La Chica Who Came In From The Cold: Chile Verde

Have you ever had a friend disappear on you on a spring day, only to find her banging at your door in the dead of winter looking toda fresca, as fat and as cheeky as if she never left? You open the door and say, Oye chica, ¿qué pasó? What happened to you? Six months ago you told me you were going out for tacos and beer but you never came back!

Well,that chica is me.

Of course, I haven't really disappeared. One never does in the blogosphere. But it does seem like I've been in a state of suspended animation serving you up huachinango (red snapper) in cilantro crema for far too long. Only now I've come in from the cold to tempt you with your favorite last meal if you were going to face the firing squad tomorrow at dawn—a little bowl of hot chile verde. Now aren't you glad?

I can’t explain why I jumped off the bloggy treadmill. Was it because I felt as burned out as some tripas (intestines) left on the grill for too long? Or, was I afflicted with I can only describe as a particularly bad case of “constipation of inspiration”? Let’s just say I couldn't bear the thought of sitting in front of a computer monitor when all I wanted to do was ride shotgun with my viejo at the wheel and feel the wind whipping through my hair. So I did what I usually do if I can’t satisfy wanderlust:

I planted a garden and painted some pictures.

I lost myself in a bit of escapism in the company of a beautiful Spanish couturière/spy

and even knitted a sweater.

What I couldn't do was pick up a pen and write love letters to Mexican food. Every word tasted sin chiste—as insipid and lacking in sabor as a Velveeta-stuffed chile relleno in the worst “Mexican-ish” restaurant in the whole sad state of Alabama.

And just as I thought that my cocina would remain forever dark, that I'd never make a decent pot of frijoles ever again, that's when I was saved by some tomatillos on the side of the road.

Half of them had been smashed to a pulp. The others were curbside, looking like the scattered peridot gemstone beads of a broken necklace belonging to a giantess who never bothered picking them up. I quickly threw some into the basket of my bike. It was getting dark, so I promised to come back for the rest—greedily hoping that come morning I would be the one to collect all the booty before someone else got to them.



The next morning they were still there! Holding a large shopping bag, I started grabbing all the undamaged tomatillos I could find. I ignored the sometimes curious, sometimes sarcastic looks of certain passersby. Why was that loca lady bent over on the side of the road picking some green who-knows-what off the ground? Yes, I did feel kind of stupid for wearing the wrong attire—a dress and a pair of high heels—for street-side vegetable picking in a stiff wind.  Pues ni modo--that was the least of my worries. I was more concerned about turning into road kill by getting run over by another load-dropping tomatillo truck. When the bag was almost too heavy for me to carry, I lugged it over to my car.

I looked at the palms of my hands—they were filthy and sticky to the touch. Some motorists had probably seen up my dirt-stained dress. I wish I could say that I cared, but I bore the "humiliation" in fine spirits. I had been given a gift: a seed for a story and an ingredient for a recipe. It was just the little puff of inspiración for more stories to come, or perhaps just this blog post.

I gave most of the tomatillos away to friends, keeping two pounds for myself. After staring at them for a long time I got to work. I gave myself permission to not think of what to write about. I just enjoyed the silence of it all, the concentration and the rhythmic movement of my hands as I chopped the onions and the chiles. The fresh green of the tomatillos and the cilantro, the raw chiles and how they burned my fingertips, the sound of pork sizzling—all of this was coming together to create something delicious and for that moment I felt I could start blogging again—always at a snail’s pace, of course. This has always been a slow-cooked blog.

I occupied myself with other things and gave this blog and my mind a rest. Perhaps it was just what I needed to let the seeds of a story or two percolate until they are ready to sprout and grow. No need to force the bloom.

Sometimes inspiration tells you sorry but I’m not coming tonight, mañana or the night after that. If you want me back you must be silent. Listen and look around you. Be willing to get dirty if you have to and don’t be afraid to look like una taruga—a complete and utter fool. Only then will it gently tap on the shoulder and say, “Aquí estoy.”

The tomatillos on the side of the road taught me that.

 

Chile Verde

You can have chile verde anyway you like. It is equally delicious on a torta, a burrito, in a tamal, with beans and tortillas or with your huevitos (eggs) instead bacon or ham. You can, like my viejo sometimes does, even eat it straight from the pot just as I’m getting ready to serve dinner. Though I’d like nothing better than to slap his little hand, I can’t blame him. Honestly, who can resist the hot delicious mess of porky goodness of chile verde? Nobody I know.

I used pork for this dish, but feel free substituting a relatively inexpensive boneless beef chuck if you prefer. Go ahead, use any fresh chile you have on hand that's as mild--or as hot as you want. If the chile verde is not hot enough for your taste, chop and sauté a fresh jalapeño and throw it in the pot. (I don't know about you, but it seems to me that jalapeno chiles are not as hot as they used to be.  Next time, I'm going with serrano chiles instead.)  If it tastes too tart, add a teeny bit of sugar (about ⅛ to ¼ teaspoon), but don’t overdo it. It will ruin the chile verde. If you prefer thinner sauce, add more chicken broth to taste, but keep the sauce nice and thick if you are making this dish for tamales--and don't forget to put some pickled jalapeno strips along with the chile verde in each tamal. (For tamales masa recipes and guide, click here.)

You can roast the tomatillos and the chiles under the broiler.

 

Or, you can toast them on the comal.

