La Chica Who Came In From The Cold: Chile Verde

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

Well,that chica is me.

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

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

I planted a garden and painted some pictures.

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

and even knitted a sweater.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chile Verde

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

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

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

 

Or, you can toast them on the comal.

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

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

Ingredients:

3 pounds pork shoulder butt

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

1 onion

2-3 large cloves of garlic (unpeeled)

salt and pepper to taste

¼ teaspoon dried oregano

1 bay leaf

up to 1 teaspoon ground cumin, or to taste

⅛ to ¼ teaspoon sugar (optional)

4 or 5 fresh Poblano and/or Anahiem chiles

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

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

cilantro to taste—I used ½ bunch for this recipe

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

Directions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tastes maravilloso the next day.

Serves 6 to 8 persons.

Corn Tortillas: Or, The Female Valentino

She was billed The Female Rudolph Valentino, the dark exotic beauty from Hollywood's Silent Film Era. Orson Welles, ten years her junior, fell deeply in love with her and called her the "most exciting woman he had ever met." And yet I doubt that the fabulosa Dolores del Río knew how to make homemade corn tortillas.

As I see these vintage publicity shots of her wearing the fine gowns that the best designers of the day created just for her, I cannot see this daughter of an aristocratic Mexican family mixing the ground corn, lime and water with her lady-like hands or rolling the masa (dough) into balls or flattening them in a tortilla press. It is hard to imagine her standing over a hot fire while she heats up those homemade corn tortillas on a cast iron comal and serving them with beans and rice to her family. And why would she? Leaving behind a Mexico that had been ravaged by a bloody revolution that left at least a million dead, she came to Hollywood and gained international acclaim as a singer, dancer and actress. And yet, despite her extraordinary talents and undeniable beauty, the advent of Talkies revealed her foreign accent and so her star gradually began to fade. By the 1940's she returned to her native country and made some classic movies that are a part of the canon of The Golden Age of Mexican Cinema.

Who can forget María Candelaria with Dolores in the title role, which won Mexico The Cannes Film Festival's Palme d'Or Award for Best Picture in 1943? Her portrayal of Maria Candelaria, the beautiful but doomed Indian girl is heartbreaking to watch, so much so that is hard to believe that Dolores did not understand how it felt to be poor and dark and misunderstood. In other films, hers is the tragic but stoically dignified face of the rural woman who loses a husband or son to war. Watching her films as a young girl, I think I finally found a window into the world that my mother spoke about but is no more.

Perhaps I was wrong about Dolores del Río. Could it be that her world was not as rarified as I thought? Maybe, just maybe, this beautiful and fine artist knew a thing or two about making corn tortillas after all.

Homemade Corn Tortillas

It is difficult to image Mexican food without corn tortillas for their history goes back thousands of years to Pre-Hispanic times. Once you make them at home, you will see tacos and tortillas in a whole new light—like homemade bread, its flavor is irresistible. No dried out, store-bought corn tortilla can compare. Besides being lots of fun to make, those friends of yours who have never tasted a homemade tortilla will forever rave about your cooking. It's true!

Depending on how hard you press your tortilla press, your tortilla can be thin or as thick as you want. I like mine a little thick. I like to buy my flour at the Mexican foods market in my neighborhood, but you can find corn tortilla flour at almost any grocery store, especially in the Western part of the United States.They are absolutely no trouble to make. Just make only as much as you need, because if you make a lot, you are going to eat way too many of them, and what will happen to your waistline?

(Note: I couldn't help but notice that that corn tortilla flour that I buy at my Mexican market makes the softest and flexible corn tortillas I had ever tasted. Their secret? Just add a bit of Harina La Pina flour to your corn tortilla masa as I have done in this recipe. This is especially nice if you have to save a few tortillas for later but you don't want them to harden. Still, an all corn tortilla is more flavorful.)

Ingredients:

2 cups corn tortilla flour

1 1/3 cups hot water water

To make soft corn tortillas (optional): Add 2 to 3 heaping tablespoons of Harina La Pina white flour that is made especially for making flour tortillas. Add 1 tablespoon water for every tablespoon of white flour. Please do not use all purpose flour.
Instructions
Pre-heat your griddle to medium-high heat (cast iron is best, but any griddle will do). When a drop of water sizzles and dances on the griddle, you are ready to heat the flattened corn tortilla.

While the griddle is heating, take the corn flour and water and mix them together. Knead the masa (dough) until it is no longer sticky. (If you have added Harina La Pina flour, the balls will be somewhat sticky.) Form into small to medium size balls and put each one between two plastic sheets and press flat it with a tortilla press as shown.

