Mexican Chicken Soup, Or The Tragic Tale of The Demon Rooster

If you think I'm going to recount a happy tale where my Mexican mother served me this chicken soup with its clear delicately flavored broth with corn on the cob(!) with potatoes, zucchini and a wonderful green squash named chayote whenever I got sick with the cold, where she cooled my childish fevered brow and sang me sweet Spanish lullabies as she held me in her arms, you are most sadly mistaken.

Because whenever any of us had a cold and my mother needed some chicken for caldo de pollo—Mexican style chicken soup, there was no need to pick up a cut-up fryer in a neat little package at the local supermarket. All she had to do was ask my dad to head out to the back of the property with his cuchillote (coo-chi-yo'teh)—big fat knife in hand, grab one of the chickens, usually the rooster who was the meanest of the bunch, and cut its uppity little head clean off.

And thus begins this grisly tale of murder, mayhem and good food. If you are of a person of squeamish weak-stomached sensibilities, read no further. If not, then by all means read on, but be afraid, be very afraid, especially if your name is El Gallo Grillo, The Demon Rooster who became the best Mexican Chicken Soup I have ever tasted.

How was El Grillo to know that cool bright January morning in 1977 that this day of all days was to be his last? It seemed no different than any other day. Donning his resplendent robe of iridescent black plumage, he did the sort of things that any tall, handsome Andalusian Cock of the Walk would do: strutting around el corral like a mariachi singer while loudly "proclaiming" his undying love for himself, romancing his harem of hens who followed him like brainless groupies, and his favorite past time of all: attacking any animal, vegetable or mineral who dared intrude upon his domain or challenged his barnyard sovereignty.

How I wish that my father had done to him what he usually did to other outlaw roosters: get them drunk on cheap tequila to perform a crude but necessary surgery, namely amputate their razor-like talons. Often I held them down as he cut using a sharp steel knife. Before you think that this is nothing short of barbaric, no rooster ever died as a result of this procedure and it prevented any from getting severely injured in a cock fight, which is the sad reality if there is more than one Alpha Male hanging around. (Let this be a cautionary lesson to any Alpha Males reading this post.)

I guess ending up in a pot of caldo de pollo was a high price to pay for attacking the real
El Mero Mero (The Big Kahuna) de la familia—my papá, especially when El Grillo tore the trousers of his favorite suit and bloodied his legs.

He didn't mean to kill him, but like King David of old when he slew Goliath, my papá, taking a rock to protect himself, threw the perfect strike that would have made Dodger baseball player Fernando Valenzuela proud and he hit El Grillo on the head. Suddenly, that demon rooster toppled over and uttered his last cluck. So my papá had no choice but to take out his cuchillote and finish the job.

Later that afternoon my sisters and I came home from an outing and found El Grillo, minus his head, floating in a galvanized tub of hot water. We knew what this meant—we had to change out of our finery and start plucking every last feather off of his sorry carcass. Our parents' ace-in-the-hole reply when we howled in protest? "Bueno, chiquitas, if you're old enough to take an interest in boys, you're old enough to pluck the feathers off a chicken. Ahora pónganse a trabajar—Now get to work!" And like good Mexican girls that we were we did exactly what we were told.

I still remember his pathetic chicken legs sticking out of the pot of soup that my mother made. I was sickened by the sight of it back then, but I realize now that those patitas of his packed a ton of flavor to the Mexican style chicken soup—no need to add any bouillon at all. And the soup? None better—the perfect alchemy of the foods of Spain (chicken, garbanzo beans, rice) and Mexico (almost everything else).

Frankly, I must admit, for all of his fierceness, for all of his banter and macho pride which bordered on hubris—for a chicken—El Grillo really was a magnificent creature. When my family gets together we still talk of him with an odd mixture of affection and guilt for having eaten him—plus a bit of grudging respect.

How I miss those fat organic chickens with their amazingly rich broth. And the fresh fertilized eggs with their bright yellow-orange yolks. No more listening to the El Grillo and his ilk singing it up at 4 o'clock in the morning. All I have now are memories and a true love for good food and for the quietly heroic people of rural Mexico who, like my parents, have come to this country and still have chickens and goats in their backyards, whether they live in Los Angeles, Houston—or even Orange County. (Do The Real Housewives of Orange County keep chickens in their backyards, I wonder?)

El Grillo, I know you can't hear me, but if it is any consolation, diablito este—you little devil, you made a sabrosísimo—yummy soup and give you my gracias.

