AMAZING GRAZING~~~~Tacolicious Si!

“Mexican Grandmother”, stoneware sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

A woman’s kitchen is like her lingerie drawer—don’t try to rearrange it! No sensible “abuela” (grandmother) would tolerate someone such as a recently retired husband with no culinary experience entering her kitchen with the primary idea of change. The kitchen is her domain, where she rules unchallenged.

I have been fortunate, but I know people who, coming home from work or an afternoon away, find their kitchen completely turned around. It takes a lifetime to find the most efficient arrangement in a room used so often, but apparently only an afternoon to change it. But as Norman Cousins once said: “Life is an adventure in forgiveness.” So an occasional foray into unknown waters is OK. Most husbands are excellent dishwashers.

My family moved to Quadalajara, Mexico in the ’60s, my mother learned to speak Spanish and my father didn’t, and they found that what we had been calling tacos and enchiladas were strange and exotic food to the average Mexican. Sitting in a lovely shaded outdoor restaurant in Tlaquepaque surrounded by happy people drinking pitchers of sangria while tapping their feet to the rhythm of a mariachi band, we ordered tacos, and were puzzled after waiting for sour cream and grated cheese to arrive with our order. Our waiter was quick to tell us that what we had been eating for years was “Tex-Mex” tacos. Not that it wasn’t good, it just wasn’t “authentic” Mexican.

Mexico was good to my family. People came to visit, some even stayed awhile. My daughter came to climb a mountain by moonlight. My aunt and uncle moved there too, so they had their own little commune complete with shared maid service and barber.

People have been eating food wrapped in tortillas for more than 1,000 years, but the first known meaning of the word “taco” was seen in 1895. The taco is the best known street food—something you can pick up and eat with your hands. As such, it can contain anything you like; meat, cheese, fish, chicken, scrambled eggs, whatever.

Having a taquisa or taco party is the easiest way to entertain. Line up tortillas, 2 to 8 per person,, and keep them warm, have dishes of 3 or 4 fillings and let everyone make their own. This type of party has become very popular, and is really quite simple. People take a flat tortilla, put whatever they like on it, and fold it over.

Shredded chicken, pork or beef moistened with a bit of sauce, a big pot of chili beans and another of rice are good accompaniments, and beer to wash it all down with.

Making your own tortillas is easy, but if you live near a Mexican market or tortilla factory, they are a lot easier. Tortillas come in either corn or flour depending on what you like. I like the flour ones if you are going to fry them, but otherwise I like the corn. Sauces are all over the place. The El Paso brand sauces in the market are OK if you don’t want to make your own. The idea of a taquisa is to keep it simple and have a good time.

Now let’s cool off with a nice lemon dessert, PARFAIT PIE. I first made this about 45 years ago and loved it. It was delicious but I misplaced the recipe until last week. While screening for a lemon cheesecake recipe, there it was! So I’m sharing.

PARFAIT PIE

Butter crust:
Combine 1/2 cup butter with 2 Tbs. sugar (do not cream). use pastry blender.
Add 1 cup flour and mix just until dough forms. Place 1/4 c. crumbs in small pan. Press remaining crumbs evenly in a 9″ pie pan with well floured fingers.
Bake at 375 until light golden brown. Crumbs 10-12 min (mine took 7) pie crust 12-15 min. Cool
Filling:
Combine in small mixing bowl 1/3 c. (1/2 of 6 oz. partially thawed frozen lemonade. Add several drops yellow food coloring
1/2 cup sugar
1 unbeaten egg white. Beat at high speed until soft peaks form.
Beat 1 cup whipping cream until thick and fold into lemon mixture.
Spoon into cool baked shell. Sprinkle with crumbs and freeze until firm 4-6 hours covered.

NOW LISTEN TO ME: When it says 4-6 hours that’s what it means if you want to serve it for dinner, otherwise it gets too hard. I left it in over night and it was frozen so hard we had to wait awhile to enjoy it. Just freeze it and then put it in the fridge covered until you can’t stand it any longer.

OLE!

AMAZING GRAZING~~~~Quickfire Carbonara

Some days feel as if they are spinning out of control. Apparently we still have the same number of hours in each one, but due to the number of jobs necessary to keep our heads above water, or far too much playtime, when dinner time arrives most of us at one time or another roll our eyes and lament the absence of an idea to place upon the dinner table.

The “dinner hour” seems to have changed places too. Those who used to eat at seven, now eat at five. For some, the table itself seems to have shifted: TV trays, tea carts, and any number of quick change solutions take place in our busy society.