Carefully peel the plastic sheets away from the flattened tortilla and carefully lay it on the griddle. Heat the tortilla on the heated griddle for about 30 seconds or so, and, using a steel spatula, flip it on the other side. Flip the tortilla once again, and put in a tortilla warmer or wrapped in a cloth. Put any unused corn tortilla masa in a plastic bag and store in your refrigerator. It will keep for about a week. Before making the tortillas, bring the masa to room temperture so they will not come out stiff.

Enjoy corn tortillas with any kind of Mexican food, or do as I and most Mexicans do: eat them with everything, even with a hotdog and mustard!

No Rice For El Cucuy

 He was a son of immigrants who succeeded in reaching his life's ambitions. But, ignoring the lessons of his honorable, but poor, father, he used every advantage of education and charisma--plus a bit of intimidation and shady dealings, to enrich his pockets and gain undue prominence. Captivated by his dark good looks and overwhelmed by the force of his personality, she let herself be taken in by him.

Her mother, though, saw past the suave veneer, beyond the carefully cultivated image of the upstanding citizen: she saw only arrogance and rapaciousness, which caused him to forget compassion and good principles. In Mexico when she was young, she knew of men with the same easy laugh and wolf-like eyes, alert to any petty vanity of a poor little cook or maid, and using it against her to flatter and allure her until, like a little bird, she was caught in a cage of disgrace and humiliation.

Sooner or later that man would discard her precious daughter like a basurita--a little piece of trash. Please, she begged her, don't leave with ese cucuy de traje—that devil in a suit. "El Cucuy" was nothing if not amused when he heard his new nickname, for he thought it fit him as well as he wore Armani. As for her now stubborn as a goat daughter, she left without saying goodbye one sunny morning, leaving the front door wide open as she marched out with her suitcases in her hands, throwing them in the backseat of her convertible, and driving off with her long hair flapping in the wind.

So, esa santurrona--the sanctimonious old bag thought he was a bad man. That mattered nothing to him. He was confident that he would eventually win over the mother as surely as he had seduced the daughter. In reality, the thought of una pobretona de vieja—some poor, but respectable, older woman—looking down her nose on him, rankled his well manicured feathers. When he had her feeding out of his hand, he would teach her a little lesson in respect.

Too bad for him that he never got that chance—because la pobretona's daughter finally understood that she had become the plaything of a man who made it perfectly clear that he cared nada for her, except to amuse him until the day he tired of her. Why worry about your honor now? You should have thought of that when that hypocrita of a mother of yours sold you off, he told her with his mouth twisted into a cruel little smile.

She responded by leaving him for good the next day.

She headed to the dusty south end of town, with its taco shops, swap meets and chile vendors who lined the streets selling large bunches of hot dark red New Mexico chiles. To a place where people polish their cars in their front yards drinking beer, not champagne, while listening to Norteña and Old School music blaring from stereos. A place she had hoped never to return to, ever.

Pulling in front of an old brick house with a rose and cactus garden, she noticed that her mother had planted some tomato and chile plants. Soon her mother would use them to make a fiery salsa that no one could stop eating. An old mesquite tree provided the only shade from the hot Arizona sun. Inside the dark house the air conditioner was roaring, but the kitchen was hot. She smelled the red spicy molé her mother was cooking for that day. Then she saw her little round figure at the ancient stove frying some rice with onions and garlic in a wide pan. Her mother heard her voice as she came through the door, but pretended not to notice until she stood right at her side. She did not turn around.

"So, you left him." Both face and voice were devoid of expression.
"Yes."
Pouring fresh tomato purée into the fried rice, her mother then started frying it until it was a little burned.
"You know I never liked that man."
"I know that."

Her mother had not looked at her once, but continued cooking. Coming here was a mistake, she thought to herself. She wants to have nothing to do with me. Her tight dress felt uncomfortable in the stifling heat, her tongue was swollen from thirst. Neither spoke for a minute or two.

"I suppose you want to stay here." This can't be my daughter, her mother thought as she caught the sight of her daughter's stilletos. She looks like she just stepped out of a telenovela [a soap opera].

"Only if you let me," she replied with a humility that was at odds with her appearance, "but even if you don't, I'm never going back to that place."

The hardness in her daughter's voice surprised her and made her hesitate, but she did not say a word as she poured the chicken broth into the rice. Then, above the hissing sound of the liquid meeting the hot pan, her mother peered over and demanded, "And what do you have in those suitcases, all that basura—trash—that sinvergüenza--that shameless no good--bought you?"

