The Pumpkin Moon Empanadas

"Papi, does the moon taste like cheese?"

The little girl walked hand in hand with her father. The harvest moon hung in the fall night sky.

"Who told you that?"

"Tía Lupita told me."

"It don't taste like cheese. It tastes like pumpkin."

"How do you know, Papi?"

"Because when I was little like you, your abuelito—grandpa—took me there and we tasted it."

"For reals?'

"For reals, mi'jita." He tightened his grip as they walked along.

He smiled as he looked down at his little daughter and said, "One day I'm going to bring you the moon, and you and your mamá will make pumpkin moon empanadas—the best you've ever had."

A few days later, he kept his promise, for he brought home a pumpkin that looked like Cenicienta's (Cinderella's) coach. Its orange luminosity glowed against the bright green of its stem. A kind of sparkly dust clung to it.

He called after her laughing. "Mira, mi'ja. Didn't I tell you that your papito would bring you the moon?"

¿Y de dónde agarraste esto?—And where did you get this? It's too beautiful. We can't eat it," her mother objected.

"Of course we will eat it. I went through a lot of trouble to get this pumpkin, and you are going to make us some empanadas. Apúrate—hurry up, because tonight I'm going to eat some with you and la muñeca—the little doll."

So her mother cut up the pumpkin and roasted it in a hot oven until it was soft. Then she mashed it and let it hang in a bag of cloth until all the moisture was drained off. Her mother added cinnamon and spices with butter and piloncillo to the mashed pumpkin. The little girl watched as her mother rolled out the pastry dough, spooning up the dollops of pumpkin filling, and helped her fold the empanadas into crescent moon shapes.

The little family ate in silence. The empanadas tasted nothing like the empanadas they had ever had. They were bright and soft and flaky. The filling was delicate and flavorful, its sweet spicy aroma filling the small kitchen and wafting out of doors to other kitchens for miles around. People began to appear at their door begging for a taste, and before they knew it the empanadas were gone.

The following night it was dark, so dark that there was no moon to be seen. A harsh cold wind howled in from el norte. Gloom settled over the town, causing the townsfolk to wonder if Winter had come too early. "What will become of la cosecha—the harvest—and of us?" They asked.

Not long after, the little girl went outside to sit beneath her favorite tree and look! At its trunk sat a rare blue pumpkin, mottled grey and gigantic. It was strange and its odor was like nothing she had ever smelled. It sat there untouched, solitary and mysterious.

The rare blue pumpkin disappeared and in its place there appeared in the sky a huge orange moon that so reminded her of the pumpkin her father had brought home. Bright green stars began to shoot all over the expanse, lighting up the night sky until it felt like day.

"So it's true!"

The little muñeca is now an old woman, but she will never forget the day her papito brought down the moon just for her. Or how it tasted.

Pumpkin Empanadas

Empanadas de calabaza Yes, this is a labor intensive recipe, but certainly worth the effort. You will find that empanadas or pumpkin pie made from scratch is more delicate tasting then ones made from a can (from last year's harvest no less) with their tinny taste. Another note: I didn't have regular all-purpose flour on hand for the pastry, and boy, am I glad that I didn't! La Piña® Flour*, made for flour tortillas, made for a soft flaky crust. Piloncillo, which is used in this recipe, is an unrefined sugar in the shape of a cone (available in Mexican grocery stores). Dark brown sugar is a good substitute. Vodka in the recipe? Yes. With apologies to the liquor lovin' readers out there, it bakes right off. Water, if used in excess, can make the pastry gummy and tough. Vodka is the perfect solution: added moisture without the gumminess.

Pumpkin Filling:
about 2 cups of Oven Roasted Pumpkin Purée (Recipe to follow)
2 tablespoons butter
a pinch of salt
½ teaspoon pumpkin spice
½ teaspoon powdered cinnamon
1 or 2 cones of grated piloncillo, or ½ cup dark brown sugar (Dip the piloncillos in water to soften them.)

Pastry:
2 cups La Piña® Flour (only); or use a flour made from soft wheat like cake flour, but I cannot guarantee results.
1 cup (2 sticks) butter
1 tablespoon lard or shortening
4 tablespoons ice water
4 tablespoons vodka
½ teaspoon salt
1 to 2 tablespoon granulated sugar
1 egg white

1 egg yoke mixed with a teaspoon of water

Oven Roasted Pumpkin Purée:

One 5 -7 pound pumpkin grown especially for baking, such as "Sugar Pumpkin", etc.

Pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Cut up the pumpkin in large pieces, pierce the skins with a fork, and place them in an oven-safe pot, covered, for about 30 minutes, or until the pumpkin is soft. Remove the lid from the pot and let it roast for 5 -7 minutes more. You can roast the pumpkin uncovered, skin side up, on a greased cookie sheet if you want, but you better keep an eye on them. (I prefer the first method.)

Remove the pumpkin pieces from the oven and let them cool for a bit. Spoon out the flesh and discard the outer skin.

Take the pumpkin flesh and whirl it in small batches in a blender until it is well-blended.

Place the pumpkin purée in a strainer, cover it with plastic wrap, and let it sit over a large bowl for a few hours so all the excess moisture will drain off. If you don't do this you will have soggy empanadas.

Makes about 2 cups of pumpkin purée for the empanada filling.

EMPANADA RECIPE DIRECTIONS:
To make the filling: Put the oven roasted pumpkin purée, the 2 tablespoons of butter and salt in a medium saucepan and bring to a soft boil. Gradually add the piloncillo or brown sugar until it is as sweet as you want. Add the pumpkin spice and cinnamon and adjust the seasonings until it tastes the way to like it. Cook for about 2 minutes longer and set aside.

To make the pastry: On a hard surface, mix together the flour, lard, butter, salt and sugar with a pastry cutter or a chopping knife. Keep cutting into the mixture until it resembles coarse cornmeal.