Remember when your mother called you in to dinner, or supper, and you all sat at the same table at the same time? She had started dinner preparations early in the day, and probably knew three days in advance what she was serving.

When the younger generation departs, they take with them the traditions of family dining. Gone are the ball game or music practice which kept dinner waiting on the stove or in the microwave. Now here you are, for better or worse, starving to death and nothing in your mind to keep the wolf at bay.

We eat a lot of pasta, both home made and dry. It’s quick to fix comfort food. I make this pasta dish frequently and never tire of it.

Fiddling around in the kitchen last night after coming home late I needed a sauce for a few frozen ravioli. I no longer can eat red sauce, so I’m always playing with other alternatives. For this one melted a couple tablespoons butter, added the zest of 1/2 lemon, then add its juice. Simmer about 1 min. then add about 1 cup white wine, cook about 5 min. add about 3 Tbs. sour cream or whipping cream and simmer till thickened. \Throw in a handful of parmegiano.

QUICKFIRE CARBONARA

Fry about 6 slices thick-sliced bacon cut into thin slices in a little bit of oil till golden brown. Add about 6 oz white wine, and reduce slightly. Keep warm while cooking spaghetti.

Beat a couple eggs, add 1/2 c parmesan, a little olive oil, Toss the drained pasta into the egg and cheese then add the bacon mixture.. See? It only took about 5 min. except for cooking the pasta which took you 12 min or so.

STAFF OF LIFE

Beside soup and possibly love, bread is perhaps the greatest source of sustenance the world has ever known. You can’t live on love alone, but it is possible to live on soup and bread.

It was 9:00 o’clock on a sunny summer morning when a small group of bright-eyed women, aprons in hand, converged on my kitchen, all intent upon taking home a loaf of their very own homemade bread for dinner. It wasn’t a regular cooking class, just a few curious friends interested in finding out what was so mysterious about a food which had sustained humans from nearly every culture since they stumbled out of their caves. We were doing different yeast recipes, and each woman took her choice of one.

The variety of bread around the world is mind-boggling. From tortillas from Mexico to the airy croissant of Paris, each have their place in history and on our dinner tables.

Bread is politically correct, not caring if you are a Democrat or a Republican, or a Catholic or Jew. A few yeast cells in a bowl of flour and some water, in a suitable length of time, can transport you to nirvana. The added pleasure of bread making is the glorious smell of baking bread, better to me than the most expensive bottled perfume.

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Once on a rainy morning in Paris a line of people drew me into the convention hall opposite Notre Dame cathedral where a large group of professional bakers were contending for prizes in their particular offerings. A good many were making sculptural renditions with bread dough. There were baskets, animals, flowers, etc. All impractical but beautiful.

The divine smell combined with the excitement and chatter of the great number of onlookers all engrossed in watching the expertise of the various bakers, was a morning I won’t forget. If you are a bread baker, or if your mother or grandmother supplied your daily bread you will know what I mean.

A week or so ago, I had made two kinds of bread plus a few jars of apricot jam. A grandson stopped by and promptly relieved me of a jar of jam and a loaf of bread. Clearly the smell of one or both were too much for him. I well remember my mother’s kitchen on baking day. It was like waiting for Christmas to come before she would allow me to cut into the warm loaf and slather it with jelly. It was a nice beacon to get me to hurry home from school on those days.

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In my own kitchen on our communal baking day, the several bowls were rising nicely except for one disappointed lady, whose dough looked sullen and unhappy with its situation in the bowl, so we had a vote and decided it might be better to toss it in the waste bin and she could try again. Given the unpredictability of yeast dough, the silly thing began to rise nicely while nestled comfortably among the leftover cabbage leaves! Not that it was planned, but cabbage can make a good biga, otherwise known as a yeast starter. Serendipitous.

We keep our kitchens so sanitary, and have all sorts of modern equipment to make baking fast and fun. We fuss over the dough trying to make it perfect. But yeast has a mind of its own and will do whatever it pleases.

In my first summer of staying with the Pueblo, I became part of the morning baking for the village. There were six of us working together to make about twenty-four loaves.

After the dough was mixed and while it was rising, a number of pieces of wood went into the beehive oven, and when the heat felt right and charred a small piece of paper, the dough went in. No timer, no thermometer, no bread pans, nothing fancy. When someone figured it was right, the first loaf came out and was thumped to see how it sounded, and it was pronounced done. Their people had been making bread the same way for centuries.