"Nothing, only my self-respect . . ." she heard herself say. "Only my self-respect," she repeated tonelessly as if she were on autopilot. Only then did she realize that she was still carrying her suitcases, clutching them so tightly that her arms and fingers hurt.

Her mother finally turned to look at her daughter for the very first time since she entered the house. Regret over her harsh words cast a shadow over her features. She bowed her head to wipe the perspiration from her forehead with the edge of her apron. When she looked up, her daughter's dark eyes, so much like her own, met hers, and in that instant they spoke in that silent language that only a mother and daughter understand—of estrangement and reconciliation, of hurt and forgiveness, of shame and redemption, of a love that no hombre malo—bad man—could ever undo.

"Mamá," her daughter cried, finally letting the suitcases drop to the floor.

There are many things you can learn from your mamá, one is spotting a cucuy from a mile away. Another is making Arroz a La Mexicana for the day when you make it for someone who really loves your cooking—and you.

Mexican Rice--"Arroz a la mexicana"

(Or, How to Make Bad Rice)
To make bad rice all you need to do is to cook it in a cheap, lightweight pot with a loose-fitting lid. But, if you want to make great rice, here's what you do: use a heavy-bottomed pot or wide pan (preferably) with a tight fitting lid. (Place wax paper or aluminum foil under the lid to insure a tight seal.) Prior to cooking, rinse the rice many times until the water runs clear. Dry with a clean towel.

What you need:

1 ½ cups of white long grain rice
2/3 cup of chopped white onion
1 or 2 large garlic cloves
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 average sized tomatos, the juiciest you can find; OR, an 8 oz. can of tomato sauce; OR, 2 or 3 canned tomatoes with some its juice

Dash of dried oregano, or to taste

Pinch of cumin, or to taste

2 ½ cups of chicken broth

Salt to taste

Coarsely chop the fresh or canned tomato and purée in the blender. Set aside. Rinse the rice as instructed above. Heat the pot or pan over high heat for a minute or two. Then add vegetable oil. When the oil is very hot, but not smoking, add the rice. Turn down heat to medium. Sauté rice until it is golden. Add garlic and onion. Continue to sauté until the onion is semi-transparent. Add tomato or tomato sauce.

Continue to sautée until the tomato purée forms into a paste and is slightly "burned" (you will see that the sides of the pan are golden brown). Add the chicken broth. Bring to a boil. Cover with lid and lower heat to a low simmer. Continue cooking for about 25 minutes or so.

Variation: add ½ cup of peas, or a little bit of sliced cooked carrots when adding the chicken broth.

Tip: If you find that after cooking time, the rice is still not completely cooked, but the chicken broth has completely evaporated, add a little bit of boiling water. Replace the lid and wait a few minutes.

The Musical Fruit--A Confession

No Cheddar cheese on my refried beans, thank you very much. It’s not that I dislike Cheddar, but would you put chile salsa on Beef Wellington? So why put an Anglo-American cheese on my Mexican beans, pray tell?

You will see refried beans in a whole new light when you top them with authentic Mexican cheese. Take, for example, Cotija cheese. It is a white, salty, crumbly, and frankly, stinky cheese that smells of dirty socks (By the way, did I mention that it is delicious? To think that I detested it as a child—ay, ay, ay, what I was I thinking?) When you top creamy refried beans with Cotija cheese, they complement each other so perfectly that you will forget about Cheddar. If Cotija does not thrill you, not to worry. There are other Mexican cheeses to delight your palate (more on that in a later post.) Then you will understand why so many adore beans even if they are full of Vitaminas P-2 (P^eh′-2^dos—“Fart Vitamins”).

Now that we are on the subject, how can one prepare beans without causing us to sound off a flatulent note, even if it does smells like a rose? Some claim that soaking them overnight, tossing out the water, and starting again with fresh water will do the trick. I have found, though, that this washes away some of the flavor and that beautiful red-brown color. Others say adding a tablespoon of bicarbonate of soda (baking soda) to the water while the beans are cooking helps, but I have never tried it myself.


Generally speaking, those of the male sex absolutely love the musicality of beans. Not content to toot alone, some tíos impart their appreciation to the next generation of bean lovers. With all the confidence of an orchestra conductor waving his baton, they tell an unsuspecting little nephew, "Here, Estebanito, pull my finger." Then we hear a loud blast that reminds you of trumpets heralding the arrival of the matador when he steps into the bullring. The life of that little boy will never be the same—and neither will the smell in the house.