Gradually add the ice water and vodka as you knead the dough. Keep kneading until it is pliable. If it is still a little too stiff add a tiny bit of vodka or water. Let the dough rest for about a half an hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

Dust the hard surface with flour and, using a rolling pin, roll the dough in small batches until the dough is 1/8 inch thick. Take a small bowl (about 4 inches in diameter) and cut a circle of pastry dough.

In the middle of each circle, put a tablespoon of pumpkin filling. Do not add too much or it will squish out when baking.

Brush some egg white along the sides of each pastry. Fold the pastry over the filling, and use the tines of a fork to close it shut.

Place the empanadas on a greased cookie sheet. Brush each empanada with the egg yoke mixture or sprinkle with some sugar on it.

Place the empanadas in the pre-heated oven and let them bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until they are golden brown. Trick: after baking, remove the empanadas and place them on a brown paper bag. No more soggy bottoms! Works well for cookies, too.

Variation: a friend of mine likes to use a dinner plate to cut out the pastry to make giant empanadas to serve to her family and guests. Wow!

Makes a little less than 2 dozen empanadas.

*No, Pillsbury has not paid me to endorse this product.

Moustaches

It might come as news to the 4 or 5 Mexican guys who read this blog, but us chicas want to let you in on a little secret: We know you love your bigotes—moustaches—but if truth be told, for some of us, being kissed by a man with a moustache feels like being kissed by a cactus . . . or a scrub brush . . . or the edge of a broom.

I should know. My viejo, who I once believed was free from such hirsute vanity, is now growing a moustache almost the size of Emiliano Zapata's. And my upper lip hasn't felt the same since.

I know that sporting a moustache is a proud Mexican tradition. Most of us have never even known our fathers without one. The only time my papá ever went without a moustache was when, as a young man, he found himself looking for work in Butte, Montana in the early '50's. It appears that some of the town's children were fascinated by him, following him around because it was the first time they had ever beheld a Mexican. That is until it got so cold that his moustache literally broke off.

Then the fascination came to an abrupt end.

What soup can you cook for a man with a monumental moustache? A dry soup, una sopa seca de fideos that won't get his moustache all wet. The kind of soup whose angel hair like pasta swims in a pool of orange-colored roasted tomato flavored broth, tinged with a touch of oregano, cumin, garlic and onions. The broth is cooked down until only the fine fideo pasta remains. No watery broth to drench his finely trimmed Handle Bar or Fu Manchu.

Just throw in some sliced calabacitas—zucchini—or any other vegetable, or any left over cooked chicken into the pot, and you have a substantial side-dish or a light meal. It's just right if you are bored with Spanish rice. What can be easier (and cheap)?

I have informed my viejo that his moustache looks like some corrupt politico, but he laughs, replying thank you for the compliment, and how about letting your own Frida Kahlo moustache grow and so we will be even? So far his entreaty has fallen on deaf ears. Ha—¡chistoso! Funny, funny man.

Okay, I must admit that the moustache does make my viejo look attractive, virile and muy macho (in a very good way). Somehow those choppers of his seem to glisten against the silver/blackness his upper lip.

But if he wants a soupy sopa de fideo he's gotta lose el bigote. Or, perhaps not. He's fine just the way he is.

"Dry Fideo Soup"

Sopa de fideos This pasta soup is mistake proof, and this recipe is just a guide. It can be as "dry" or as "wet" as you want. If it comes out too watery for you, just boil it down to the consistency you like. Besides, the fideos will continue to soak up the moisture until they are "dry". Children love this soup, especial if you use star or alphabet pasta instead of coiled or cut fideos. My little niece goes nuts when you top the "dry" soup with Oaxacan or mozzarella cheese. Feel free to double the recipe if you want. Why the whole chile in the soup? It won't add any spiciness. But whoever ends up with the chile has to eat it!

Ingredients:

2 cups crumbled coiled or cut fideos. Substitute cut-up angel hair pasta.
2 medium sized cut-up red juicy tomatoes (about 1 cup); OR, one 8-ounce can of tomato sauce.

½ cup diced white onion
1 clove peeled garlic
½ to ¼ teaspoon powdered cumin, or to taste
a good pinch of oregano
2 ¼ cups of hot chicken broth for "dry" soup, about 5 cups for "wet soup"
1 tablespoon vegetable oil of your choice

1 thin-sliced zucchini; or, any vegetable you have lying around (optional)
left-over cooked chicken pieces (optional)
1 small whole dried chile (optional)

Directions:

Purée the tomatoes or the tomato sauce and the garlic clove in a blender. (If your kids don't like onions, purée them, too.) Set aside.

Take an absolutely clean skillet or a pot and heat on the stove until it is hot. Add the vegetable oil and continue to heat until it is hot, too. (Doing this prevents the fideos from sticking to the pot.)

Lower the heat to medium-low and add the fideos, the diced onion (if you like them in your soup) and the dried chile. Continue frying them and stirring them until the fideo turns golden brown. Add the powdered cumin and fry it for just a minute—no longer.

Add the tomato mixture, roasting them over medium heat until the moisture is gone, and the bottom is slightly burned. (See picture)

Quickly pour in the chicken broth, and stand back! Now is the time to add the sliced zucchini and the chicken pieces. Adjust seasonings to your taste, bring the soup to a boil, and cover with a lid. Lower the heat to a simmer for about 13 minutes.

Do not open the lid. The zucchini slices will continue to "cook" in the hot pot until they are tender. If the soup is a little dry for your taste, just add a little bit of chicken broth and reheat.

Eat the chile.

Serves a family of four.

Cool Ceviche For Lazy Summer Nights

The bad news is that it is late August, which means it's hot and muggy outside, which also means that I am cooking-lazy (again). Bad news because I am crazy hungry but don't want to heat not even one tortilla lest my kitchen become a blazing infierno. Then, before I know it, I'll be eating tuna out of a can, just like my cat.

The good news is that I can always make some cool tilapia fish ceviche (Seh-VEE-Cheh) tostadas instead.

