Fat Tuesday - South of the Border?

American cuisine is a fine array of bastardized ethnic foods altered to fit our particular tastes. And I like that very much. While some authentic ethnic food is good, there are very good reasons that I don’t see other authentic restaurants take off in the states.

Mexican food is one of those tricky in-between ethnic cuisines. Being one of the few places I have travelled, I greatly enjoyed most of the food there. However, I also have come to savor a lot of the Americanized versions of Mexican food. This always presents a dilemma for me when I want to cook some Mexican food. Do I stick with the standard Americanized fair or do I venture into the authentic. Due to my sister having lived in Mexico for a few years, I have been able to pick up a few tricks of authentic cooking. However, my mom also has a long history of great Americanized Mexican cooking. Ahh, the eternal struggle.

Today, Americanized Mexican is going to win out as I revert to one of my all-time favorite dishes, my mom’s and previously my grandma’s Enchiladas. Given some of the ingredients it is apparent that this is an Americanized dish. However, what is also interesting is that given the labor intensiveness of the dish it is also obvious that my grandma came across this recipe quite a while ago when labor intensive activities were not shunned and prepared tortillas were not readily available.

While you can substitute prepared tortillas in place of the homemade ones, the difference in taste is vast, so I encourage at least one effort in the homemade realm.

Enchiladas

-1 to 2 lbs. of hamburger. I have also used shredded chicken, but that can quickly dry out.

-1 can of Hormel chili (hot with no beans)

-1 small can of enchilada sauce (mild-hot depending on your tastes)

-1 Tablespoon chili powder

-Brown hamburger and drain grease. Add can of chili and can of sauce. Add chili powder. I also add a little cumin, garlic powder, and paprika. Simmer this for a while till it thickens a bit. (45 minutes)

-Cheese: 12-16 oz. Grate cheese (whatever kind you want. I've used colby or cheddar or the mexican cheese.) Put in bowl

-Dice 1 onion. Put in bowl.

-Tortillas

-1 cup of flour

-1/2 cup of cornmeal

-1/4 tsp. salt

-1, 1/2 cup water (cool)

-Beat until smooth. Sometimes I might add a bit more water if they don't spread out nice on the griddle. I always double or triple this recipe to make a few pans.

-Fry these on a griddle or fry pan. I use teflon or cast iron so I don't need as much oil but if you use another pan I'm not sure how much oil you need to fry them but I try not to use too much. It is not like an inch in the bottom or anything. I just pour a couple tablespoons of oil, let the pan get hot and then spoon a spoon of batter on and spread it out to a small tortilla size. Fry a bit and flip it over and fry a bit on the other side. They should not get brown at all but be dough colored and pliable. Continue to add oil if they stick. This can go really well or be a nightmare, and stick all over the place. Make sure the pan and oil are hot but not smoking of course. It might take a little practice. As they are done someone can be filling them or you can put them in a pan and keep slightly warm.

-When ready put some meat in tortilla, some onion, some cheese and roll them up. Line them up in the pan. At the end I spread any remaining hamburger mix and cheese and onions on the top.

-The great thing about enchiladas is at this point you can either pop them in the oven of 20 to 30 minutes on 350 ( just until they bubble on the sides a bit.), or else you can just put them in the refrigerator covered and then bring them out and bake them when you are ready to cook them. They may need to bake a bit longer but 30 to 40 minutes is probably good.

Of Style and Function

Want to read my wife's side of the story? www.montanagert.blogspot.com

My senior year in high school I was voted best dressed. Fact checker, can we confirm that? Yes, that is correct, I, Adidas shirt, 7-days a week in jeans, stay-at-home-dad was the best-dressed man in his class. I was a dapper dandy if ever there was one. Pressed khakis, button downs under sweaters, and an array of spiffy shoes that could at one time have rivaled my wife.

But alas, life took its toll. It started at college, where my stream of disposable income slowed to a trickle. A girlfriend helped slow that trickle to a few drops. By college graduation my style was dated – a good five years behind the trend. But wait, a post-college job would surely save my waning wardrobe. No such luck. Dreams of law school turned to reality, and the little money I had left was going for books and gas [read beer]. By the end of first semester of law school I had become a full-fledged style utilitarian.

Does this shirt go with these shoes? Who cares – at least the shoes are comfortable so that if I need to sprint the eight blocks through St. Paul to get to my class my feet won’t hurt the rest of the day. Are these pants in right now? Probably not, but they’re the only pair you haven’t worn three times without washing.