Both bring out exceptional flavor. (Click here to learn the finer points of roasting or toasting tomatillos and chiles.)

Or, don’t roast them at all. Your chile verde will still taste great.

Ingredients:

3 pounds pork shoulder butt

2 or 3 tablespoons fat: vegetable, olive, bacon grease(!), the choice is yours

1 onion

2-3 large cloves of garlic (unpeeled)

salt and pepper to taste

¼ teaspoon dried oregano

1 bay leaf

up to 1 teaspoon ground cumin, or to taste

⅛ to ¼ teaspoon sugar (optional)

4 or 5 fresh Poblano and/or Anahiem chiles

2 or 3 jalapeño chiles; can substitute with chiles serrano if you prefer a hot chile verde

up to 1 ½ pounds fresh tomatillos, depending on how much you of a tomatillo taste you prefer

cilantro to taste—I used ½ bunch for this recipe

4 cups chicken broth, (or more if you prefer a thinner sauce)
1 16 ounce can pickled jalapeno strips (for the tamales)

Directions:

To broil: cut the tomatillos and the chiles in half and place them flat-side down on a aluminum-wrapped cookie sheet. Add the unpeeled garlic and brush them all with a bit of oil and place under the broiler until they are charred but not burned to death. Remember to check them every few minutes! Remove immediately. You can remove or charred skin if you want, but you don’t have to. Some love the taste of charred bits.

OR, toast them all on an oiled comal [griddle] over high heat. Turn every couple of minutes. There is no need to sweat the chiles or the tomatillos in a plastic bag this time. When they are done, carefully remove the seeds from the chiles (only if you don't want them too hot) and chop them along with the onion.

Next, peel the garlic and whirl them in a blender with the tomatillos.

When the tomatillos and the garlic have been liquefied, add the fresh cilantro and whirl again for a minute. Set them aside.

IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO to roast the chiles, tomatillos and garlic, no problem: Simply cut the fresh tomatillos in half, and whirl them in a blender with 2 or 3 peeled garlic cloves and the cilantro. Seed the chiles and remove the veins (but only if you can't tolerate too much heat), and chop them along with the onion. Set aside.

Take the pork and trim away all excess fat. Cut the pork into bite-size chunks and dry them with a kitchen towel.

Sear the pork in the fat over high heat until they are golden brown. Remove the pork from the pot and put it in a large bowl. Drain out most of the fat from the pot, except for tablespoon or two.

Cook the onion and chopped chiles with one smashed garlic (optional) in the pot until the onions are golden brown. Add the seared pork.

Stir in the tomatillo mixture and the chick broth together with the bay leaf, the oregano, cumin and the salt and pepper to taste.

Cover and simmer for one hour. Now is the time to check the seasonings—does it need more salt and pepper or cumin? Simmer for 30 to 45 minutes more until the pork is tender.

Tastes maravilloso the next day.

Serves 6 to 8 persons.

Stop Wrinkling Your Nariz

I know what you are thinking, so just stop wrinkling that little nariz of yours just because you don't like fish (I can see you). You're not being punished. Pobrecita—you poor darling, you can't help it. Especially, if like me, your padres hailed from some ranchos in landlocked Zacatecas, where the chances of catching ocean fish are as remote as finding a live chicken crossing Rodeo Drive (the fowl kind, that is). Don't worry, mi'ja, you're in good hands. I would never feed you just any pescado apestoso—some icky and stinky old fish. It's time to say goodbye to goat stew and say hello to huachinango (huah-chee-NAHN-goh) [red snapper] with cilantro crema.

For those who have never had huachinango (can you repeat huachinango-huachinango-huachinango-huachinango without messing up?), it is a medium-firm fish, mild but not too mild. It can take a good drenching of chile-tomato salsa or anything spicy you throw its way without wimping out. And it certainly holds it own here with this silky cilantro crema. In fact, like its colors red and green, the sweet fishy flavor of the huachinango and the creamy but pungent green flavor of the cilantro contrast a little too brilliantly, especially when you blend in some buttery avocado into the sauce—not essential, but I just can't go on to relate. It is too luscious for words, really.

That viejo of mine thinks that green blanket of crema covers up a lot of unpleasant things: namely, the huachinango's grim down-turned mouth and its unblinking but somehow angry fish glare. It is curious to see this new-found squeamishness in a man who loves to suck on the pickled patas of a pig, but I am not fooled. His landlocked roots are showing.

I put the plate before him and hold it up to his nose.

"Good—now we can devour it guilt-free and enjoy ourselves without having to look at it. The fish doesn't know it's mad—it's dead. Just eat it, okay? Esta cocina está cerrada—this kitchen is closed!" Which means I'm done cooking and you better eat this or I will huachinango you.

It took some doing, but once my viejo tasted the ocean by giving this little fish with the big fat name a try, his taste buds are no longer living in a dry landlocked desert. Ya se pone todo emocionado [Now he gets all excited about] ostiones [oysters] y camarones [shrimp], jaibas [crabs] y langostas [lobster] and all kinds of fish, including our little red hauchinango—with nary a complaint about fish heads with beady eyes.

Can the same happen to you?

So stop wrinkling that little nariz of yours and start eating.

