is quelite and nopal, greens and cactus, which grow wild on the side of the road. Quelite is not bad once you soak and scrape the dust and exhaust fume residue away. Nopal is actually one of the tastier members of the cactus family once you gouge the spines out, but it has a certain inner viscosity that makes me more inclined to rub it in my hair than ingest it. One of the best things about Mazatlán is the mariscos. I like any kind of seafood, except caviar and seasnails. There is not much danger of caviar finding its way to our table, but the humbly priced seasnail (caracol) does occasionally make a surprise appearance in the soup. It tastes fine until I realize what it is, and then spat #317 begins anew. I think she really sincerely means to humor me and my narrow minded Americanized taste buds, but when she sees a bargain she just can´t help herself, her intuitive shopping instincts take over. She can´t resist saving money. She´ll go down to the docks where small-time fishermen haul up their catch and will gladly and cheaply sell a bucket or two of seafood, some of it still