Mexican Chicken Soup with Corn-on-the-Cob

The trick to making this clear flavorful broth is to boil the chicken twice. Try it—you won't lose a bit of flavor, and you'll never have to eat cloudy, scummy chicken broth again. Plus, you won't have a lot of fat shining back at you. As always, you can choose which vegetables you want in the soup. When serving your family or guests, make sure to have some left over Mexican rice, cut lemons or limes, chopped serrano chilies for heat or hot chili salsa so they can add it to the soup if they wish.

(Note: If your are cooking an anemic chicken from the supermarket, you can cheat a little and add a bouillon cube when you add the vegetables to the soup if you want.)

What you need:

Large pot for soup.

A platter or roasting pan

Chopping knife

Ingredients:

1 whole chicken, split in half

For Soup:
About 11 cups water
1 carrot, uncut
½ large onion
3 or 4 cloves garlic
2 celery stalks, cut in half
About 8 pepper corns
1/4 bunch of fresh cilantro with stems attached; OR, fresh parsley
3 ears corn, cut about 2 ½ inches each
2 medium sized white boiling potatoes, chopped (optional)
1 or 2 carrots, cut into thin disks
1 cup thin-sliced onion
½ cup garbanzos (chickpeas), (optional)
2 zucchinis, sliced into disks
1 cup cooked white rice; OR, 1 cup leftover Mexican rice (optional)
Instructions:
Put washed chickens in the large pot, and add water just cover them. Over high heat, bring to a boil. Lower heat to medium. When the water is cloudy and scummy, remove the chicken from the pot and place it on the roasting pan or platter. Empty out the water and wash the pot. Next, add 11 cups of fresh water to the pot. Rinse the chicken under the tap, carefully removing any scum with your fingers. Return the chicken to the pot.
Add celery stalks, cilantro, uncut carrot, garlic, ½ onion, salt and pepper corns to the pot. Bring to a boil, lower heat to medium-low and simmer covered for about 25 minutes. Add garbanzos and simmer for 35 minutes more.
Remove chicken and return to roasting pan. Remove celery stalks, the uncut carrot, the 1/2 onion and cilantro, and toss them out. (Do not toss out the garlic and the garbanzos). Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer for 30 minutes, covered, or until the corn is tender-firm or tender, but not mushy. Cut chicken into manageable pieces and return to the pot.

Flour Tortillas From the Lady of the Hacienda

The flour tortilla has become the latest food-victim of political correctness, and it is up to you to rescue it from its dismal flavorless fate. Using shortening instead of pork drippings (lard) or bacon grease? Por favor, no. I ask you, what is so bad about lard or bacon grease? Contrary to popular belief, they are not so terrible. Yes, they are high in saturated fats, but unlike most shortenings, they do not contain one iota of trans-fatty acids—you know, those nasty little chemicals that produce free radicals, which in turn cause cancer and make us old and wrinkled before our time. Okay, so some shortenings have no trans-fatty acids, but that doesn't remove the fact that they taste like nada. It's all about the flavor, and Doña Catalina would not have been caught dead putting partially hydrogenated oil or phosphate whatchamacallit in her flour tortillas.

A rather imposing woman who was native of Sonora, and the mother of a dozen children, eight of them boys, Doña Cata made beautiful, perfectly round flour tortillas. Her tortillas always had tiny bits of bacon or carnitas, which made them beyond delicious. I don't think that most of her tortillas ever made it from the comal (griddle) to the table before one of her boys would snatch one, spread butter on it, and eat it in three bites. She once offered to teach me how to make them, but I never took her up on the offer—muchacha mensa—foolish, foolish girl. Because Doña Cata was not just good at making tortillas. Everything she made was sabroso—utterly delicious. Would an artist turn down spending an afternoon painting with Picasso? Not likely. But that is exactly what I did so to speak—much to my regret.

If there was something that made her extremely happy, it was having all of her children, plus over 25 grandchildren running all over the house. There she held court, like the Lady of The Hacienda, instructing us young women on how to prepare tamales. Attendance was compulsory because the proper feeding of men and children was serious business. She knew better than anybody that good food and good times were at the heart of her family.
As protective as a she-bear (which she often likened herself to) watching over her cubs, she watched over the goings on of her large family, exhorting, cajoling, and sometimes threatening, when she perceived that anyone of her beloved children or grandchildren had embarked on the wrong path—it didn't matter whether they were grown ups or not. What did she care about the so-called right to self-determination when the wellbeing of those she loved was a stake? Not one jalapeño pepper. Without a blinking an eye, she told David, her younger sons' childhood friend, that he had better stay away from her sons, because he was mala compañia—bad company. Her sons were furious, but she stood her ground. She was especially vigilant when any one of her children brought a girlfriend or a boyfriend to the house.
On a hot summer's day, one of them brought a girl to a family gathering. She was a girl with big muscles and a big laugh, who put her foot on a nearby bench while she practically opened a beer bottle cap with her teeth and drank with the men.
Doña Cata, ever the lady, said nothing, but sat there watching her with her green eyes in the same manner as a cat eyes an unsuspecting gopher.
After an hour or so her son took the girl home and returned to the house. The first thing he asked was, "So, what did you think of her, Ma?"
"No me la vuelvas a traer a la casa. No la quiero ver—don't ever bring her back here. I never want to see her," was all she said.