Now that summer is almost through, I hope you don't mind if I scoot in this recipe at the last minute. I have to thank my friend Gloria for this one. She is from Eastern Jalisco, where there are no white sandy beaches or fancy sweet tropical drinks with little umbrellas. It probably is the last place you would expect to find a simple yet jump-for-joy no-cook tilapia ceviche recipe. It is a small town, more like a rancho to be exact, not too far from Guadalajara.

So when Gloria and Armando invited my viejo and me over for dinner, I was somehow hoping for something else. I was wishing for something like birria de chivito—stewed baby goat—a dish that is all together authentic and in keeping with the romantic notion of what I think of as rustic Mexican food. Something that could only come out of Mexico's heartland, not anything oceanic if you catch my drift. What I found instead was a huge bowl of this tilapia ceviche with corn tortilla tostadas. I could say that I was disappointed, though in retrospect, I am happy that the poor baby goat was granted a reprieve and did not have to be sacrificed just to satisfy my cravings. Stewed baby goat will have to wait for another day.

Always one to create an event by performing a simple but dramatic act, Gloria presented us with a large bowl of guacamole. It was nothing more than smashed avocado with a bit of salt—and just perfect, not gussied up with salsa or lime juice this time. No need for further embellishment, it really tasted gorgeous just like its fresh green color. The real surprise, though, was when Gloria instructed us to spread mayonnaise on the tostadas before topping them with the ceviche and the guacamole. Its tangy creaminess framed the hot and lemon-tinged ceviche, grounding it, making it more substantial so that it wouldn't just float away as some ceviche recipes do. Of course, the ceviche didn't float away, but I did.

Whenever I enjoy a dish that I know I will be thinking about for a long time, I always ask the cook why she likes it, and why did she decided to cook it this time. I was half expecting Gloria to say, "Eating ceviche reminds me when I saw the ocean for the very first time. There was a flaming orange sun setting over the calm waters of the Pacific just off Puerto Vallarta. Draped across the sky were shades of orange and violet—then a soft twilight descended over us, suffusing everything in a soft, pinkish glow. And suddenly I knew that I couldn't bear to live without it, to listen to the ceaseless bounding of the surf for the rest of my life." Or something quasi-poetic like that.

Instead she rolled her eyes and replied, "Don't you know that I was lazy and I didn't feel like cooking?"

Ay, amiga mía, my sentiments exactamente.

Tilapia Ceviche Tostadas

This is so easy that you really don't need a recipe. This is just a guide so that you can make as little or as much as you want. However, if you have to have a recipe, here it is. Make sure that you use only a non-reactive bowl, such as plastic, stainless steel or glass, while the lemon juice is "cooking" the fish and onions in the frig. It is a no-brainer to say that this dish tastes best icy cold, so lay the bowl of ceviche on a bed of crushed ice.

8 oven-fried tostadas (see recipe below); OR, 8 store-bought tostada shells (for hot, muggy days only!)

1 pound tilapia or red snapper filets, chopped into small bite-sized pieces

The juice of two medium lemons

½ cup diced white onion

½ cup diced green bell pepper, finely chopped jalapeño or serranos, or any combination thereof*

½ tomatoes, the sweetest you can find

1/3 cup fresh cilantro, chopped

salt to taste

1 mashed avocado

mayonnaise (optional)

bottled Mexican-style hot sauce, or fresh chile salsa

In a medium-sized mixing bowl, mix together the chopped fish and diced white onions. Pour in the lemon juice, and using a spoon, mix it with the fish and onions. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator for an hour or two, or until the tilapia is opaque. The tilapia is now cooked. Add the chiles, tomato and cilantro. Add salt to taste.

Mash the avocado and place with the pit in a separate bowl. I made mine plain, but you can gussy it up if you want.

Before serving, spread some mayo on each tostada. Add a large spoonful of the ceviche and serve immediately. Serve with the guacamole, cut limes, and the hot salsa.

*(Variation: If you have the time and don't mind standing over a hot stove, omit the bell pepper and add diced roasted poblanos instead. It is certainly worth the sweat!)

Oven-Fried Tostadas: I adapted this recipe for great oven-fried tostadas from the January/February 2006 issue of Cook's Illustrated. They are crunchy without being too greasy.

about 1 tablespoon vegetable oil

8 store-bought mini corn tortillas

Salt.

Brush each tortilla on both sides with a little oil. Salt them to taste, and arrange them in a single layer on a cookie sheet. Place the tortillas in a pre-heated 450˚oven for about 5 to 7 minutes, or until they start to turn color. Flip them on the other side and continuing baking until they are golden brown, about 2 to 3 minutes. Remove them at once.

A Shrimp By Any Other Name

"Camarón? You want to name your kid camarón?"

"No, ΄Amá, CAM-er-on. CAMeron. Can't you say it right?" Leave it to his mother to ruin the name he and his wife had carefully chosen for their unborn child.

She spit out the name.

"Ca-mah-RÓN . . . Ca-mah-RÓN? Why do you want to name your son after a shrimp? Because that's what a camarón is. Pónle Prudencio—call him Prudencio like my father. We can call him "Tencho" or "Prudi" for short.

Oh great, might as well start a fund for his therapy now, because, with a name like that, his kid was going to need it. Suddenly, he imagined his future offspring bearing an uncanny resemblance to "Kiko", that sniveling mama's boy and punching bag from El Chavo del Ocho on Spanish TV.

"Well, if you don't like Prudencio, name him Perfecto or Tiburcio like your Tío Tiburcio. How do you like Margarito or Florentino?"

"Like them? Why would I want a paisa* name for my kid? We're not living in the rancho anymore, you know."

"Are you're telling me that your abuelito's name's not good enough for you?"

"I didn't say that—."

"Ay sí, Meester George Looney—."

"It's Clooney."

"Clooney, Looney—a mi qué m'importa—what do I care. Ya que que eres muy matón—now that you're some Big Shot, you're not Maximiliano anymore—" Her voice then took on that of a goat's. "Your name is 'Maaaax.'" She lowered her head, but her eyes bore down on him with a gaze of stern maternal disapproval.