Huachinango con crema de cilantro

Red Snapper with Cilantro Crema

Feel free to use parsley instead if you don't care for the taste of cilantro. I used Mexican crema for this dish, but if you like a thinner consistency, you can add some milk to the crema, or substitute an equal amount of half-and-half. Either way, this dish is easy to prepare, and is almost mistake proof. Just tweak it to your liking. You don't even have to cook a whole fish if you don't want to, filets are fine, too. I like to use a little seasoning salt in my cilantro crema, so I am suggesting it here. Loosely adapted from Mexico the Beautiful Cookbook.

Ingredients:

1 whole red snapper or 3 lbs. of snapper filet. You can substitute it with any fish with white flesh, as long as it is firm.

one large lime or lemon, cut in half

1 clove garlic, minced

About ¼ cup of chopped onion. Cut a few slices for the top of the fish

Sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

2 cups of Mexican crema, or 2 cups of half-and-half (Fat-free half-and-half is fine.)

1 ½ cups fresh cilantro, or fresh flat-leafed parsley

1 avocado, preferably Hass (optional)

Recipe Directions:

Preheat the oven to 325°. Sprinkle salt and pepper the fish. Then rub it all over with the minced garlic. Next, take one half of the cut lime or lemon and squeeze juice over the fish. Take some a few sprigs of cilantro and the chopped onion and stuff them into the fish's cavity. Place a bay leaf underneath the fish and put some slices of onion on top. Place the fish in an oiled baking dish and cover with aluminum foil. Refrigerate it for about 30 minutes.

In the meantime, take the crema or the half-and-half and the cilantro and whirl them in a blender. You can add more cilantro or parsley, salt and pepper or even some lemon juice until it tastes the way you want it to. You can dilute it by adding a little milk if you like. Blending in some avocado makes it extra rich.

Bake the fish for about 30 minutes or so. The fish is done cooking when its flesh feels firm, but do not over-bake it.

In the last few minutes of baking time, pour the cilantro crema into a saucepan and simmer it until it is warm, but not hot.

When the fish is done, take it out of the oven and pour the cilantro crema over the fish. Serve right away.

Serves 2 people very well.

Note: Last month I mentioned that my little friend, Nakita, who lives just north of Tokyo had not contacted me yet. Three weeks after that devastating quake, I finally heard from her. She and her family are okay. What a relief!)

This Bowl of Comfort

Cruel winter will be gone soon, and I for one am glad. May it pack its rags and take with it its earthquakes and tsunamis and never show its ugly face again.

Our friends, Luis and Keiko are visiting her family in Japan. Thankfully, they are in the south and not in the north where most of the devastation took place. Sachiko emailed and told me that she and her family are okay, and she is holding her head high. As for my little friend, Nakita . . . well, I have not heard back from her yet.

Somehow, it's hard to breezily tell you all about arroz con leche as if nothing has happened. In a few days it will be the first day of spring. I will sit in my little peaceful corner with this bowl of comfort and I will pray for my friends. I pray that Luis and Keiko, Sachiko and Nakita and their families feel soft cool breezes and rays of bright sunshine. May they tend to their azaleas and enjoy good food and drink pure water. I wish them sakura—sweet cherry blossoms—and a life filled with indescribable beauty, the kind I found when I visited their country.

Arroz con leche

Mexican Style Rice Pudding with Tequila Soaked Raisins

I used medium grain rice by mistake. Your arroz con leche will look slightly different. If you prefer not to add canned evaporated milk, replace it by using your own homemade version by simmering 3 cups of milk in an uncovered medium sized saucepan until it is reduced by half.

Ingredients:

3 cups water
1 ½ cups long grain rice
1 big fat stick of cinnamon
a 2 ½ inch strip of lemon peel. Remove the white pith.
a pinch of salt
up to 1 ½ cups of sugar, brown sugar, piloncillo or any kind of sugar you prefer
1 can of evaporated milk (12 fluid ounces)
1 teaspoon vanilla 1/3 cup of dark raisins, or more to taste (optional)
¼ cup or more of tequila, brandy, or rum (optional)
Directions:
In a small bowl, soak the raisins in the tequila.
In a covered medium sized saucepan, bring the water and the cinnamon stick to a boil. Turn off the heat and let it sit for about 30 minutes to an hour to bring out the full flavor of the cinnamon stick.
Bring the cinnamon water to a boil. Add the rice, lemon peel strip and the salt. Cover and lower the heat to a simmer. Cook for about 20 minutes, or until all of the water is absorbed and the rice is cooked.
Add the evaporated milk and the sugar to taste and stir until well blended. Add the raisins and the rest of the tequila if you want. When it is heated through, turn off the heat. The rice will continue to thicken on its own.
If you want to thin it a bit, just add more milk.
Serves about 6 to 8 people.

Fat Mexican Women?

"Tell me," my boss's daughter once asked. "Why do all Mexican women get so fat?"

"What, do I look fat to you?" It was the first time I had been asked that question. I weighed at the time all of 104 lbs. if there was a brick in my coat pocket—I wish I had a brick so I could throw it at her!

"No. But someday you will be." She looked at me and smiled, but it was one of those mean smirky smiles. I did not smile back.

Since I never gave a satisfying answer to that question, this time I think I will ask

Eva Longoria

Salma Hayek

And even Frida Kahlo, "back from the dead", for their opinion on the subject.

And now that this burning question has been laid to rest—forever, I hope—I think it is only fair that I introduce you to this Mexican-style vegetable beef stew, a secret weapon in the fight against fat for those of us who vowed to lose some poundage early last month, only to see our resolve fall by the wayside when we were told that eating Mexican food will make us resemble a stuffed tamal. What can be more fatal to a diet than a bad carnitas taco craving when you are bored, bored, bored by some highly uninspiring processed "low fat" food that everyone tells you are supposed to eat in order to look good?

