If I Knew You Were Coming I Would Have Cooked You Pozole

If you’re asking me if I’m in the mood for cooking, the answer is no—but I am open to persuasion.

 But it can’t be anything that reminds me of summer, with its wet, ill-fitting bathing suits that makes you look like a sunburned chorizo sausage in its casing. Don’t even mention those cloying girly girl drinks with tiny umbrellas in them, got it? And no cold salads, please. . . . Pozole, did you say? Hmmmm, consider me persuaded.





There is a snap in the air in the Central Coast, as sweet and as sharp as a bite of a Pink Lady apple. Harvest time has arrived to the vineyards. El otoño [autumn] is coming with its clear, but sepia-toned, days, and with it the desire to dust off my mamá’s old large pot to cook a hearty pozole. What, with those tender chunks of pork and hominy swimming in a luscious red chile broth—(ay, yay, yay, I’m so happy about it, I can’t even finish this sentence!) It’s a stew that is also a salad, if you can believe it—no pozole is complete without heaps of thin-sliced cabbage, fresh chopped cilantro, diced green onion, disks of sharp, peppery red radish and that ever ubiquitous squeeze of lemon or lime. Of course, you can have pozole any time of the year, but eating it in el otoño just seems right.

And here is the best part: cooking pozole ain’t exactly fix it n’ forget it, but nobody need know that I don’t slave for hours on end over a hot stove. I just like to pretend that I do. “Ay, pobrecita de mi [poor little old me], I’m sooooo tired from all that cooking! Now peel me a nopal.” After preparing all the ingredients, I like to kick back and polish my nails while the pozole is simmering on the stove. Es nuestro secreto, ¿verdad?

Pozole is the perfect alternative for those who with weak stomached, squeamish sensibilities and upturned, wrinkled noses say a big yuck at the mere mention of menudo with its wobbly bits of tripe. And yes, pozole has no offal in it (sometimes, unless you count the pig’s foot that I am going to drop in to make it taste like the bomb). And yes, pozole only takes about two hours to cook, versus, say, the six hours it takes to cook menudo. And no, it doesn’t stink up the whole house like menudo does. And no, pozole isn’t better than menudo, and if you even think I’m ever going to forsake a bowl of stinky outlaw menudo for its upright cousin, pozole. . . maybe I will, but just for today.

Pásale, muchacha, pásale. Come inside. Ya que estás aquí—now that you are here, I’m cooking you a pot of pozole.

Red Pozole

The longer you cook it, the better it will taste. And, as almost always with stews, pozole tastes even better the day after. You don’t need to add the pig’s foot, but not only does it enhance the flavor, but makes for a rich, luscious broth. Don’t worry about all the fat. You can always skim it off once the pozole is cooked. You can also skim off the all the solidified fat once the pozole has cooled down in the refrigerator. I do like to keep a little fat in the stew—it just makes it all the more flavorful.

3 lbs. bone-in pork shoulder butt, cut into 1-inch cubes; or left whole (to shred later once the meat is tender)
1 or 2 pig’s feet, cut in half (optional)
4 garlic cloves, peeled
1 large white onion, cut in half. Save ¼ onion for Red Chile Sauce
1 tablespoons salt

1 large bay leaf

½ teaspoon cumin, or to taste

½ teaspoon pepper

12 cups water

up to 4 cups canned hominy, drained and rinsed

Red Chile Sauce (Recipe below)

Red Chile Sauce Recipe:

9 dried guajillo chiles
3 dried ancho chiles
4 cloves; or, 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
3 large cloves garlic, unpeeled
¼ onion
¼ teaspoon vinegar (optional)
Boiling water

Directions (for a visual tutorial on how to make Red Chile Sauce click here):
Toast and soak the chiles, garlic and onion: Take the chiles and cut off all the stems. Remove all the seeds with your bare fireproof macha fingers. Over medium-high heat, toast the chiles on a lightly oiled comal [griddle] for 30 - 40 seconds on each side. Add the unpeeled garlic and onion, and toast until they are soft and slightly charred. Remove from heat, let cool slightly and peel the garlic. Place the chiles, cloves, garlic and onion in a bowl and just cover them with boiling water, making sure all of the chiles are submerged. Use a plate or a large mug to press down the chiles. Let them soak for about 30 minutes. Drain the chiles, but save the water you soaked the chiles in. In small batches, take the chiles, garlic, onion and cloves along with some of the water and whirl them in a blender at medium speed.

Into a bowl pour the chile mixture through  a wire mesh strainer to remove the tiny bits of peel. It should pour like spaghetti sauce. If the sauce is too thick, add more of the soaking water. Stir in the vinegar.

Cook the Pork Meat: Put pork meat with the bone and pig’s foot in a large pot. Add 12 cups water. Add salt, onion and garlic. Bring to a boil, then lower heat to a simmer. Skim off any foam that rises to the surface. Add bay leaf and cumin.  Cover, and simmer for an hour, occasionally checking to skim off any left-over foam. During this time, you can prepare the Red Chile Sauce for the pozole.