Suddenly she brightened up and remarked, "But that's okay, mi'jo, if you have a girl, you can name her Pachita like me." He groaned. She ignored him and proceeded to enumerate a laundry list of her favorite names: "Fidumina, Eufemia, Gertrudes, Marcaria, those are all beaut—"

"Ya párale, por favor—please stop already—." He held his breath for a second or two, for he knew that what he was about to say was about to go over as well as a stale tamale laying in the pit of one's gut.

"We have already decided on a name for a girl: Mackenzie. Arwen. Pérez."

"Ma-QUÉ??" With a look of complete shock, his mother put her hand over her mouth. She tried saying it again, but only a contortionist could have helped her wrap her tongue around "Mackenzie". As for "Arwen", she was slack-jawed and mute. Nowhere did she hear her own name as she had not so secretly hoped. "Camarón" was bad enough, but those nombrecitos—those ugly little names, "Makení" and "Aw΄"— ¡Uf! ¡Dios mío de mi vida!

"Mira," she held up her hands, and then proceeded to point a long finger in the general direction of his face. "You can name your son "Shrimp" if you want, but if it's a girl, I'm calling her Pachita! And if you don't like my paisa name, then don't eat my my paisa food. Sangron."

And with the bestowal of that heartfelt blessing, The Matriarch de la familia wiped her hands on her apron and swept out of the kitchen with the dignity of a battleship sailing out to sea. Siiting there alone as the day's cooking boiled over, her wayward son began to reflect on the error of his ways.

In the end, I'm happy to report that my friends decided to eat this Mexican Shrimp Cocktail, not name their son after one, thus averting the misfortune of being called Camarón for the rest of his life. Much to everyone's satisfaction, they named their baby Maximiliano after his father. He is the joy of his parents and the apple of their eyes.

But they call him Prudi for short. Well, at least his abuelita does.

*paisa--slang. An unsophisticated country bumpkin. Short for "paisano", or "countryman".

Mexican Shrimp Cocktail

(Coctél de Camarón)

1 pound of uncooked shrimp; OR, 1 pound shrimp, precooked, shelled, tail and veins removed

1 8 ounce jar of clam juice; OR; shrimp stock (cooled)

1½ cups good quality ketchup (no off-brands)

1 large cucumber, peeled and diced

1 ripe avocado, chopped

1 lime, cut up

A squirt of Mexican-style bottled hot sauce or fresh chile salsa to taste

1 fresh jalapeño, seeded and chopped (optional)

1 cup diced green onion, including stalks; OR, any mild onion, diced

1 cup fresh coarsely chopped cilantro

Dash of dried oregano to taste

½ to 1 cup water or shrimp stock(optional)

Salt and pepper to taste

If you decide to use uncooked shrimp, put them a large pot of wáter with salt, pepper, garlic, and cilantro or parsley. They cook up fast, so remove them as soon as the shrimp turns bright pink. Quickly submerge the shrimp in ice water. Save and chill the shrimp stock and use it instead of the clam juice and the water. Make sure to peel the shells and tails off the shrimp and remove the veins. Of course, you can always make it the "lazy way" using precooked shrimp. If you prefer a "watery" cocktail as I do, just add the ½--1 cup shrimp stock or water. Adjust the seasonings accordingly.
Rinse and drain the shrimp. Mix all ingredients, except the lime, in a large bowl and refrigerate for about one or two hours before serving. Add the avocados at the last minute. Serve with wedges of lime. This cocktail deserves to be served with salted corn tortilla strips that have been just cooked in hot oil—¡sabroso!

Serves 4 to 5 people.

Bratty Little Mocoso Snot-nosed Kids

If you don't want kids to like you, then don't, please don't make these Mexican-style paletas.

If it's fun to scare little children with your nasty presencia. If the mere thought of living and dying alone, unloved and unmourned, amidst the stench of rotten half-eaten Mc Donald's hamburgers, leaves you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside—then it is a very foolish thing to even think of making these delicious and healthful treats made with fresh spring and summertime fruits like mango, watermelon and coconut and pineapple. You see, if you make these paletas, all those screaming little brats with their mocoso—snot-nosed faces will come flocking to your house and you will never have a moment's peace. Why ruin a good thing?

Well, I've come here to destroy your summer's day and the rest of your poor miserable life as you know it.

Because I'm going to take you on a fantastic culinary journey to Tacumbo, a town in Michoacán, México, where the townsfolk have erected a statue of a giant popsicle to honor the Birthplace of The World's Best Paletas. Then I will fly you back to relive those chunky peanutbutter smog-filled days of my Los Angeles childhood, where my own young self is sitting on the curb, looking hot and bored out of my little mind. That is until El Paletero (The Popsicle Man), with his dark Indian features wearing his white native garb and huaraches on his feet, looking so out of place as to make one think that he was beamed up and has now landed in another world (he has), comes walking by with his cart, shouting ¡paletas! ¡paletas! at the top of his lungs. You will see my look of amazement when I sink my teeth into those natural tasting paletas made with fresh fruit, some with fresh chile bits, others cool and creamy like the one studded all over with huge pieces of pecan. Next, you will taste my madrecita's own sweet paletas made from a simple mixture of smashed bananas, whole milk with a little bit of sugar and vanilla, making my sisters and me the happiest muchachitas en todo el mundo. And then perhaps you will tell me, if a life with no little children with smeared paletas faces in it is a really a happy one after all.

But, if you enjoy the pitter-patter of little patitas. If you love being told, "I love you," by a honest little person who has no desire to impress you. And, if that somehow makes you believe that, despite your foul disposition and changeable ways, you are not such a bad person after all, only then will you be truly deserving of a fresh fruit paleta inspired by the tasty little masterpieces of Tacumbo.

(Dedicated to my own not-so-small-anymore sobrinas. Yes, they are the beautiful young girls in theses photos. I wanted to get them in touch with their Inner Mariachi Girl by photographing them wearing my sombrero and my charra suit. All play musical instruments. All of them, together with my sobrinito, are sweet and smart and a credit to mis hermanas—my sisters and their spouses. All of them are mi corazón. May they one day cook Mexican food just as delicious as their little abuelita who is longer here.)