Being only human, it is inevitable that on occasion one will have an “accident” now and then, especially when all are together eating beans at a family fiesta. If this happens to you, and your brother-in-law accuses you of polluting the atmosphere, do this: With an arched eyebrow and a stern gaze, act as though he has done irreparable harm to your oh-so-delicate feminine dignity. Then, with a heavy sigh, turn away without responding to his malodorous remark. Everyone will think that it was he who befouled the air and not you. Now you can smile, if only to yourself. No need to confess your sin, certainly not to that pedito—little fart--of a brother-in-law.

Musical Refried Beans

What you need:

A pot or skillet, depending on how much you are planning to prepare.

A slotted spoon

A potato masher

Cooked pinto beans with broth. (Click here.)

Pork lard, or, bacon grease, or, corn oil, or even a little bit of butter

Cotija or other authentic Mexican cheese

Salt to taste

Take the pot or skillet and over medium heat melt 2 to 3 tablespoons of lard, bacon grease or oil depending on your taste. Add more if you are making enough for a crowd. Using the slotted spoon, scoop up as many beans as you need and put them over the melted fat. Mash the beans using the potato masher until you reach the consistency that you prefer. Some prefer their refried beans mashed to a thick paste, others prefer a lighter touch—the choice is up to you. If you find that the beans are too thick, dilute with some bean broth. Salt to taste if necessary. (Variation: In Sonora State, they put a little milk in their beans, which makes them very creamy. Perhaps you’d like to try it one day.)

Put the beans in a large serving bowl. Just before serving, remember to top with some cheese, even if it is Cheddar, and sit back and enjoy the “music”.

La Rancherita's Pot of Beans

Dedicated to the memory of friends, past and present, who are no longer living.

"In my life, I've loved them all."

Once upon a time in old Mexico, there lived a young country maiden who left her ranchito in the hills to work as a cook for two rich cotorras*—old maids--who lived in a pueblo close by. There in the blue talavera tile kitchen with a wood burning stove she cooked the most enchanting dishes. No red sunset could compare with the brilliant red of her molés, nor the Aztec sun with her golden corn tortillas. And, what could be said of her pinto beans, except to say that they were the reddish brown of the soil of Mexico. How sad that no one spoke to her, never bothering to take notice of her if she chanced to walk past, because she was small and dark, because she came from the rancho, because she was poor.

On one spring night, there was a dance in the pueblo. A Sonoran tortilla moon hung in the sky, so large and luminous, that there was hardly any need to light up the plaza. The people came eager to dance to the Norteño band with its drums and accordions, and the Mariachis with their trumpets, violins and harp . The young women, some hot and spicy, others cool and creamy, all deliciously beautiful, quickly found someone to dance with. The little cook stood there gazing at them from the street where she sold bean tacos. How fetching they looked with their silk ruffled red and green tomatillo salsa colored dresses and laced up suede boots—while she wore a faded cotton dress and a pair of huaraches. A red ribbon tied to her braid was her only adornment.

From a short distance, she saw a man ride into town mounted on a black horse. He was a tall man with a large moustache, elegantly dressed in a white charro suit with a sterling silver horse-head buckle on his jacket with matching botonaduras running down the sides of his trousers. As he slid off his mount, the town’s beauties surrounded him eager to get him to dance with them, but he paid them little mind because he was very hungry. Imagine his disappointment when he saw that all of the street vendors had gone home, except for the little cook.

--What do you have to eat?

--Only a bit of beans and tortillas with a little chile.

--Serve me, then, for I am hungry.

When he took a bite of her bean taco, he was astounded—ay, Chihuahua, never in his life had he tasted such delicious beans. He downed the taco and for some reason he felt like dancing. He looked around and saw the little cook watching the dancers and singing to the music in a sweet little voice. So he came up to her stall and asked,

--Señorita, may I have this dance?

She timidly looked up at him, but turned away and almost buried her face in her shawl. For an instant the charro thought that she would refuse him, but without saying a word, she put her little brown hand in his.

During the dance, the charro felt something he had never felt before. This little young woman smelled of roses and cinnamon, chilies and spices, and something else, though he knew not what, but it reminded him of his mother and father and of happy times with his brothers and sisters all together. He had known other women, but he was bored with their stale charms and false flattery. But this girl, with her black eyes and dark skin was delicately exquisite in all her simplicity. It was as if a little fairy had hopped on his shoulder and took him by the hand flying off to a rare fantastic world that existed only in the imagination. As for the little cook, she was no longer afraid of the tall charro. Somehow, she knew that he understood her, without words, without having to offer any explanations. They did not know how long they danced to the sounds of the mariachi, but by the time their reverie came to an end, most of the pueblo had gone home.