Shred the pork (unnecessary if pork has been cubed): Use tongs to lift and remove the pork from the pot. Use 2 forks to shred the pork and return to the pot. Add Red Chile Sauce and hominy. Adjust salt and other seasonings. Cook for one hour more, or keep simmering  until ready to eat. Fish out the large onion pieces and garlic. No need to discard the pig foot—some, like my viejo, think it’s the best part. The pozole should be brothy, so add boiling water or chicken broth if it runs too low.

Serve with with corn tortillas and garnishes of thin-sliced cabbage, chopped cilantro, dried oregano, thin-sliced red radishes, cut lemons or limes and avocado.

Serves 6 to 8.

Fat Mexican Women?

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

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

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

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

Eva Longoria

Salma Hayek

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because they are.

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

Caldo de rez con calabazas, elote y repollo

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

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

plenty of water

about ½ tablespoon salt

8 peppercorns; or, ½ teaspoon ground pepper

½ onion

2 cloves garlic

1 bay leaf

a pinch of dried thyme

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

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

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

2 or 3 zucchini, sliced crosswise less than ½ inch

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

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

fresh sprigs of cilantro

fresh limes cut into quarters

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

Mexican rice (click here for recipe)

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

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

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

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

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

Serves 6 to 8 persons.

The Cure For What's Ailing You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red or Sonora Style White Menudo

Menudo rojo o blanco al estilo Sonora

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red Chile Sauce Recipe

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

Directions (click here to see a visual tutorial to making Red Chile Sauce):

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

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

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 Pancho Villa.

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 makes him look 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.

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.

Albondigas Soup for the Blocked Writer’s Soul

It's not that I don't like you. It's not that I don't care. But most of the time, after doing things such as working and cooking, cleaning the house, paying bills, and gazing out the window for what seems like hours on end, I find that I simply cannot blog once a week. I have a problem—a big problem. You see . . . how can I put this: I have a writer's block the size of a boulder in the brain.

What to do? What to do?

I have searched high and low, looking for the best recipe to get your and my creative juices flowing, to help send us into wondrous flights of fancy. One that by its mere smell conjures up sweet memories that you thought you had forgotten for all time. The kind of food that makes you witty, intelligent and wise, and if not, then at least sound like you are.

Well, I have just one thing to say:

Albóndigas Soup.

Ah, let the inspiration begin . . .

The perfect soup to warm the heart and stomach of many a Mexican on a crisp fall evening. Once there is the slightest snap in the air, I can't look at another cold salad in the face until spring starts. Besides being one of my most favorite soups, it costs so little to make--how great is that? Since this is a complete meal, just add some cut limes and corn tortillas, and you are done. Most measurements are approximate, so you can fiddle with the recipe, making it as plain or as gussied up as you like. This soup is in many ways a blank canvas so feel free to improvise and add more or different vegetables. May I suggest thin sliced zucchini, julienned pasilla chilies or even red bell pepper for a bit of color? Just saute them along with the the garlic, celery, carrots and onion as instructed. Add a bit of red chili salsa for some heat, or even green tomatillo salsa (as I did here) to the finished soup.

Of course, food is more than just fuel--it is so much more: for some it is a drug, or others it means love, and for some of us, like Marcel Proust's madeleine cookie, it is the stuff of memory, imagination, and yes, amigos mios, inspiration.

Albóndigas Soup for the Blocked Writer's Soul

Ingredients:
Soup:
2 tablespoons olive or vegetable oil.
1 celery stalk, cut crosswise
½ or more white onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, smashed with the flat end of a knife
2 or 3 white, thin-skinned potatoes, chopped into bite-sized chunks (optional)
8 cups or more beef broth (homemade is best, but canned broth will do)
2 juicy tomatoes, diced; or, approximately 1 16 oz. can of Mexican-style stewed tomatoes
Approximately 1 cup of carrots, sliced crosswise into thin disks
1 bay leaf
Pinch of cumin or to taste
Salt (or garlic salt) and pepper to taste

Meatballs:
Approximately 1 lb of lean (about 7% fat) ground beef
½ bunch of cilantro, chopped
1½ cups of cooked white long-grain rice
1 large egg
1 heaping tablespoon of "Menudo Mix" or dried oregano
Directions:
Chop, slice, or dice all vegetables. In a large pot, sauté onion, garlic, celery and carrots in the vegetable oil until the onion is golden brown in color. Add tomatoes and continue sautéing over medium flame until the tomatoes are melted and the inside edge of the pot is a nice golden brown.
Next, add chicken broth, cumin, and bay leaf and potatoes. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for approximately 30 minutes, covered.
While soup is simmering, prepare meatballs as follows: In a large mixing bowl, mix ground beef, rice, egg, "menudo mix" or oregano, and cilantro by hand. Add salt and pepper to taste. Using a light touch (you do not want tough meatballs), roll mixture into balls a little less than 1 inch in diameter.
After 30 minutes, check soup and make sure that all the vegetables are tender, especially the carrots and celery. If not, continue cooking until they are done. Bring up to the heat and boil meatballs in soup for approximately 6 to 8 minutes. Check by taking out a meatball and splitting it in half to make sure there is no pink. Adjust salt and pepper to taste.
Serve with cut limes and hot corn tortillas, beans or whatever you want.
This soup tastes best the next day.
Variation: For the meatballs, omit cilantro. Use chopped fresh basil instead. ¡Ay, ay, ay!