If you are thinking that this stew looks somehow familiar, you are partly right. It is the beefy cousin to my mother's caldo de pollo (the Mexican Chicken Stew that became our demon rooster's final resting place.) Take a bite of the tender boiled beef; taste the delicate sweetness of the corn-on-the-cob. Feel not a bit of guilt as you eat the calabacitas [zucchini], cabbage, garbanzos and even a small bit of not-so-terrible potato—all of them floating in a sea of clear beef broth that contains practically no fat, only sabor. This soup is best served when it's raining or snowing outside. Add a squeeze of lime and a spoonful of Mexican rice (optional, of course), and let your mind wander as you gaze out the window and contemplate the naked branches of the trees and dream of how fabulosa you are going to feel come la primavera [springtime].

Getting back the issue of "fat" Mexican women, perhaps it is just as well that I never responded to that woman's ridiculous question. She seemed proud of her designer clothing and semi-starved state, looking toda chupada y seca—like an unhappy bone that is sucked dry. I honestly don't think she would have understood. I decided right then and there that I wasn't going to sacrifice my health or my enjoyment of life just for the sake of trying to stay thin. I should thank her for that, although it was not quite the lesson she was expecting me to learn if she had known it.

I guess women are hardwired to want to look attractive (and to own a million sexy looking shoes), but why sacrifice our health or our self-esteem for the sake of some ideal imposed by a small group of stylemakers whose idea of the perfect woman is a giant in a size 2 dress? Not all of us will ever be slender or long of limb, nor should we want to be. I would be brokenhearted if any of my beloved sobrinas [nieces] ever started to believe that they were ugly just because they don't fit an unrealistic image of feminine beauty.

Our muchachas [girls] can be round-bellied or flat-bellied, tall or petite, güeritas or morenitas [light or dark skinned], swan necked or no-necked, it doesn't matter. Teach them how to cook healthy Mexican food and tell them, yes, tell them everyday that they are beautiful.

Because they are.

Mexican Style Vegetable Beef Stew with Zucchini Squash, Corn & Cabbage

Caldo de rez con calabazas, elote y repollo

This stew contains no chiles or tomatoes—a surprise for those who think that Mexican food is all about bold flavors. Add a spoonful of hot chile salsa if you want some kick. Plus, you might think it a pain to keep boiling the beef and tossing out the water until there is no more foam, but you will be rewarded with a nice scum-free broth.


3 pounds beef shanks, thick sliced (I buy mine at the Mexican butcher's)


plenty of water


about ½ tablespoon salt


8 peppercorns; or, ½ teaspoon ground pepper


½ onion


2 cloves garlic


1 bay leaf


a pinch of dried thyme


3 thin-skinned white boiling potatoes, cut into not too small cubes (peeling is optional)


4 small or 1 large carrot, peeled and sliced in 1/2 inch to 1/4 inch disks depending on your preference

2 or 3 fresh ears of corn, cut to 2 to 3 inches


2 or 3 zucchini, sliced crosswise less than ½ inch


¼ head of cabbage, very coarsely chopped. You can add more if you like.


1 celery stalk, very thinly sliced, about 1/8 inch


fresh sprigs of cilantro


fresh limes cut into quarters


homemade chile salsa (click here for recipe); or, your favorite chile salsa


Mexican rice (click here for recipe)


Trim off any excess fat from along the edge of each beef shank. Rinse and place them in a large pot and cover them with water. Bring the water to a boil and then lower the heat to medium. When the water is full of foam, remove the beef and toss out the water. Wash and rinse the pot. Then, return the beef shanks to the pot and cover with water again. Repeat this process until the boiling water no longer foams up (up to 2 times). Then, add more water to the pot until the water level is about 1 inch to 1 ½ inches above the beef (about 12 or more cups).


Add ½ onion, garlic and salt, pepper corns, bay leaf and thyme. Bring to a boil, then set heat to low. Skim off any leftover foam that may rise to the top. Then cover the pot with a lid but make sure that it is vented. Simmer the beef for about 2 hours, or until the beef is very tender and practically falls off the bone. Fish out the onion and garlic and discard them. Remove the beef shanks from the pot. Trim off any leftover fat, etc. Discard the fat along with the bones. Cut the beef into large pieces, and put them back into the pot.


Now is the time to add the potatoes, corn and the sliced carrots. Bring to a boil. Then cover the pot and reduce heat to low and boil softly for about 30 minutes. Add the zucchini and celery. After about 15 minutes, add the cabbage and cook for about 10 minutes. Don't worry if any of the vegetables are still a little too crisp. The stew will continue to cook them after you turn off the heat.


Taste the broth. Does it need more salt and pepper? If you think that it needs more beefy flavor, you can cheat and add some beef bouillon to taste.


Use large bowls to serve this stew. Top with a generous helping of Mexican rice, a squeeze of lime, a bit of cilantro and salsa. Like with any stew, it tastes maravilloso the next day.


Serves 6 to 8 persons.

Hombre A Hombre

(Scroll down for CHAMPURRADO recipe.)