Gracias to my brother-in-law I.G. for letting me post his picture of his daughter playing her violin.

Mango, Watermelon and Coconut-Pineapple Paletas

These are not recipes per se, but guides to making as little or as many paletas as you want. Of course, you can always double the recipe if you wish, especially if you have lots of slightly overripe fruit like that left-over watermelon that you have in the frig right now. If you not have any popsicles molds on hand, you can easily improvise by using small paper cups. If you want the popsicles sticks to stand up straight, simply fold some aluminum foil over the top rim of each cup, make a small center slit with a sharp knife, and insert a popsicle stick (available in supermarkets or craft stores.) To loosen the paletas from the cups or molds, just run them over with warm water from the faucet for a minute or so.

MANGO PALETAS:
2 ripe mangos, peeled and finely chopped (about 2 cups)
Thick Simple Syrup (recipe to follow)
1 lime
popsicle molds; OR, small paper cups, popsicle sticks, and aluminum foil

Thick Simple Syrup Recipe: Combine 4 tablespoons granulated cane sugar with 2 tablespoons water in a small saucepan. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until the sugar dissolves completely. Remove from heat and set aside.

Use a vegetable peeler to peel away the skin of each mango. Then, slice the flesh as close to the pit as possible. Chop the mangos into very small pieces. Take half of the chopped mango and whirl in a food processor or blender until smooth. The mixture will be thick. Pour the mixture into a bowl and dilute with a generous squeeze of fresh lime juice. Add the rest of the mango to the mixture. Add Thick Simple Syrup, one tablespoon at a time, until it is as sweet as you want (it should not be too sweet.) Pour into molds or cups.

Place them in the freezer and wait about 3 hours or until frozen.

Makes about four servings.

Sprinkle some chili powder over the paletas for a taste you will just love, I promise!

WATERMELON PALETAS:

About 2 cups fresh watermelon, chopped into smallish pieces

Thick Simple Syrup (recipe above)

1 lime

Combine the chopped watermelon and a squirt of lime. Add Thick Simple Syrup, one tablespoon at a time, until it is as sweet as you want (it should not be too sweet.)
Pour into the molds or cups. Place in the freezer and wait about 3 hours or until frozen.
Makes about four servings.

COCONUT-PINEAPPLE PALETAS:
Equal portions of sweetened shredded coconut and fresh/frozen/or canned chopped pineapple—about 1 cup shredded coconut and 1 cup pineapple for this recipe.

About 2 tablespoons whipping cream (my favorite), half-and-half, milk or any other dairy product you happen to have on hand just to moisten and bind together the ingredients. If the mixture seems a little too thick, add teeny bit of pineapple juice. No need to add any sugar or Simple Syrup.
Combine all ingredients. Pour into mold or cups. Place in the freezer and wait about 3 hours or until frozen.

Serves four.

Something to Crow About

Perhaps you'll excuse me as I strut around this blog the way a mariachi singer struts around the stage while I proclaim something that we mexicanitas had long suspected. Let me cry a triumphant ¡ajúa! to the very few—and very sad—Mexican food haters who think that Mexican food is bad for you (until they read this post). Because this misunderstood and supposedly fat and mean cuisine is not just delicioso, but it can also cut your risk of coming down with breast cancer if eaten everyday.**

Well, duh, we don't need no stinkin' scientific study from the April 2008 Journal of Clinical Nutrition to know that Abuelita's native home cooked comida is not just beyond delicious, but healthy as well, now do we? Not when we consume a diet high in fiber, low in fat (yes, you read right), and abundant in fruits and vegetables such as cabbage, chiles, squash, corn, and lean meats, fish and cheeses. Not when we eat beans almost everyday, or when we enjoy hearty but low fat water-based soups, tomato-based sauces and salsas and corn tortillas. Our cheeses, most of them partly skim, are the supporting players and not the main attraction to our dishes. It's actually no surprise here that the breast cancer risk for Mexican women is two-thirds less than the general population—so if you need an excuse to eat enchiladas, well, did you ever really need an excuse???

Which brings me to the subject of Chayote Salad, a little recipe from Morelos, and the perfect introduction to this green, pear-shaped, sometimes smooth, sometimes dangerously spiny relative of the gourd and squash families. Of course, when you bite into it, you might not think that it tastes like much of anything, except perhaps a cross between a zucchini and a cucumber, but it can absorb any flavor you want, combining beautifully with almost any dish. In a soup, it will impersonate a potato. Peel it and cut it into small pieces and add it raw to a green salad, and it will satisfy those crunch cravings. Simmer or steam it, peel it and slice it into wedges and allow it to absorb the flavors of red wine vinegar, olive oil, garlic and fresh roasted and dried chiles, and, of course, those sweet little grape tomatoes—all fussily arranged into a shape of a flower to amuse and perhaps annoy your family like I do mine. Now that it is warm outside, and I am able to look at a cold salad in the face again, I promised myself that I would eat something more exciting than just a green tossed salad from a plastic bag that you buy in the grocery store. It seemed just too easy and a tad boring, frankly.

And there is more: the green wrinkled split-brain look of a chayote conjures up images of the outdoor mercados (marketplaces) of Mexico where you will find an overwhelming variety of exotic fruits and vegetables and other ingredients. Then it hits you, this food is healthy and good. These are people who are downright passionate about their food—even those persnickety little 80 year old viejitas (little old ladies), who, if they lived in Florida, would be taking it easy playing bridge or getting their hair done, are instead running around cooking up a storm or terrorizing the produce venders by loudly commenting on every fruit and vegetable they see and sniffing everything in sight. If they can live this long and healthfully by eating all of that Wicked Mexican Food, then I want in. And if that means that I have to peel a nasty looking chayote, and getting stuck by a stinger or two, then it is a sacrifice I am willing to take (though you don't have to).

They say that revenge is sweet, but I believe that there is something else that tastes entirely more satisfying. Really, what can be more delicious than a plate of vindication for my favorite cuisine with a little gloating on the side, especially when it is served hot and spicy?

