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.

Amiga Mia

A beautiful painting or an elegantly turned piece of poetry may the nourish the soul, but you cannot eat them to sustain life. The only piece of poesía that nourishes both soul and stomach is a good meal when it is created by a passionate and loving cook who can wield a spoon as well as a painter can wield a brush or a poet a pen.

I witnessed the aftermath of her cooking only a moments before I met her. Lina's kitchen was in a tumultuous state. Pots and pans filled the sink and overflowed on the counters. Almost every cabinet door was thrown wide open as if an unseen force, perhaps a small tornado, had blown through. Whoever her sister was, she was one exciting and furious cook. And if the smell of her food was any indication, then her recklessness in the kitchen made me sorry I couldn't stay to savor the results. That is when I knew: whatever she was, whether a crazy woman or an artist (or both), this girl was going to be my friend.

That was how I was introduced to Carla—not a mean crazy woman at all, but certainly an artist at heart, especially when she created her untraditional but always dios mío de mi vida delicious food! She had a childlike (though never childish) simplicity about her, a way of looking at the world, and food, with a kind of playfulness (and sometimes, abandonment), a necessary thing if one is ever to be a good cook or a good artist or even a good person. And she was that. No, she was, like all of us, far from perfect. But she was gentle, spiritual, hospitable to a fault—even when life was too much for her. Even as she lay on the bed from which she was never to arise.
I came to stay with her one August. Her thick lovely hair was gone. And for those of you who have ever lost a friend or a family member to cancer, I don't need to elaborate on the terrible things it can do to a person. There were secrets Carla wanted to keep, so I won't reveal them here. I will say the sadness at our impending goodbye was heartbreaking, the love in that room, intense. It filled every corner of the house with a cinnamon and chocolate aroma that stuck to our clothing and lingered long after Carla was gone.
When I see her again, we will cook and cook and cook until there's a pure explosión de pasión y sobrosura—a deliciousness that will blow the doors off their hinges--for the biggest la vida es un carnaval fiesta, ever.

Descansa por ahora, amiga mía. Un día nos miraremos a los ojos.

*****

Perhaps you are wondering where agua de tamarindo—tamarind punch—fits into this story. Well, it doesn't. There are times when I just can't write about food just for food's sake. I can most times . . . but not today. Inserting agua de tamarindo in this memoir of my friend would have been too forced. And yet, food is the reason why you are here, and I would be a terrible host if I didn't at least offer you something to drink, especially on this hot August day. Carla wouldn't have had it any other way.

(I dedicate my painting of this mighty hibiscus, above, and story to my brave friend, Lina. Never has there been a more loyal and fierce defender or loving friend to a little sister.)

Agua de tamarindo
(Tamarind Punch)

In an act of culinary cross pollination that came via the sea, first from tropical Africa then to India and the rest of Asia, and onward to the shores of Mexico and the Caribbean by Spanish sailors in the 16th Century, tamarind is just an other small link in a chain that binds together all the cuisines of the world in one way or another. And after you taste its unique sweet and sour taste, I dare you to drink another Coke or Pepsi with carnitas tacos.

This agua fresca is a little strong, but with plenty of ice and giving it a few minutes for it to dilute just a bit, it will taste just perfect when you are ready to serve.

6 ounces of tamarind pods (approximately 10 pods)

6 to 8 tablespoons granulated sugar, or to taste

6 cups boiling water

plenty of ice

a large pitcher

Peel away the outer shell and the woody membranes from each of the tamarind pods. Rinse them and place them all in a large bowl Pour the boiling water over them, add the sugar, stir, and let them sit for about two hours or so.

Then, use your fingers to squeeze the pods until the water turns amber colored. Make sure that no large pieces of tamarind pulps remain. Strain the water and discard the seeds. Pour the water into a large pitcher and add plenty of ice. Drink when the punch is ice cold and perfectly diluted. Stir just before serving.

Serves about 8 persons.

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.

Ah, Horchata!