"¿Qué haces aquí—what are you doing here?" asked Francisco's father.
"Mama said you'd be here. Papá,what I said to you last night, nomás era una broma—it was just a joke. Why can't you have a sense of humor?—"

Don José averted his gaze and looked out across the strawberry fields to the emerald-hued hills. For a moment, his thoughts lingered on a certain point. Lately, a condescending note had crept into his son Francisco's voice. He was high-handed toward his hermanos y hermanas, even to his mother. He even started speaking to him as if he were un viejo simplón—a simpleminded old fool. But last night! What he said to him last night was el colmo—the last straw. Now ese hijo malagradecido—that ungrateful son of his was showing up to explain himself. It was time to speak to Francisco hombre a hombre.

"You came all this way to tell me that? Sabes, Francisco, first you show me some respeto-respect. If you really feel bad about what you said to me last night, you'll help me pull out these weeds and dead plants." He waited to see what Francisco would do, but Francisco's face registered nothing but disgust.

"In case you don't remember," he retorted, "but I've already done that. I can't believe you want me to leave everything I've learned and worked hard for only to come back here to work like a burro in this lodo." He pointed to the ground and stamped his foot, splattering mud all over. His superciliousness usually worked wonders on frightened underlings, but it had absolutely no effect on Don José. He only looked at him with a curious mixture of resentment, a touch of amusement and what can only be described as lástima—pity for a son whose greatest accomplishment at this moment was the painful realization that he was behaving like a whiny self-important twit.

Don José's let the insight sink in, then his voice grew gentle. "Did I say I wanted you to come back and work in the fields? No, mi'jo. But I taught you never to be afraid of hard work and aguante. Aguante y paciencia—endurance and patience. Sabe dónde—who knows where you learned to make fun of your father—pero de nosotros no—but you didn't learn it from us." He started laughing at the absurd situation he found himself in. After years of hard work and sacrifice for the sake of his children, his only "reward" was having a son who appreciated none of it. "Mira nomás—just look at yourself." Don José pointed to his son's muddy boots.

Francisco's face was white, then turned as red as a strawberry. He was embarrassed—no, mortified, but machismo and pride made him reply, "I'm tired of your reproaches and con—se—ji—tos—your little pieces of advice. I don't have anything more to learn from you."

"¿Deveras? You're just angry that you didn't get off easy. You thought you could pat on me on the head como tu perrito—like your little dog and be gone. Tell me, Francisco," asked Don José, whose eyes never left Francisco's face, "¿nos quebramos el lomo—did your mamá and me break our backs working in the fields to put food in your mouth so that you could insult us?"

Francisco was silent. There was a feeling of rupture in the air. The only sound was the early morning breeze as it filtered its way through eucalyptus trees at the edge of the field.

At last Don José spoke in a tone as quiet as Francisco had ever heard him speak. "Ahora con su permiso—with your permission, but this burro has work to do." He dropped to his knees and started yanking weeds and dead strawberry plants. His father had never before addressed him in the formal usted. Their conversation had come to an end.

Francisco made his way across the field. More people started arriving. Some remembered him and tried saying hola, but he ignored them. His trousers and boots were caked in mud. He tried to scrape some off before getting in his car, but they ruined. He slammed the car door and drove off.

Don José's heart felt heavy and sick, but work had made him forget Francisco as it had all his other troubles over the years. The winter sun started to peek from behind the hills, but with it, a wind from el norte started kicking up. Cold penetrated his jacket and made his bones and body ache.

"Last night he called me una papa enterrada [a buried potato], as if I don't have brains in la cabeza, as if I didn't have a corazón. Perhaps he is right. ¿Qué pasó—what happened? When he was just a muchachito he looked up to me. Now he looks down on his pobre viejo."

What was it with Francisco? Was it this country with its language and customs, the education he received, the people he hung out with, were all these turning his son into un estraño he no longer knew? Then there was la Heidi, the German girl Francisco met overseas and took as a bride. She was nice—she always smiled at him even if they couldn't understand each other. And she worked hard. There wasn't a dirty cup she didn't wash, a floor she wouldn't mop, cleaning, always cleaning, never sitting down to chat with the rest of the la familia until she left the kitchen spotless. Still, she turned red as a chile if she ate one little jalapeño. She insisted that German beer was better than Mexican, and thought nothing of joining in the conversation of men. Perhaps this was all Heidi's fault. Why couldn't Francisco have married a girl de su raza, a Mexican girl who spoke Spanish?

Later that day, when Don José felt a tap on his shoulder he was surprised to see it was Francisco. He was holding a large thermos in his hand. There were rubber boots on his feet and a sad look of self-reproach on his face.

"Papá, tiene frío—you're cold, would you like something to drink?"

Don José barely acknowledged him. "No quiero nada—I don't want any." Francisco poured some champurrado into a cup and thrust it into his father's hands. Don José looked at it reproachfully but found himself drinking all of it. It was fragrant of clavos y canela—of cloves and of sweet cinnamon spice. There was the taste of bittersweet chocolate and piloncillo—raw Mexican sugar. It coated his throat and warmed his whole body.

"¿No vas a tomar—aren't you having some?" he asked.

"Heidi made this for you. She told me to come back and apologize to you for being such a dummkopf—that's German for idiota, Papá." And, with a sheepish smile he added, "Mamá taught her how to make it."

"Vaya—did she now?" His surprise couldn't be more complete. He took another sip of the champurrado and said, "I've always like that güerita you married. Te tiene de la
cola—she has you by the tail."