Under the light of that Sonoran moon, the charro escorted the little cook back home. She sat on his great black horse, while he held the reins and walked by her side. When they finally reached her door, he took off his sombrero, and after kissing her hand he bid her goodnight. She did not respond to his gallantry, nor did she even look at his face, but I can promise you that someone in that house did not sleep that night.

The next morning she found a bouquet of calla lilies with a note that bore the inscription, “Ay, chiquita de mi corazón. I know not what you did to me last night, but I dreamed of you and of your bean tacos. Marry me, por favor.”

He only loves me because of the tacos, thought she, and digging in her little heels, she resolved to have nothing to do with him. Her disdain, however, did not impede him one bit, for he pursued, and begged and pleaded with her even more. Never was seen a man walking about tan muerto de amor—so dead from love. The people of the pueblo shook their heads in bewilderment. Carajos—how could a man so tall and formidable allow himself to be bewitched by a short little cook who hardly ever spoke? What poison, they asked, did she put in his food the night they met? Because the little cook did put poison in all of her food, the deadliest of them all—el amor.

When the jasmine offers up its sweet thick fragrance to the still and soft air, and the constellations hang like grape clusters across the starry firmament, so was the night when the charro came with la serenata proclaiming his heart’s passion, his lost hope, his desperate love. Listening to those plaintive melodies from her little upstairs chamber, the little cook could no longer contain what she had locked away in her heart. Lighting a candle and opening the window, she removed the red ribbon from her long black hair and let it drop to the ground below.

And so the little cook and the tall charro were wed. It is said they left Mexico for El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles where they opened a restaurant close to the plaza were the mariachis still play. There she prepared the most enchanting dishes, molés the color of sunsets, golden Aztec tortillas, and what could be said of her beans, except that they were the color of the soil of Mexico. They named it “Mi Rancherita” and they loved each other and cooked together for the rest of their days.

You can stop your sighing (or rolling your eyes), because now that I have your attention, I regret to inform you that there are certain Señoritas who do not know a hill of beans . . . about cooking beans. Ay, ay, ay, that will not do. You might be an expert in high finance or in sending crooks to prison, but do you think that your abuelita will care? She will care if you arrive with some nasty beans the gray-brown color of field mice to the next family fiesta. You do not want to ruin the fiesta, no? And, what is a Mexican fiesta without beans?

I hope that you will be inspired to make beans just like our little cook, and like her, put a little of that special poison in all of your food—because you never know when you will meet your own tall, handsome and hungry charro.

^{*Spinsters, slang (literally, parrots)}

La Rancherita’s Perfect Pot of Beans

(Frijoles de la olla)

What you need:

Fresh dried pinto beans

Lots of water

Garlic and onion

Sea salt

A pot, large, medium or small, depending on how much you want.

As I said in my last post, measurements need not be precise, especially when it comes to cooking beans. You can cook as little or as many beans as you like, so just follow these guidelines:

1. Beans must be fresh and rinsed clean. No old, wrinkly beans or dirt!

2. Use plenty of fresh water, at least 2 inches (about 6 cm) above the top of the beans—more if you are using a slow cooker and will be gone for most of the day. You don’t want to come home to dried out or burned beans—they’ll smell like, you know, peditos.

3. Put in about 2 or more flattened cloves of garlic, and ½ a white onion and salt to taste (More if you are cooking beans for a crowd).

4. Bring beans to a fast boil. Then reduce heat to a slow simmer, covered. To prevent the beans from spilling over, make sure that the lid is slightly ajar so that a little steam will escape.

5. Check the beans every once in a while. If the water is running low, pour boiling water on the beans. Pouring cold water will slow down cooking time and will turn your beans that nasty gray-brown color.

6. Do not allow your beans to cool off for the same reason as above.

7. Keep cooking the beans until they are soft and a beautiful red-brown color. (The longer you cook the beans the richer the color and flavor.) Keep simmering them until you are ready to eat them straight or prepare them in a different way (refried, etc.)

8. Fish out the onion and garlic.

A favorite of mine is pinto bean soup. Add diced green onion, chopped cilantro, salsa or minced jalapeño or serrano chiles and, if you want, chunks of avocado. Serve with corn tortillas. It is simple and delicious.