I'm writing to you today with the knowledge that perhaps I shouldn't be sharing this recipe for horchata with you. You see, after consuming pre-fab taco joint horchatas, you might think that all horchatas are emulsified and homogenized and are just a little too perfect and a little too sweet. But, if you see beauty in imperfection, if you get lost in the deliciousness of a homemade beverage that might have tiny bits of rice in it, whose cinnamon taste comes from the bark the cinnamomum verum tree of Sri Lanka and not from a powder, if you love to drink it from a handblown glass with a thick ultramarine blue rim, then I must declare that you will never have enough horchata to satisfy your cravings—and what will become of you then?

Take my Belgian friend Claudine that tall and thin, elegant in an island-vibe, free-spirited kind of way, funny and talented and oh so insouciante Mexican food loving horchata-connoisseur artist friend of mine. She had been hounding me about making her some. So we struck a deal. She offered me some of her prized Belgian chocolate in exchange for my homemade horchata. How could I say no to that?
Of course, there are many ways to make horchata. The Spanish drink an horchata made from the tiger nuts, a starchy root that grows in the Valencia region of the country and are called chufas. (Monna of Slow Blogs, a Canadian teacher living in Barcelona, Spain, is probably enjoying one right now come to think.) Mexicans love horchata made from rice and cinnamon, almonds sometimes, with a few drops of lime juice. Regardless of how you make it, it is one refreshing drink, perfect for those winter days when it is a blazing 80 degrees outside like it was just last Sunday here in California (so I'm bragging). I can always count on an icy horchata to quench the flames when chiles burn hot and furious on my tongue. I love to ladle it up from a large beehive shaped glass jar that has pieces of cinnamon bark floating on top. In Mexico it is part of a colorful and delicious line up of aguas frescas like garnet colored agua de jamaica (hibiscus flower tea), agua de tamarindo (tamarind water) and other natural fruit flavor drinks that are found all over the country.

It is a little surprising to me that people can be oh so particular about this white sweet drink. Some like it watery, others thick. Some put milk in their horchata, others don't. So I decided to experiment. I wanted a classic Mexican tasting horchata strong on cinnamon and a just a hint of lime. Sweet without being cloying, full bodied without being thick. Chalkiness was positively out of the question. Most of all, Claudine had to love it.
I think I have come up with a good one. And the best part is that you can adapt it to your taste. It can be as sweet (or not) or as milky (or not) as you want. One thing is for sure, it will pack a cinnamon wallop that is essential to any great tasting horchata. Will it look or taste just like your Mexican abuelita's? I'll let you fiddle around with the recipe until it does.
So, if you can appreciate something natural and unrefined and are willing to forgo ready-mix powdered horchata "perfection", then give this horchata a try. You might find that imperfection has a beauty all its own.

Horchata

How well your horchata turns out will mostly depend on the preparation. Grittiness or lack of it depends on how well you strain the cinnamon and rice. Use a very fine mesh strainer or a cheese cloth over a large wire mesh strainer. (I like to use a thin cotton flour sack cloth or something similar instead of cheese cloth.) If you want your horchata to be thick or thin to the point of wateriness depends on how long you blend the rice and how much cold water and/or milk you add to the almost finished drink. So, add it one cup at a time until it is at the consistency you like best.
Ingredients:
4 ½ cups raw long grain white rice
3 long sticks of cinnamon bark, shredded
¼ cup of almonds, coarsely chopped (optional)
7 cups of boiling water
4 to 5 cups cold water and/or milk
couple of drops of lemon or lime juice
simple sugar syrup (recipe below)
Instructions:To make the sugar syrup mix 1 cup of raw sugar with 1 cup water in a small sauce pan and boil together, stirring constantly, until the sugar is completely dissolved. Set aside and let cool. About 3 minutes or so. Set aside.