Francisco allowed himself to laugh. That was not quite true, or so the thought, but he let it pass.

"Now I'm going to tell you what I should have said this morning. Lo siento, Papá—I'm sorry.
Perdóname—forgive me—."

"For what, mi'jo?" Don José shrugged his shoulders and with a dismissive wave of his hand indicated that all was forgotten. Now that Francisco offered a real apology, his father extended a real, if slightly offhanded kind of forgiveness that left both of their dignities intact.

Francisco started working another row of plants. Not another word passed between father and son. When it got too cold, each took his turn drinking the champurrado Heidi had made.

The field resembled an immense canvas striped brown and green. They and the others gathered all of the foliage into large plastic bags and left them on the side of the road that divided the field. Later, a truck would come by to haul them away.

Twilight. Soon darkness and soft rainfall. It was time to go home.

Champurrado
Many thanks to Barbara Hansen, former "Borderline" columnist for the LA Times, for allowing me to adapt her champurrado recipe. You can find Barbara at her delicious and informative Table Conversation blog. Thank you, Barbara, for loving Mexican food and for preserving precious recipes. You taught many of us how to cook.

Ingredients:

4 cups water
1 large cinnamon stick
1 or 2 cloves
1¼ cups water
1 cup instant masa
½ to 1 whole circular spiced Mexican chocolate such as Ibarra or Abuelita; or, 1- ½ oz. semisweet chocolate plus 1 tablespoon sugar, pinch of cinnamon and 3 or 4 drops vanilla extract
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar; or one medium sized cone of pilloncillo (Mexican raw sugar)
1 (13-oz.) can evaporated milk

Combine 4 cups water, cinnamon stick an cloves in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring to a boil, then remove it from the heat. Cover and let it stand for at least one hour. The water should be a deep cinnamon color. Remove the cinnamon stick and the cloves.

Gradually blend the instant masa into the 1¼ cup water until it is smooth. Strain the masa through a wire mesh sieve into the cinnamon water, or use a wire wisk to make sure that there are no lumps. Add the brown sugar or the pilloncillo, the chocolate tablet or the chocolate flavorings. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring constantly. When the mixture has thickened, add the evaporated milk. Cook and stir until hot. Add water or milk to thin it down if you like.

Serves 6 to 8 people.

Not Afraid of a Mean Little Chile, Are You?

I never thought in the history of this blog that I would be stringing together the words "mild" and "chile" in the same sentence. And, no, I am not referring to some wimpy green bellpepper. I mean jalapeños, baby, and maybe habaneros or serranos, or any kind of chile that you speak of in hushed tones with a trace of trembling fear in some backroom with the lights on. You can and will conquer these chiles with a little help of Mexican crema, a tangy sauce that is closer to crème fraîche than to sour cream. It is the sauce that gives that cool creamy edge to Baja-style fish tacos and enchiladas and other dishes that call for a touch of dairy. No wonder my gatita viejita, who usually abhors chiles, is fascinated with this dish! . . . (You don't need to tell me--as there is nothing as pathetic or as annoying or as interesting, depending on your point of view, as a woman who goes on and on about her cat, I will stop right here. WHAT--you were expecting a pitbull or a chihuahua??)

Perhaps it is an exaggeration to say that crema will completely douse the fire of a hot chile, but instead of crying and calling for the paramedics, you will be making so many yummy sounds that everybody will tell you to shut up. For once, chiles con crema will help you to fully enjoy the chile flavors you were missing out on as you were busy jumping up and down from the pain: the sweetness, the spicy yumminess, the cool-hot-mildness of chiles and crema together. Plus it will help you get people like my friend, Marta, from whom I adapted this recipe.

Marta is not just a fabulous cook, she is just plain fabulosa—someone I would be intensely jealous of if she wasn't so kind and loveable. I envy her perfect teeth, the way her hair shines auburn in the sunlight, how she makes people giddy and smiling like fools, myself included, when she gives them un fuerte abrazo—a big fat hug—and says, "Hi, honeeeeey! ¿Cómo estás?" But mostly, it's her fearlessness, at least where chiles are concerned, that I envy the most. And, how that beautiful fire-eating dragon regularly takes some habanero chiles in her perfectly manicured hand and pops them in her mouth like they were little orange apples. Her salsas are so powerful that, seriously, I believe that her tongue and taste buds have been reduced to scorched earth. I am a bit of a fire breather myself, but there is no way I can compete with Marta. Actually, nobody can compete with Marta.

Until now.

Seeing that I have no desire to torch my treasured little taste buds, I doubt that I will ever be as fabulosa as Marta. But, if eating a fierce chile with crema will miraculously make me as sweet as mi amiga, you can rest assured that I'll gobble up some habaneros with crema and will be loving every minute of it.

Chile Strips With Mexican Crema
Rajas de chiles con crema
The best way to try this dish is with some poblano chiles, mild but bursting with flavor, and some jalapeños. Although I prefer to roast my chiles in order to remove the outer skin, you can omit this step if you want. Adding some sweet onion as you are frying the chiles only makes it all the more delicious. This is so easy to make that you really don't need a recipe. Feel free to experiment with any fresh chile you have on hand, such as Anahiem, Poblano, Jalapeño,etc., depending how hot or mild you want it to be. Serve this with almost any Mexican dish, or in a taco. If you want to kick it up a notch, add a touch of hot red salsa to any mild version of this recipe before taking a bite. If you cannot find crema mexicana, no problem. Sour cream is good enough in a pinch. I like my dish super thick and tangy, so I used El Mexicano's "Crema Superior", a thick acidified sour cream instead. Any of the different varieties of Mexican crema will do. If you need to reheat this dish but the sauce has become too thick for your liking, you can always add a little bit of pourable crema or milk to thin it down a bit.