So stop eating all of those golocinas y "purundangas" (sweet stuff and our family's word for junk food) that your madrecita warned you about and eat a chayote, okey?

**Note: Cancer is an equal opportunity disease, cutting across all social, national, and ethnic barriers. If you have any Spanish-speaking friends or relatives who are battling cancer, please have them check out Lance Armstrong's Livestrong Foundation's Spanish-language webpage so that they can have access to support and necessary resources.)

Chayote Salad

Ensalada de Chayotes

Make sure that the chayotes are fresh. They should be firm with no brown spots or sunken areas. The original recipe has no chile in it, so you don't have to add any to the recipe if you don't want to. I found, however, that the grape tomatoes, toasted garlic, fresh roasted chiles and bits of red hot dried chiles and some chopped cilantro added some wow factor to this cold salad. You can remove the heart of the chayote if you want, but I like its nutty flavor. You can omit the red wine vinegar and olive oil and garlic and use your own low-cal or bottled red wine vinegar dressing if you wish. Adapted from Mexico The Beautiful Cookbook.

3 smooth skinned chayotes

grape or cherry tomatoes, split in half, as many or as little as you want
6 tablespoons olive oil

3 or more tablespoons red wine vinegar to taste (3 tablespoons are never enough for me)

2 cloves garlic

½ teaspoon sea salt

¼ teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried oregano

¼ to ½ cup finely chopped fresh cilantro (optional)
½ red onion, finely sliced
1 fresh Poblano chile, roasted, thin-sliced or diced; OR, 2 serrano chiles, roasted and chopped if you want more fire; OR, both chiles (Click here to learn how to roast chiles.) (optional)

1 dried whole or cut up chile de árbol or any small dried red chile (optional)

Cooking Instructions:
Put the chayotes, one clove of garlic, and a pinch of salt in a large pot. Cover with water and bring to a boil. Then lower heat to a simmer. Cover and cook for about 30 to 40 minutes, or until the chayotes are tender when you pierce them with a fork.

In the meantime, roast and peel the chiles. Toast the other garlic clove in its skin over a hot skillet for about 5 minutes or so.

Discard the water and let the chayotes cool for about 5 to 10 minutes.

Take a potato peeler and peel the chayotes' outer skin. Cut each chayote in half lengthwise, then cut into quarter wedges, and then cut into eighths (see picture, top). Chill them in the refrigerator for an hour or so.

Remove the chayotes from the refrigerator. Take some paper towels and dry them off to remove any excess moisture. Peel the toasted garlic

In a small bowl, stir together the olive oil, vinegar, the toasted garlic, oregano, salt and pepper and let the flavors blend.

Chop the cilantro and dice the roasted chiles.

Toss together all the ingredients, including the red hot dried chile. Add more seasonings if you wish. Let stand for a few minutes before serving.

Agua de Jamaica Infatuation

You know about my horchata cravings, but now that summer is less than a week away, I think I should introduce you to my latest infatuation: none other than la agua fresca de la flor de jamaica (Hibiscus Flower Tea) one of the many, and, need I say, most stunning of Mexico's delicious aguas frescas, natural drinks made from fruit and other ingredients. Once you gaze into this brilliant garnet-hued drink and taste its dark cranberry and herbal green flavor, refreshingly astringent but sweet, you will know why the dried seedpod and sepals of "The Flower of Jamaica", as Mexicans call it, is, in its various recipes, from jelly to wine and more, especially loved from Mexico and Central America to Thailand to India to Iraq to Turkey to Sudan to Jamaica and the rest of the Caribbean and back to Mexico again. I guess you can call it an around-the-world favorite.

Ha! And you thought that it was just some ordinary tart drink at your local taco shop.

Among its purported benefits, agua de jamaica helps reduce fevers, is mildly diuretic and lowers blood pressure. Some say that it reduces blood sugar, helps digestive and kidney function, relieves neurosis (my ailment, for sure), and, according one study, even reduces drunkenness in chickens (now who funded that? And, why didn't we know this that back in the day when my papá was getting our roosters drunk on cheap tequila?)

I don't know if all of those claims are true. All I know is that it tastes cool and refreshing on a long hot summer's day, especially when I fiddle with the recipe and add the freshly squeezed juice of an orange and a touch of lime peel. Adding a little rum and nutmeg to this blend, Jamaican style, only adds to the excitement of serving this to my paisanos--most who are Mexican food puristas like me. I have a sneaky suspicion that once they get over their initial shock it will be bottoms up. Now that my cooking laziness is coming to an end, what with chayote salad with roasted chiles and tomatoes and piña colada paletas (popsicles) and other goodies coming around the bend this summer, I think that some freshly brewed agua de jamaica will be not just my infatuation, but my constant companion.

¡Que viva el verano!—Let the summer begin!

Agua Fresca de la Flor de Jamaica
(Hibiscus Flower Tea)

You don't have to add sugar if you don't want to. Feel free to add your favorite no calorie sweetener like stevia. I like to drink mine straight with no sugar and tons of ice. Too tart for some, but perfect for me. This drink is served year round, so feel free to serve it anytime, and not just with Mexican food. If this drink is too tart for you, just add more water and sugar to taste.

Ingredients:
½ to 1 cup of dried jamaica flowers (available in Mexican markets, health food stores or online)
1 cup cane sugar, or, your favorite sweetener
6 cups water—divided

Directions:
In a medium-sized pot, bring 3 cups of the water, jamaica flowers and the sugar to a boil. Using a wooden spoon, stir the pot to dissolve the sugar. Cover and lower the heat to low. Simmer for about 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and let sit for 15 to 20 minutes. Add the remaining 3 cups of water into the pot. Strain out the flowers and let the agua de jamaica cool off. Pour the agua de jamaica into a pitcher and refrigerate for at least 3 hours. When ready to serve, poor la agua de jamaica into tall glasses. Garnish with an orange slice if desired.

Serves 4 to 6 persons.