"Why not?"

"Because her bra strap is dirty."

And just like that, the girl was never seen again, going off into the Elephant's Graveyard of Where Ex-Girlfriends Go.

It suddenly occurred to me, that I had somehow gained entrance to a very exclusive club. I married one of her sons, and if I had not met with her approval, well, I would not here telling you her story today.

She expected, yes, demanded great things from her children. Good grades and a fine education were not enough for her. ("If you are an uneducated tarugo—blockhead, that is one thing. But if you are an educated tarugo, then there's no hope for you," she once remarked.) She expected that they reflect all of the qualities she stood by all of her life, things like decency, honor, faith in God, hard work, sharing what you had with others, hospitality, loyalty and love—for one's friends and family, one's children, for one's companion in life, for one's self. Courage in the face of disapproval. Respeto—respect. She and her husband Don Rafael lived a life as authentic as her flour tortillas. They were simple people—without the nasty artificial ingredients. Not everyone loved her—bad people hated her, but that was fine with her.
One evening, her granddaughter and her granddaughter's husband spent time with her. Together they listened to and sang the songs of her youth, the songs of Javier Solis and Miguel Aceves Mejilla. Then she went to sleep and never woke up.
Her children bought a marble plaque for her gravesite. It bears the epitaph, "Una Gran Mujer"—A Woman of Greatness. Which she was.

Flour Tortillas From the Lady of the Hacienda
The first thing that your must do is to save and refrigerate all of your bacon and/or pork drippings. Make sure that they are solid, not watery. Next, use Harina la Piña Brand flour, though a soft wheat white enriched all-purpose flour that is very finely milled is acceptable. Do not use a traditional rolling pin with handles. Use one without handles. For some reason, it works better. Also, use the palm of your hands to make rather flat balls.

How do you make your tortillas?

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3 cups of flour

1/2 teaspoon of salt
1/2 cup of solidified pork drippings, or bacon grease or pork lard

2 cups of boiling water

Directions:

In a large bowl, mix together all ingredients except the water. Use your fingers to mix in the lard. Adding water a little at a time, mix the flour with a large spoon. Sprinkle some flour on a cutting board or on a hard flat surface. Transfer dough to the board and knead until the dough is no longer sticky. Add more flour if necessary. Now make the balls (the larger the balls, the larger the tortillas). Put all the balls backing into the mixing bowl, and let them sit for about 10 minutes or so.

Sprinkle some flour on the cutting board. Flatten the balls with the palm of your hand. Using the rolling pin, roll out from the center and keep rotating until they are as fat or as thin as you want them to be.

Transfer the tortillas to a medium-hot griddle and cook them until bubbles form, less than a minute. Flip over to cook the other side. Keep tortillas warm under a towel or a tortilla warmer until they are ready to eat. Make sure you sneak one and put some butter on it and eat it in three bites.

The True Queen of La Cocina

The beauty of Mexican food lies in its flexibility—measurements need not be precise. It is informal, festive, and comforting. Its flavors are bold and spicy, its colors bright. Not in the least bit stuffy, it is hospitable and welcoming—much like the people. If you were a guest in my mother’s home, you had better eat what she offered you, and frankly, you would want not to refuse, because even the aroma of her pinto beans, simmering on the stove, made you want to eat them right out of the pot.

She, like so many Mexican women of her generation, was a talented cook who never took much stock in “comida pretenciosa”—“pretentious food” as she called it. She believed in simplicity. Not that she did not appreciate complexity. Mexican food can be complex at times—all you have to do is look at the long list of ingredients of classic molé poblano, Mexico’s national dish, to appreciate that. She believed in simplicity of presentation, authenticity and good flavor. Innovation was fine, but always within the confines of the dish, never altering its basic character. She believed that a great meal does not need any unnecessary embellishments to make it delicious, as much as a truly gorgeous woman does not need a shovelful of makeup to enhance her beauty.