To learn more about chiles, click here.

To learn more about roasting chiles, click here.

Ingredients:

About 6 poblano chiles, or any chile you prefer

4 jalapeño chiles (optional)

About 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil

About 1 tablespoon butter

About 1/3 onion, sliced into strips (optional)

One jar of Mexican Crema (about 15 fl. oz); or the equivelent of sour cream or crème fraîche

Salt to taste

Directions:
To lightly roast the chiles, bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Put the chiles in the pot, and parboil the poblanos for about 6 minutes. (Only about 4 or 5 minutes in the boiling water for the jalapeños). Remove the chiles from the pot and place them on a platter.

Using a pair of metal tongs, take each chile and hold it over the flame of a gas burner of your stove. You will see the skin of the chiles burst almost instantly. Do the same for the jalapeños. Quickly place each chile as you are done roasting it and place it in a plastic bag, but covered very loosely. You do not want your Poblano chile to be overly cooked and soggy.
When the chiles cool somewhat, use the back edge of a knife to scrape of the charred outer skin of each chile (see picture, above). Cut the chiles open lengthwise, and remove the seeds and stem. Do the same for the jalapenos. Now slice the chiles in long strips for the poblanos, crosswise for the jalapeños. If you like, you can slice up some onion into long strips, too.
Over medium-low heat, melt the vegetable oil and the butter together in a medium sized saucepan. Add the chiles and the onion. When the chile and onion are soft and its aroma fills the kitchen, lower the heat and add the crema to taste. (You can always use the leftover crema for something else). Once the crema is just hot, remove from the heat and season with salt to taste. Pour into a large bowl and serve right away.

Serves about 6 people.

Now you can eat chiles without fear.

The Cure For What's Ailing You

Let me try putting this as nicely as I can: Yes, there are bits of cow stomach (tripe) in this bowl of menudo, and, yes, I threw some pieces of calf's pata (foot) into the pot. So, may I suggest that you please put on your Big Girl Chonis and just get over it and taste some? You just might have found the cure for what's ailing you.

Calf's foot, hominy and tripe are anything but remarkable. And yet, when some resourceful ranchera woman of long ago took some lowly cow offal and created a stew, it became something that is truly greater than the sum of its parts. Love or hate it, menudo is a classic, and you can't say that you really know Mexican food if you have never tasted it. Out of all of Mexico's famous caldos, this is the one that is most cherished for its restorative powers. Feeling timid and weak? Its rich spicy broth will put pelos (hair) on your chest (even if you are a girl). Sad with a broken heart? The tender bites of menudo will console you better than ten mothers who think that telling you, "Why you crying, mija?? T'row him in a traash!" is consolation enough. Nursing a magnificent hangover? Eat some red-hot menudo and you'll be singing to the radio on your way to work instead of calling in sick (again)—or so I am told.

My memories of menudo have never been of the inebriated, hugging the toilet at dawn I need some menudo right now! sort. Perhaps I am a hopeless (but unrepentant) square, but I've never thought that waking up with a head pounding cruda, bleary of eyes and foul of breath, can be called pretty or even fun, so I cannot confirm that menudo is the perfect remedy for a hangover. But my viejo's uncle, the gorgeous mariachi singer who was plagued with that all too stereotypical mariachi affliction, said that it worked just fine and who am to say it ain't so?

They are more like the day I got married, and how I was so wound up that I forgot to eat breakfast. Or how when my mother found out, reminded me that if I didn't eat anything I was going to pass out right in the middle of the ceremony como una gallina asustada—like some frightened hen. Before I knew it, my two sisters wrapped me, wedding dress and all, in a bed sheet while my mother proceeded to force her eye-poppingly hot red menudo down my throat. I'm sure I got married with menudo breath that day but no matter—I was the picture of blissful serenity as I walked down the aisle to meet my fate, thanks to the menudo.

After the wedding reception, the real party got started over at my new suegra's (mom-in-law's) house where toda la familia celebrated with her Sonora-style white menudo and a glass of champagne. An unusual pairing to say the least, but why not? Who says you can't have Mexican food with some fancy French wine? Besides, it was fabuloso. Menudo is customarily eaten early the next day after an all night pachanga (a big Mexican shindig) but I suppose my cuños y cuñas (bros-and-sisters-in-law) couldn't wait for morning. That is how much they and most Mexicans love menudo.

My husband and I agree on most things, but when it comes to menudo we will never see eye to eye. He says white is best. I say red. He says that white menudo does not need to shout to be noticed. It demands the freshest of ingredients and care in preparation. There is no disguising sloppiness as is sometimes the case with red menudo. I say where's the drama? What's the use of eating menudo without a spicy red chile broth? It's like eating chocolate cake without the frosting—absolutely pointless. (I secretly love white menudo, and I know he feels the same way about red, but why admit it?)

The one thing we can agree on is this: Menudo is wholly satisfying and is perfect just the way it is. Thankfully, I doubt that it will ever be tweaked or "improved" upon. In other words, it might never appear at your local Taco Bell or on the menu at one of those new gourmet (read wildly expensive) Mexican food eateries. They might make the foodies happy but we probably will never eat there. We'll take a homemade bowl of cow stomach menudo over a designer taco any day, muchas gracias.