A Fiesta in Mi Jardin

I've been gone from this blog for almost a whole month, and for a person who is supposed to love cooking, exchanging a cook's mandil (apron) for a gardener's mandil, a dinner fork for a pitch fork, and a spoon for a shovel, it has been a refreshing change. To dig in la tierra, to plant flowers and vegetables like tomatoes and chile plants, is not only good for the body, but I think I finally succeeded in clearing off some wintery cobwebs from my mind. I'm flipping some sad springtime memories, hoping to create some pleasant ones instead.

Now that the garden is ablaze we are going to have a fiesta for Beatríz and Marina, a pair of beautiful young women, sisters, who will be getting married to Mateo and David. All sets of parents are our dear friends, so I don't think they won't mind it a bit if we borrow their children for a little while to partake of their happiness.

I decide to pick the tomatillos myself. They are for the green enchiladas I am making for the fiesta. The tomatillos must be plump and firm, smooth and shiny, a little sticky to the touch. Their husks, delicately veined, are almost as translucent as those of the wings of a dragon fly lightly skimming the water. The enchiladas will be stuffed with a savory tomato-y garlic-y chicken/potato filling that blends perfectly with the green light tanginess of the enchilada sauce. What better way to celebrate spring and summer and new beginnings than with an enchilada dish that tastes as beautiful as it looks? As much as I love spicy red enchiladas, I think I prefer eating them during the fall and winter months, when cool weather calls for big, bold flavor.

My husband and I start preparing for la fiesta. I cook the chicken and enchilada sauce the day before. My husband, the real baker (though not the butcher or the candlestick maker) of us two, whips up not one but two cakes. One is chocolate, his favorite "vegetable" as he calls it, studded all around with almond slivers; the other is a vanilla cake—its insides stuffed to the gills with fresh strawberries he bought from a neighboring field. He tops it with a little plastic wedding cake ornament and some tiny pink satin ribbon roses. Leave it to my viejo to make a homey cake, perhaps a little corny but very heartfelt (and not to mention out of this world delicious). When our friends sit down a la mesa, there is a huge green salad, beer marinated barbeque chicken, tender carne asada, sopa de fideo con tomates (a "dry" pasta soup made with chicken broth and tomatoes), corn tortillas, fresh from the tortilla factory, a blazing hot red chile salsa. Gloria brings a large bowl of pico de gallo. Lina shares some creamy beans made Puerto Rican style made with secret spices and chicken broth.

Celebrating en lo fresco with my husband and friends who are also family, surrounded by my garden of flowers, the sounds of our favorite mariachi music, my mother's manteles (tablecloths) and candlesticks, I feel the past and present converging in a brightly colored kaleidoscope of emotion. In my garden, there is mingling of joy and una dulce tristeza (a sweet melancholy)—as exquisite as the tangy coolness of some hot green tomatillo enchiladas on a brilliant spring afternoon.

As evening descends on the fiesta, we all look on as Beatríz and Mateo and Marina and David cut my husband's cake.

Green Tomatillo Enchiladas with Chicken/Potato Filling

Traditionally, enchiladas are not heated up in the oven. However, if you are cooking for a crowd and need to heat them up in the oven for a little while (pre-heated to 350º), make sure to add a bit of enchilada sauce to the bottom of the casserole dish so the enchiladas won't stick to the bottom. I don't know about you, but I like to fry my corn tortillas before dipping them in the enchilada sauce. They maintain their shape better and I love the toasty flavor. If you are concerned about fat, do yourself a favor and don't smother these beautiful enchiladas under a fat-laden blanket of cheese. Let the wonderful flavor of the tomatillo shine through. A little queso fresco or cotija will do just fine. Also, save any left-over chicken broth, chicken filling or enchilada sauce to make delicious soups or tacos.

Ingredients for Chicken/Potato Filling:
1 whole chicken, rinsed, with giblets, neck, etc. removed

2 large potatoes, scrubbed

water

½ white onion

1 carrot, peeled and cut up

2 sprigs cilantro or parsley

1 large red juicy tomato, puréed in the blender; OR, one 8 oz. can of tomato sauce (If your tomato isn't super sweet and juicy, this time I'd go for canned tomato sauce.)

1 Knorr's® chicken flavored bouillon cube (optional)
¼ teaspoon black pepper
1 bay leaf

pinch oregano or to taste

Ingredients for Green Tomatillo Enchilada Sauce:

2 lbs. of tomatillos, husks removed

1 to 3 serrano chiles, stems removed

¼ to ½ white onion

2 cloves garlic

chicken broth

½ to 1 cup fresh cilantro to taste (optional)

1 tablespoon lard or vegetable oil

pinch of powdered cumin
seasoning salt to taste

crema mexicana, or sour cream(optional)
12 (one dozen corn tortillas)

To Cook Chicken/Potato Enchilada Filling:

Put the chicken in a large pot and fill with water to cover. Bring it to a boil. When the water becomes scummy, remove the chicken from the pot and discard the water (who likes scummy broth anyway? I don't.) Rinse the pot and put the chicken right back in. Add potatoes, pureed tomato or tomato sauce, bouillon cube, cilantro, onion, garlic, bay leaf, cilantro, oregano, and pepper. Add water to cover the chicken. Bring to a boil, then cover and lower heat. Simmer for 30 to 45 minutes, or until the chicken is tender. Remove the chicken from the pot and set aside. Remove the vegetables from the broth and discard. Skim some of the fat off the chicken broth. If you are preparing the enchiladas a day in advance, let the chicken and the broth cool down before putting them in the refrigerator for the night. The next morning, you can skim off the fat from the chicken broth if you wish.

To Make the Green Tomatillo Enchilada Sauce:

Put the tomatillos and one inch of chicken broth in a medium sized pot. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer for about 10 minutes or until the tomatillos are soft and fully cooked. (In the meantime, shred the cooked chicken, peel and chop the potatoes into small bite-sized pieces. Cover and keep warm.) Put the cooked tomatillos in a blender with ¼ white onion, garlic, serrano chile(s). Blend until smooth. Now add the cilantro and blend for a few seconds more.