This trend continued into dating my wife, getting married, and having a child. How I was able to woo my wife with my utilitarian wardrobe escapes me. Perhaps it was my brilliant conversational skills. Or maybe not. But either way she did marry me and I am now a stalwart of the utilitarian style community. Shoes: they better be comfortable – and preferably slip on. Shirts need to not show pit sweat and be cheap enough to not care if they are lost to a baby dinner. Pants are the important element. They need to be dark to not show stains, wrinkle free so they won’t need pressing, and durable so they can be worn and washed, or not washed, many times over.

My utilitarian style reached a pinnacle a few months back. We were visiting my parents in Minnesota in the summer. Showing my utilitarian skill, I packed as few clothes as possible to make the airport shuffle a little easier. This, unfortunately did not include shorts. I thought, I won’t be working out, and really, I can survive anything in jeans.

During the weekend, the family had a party to celebrate a number of birthdays within the family. Being a nice day out, we were all outside in the front yard. My brother and I being who we are, only required a few minutes until we were shooting baskets in the driveway. Both approaching our 30’s, our will to prove our remaining youthful vigor soon turned shooting baskets into playing against each other.

Now my brother and I have a long history of basketball together. Though we were two grades apart and rarely played together organized, we frequently went head-to-head in streetball grudge matches. Yes, there was hard defense played. Yes, there was shoving and maybe even a few punches thrown. Yes, there was frustration, crying, yelling, and cheap shots. And yes, I may have knocked out my brother’s two front teeth. And no, there is no long running tally of the record between us, because the only game that matters is the next time we play.

Being sociable and all, we invited two unwitting youthful family members into our grudge match. The teams were picked, and it was game on. Except for one fact. My brother has been playing basketball in the mornings for several months now, so he definitely had the advantage. And he had shorts and sneakers to my jeans and one remaining pair of stylish Steve Madden street shoes. This won’t do, I couldn’t give up this big an advantage before the game even starts.

I flagged down my dad and asked him for a pair of shorts. My dad did have a pair, but my dad being from the 70’s era basketball, and a good 70 pounds lighter than me, the shorts were… well let me just say they were high and tight. Or better put, these were a well fitting pair of unintentional bike shorts. Style, cool, my wife’s dignity be damned. It’s time to play basketball.

I took my time stretching out near my wife. Maybe this was how I wooed her. My hamstrings were particularly tight, so the toe touches were a must. Finally, it was game on. And what a game it was. Never in the history of basketball or dad’s has a chubby, out-of-shape dad moved so swiftly on the court. It was like I was unhindered by any clothes on the bottom half. The only wind drag was the hair on my legs. I huffed and puffed my way through three games before we all [read I] decided it was time to call it an afternoon.

I’d tell you who won, but as I said, the only game that matters is the next one. But be warned all who would challenge me. There is no length I will not go to in order to hang on to any remaining shred of my formerly great athletic ability. I may look silly, I may embarrass my wife, but if it comes down to style versus function there is no doubt what’s going to win with me.

Make Way For Babies

I have not spent much time around “baby culture”. Yes, apparently there is an entire “baby culture” of clothes, books, pictures, blogs, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc. Despite being an uncle several times over, I managed to maintain a safe distance from this culture and from babies in general. Indeed, I didn’t change my first diaper until my daughter came along.

So my normal life consisted of very few interactions with new parents. While I generally found them annoying, I gave little thought to the matter because my run-ins were rare. However, my new status as father has unceremoniously thrust me into the bowels of my own personal shopping hell.

This past Sunday my wife and I headed off to Babies R Us to pick up a few things for our daughter. She stayed with grandma to expedite the journey. Upon entering the store I was disarmed by what appeared to be a scene out of Mad Max gone parenthood. Heavily equipped parents roaming the store with their assault carts and a glare of warning on every face. As I rolled my cart around the store looking for the correct aisle I could discern in each parent a distinct heir of superiority normally reserved for movie stars and dictators.

I found our first aisle of interest, the carseats. However, I spotted trouble. Another couple had laid claim to the whole aisle. Apparently they had called ahead to have the store shut down while they shopped for their prodigy, but the store had declined to concede. So instead they co-opted the entire aisle. Now, this was a wide aisle that had two separate aisles in which two carts could pass in either aisle. In one aisle they had left their cart – sideways. Several feet down in the other aisle they were standing examining carseats, staggered so that no one could pass in that aisle. I wish I were making this up.

Impatient and angry, I headed over to the diaper section. If I can’t get down an aisle, at least I can head over to the open wall of diapers and mark one item off my list. My frequent trips to the grocery store for diapers has provided a familiarity with diaper statistics that would rival Ken Jennings’ knowledge of just about everything else. However, when I reach the wall I am faced with the Indian Defence. No, not the chess strategy, a family of Indians spread four wide across the diaper wall, shoulder to shoulder so no one can get through. Are you kidding me? What do you even need diapers for, your general attitude of superiority assures me that your baby doesn’t poop!

