More tripe is consumed on January 1 than any other day of the year, with the possible exception of Cinco de Mayo (Mexican Independence Day) or September 16th (The "Other" Mexican Independence Day), in the form of Menudo.
Menudo vendors ply their delicious product after the cantinas/bars close or on Sunday...as a hangover cure.
Some ladies bring vats of Menudo to early Mass to sell by the bucketful to church goers as they leave the church. The ex's grandmother Jesus brought us home some after Mass one year when we visited her in Phoenix. She was very particular about whose Menudo she purchased...saying that some cooks didn't know how to make the "beautiful" dish...and it's true that carefully cleaned honeycomb tripe is much more pleasing to the eye and palate. If it looks slapdash or slimy...PASS it by!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Menudo_(soup)
Below is one of the best recipes I've found for Menudo, although it does not specify Honeycomb tripe, and says to use frozen hominy...phooey, I've always used canned added near the end of cooking, and I defy anyone to tell the difference. Preparing the tripe is the most important part of this dish. The ex-MIL used to say it was a matter of cleaning, and "cooking the piss out of it". I use 2 waters to cook the meat.
I've usually only used pigs feet,only 1 or 2 trotters...and discarded them before serving. To me the feet, either calf or pig, are used merely for flavor, and as a sort of emollient. When refrigerated the menudo will jell, just like consomme...that's from the bones you've simmered. You can also skim off most of the fat by refrigerating the dish before serving, but it's not terribly necessary if you've cleaned the meat properly. The idea of facing a foot in my soup is more than I could handle with a hangover, thenkyewveddymuch.
I also add canned Chile Colorado sauce, just enough to color the broth. To me the pleasure of this soup is having all the additional flavoring ingredients on the side...to add as personal taste dictates. Therefore I serve all the companion ingredients in small bowls. Dried chili flakes, green onions, dried oregano, fresh mint sprigs, generous lemon or lime wedges, jalapenos, salsa cruda, and plenty of fresh hot tortillas.
The following recipe was provided by David Courtland:
3 pounds tripe
3 pounds nixtamal (hominy) frozen, not canned
3 pounds pigs feet (not calves) cut into quarters
1 large onion diced
1 bunch green onion cut up in 1/4" pieces
1 bunch of cilantro chopped
2 tablespoons Oregano
1 tablespoon black pepper
1 tablespoon red pepper flakes
1 head of garlic
2 tablespoons salt
Wash tripe thoroughly, remove excess fat and cut into bite sized pieces, wash nixtamal and pigs feet well and combine all ingredient in a large pot with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil and simmer slowly until corn opens and is cooked (not overcooked). Skim off grease. It is best if you can refrigerate it in order to remove all grease.
Serve with fresh cilantro, chopped green onion, chiltepin, limon and toasted bolillos.
Buen provecho!!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Twenty years a-growing and then...
suddenly people are offended enough by the language in this tune; so much that the BBC faded the lyrics in spots? What on earth is wrong with people these days?
I don't even particularly LIKE the song, but I don't find the lyrics a problem, in the context they are used. Gritty realism yeah, but that's what the song is ABOUT, innit? After all these years the song has become if not a classic, certainly a cultish aspect...it's a little late for gays or women, or anyone else to get their knickers in a twist over the tone of the lyrics. Damn foolishness, and I'm glad the BBC rescinded their decision to censor the song...and I'll do my bit to promote the song...just because I can.
I don't even particularly LIKE the song, but I don't find the lyrics a problem, in the context they are used. Gritty realism yeah, but that's what the song is ABOUT, innit? After all these years the song has become if not a classic, certainly a cultish aspect...it's a little late for gays or women, or anyone else to get their knickers in a twist over the tone of the lyrics. Damn foolishness, and I'm glad the BBC rescinded their decision to censor the song...and I'll do my bit to promote the song...just because I can.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Mad Day in Macon
The car showed signs of system failure as we rolled into a service station on the outskirts of Macon, Georgia one sultry summer afternoon in the late 60’s. We had left Atlanta that morning, on our way back to the eastern shore of Maryland, after a failed attempt to retrieve my daughters from their holiday with their jealous father. I was miserably depressed, so having car trouble was no surprise, but we had spent most of our cash on a shyster in Atlanta whose advice was to kidnap the girls, because a court case in Georgia would be a waste of money, since I was already their legal guardian, but the ex-husband had spirited the girls away somewhere and finding them would be a long process, even with the law on my side. We paid the lawyer in cash and with his useless counsel burning in my mind headed toward home in anguished silence, until we got to Macon.