Heat a tablespoon of vegetable oil in a saucepan. Add the tomatillo mixture, a pinch of cumin and seasoning salt to taste. Simmer for about 10 minutes. If the sauce is too thick, add a bit of chicken broth. If it is too thin, reduce by simmering uncovered for a little while.
Take a corn tortilla and heat on a hot heavily oiled skillet or griddle. Flip it once or twice until the tortilla is soft and flexible, about 10 seconds (don't worry if the tortilla is a little toasty). Using a spatula, lift the corn tortilla and dip it into the warm enchilada sauce for a few seconds. Then transfer the tortilla to a plate or other flat surface. Add a large spoonful of chicken/potato filling to one end of the tortilla. Using your fire-proof macha fingers, tightly roll up the tortilla and place seam side down on a platter or a casserole dish. Pour some hot enchilada sauce over the enchiladas and top with thinly sliced green onion, sliced black olives and or your favorite real cheese or crema mexicana (or sour cream). Serve immediately.

Never Judge a Nopal By Its Stingers

I have a confession to make. I want something so badly that I'm willing to steal it.

I'm going to take my long sharp knife and risk life and limb to get me some, even if it means jumping the wall into Doña Hortencia's backyard and facing down Diablito, that psychopath ankle-snapping chihuahua of hers. Just to get my hands on those fresh and tender nopalitos—the flat paddle-shaped pads of the prickly pear cactus (how's that for a bit of alliteration?). And for any of you who think that I'm one tortilla short of a stack for wanting to commit such a foolish and criminal act, all I have to say is that only a Mexican who doesn't have a cactus of her own knows how I feel.

Some of my friends smile at me indulgently with the kind of a look that they usually reserve for little children or people who are loco en la cabeza whenever I mention nopales. Why eat anything as prickly and as slimy and just plain dangerous, they ask? Poor souls, if they only knew. For lurking beneath its nasty agüates (stingers) and forbidding exterior lies the tender heart of a saint. If you like the fresh taste of farm fresh green beans and asparagus with a hint of lemon, then you are on your way to loving nopales in just about anything Mexican: With your scrambled eggs with pinto beans and a homemade tortilla for breakfast. In salads. In tacos. In the Mexican classic, Dried Shrimp Paddies with Molé Sauce, a favorite of mine. And, if that weren't enough, nopales just might lower blood sugar levels (listen up, my diabetic friends). If you are concerned about its okra-like baba (slime), well, it doesn't have to be if you cook it right. Give it a try, and you will find that even unattractive things have a beauty beyond just mere appearance.

I looked over into Doña Hortencia's backyard today. That was all it took for the aptly named Diablito to come charging, bearing his canines and bursting my ear drums with his mad incessant yapping, jumping up and down, frantically trying to bite off my fingers. Somehow, my heart failed me just then. I did not relish the prospect of turning into a fur-lined maniac's taco. So I knocked on Doña Hortencia's door instead and pleaded with her in the most pathetic tones for some nopalitos. There was a trace of amusement in those old brown eyes of hers. She must have seen me peeking into her backyard.

She hesitated for a moment and then replied:"¡Pues, claro qué sí!—Why, of course you can!"

What ever possessed me to think I could steal some nopales from such a nice viejita?

Tomorrow afternoon I'm bringing my big long knife and I'm going to lop off some nopalitos, some for me and some for Doña Hortencia .

Boiled or Sauteed Nopalitos, Salad Included.

You can buy nopales at the supermarket pre-chopped and stripped of their stingers, but I find that the ones that are fresh off the cactus tastes best. Each cactus pad should be no more that 8 inches in length (about the size of your hand), and exhibit a fresh green color. It should never look shriveled or tough. This is not a recipe per se, but a guide to making as much or as little as you like. Depending on the recipe or your preference, you can boil or sauté them until they are perfect.


First step:
Wear a pair of gloves and trim off the outer edge of the nopales. Then using the sharp edge of the knife, scrape off all of the stingers. Cut about an inch off the lower end of nopal. Rinse the nopales under cold running water and closely examine them, making sure that there are absolutley no stingers left.

To Boil:

Bring some water to a boil in a large pot or pan with about half an onion, one or two smashed garlic cloves, and salt to taste. Put the whole cactus pads in the boiling water. Lower heat to medium and boil the nopales for about 15 minutes or so, or until they are easily pierced with a fork. You can pre-chop the nopales if you wish, but I think that boiling them whole preserves more of the flavor.

Drain the nopales into a colander; cover them with a damp cloth, and let them sit for about half an hour or so while any excess moisture drains into a bowl.

Using a sharp knife, dice or slice the nopales according to your taste. You can now scramble them with your eggs for a new take on breakfast.

Here's a simple but utterly delicious recipe for NOPALES SALAD:

Mix the boiled nopales with fresh chopped tomatoes, sliced green onion, fresh minced jalapeño and chopped cilantro. Just add some quality bottled red wine Italian salad dressing or your own homemade vinaigrette. (See picture at the top). Add some queso fresco and eat it with anything Mexican (except dessert!).

Sautéed:
On a hot skillet add 1 tablespoon olive oil, 4 cups diced or sliced fresh nopales, 2 cups white onion, 2 cloves garlic, minced, any finely chopped fresh chile (optional) and garlic salt to taste. Over medium heat, continue sautéing until the slime completely evaporates and the nopales are slightly charred and the onion is sweet and golden brown. Remove the nopal mixture from the heat and add finely chopped cilantro to taste. Add a corn or flour tortilla and a bit of salsa and you have the perfect vegetarian taco.

With Heartfelt Sympathy—El Pesame

I would like to offer my sincere and heartfelt sympathy to those in Mexico, the land of my parents' birth, who have lost a loved one to the swine influenza.

May their precious memories sustain you now and always.

De todo corazón le doy el pésame a la gente de México, la tierra de mis padres, que han perdido a un ser querido debido a la influenza.

Que sus lindos recuerdos los sostengan ahora y para siempre.