Oh well, my eagle eye spotted the prices anyhow, and I noted they were a good $10 higher than the grocery store. Back to the carseats. Upon my return I am pleased to find my wife has wiggled her way down one of the carseat aisles. Yes, they are still taking up both aisles. The husband in one aisle and the wife with cart and baby in the other. But my wife is at least within swinging distance of the other woman. I stand at the end of the aisle my arms crossed as I start to review in my mind the recent cases I have read on the temporary insanity defense.

My wife is pretending to look at carseats while eavesdropping as the store clerk gives the other woman the rundown on the safest carseats. From the glare in the other woman’s eyes it is evident that she believes her child is the only one entitled to the safety information on carseats. After the store clerk finishes her rundown, my wife and I quickly process the results of her fine espionage work and settle on the safest carseat. We move quickly to grab a box, not because there are limited numbers, but because I have a sneaking suspicion that the other couple may try to box us in and kill us for identifying what the safest seat was. No way any other baby should be as safe as theirs.

After putting some distance between us and them we are able to slow down a little. A quick review of the store prices reveals the other parents must believe that higher prices translate to superior quality despite the same name brand. We finally settle on a few necessary items and prepare for our escape. Again I am having flashbacks to Mad Max preparing to make a run for it from the marauders. I just hope I don’t end up in Thunderdome.

As I make a break for the checkout line a band of renegade parents instantly takes off after me. Miraculously I make it to a line where the only couple is currently checking out. Phew. However, as we stand there the scanning goes on and on, hundreds of items being stockpiled apparently. Is your child going to be leading the world in a post-apocalyptic future where they will need ten boxes of wipes? Finally, they reach the end. But now starts the coupons. Coupon after coupon after coupon. She must have had a coupon for every single item she purchased. Now a total - $438. Wow.

We get ready to move forward now, except the woman starts reviewing the charges. Apparently she believes she is entitled to an additional $2 off. $2 – out of $438!!!!!! We wait another five minutes before the store manager realizes the natives are restless as 8 couples have lined up behind me. A new register opens and we are finally able to checkout.

As we roll out I feel lucky to have my life. Good thing we’re not crazy. Yes, my daughter is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And yes, there are early indications that she may be the next Marie Currie. But we’re not that bad… are we? Well at least we’re not at the checkout still arguing about $2.

FYI: Courts have in the past recognized a temporary insanity defense of “irresistible impulse,” ie: the perpetrator knows right from wrong but is nonetheless unable to stop himself from committing an act he knows to be wrong. That sounds about right.

Fat Tuesday - No Soup For You

Fall has arrived in Northern Virginia, and with the cool weather comes reason to start making soups. Soup season is fantastic, it counters the cooling winds of the fall and fills the home with aromas that cannot be conjured from other cooking.

Sunday, I decided I would make a batch of soup for myself, my wife (you can read what she thought about it), and the in-laws. I had previously purchased a big book of soups and stews from the secondhand book store for $1, and I had gone through and marked several soups I wanted to make. Sunday morning I reviewed my selections and narrowed it down to chicken and corn chowder versus Mulligatawny. I was torn. For those who aren’t familiar, Mulligatawny is an Indian soup made famous by Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi episode. The soup is a little exotic if you don’t normally have Indian food, which I really don’t. But I decided to venture into imperial lands, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to yell NO SOUP FOR YOU!

However, I forgot my wife and her family are not really Seinfeld fans, so no one was going to laugh at my jokes. Somehow I had forgotten the fact that I ran into the same problem when I made Jambalaya. Despite my best Newman impressions waddling around the kitchen saying “Jambalaya” no one laughed. Where is my sister Marie when I need her. Hello? Is this thing on?

I still find it unsettling whenever I make efforts at creating exotic foods. Growing up in my middle-class suburban life, I didn’t venture out in the taste world. I hated onions for most of my young life. How am I to know what this soup is supposed to taste like. Even more unsettling, I feel my cooking ventures start to send me into hipster territory, an area I generally avoid like a rash on a fast-food cashier.

Either way, I did complete my batch of Mulligatawny. I kept my soup nazi references to myself. I don’t actually know if it tasted authentic, but despite my father-in-law’s initial reaction of “it smells pungent in here,” everyone seemed to keep it down.

Now for the recipe, that’s a bit of a problem. Since I already didn’t know what I was doing, I looked up a few other recipes and ended up piecing them together. Unfortunately, I don’t remember what all was in there. Sorry. But if you go over to foodnetwork.com Emeril has a decent recipe that I used part of.