It was a hazy slow motion day, but there were two mechanics puttering in the cooler depths of the garage as we rolled the car in; I rolled the window down, and settled back to wait while my man climbed out to explain what was happening with the inner working of the motor.
They popped the hood and a one of the mechanics disappeared to peer at the mystery of the 58 Chevy that had been up to now, so reliable. I heard them murmuring back and forth, and hubby jumped in and turned the key, numerous times, testing, testing. I climbed out of the car and went in search of a restroom.
To me there is nothing more boring than listening to men talk shop over a sick car. There was nothing to do but wander around the garage staring dumbly at the tires stacked against the walls, greasy piles of soiled shop rags, hanging belts, tools, chains, stained calendars of hunting dogs or pouty-mouthed women, on the wrong month or year; hiding out in the grimy employees bathroom offered no option. Outside was too muggy and uninteresting. We really were on the outskirts of nowhere without even a coffee shop within view of the roadside garage. So I strolled around, listening to the droning of the men as they discussed possibilities. The second mechanic joined them, and I sighed, wondering how much this business was going to cost us as I watched first one head and then the other dip under the hood, like...grease monkeys. Where we would get the money for repairs didn’t bother me too much at the time…I had our checkbook at least.
“Okay, try ‘er now.” The motor tried, fired, and died. Repeatedly, while the trio played best-guess-man-ship.
“Wal’ it ain’t the plugs, n’ th’ wares look good. Yer got gas”
“Batt’ry’s got juice and ah cleaned up the posts. Good spark thare…mought be the float.”
“Lemme put a light to ‘er”
I had a moment’s panic thinking the guy was going to whip out a Zippo and blow us all to hell, and giggled nervously, but he shuffled off and ambled back with some kind of ray gun device I learned later was a timing light. After he fiddled with that the car seemed to sound better but still sputtered and died right away.
“Mought’n need a new carburetor; mebbe a float’s all…”
Oh gawd. I knew carburetors were less expensive than new cars, but more than we actually could afford. My mind raced trying to figure out where the hell we could get money, even if they accepted a check. I strolled outside to the Coke machine nestled under the canopy over the front door of the service station, feeling sick.
All I’d wanted to do was pick up my children and go back to a normal life and now we might not even be able to get home. And there we were in nowhere, Georgia. It was mind numbing; I wanted to lie down on a cold marble slab…but there wasn’t one. There was only a cloud of dust as a couple of whooping boys flew past me on bicycles, bare brown legs peddling as fast as they could, oblivious to the oppressive air. I turned back to the darkness of the garage, wiping my forehead with one chilled hand, hating Georgia, cars, and men in general.
Husband and one mechanic had their heads under the hood still, murmuring and tinkering. The other had gone into the dingy little office. I heard some mumblings and the word ‘float’ again.
Whatever happened to A& W Root Beer I wondered. My very first wages came from an A & W Drive Inn when I was in high school. Best floats ever. Life was so full of promise then. Idaho summers were hot too, but so much drier than the south…how did I ever get here. I climbed into the car, reclined the seat and listened to the men chitchat under the hood until I dozed off and nearly spilled my Coke. The other shop jockey had returned and the three men stood away from the car, resembling the witches from Macbeth. I climbed out of the car and went back to the bathroom to wash my hands…catching snatches of their conversation through the flimsy door. The term ‘float’ was being bandied about again. How many times they were going to say it before an agreement was reached? A laugh was forming inside me somewhere. MEN! I dabbled a little cool water in my eyes…wiped my hands on my hair and returned in time to see the three heads disappear under the hood again. Moments later the men emerged in concert.
Perfectly innocuous, absolutely serious husband spoke, “So… you think it’s the float?
I nearly lost my knees as the rush of explosive laughter burst out of me. The three witches stared wide-eyed as I struggled to stifle my breathless giggling, failed and wobbled to the car. By the time I collapsed cackling on the front seat, helpless tears streaming down my face, gasping for breath, too near hysteria, the mechanics were working furiously to install the part we needed to get us the hell off the premises and presumably ‘outta’ Georgia.
None of it was all that funny, but I had to find the humor to smother the misery that threatened to drown me. From that day to this…when things appear hopeless I take comfort in remembering that day in Macon, Georgia. It keeps me afloat. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
Every woman I’ve ever known loves hearing this story, relating it to some similar situation in their lives. Every man who hears the story has but one comment.
“Well…WAS it the float?”