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My friend whose dough took a vacation in the wastebin, reminded me of that day recently. I don’t know if any of them still make bread, but I do. Every week. Drop over sometime and have a warm slice with butter and jam.

THE OLD TABLE

I wonder what stories an inanimate object such as an old dining table might reveal if we were able to listen? Would it sing of families gathered for their daily meals?
Perhaps she who cared for it remembered it from her own childhood, or if found in a quaint old shop, what homes had it rested in?

If a kitchen is the heart of the home, surely a dining table is its handmaiden.

The old woman stood by the table wondering these things. The sound of children pounding on this table while waiting impatiently for breakfast or dinner remains in her ears and she smiles at the memory.

She remembers them sitting diligently doing homework every afternoon as she plied them with cookies and milk. How anxious they were to grow up.

And then there were the grandchildren, who sometimes on a rainy day made “caves” underneath the table, and she let them keep their cave even though it interfered with dinner preparations. Such a little thing to do. She did enjoy spoiling them a bit.

Oh how many dinner parties and holidays this table had seen! A last minute waxing before the pristine white table cloth was gently lowered onto it so as not to muss it up. And the flower arrangements! Too many to even remember. It was so important make sure the silver was polished, and her mother’s crystal shining. It was tradition; this is the way she had been taught by her mother and grandmother.

Holiday dinners with the whole family milling around while the turkey or roast beef (or both) sent out their tantalizing smells were special memories. Everyone trying to help at the same time while children whined because it was taking so long. Her pies had been legendary, and there were alway several for a hoiliday; always pumpkin and apple, and her daughter loved pecan, so she made it for her. Each holiday she made something different that she hadn’t made before, and sometimes they liked it and sometimes they didn’t! She prepared for days ahead.

Do they ever think of those times too? And if they do, were they special to them as well?

Times and customs have changed. When everyone left, there were only two which meant learning to cook all over again, but she did it, and it was a new and different life, special in its own way. More casual perhaps, but satisfying, and there were always occasions when some of the family came again.

And then there was only the old woman, and the old table, though remaining, is in someones else’s dining room. It doesn’t look quite the same she thinks as she caresses the polished surface. Perhaps my eyes are not as strong as they once were, maybe I need new glasses.

“Mother, what are you doing alone in the dining room?” called her daughter. The old woman roused from her reverie replied “I was just remembering.”

THE WONDER OF BREAD

The joyful pealing of the bells of Notre Dame de Paris formed a beautiful musical accompaniment to an early morning cafe au lait and beckoned us across the Pont Neuf in spite of the pouring rain.  A frequent and sudden occurrence in Spring, some people were equipped with umbrellas, and others like me just got wet.

A large tent set up across the square from the cathedral pleaded for us to join the group who were hurrying in to get out of the rain.

Our senses were immediately assaulted by the delicious warm smells of baking bread.  We had stumbled into one of those memorable moments of travel I’m always talking about.  This time a competition of Paris bakers.

There were at least fifty bakers plying their trade, some wearing the toque blanche, and all offering an invitation to taste.  The variety of things made with bread dough was amazing; baguettes, rolls, loaves of many shapes, and even sculptured flowers and an Eiffel Tower.

Meanwhile, the sound of the bells and the rain on the roof of the tent, mixed with the warm and comforting smells made me feel I could stay in there forever enfolded in the familiar and sensual scent.  Much better than French perfume.

I am a bread baker.  Some of my most delightful memories are of bread baking in my mother’s and my grandmother’s kitchens.  I hope those same memories live in my children’s memories of my kitchen.

Bread actually is the staff of life.  Every culture has been making bread of some kind since the beginning of time.  The ingredients are so incredibly simple I can’t understand why everyone doesn’t make it.  Flour, water, yeast and maybe some salt for taste.  Yeast flies around in the air begging people to use it to make their bread rise (or their beer ferment).  You can even make your own sourdough by fermenting grapes.  Just put them in a cloth bag, bash them about a bit,  add some flour and wait a couple of weeks.  Voila! yeast!  Of course you can buy it already packaged, and it would be faster but not nearly as much fun.

Not for nothing do they call it your “daily bread”, it has sustained people all over the world for millenia.  The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam touts “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beside me singing in the wilderness”.  Possibly the reason they were doing so much singing had something to do with the jug of wine.

The slang word for money is of course “bread” and we absolutely do need that!  So put your money on homemade bread, it’s a Wonder.