Some will pass up the opportunity to enjoy this fortifying stew, but that's okay. "Entre menos burros hay más elotes—With fewer burros, there is more corn for the rest us," to quote one of my mothers favorite dichos.

Or to put it very loosely, don't be a burro and give menudo a try.

Red or Sonora Style White Menudo

Menudo rojo o blanco al estilo Sonora

To purchase the best tripe, go to your local Mexican butcher, usually early on a Friday. You might not find any come Saturday morning. The tripe should be white or a light cream with no strong odor. Try buying tripe that has washed and scraped of all fat to save time. Otherwise, scrape off all traces of fat with a sharp knife. If you soak the calf's foot pieces in a lemon-juice-water mixture for the allotted time, I promise you the strong cooking odor some people complain about will be kept to a minimum. Later, your visitors will be surprised you spent the whole day cooking menudo because they won't smell a thing. An added bonus: very little excess fat!
Honeycomb tripe (pictured above), the most popular, looks just like its name. Most cooks use only honeycomb tripe or a combination of honeycomb and different styles of tripe such as Toalla which looks like a thick fluffy towel, hence its name. (Not pictured. The butcher ran out of it before I arrived. See what I mean?) Lebrillo tripe is a lacey delicate looking tripe (see picture right). It is best used with a heartier tripe such as Toalla or Honeycomb.

Menudo is best served the same day or the next, but no longer. So don't cook a large batch unless you know it is going to be all eaten.
For this recipe I got a little lazy and used Mexican-style hominy out a can (Shh! Don't tell my friend Eva!), but the next time I cook menudo, I will show you how to cook hominy from menudo from scratch and I will post some pictures.
Dress up your menudo with chopped fresh cilantro, sliced green onions, dried Mexican oregano, lemon wedges. Chile piquín, tiny but intensely hot, is the dried chile of choice for white menudo, but crushed dried red chile flakes or hot sauce will do fine. Don't forget to bring the corn tortillas—and an open mind.

Ingredients:
3 lbs. honeycomb tripe; or a combination with other kinds of tripe, depending on your taste
½ calf's foot, cut into pieces
Plenty of water (approximately 12 or 13 cups for the menudo)
The juice of one large, or two small, lemons;
About 2 cups cold water
5 garlic cloves, peeled
1 large yellow onion, cut in half
Salt to taste
½ teaspoon ground black pepper, or to taste
1 bay leaf

½ teaspoon ground cumin, or to taste
At least 2 cups canned Mexican style hominy to your taste
A small spoonful of white vinegar, optional

Directions:
Using a sharp knife, carefully scrape off all fat from the tripe. Next cut the tripe in bite-size pieces and trim off any pockets of fat from between its layers. I know it sounds fastidious, but you will thank me later when you don't see buckets of fat floating on top of the stew.

Rinse the tripe and the pieces of calf's foot with water and place them in a large pot. Pour the juice from the large lemon over them with about 2 cups of cold water to cover and refrigerate for a few hours. (I let mine soak overnight.)

Rinse the tripe and the calf foot pieces with cold water. Place them in a large pot and fill with water to cover plus 1 ½ inches (approximately 12 to 13 cups). Add salt to taste, plus the garlic cloves, the onion, ground black pepper and the bay leaf. Bring to a boil; then reduce the heat to medium-low. Loosely cover the pot and let it simmer for about 45 minutes or more. Remove any scum that rises to the top with a large spoon. Continue cooking for 5 hours more, or until the tripe is nice and tender. (Total cooking time is about 6 hours.) Pour boiling water into the pot if the broth starts to evaporate. Skim of any excess surface fat with a large spoon.

Prepare the Red Chile Sauce. In the last hour of cooking, pour at least 2 cups of the Red Chile Sauce into the pot according to your preference, along with the hominy and the cumin. No need to add Red Chile Sauce or cumin to the White Menudo. Adjust the seasonings—does the menudo need more salt, Red Chile Sauce, ground pepper or cumin? Perhaps a small spoonful of white vinegar is just the thing to bring together all of the flavors.

Use large bowls to serve about 6 persons. You can double or even triple this recipe if you want. Once you get the hang of it, you won't need a recipe at all.

Tip: Start cooking your menudo at around midnight, and let it simmer over a low flame all night long. Make sure that there is more than the usual amount of water in the pot. Wake up early the next morning, check the water level, and dump the Red Chile Sauce and the hominy into the pot and go back to bed for a little while. You'll wake up to freshly cooked menudo!

Red Chile Sauce Recipe

Ingredients:
8 dried Ancho chiles
10 dried New Mexico chiles
8 dried California chiles
Water

Directions:

Cut the stems from all the chiles. Then slice them open and remove all the seeds. Place the chiles in a saucepan and cover them with water. Place a lid on the saucepan and boil for about 5 or 6 minutes, or until the chiles are nice and soft. Remove the chiles, but do not discard the water. In small batches, take the chiles along with some of the water and whirl in a blender at high speed.

Now use a strainer to remove the tiny bits of peel. Do this twice to make a super-smooth sauce. It should pour like spaghetti sauce. If the sauce is too thick, add a little more water until it does. Makes about 3 cups. Save any unused portion for other dishes.