© Angharod Brown-Bair 2007
It was a hazy slow motion day, but there were two mechanics puttering in the cooler depths of the garage as we rolled the car in; I rolled the window down, and settled back to wait while my man climbed out to explain what was happening with the inner working of the motor.
They popped the hood and a one of the mechanics disappeared to peer at the mystery of the 58 Chevy that had been up to now, so reliable. I heard them murmuring back and forth, and hubby jumped in and turned the key, numerous times, testing, testing. I climbed out of the car and went in search of a restroom.
To me there is nothing more boring than listening to men talk shop over a sick car. There was nothing to do but wander around the garage staring dumbly at the tires stacked against the walls, greasy piles of soiled shop rags, hanging belts, tools, chains, stained calendars of hunting dogs or pouty-mouthed women, on the wrong month or year; hiding out in the grimy employees bathroom offered no option. Outside was too muggy and uninteresting. We really were on the outskirts of nowhere without even a coffee shop within view of the roadside garage. So I strolled around, listening to the droning of the men as they discussed possibilities. The second mechanic joined them, and I sighed, wondering how much this business was going to cost us as I watched first one head and then the other dip under the hood, like...grease monkeys. Where we would get the money for repairs didn’t bother me too much at the time…I had our checkbook at least.
“Okay, try ‘er now.” The motor tried, fired, and died. Repeatedly, while the trio played best-guess-man-ship.
“Wal’ it ain’t the plugs, n’ th’ wares look good. Yer got gas”
“Batt’ry’s got juice and ah cleaned up the posts. Good spark thare…mought be the float.”
“Lemme put a light to ‘er”
I had a moment’s panic thinking the guy was going to whip out a Zippo and blow us all to hell, and giggled nervously, but he shuffled off and ambled back with some kind of ray gun device I learned later was a timing light. After he fiddled with that the car seemed to sound better but still sputtered and died right away.
“Mought’n need a new carburetor; mebbe a float’s all…”
Oh gawd. I knew carburetors were less expensive than new cars, but more than we actually could afford. My mind raced trying to figure out where the hell we could get money, even if they accepted a check. I strolled outside to the Coke machine nestled under the canopy over the front door of the service station, feeling sick.
All I’d wanted to do was pick up my children and go back to a normal life and now we might not even be able to get home. And there we were in nowhere, Georgia. It was mind numbing; I wanted to lie down on a cold marble slab…but there wasn’t one. There was only a cloud of dust as a couple of whooping boys flew past me on bicycles, bare brown legs peddling as fast as they could, oblivious to the oppressive air. I turned back to the darkness of the garage, wiping my forehead with one chilled hand, hating Georgia, cars, and men in general.
Husband and one mechanic had their heads under the hood still, murmuring and tinkering. The other had gone into the dingy little office. I heard some mumblings and the word ‘float’ again.
Whatever happened to A& W Root Beer I wondered. My very first wages came from an A & W Drive Inn when I was in high school. Best floats ever. Life was so full of promise then. Idaho summers were hot too, but so much drier than the south…how did I ever get here. I climbed into the car, reclined the seat and listened to the men chitchat under the hood until I dozed off and nearly spilled my Coke. The other shop jockey had returned and the three men stood away from the car, resembling the witches from Macbeth. I climbed out of the car and went back to the bathroom to wash my hands…catching snatches of their conversation through the flimsy door. The term ‘float’ was being bandied about again. How many times they were going to say it before an agreement was reached? A laugh was forming inside me somewhere. MEN! I dabbled a little cool water in my eyes…wiped my hands on my hair and returned in time to see the three heads disappear under the hood again. Moments later the men emerged in concert.
Perfectly innocuous, absolutely serious husband spoke, “So… you think it’s the float?
I nearly lost my knees as the rush of explosive laughter burst out of me. The three witches stared wide-eyed as I struggled to stifle my breathless giggling, failed and wobbled to the car. By the time I collapsed cackling on the front seat, helpless tears streaming down my face, gasping for breath, too near hysteria, the mechanics were working furiously to install the part we needed to get us the hell off the premises and presumably ‘outta’ Georgia.
None of it was all that funny, but I had to find the humor to smother the misery that threatened to drown me. From that day to this…when things appear hopeless I take comfort in remembering that day in Macon, Georgia. It keeps me afloat. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
Every woman I’ve ever known loves hearing this story, relating it to some similar situation in their lives. Every man who hears the story has but one comment.
“Well…WAS it the float?”
© Angharod Brown-Bair 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
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