So secure was she in her gifts that I seriously doubt that she would have been cowed by the likes of any celebrity chef, knowing that she came from a great culinary tradition. Mexican cuisine does not depend on the European one as its model, and should never be judged by its standards, even if it did incorporate some of the ingredients and dishes that the Spanish brought to The New World. When I told her once that some chef wrote that he did not consider Mexican food a true world-cuisine as such, she rankled with righteous indignation. “Ah,” she exclaimed at the end of our conversation, “¿Qué sabe ese viejo tarugo?*,” and that was that—no use arguing otherwise, not that I disagreed with her.

It was a little intimidating cooking in her presence. As was her wont, she would follow her nose and come into the kitchen. Not long before she died, I was cooking up a French style pot roast on the stove, and there she was lifting the lid off the pot. Anxious to show off my prowess, I told her how I prepared the beef, how I used herbs and spices she never heard of, the kind of wine I poured into the pot, etc. She pinched off a piece with her fingers and took a bite. Then, lifting a daring eye to my face, she declared with a smirk, “I like mine better. You didn’t even put chile in this.” With a delightedly disappointed look on her face, she put the lid back on the pot. She, who had shuffled into the kitchen, now sauntered out with the triumphant air of a prizefighter who had punched out a puny but presumptuous opponent in the first round. Of course, she was right. I realized that I was the no-talent daughter of a great cook; my use of fancy recipes and fancy ingredients could not hide who was The True Reina de la Cocina. That evening at dinnertime, she quickly polished off a plate of my pot roast. Then, in that off-handed way of hers she remarked, “Well, I suppose you might be a good cook someday. Of course, not as good as me. . . .” Ay, caramba—could there ever be any greater compliment than that? Maybe she felt she had to say it because she felt very, very, very sorry for me.

Sadly, we are losing our moms and grandmothers, the last ones of our Mexican immigrant families who cooked everything from scratch, except perhaps to open a can of tomatoes every now and then. She, who made homemade corn and flour tortillas every day. Who made the best molé and tamales in the whole world. Who forced you to eat chiles and cactus until you learned to love to eat them. Who would have rather died than to eat at Taco Bell. Whose ambition in life was to be a good mother—a noble thing, no matter what society says to the contrary. Who unselfishly loved and believed in you. Who taught you to love Mariachi music, never imagining that one day, when a song she loved to sing comes on the radio, your eyes will be awash in tears.

If you have lost a mother who was like mine, then you have lost un tesoro*, and I am truly sorry. As for me, to have her back in my arms, if for only a little while, with her telling me that I am a terrible cook, would be a delicious joy I would not miss for anything in the world.

My culinary wish for you:

To those of you who neglected your mothers in her old age because you were Too Busy Doing More Important Things: My delicate sense of propriety prevents me from elaborating, but it involves a glass of cheap, rough tequila and swallowing the worm (of regret).

To those of you who cared for your mothers, especially during their last days: May your memories of them be happy ones as you sit down with your families and enjoy the delicious food that your mothers once cooked for you. May you cherish their recipes and pass them down as an inheritance to your children who will pass them down to theirs. May your children love and care for you with the same devotion that you showed your mothers in their time of need.

Dedicated to my beautiful sisters and a certain dear friend of mine.

* “What does that old blockhead (literally, wooden peg) know, anyway?”

** A treasure

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.

Adventures in Spanglish

I was born in the United States to Mexican immigrant parents who spoke only Spanish at home. Our mother, who never quite mastered English, made it a point to teach us to read and write in Spanish from a tender age. Although they expected us to speak proper Spanish, unavoidably, some dreaded "Spanglish" words cropped up in our speech, much to their consternation. Perhaps some of you will recognize a few words. A warning, however: None of these words is proper Spanish, and if you, poor soul, should ever attempt to say these words in Mexico, Spain, or in any other Spanish speaking country, all you will get is an empty stare or a look of complete bewilderment. So, at the risk of corrupting the language of Miguel de Cervantes and the other greats of Spanish literature, I give you Espanglés:

Spanglish/English/Spanishla marqueta/ the market/ el Mercadola yarda/ the yard/ el jardínel lonche/ lunch/ el almuerzo, la comidael parqueo/ the parking lot/ el estacionamientola carpeta/ the carpet/ la alfombralos esquirrels/ the squirrels/ las ardillas—my father's personal favorite—okay, so his Spanish has finally been corrupted after living in this country for the last 50 years or so.

If you master these words and utter them without the faintest hint of irony, then congratulations! You are a full-fledged "pocho"* and no one will ever trust your Spanish again.

Excuse me while I feed los esquirrels lonche in my yarda.

*A Mexican-American who speaks poor to no Spanish.