Take the shredded cinnamon bark and toast in a skillet over medium heat for a few minutes. (Do not burn.) Remove from skillet and place in a medium to large sized pot. Add rice and almonds. Pour 7 cups of boiling water into the pot. Cover and let it sit overnight or for about 7 hours.
Next, ladle some of the water, rice, almonds and cinnamon bark into a blender. If you want your horchata to be a bit watery, blend for only a few seconds. If you want a more milky consistency, blend until the mixture reaches an almost paste-like consistency. Now, take the blended mixture and strain over a wide-mouth pitcher using a steel mesh strainer that has been covered by a cheesecloth that has been folded 4 times over to ensure that the horchata will be smooth and not gritty. Repeat this step until all the rice and cinnamon have been blended.
Now, add about 4 to 5 cups cold water and/or milk into the pitcher, or until the horchata is as thin or as thick as you like. Add a few drops of lemon or lime juice. Add simple sugar syrup to taste. Don't forget to add a few drops of vanilla extract if you wish.
Refrigerate for a few hours. Stir before serving. Pour over ice and enjoy the warm winter's day. Makes approximately 2 quarts. Serves 4.

A Cup of Mexican Hot Chocolate Nostalgia

Nostalgia can sometimes play tricks on you. Some memories are so vivid that you literally feel the same emotions you felt as when they first happened. Others are nebulously indistinct, evanescent as a coastal fog at midday. Did they really happen, or was it just your imagination? The wry expression of a person you've just met, a musical notes wafting out of a storefront door as you walk past, the whiff of someone's perfume--all these can trigger memories of people or events from your past. For me, just smelling Mexican hot chocolate brings me back to a cold February evening of my childhood.My sisters and I are sipping hot Mexican chocolate from bright blue enameled tin cups while sitting at the kitchen table, covered with a white cotton tablecloth, cross-stitched in red roses that our mother embroidered before she met our dad. She serves us large chunks of toasted bolillo, a Mexican roll that resembles a deflated football, hot from the oven and smothered in butter for us to to enjoy with our hot chocolate. The fragrant aroma of bittersweet chocolate, mingled with the scent of almonds and cinnamon spice, fills the entire house. From the brightly illuminated kitchen we watch as our parents, still young and guapitos, slow dance in the darkened living room to Serenata Sin Luna (Moonless Serenade), José Alfredo Jimenez's intensely romantic, yet sweetly melancholy mariachi ballad. Presently, a snappy little cumbia comes on. Instantly forgetting the chocolate, we all jump out of our seats to join in, hopping, rather than dancing around and stepping on their feet. What brings more happiness to a child than to see one’s parents delight in each other’s company? I do not think that this lovely childhood memory would have been quite the same if we were all drinking a spot of tea with biscuits, wouldn’t you agree?

I read somewhere that Mexicans consume over 5 pounds ( 2.26 kilos) of chocolate per year, more than any other people. Perhaps the Europeans were the first to add sugar and milk to chocolate, but we Mexicans gave it soul, and if you adore chocolate, well dear reader, then perhaps you have a Mexican soul, too.

So to all you Mexicans out there who are reading this post, I will not presume that you do not know how to prepare Mexi hot chocolate (that is unless you're a Mexican guy), but I love how this one combines chocolate with three other flavors, cinnamon, vanilla, and chili, most of them just a few of Mexico’s deliciously sublime gifts to the world. You will not really notice the chili, but everyone who drinks this will taste the difference. No need to tell them right way. Just wait for the compliments, and only tell them about the chili after they have finished the last drop. Buen provecho, and may this delicious Mexican hot chocolate help you create some memories that you will never forget.

Mexican Hot Chocolate with a Little Kick of Chili

(Have some culinary courage!)

1 quart milk

2 round tablets of Mexican Hot Chocolate, or to taste (Ibarra's, etc., available at most grocery stores, or go online)

1 tablespoon vanilla

1 pinch salt

dash of chili powder (go ahead, add more, a lot more!)

dash of cinnamon to taste

semi sweet chocolate pieces or sugar to taste (optional)

Cut up the chocolate, or do as my mother used to do, grate it. In a saucepan, bring the milk and the chocolate to a boil.

After the chocolate has completely melted and is thoroughly blended with the milk, add the salt, cinnamon and the chili powder.

Simmer for about 10 minutes or so, and then, roll the handle of a molinillo (see picture, above) in the chocolate between the palms of both hands. Or, using a whisk or a electric manual beater, beat until very foamy.

Serve immediately with hot buttered bolillos or french bread straight out of the oven.