Kids Make Fiery Pumpkin Seed Di p

This is the last week in Mexico on our virtual world food tour so I had the kids in our "food appreciation" classes grinding again in the molcajete to make one of our favorite foods, this spicy Mayan pumpkin seed dip.


Well, I'm not sure the Mayans actually made this dip. But they may well have. It doesn't look like much, but almost everyone who tastes it asks for the recipe. It's a strange mash of toasted habanero pepper, toasted pumpkin seeds and cooked tomatoes. Season with a little salt and some cilantro leaves, then scoop it up with cool, crisp slices of jicama.


Admittedly, this is one of those dishes that kids are rarely ambivalent about. They either love it or they just walk away from it. Many of the kids in our classes took a bite or two and pushed their plates aside. If heat is the issue, you may want to cut back on the habanero, which is an exceptionally hot pepper widely used in the Caribbean. It imparts a fruity flavor along with the heat.


Or, have the kids do all the grinding and serve the dip to the adults. Making it is 90 percent of the fun.


For the jicama:


Jicama is the tuberous root of a vine. It looks a bit like an oversized baking potato with tan skin and a flattened globe shape. The flesh is moist and crisp like an apple, but the flavor is almost completely neutral, with just the fainest hint of sweetness. It is typically eaten raw, as in a fruit salad. Look for it in the produce section, or at your local Latin market.


For this recipe, peel one medium-sized jicama and slice into large matchsticks. Cover and place in the refrigerator to cool while you prepare the dip.


For the pumpkin seed dip:


1 ripe habanero pepper

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup raw hulled pumpkin seeds (look for them in the bulk section of your health food store)

2 plum tomatoes, cooked in plain water until very tender then peeled

small fistful cilantro leaves

Toast the habanero pepper at the bottom of a heavy skillet (or traditional Mexican comal, if you have one) over moderately high heat. Turn the pepper occasionally until it is charred on all sides and begins to soften. Set aside to cool.

In the same skillet over moderate heat toast the pumpkin seeds, tossing often so they do not burn. They will turn a drab tan color and begin to shed some papery skin. Pour the toasted seeds onto a plate to cool.

Wearing rubber gloves, prepare the toasted habenero by first removing the stem. Slice the pepper in half lengthwise and scrape away the seeds. Place the pepper in the molcajete with the salt. (If you want less heat in the finished dip, use only half the pepper.) Grind the pepper and salt together until the pepper just coats the bottom of the molcajete.

Add the toasted pumpkin seeds to the molcajete and grind vigorously until the seeds have been turned into a rough powder. This may take several minutes. Don't be afraid to press the pestle or tejolote hard into the molcajete. Now add the tomatoes and grind them into the pumpkin seeds until they are thoroughly incorporated. Toss in most of the cilantro leaves and mix with a fork.

Serve the dip in the molcajete using the remaining cilantro leaves for garnish.

Note: If you do not possess a molcajete or a large mortar and pestle, try making this in a food processor instead.

Kids Make Guacamole in the Molcajete

Where did the people of Mexico learn to speak Spanish?

The answer is simple enough: the Spanish conquistadors who invaded and subdued Mexico hundreds of years ago. But the question points up the fact that there were people living in what we now call Mexico long before the Europeans arrived. Whether Olmec or Aztec or Mayan, they all had their own cultures, languages and foods.

Thus the kids in our "food appreciation classes" learned that "guacamole"--the stuff you typically order as an appetizer at your local Tex-Mex restaurant--derives from the ancient Nahuatl word for avocado: ahuacatl, meaning "testicle" (because of the shape of the avocado or the pit inside?). The Nahuatl word molli means a sauce or a mix. Put them together you get ahuacamolli, or "guacamole."

Guacamole usually is prepared by simply chopping onion and tomato and tossing it with avocado. We prefer to make ours in a traditional Mexican mortar and pestle--or molcajete e tejolote--carved out of volcanic basalt stone. Grinding the ingredients brings out all the flavorful oils, making our guacamole especially vibrant. Kids will spend the whole day grinding things in the molcajete if you give them the chance.

1/4 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 jalapeno pepper, seeds and veins removed and chopped fine
1/4 white onion, diced small
2 ripe Haas avocados
1 small ripe tomato, diced small
a small fistful of cilantro leaves

In the molcajete, grind the cumin seeds and salt together into a fine powder. Add the jalapeno and grind almost into a paste. Add white onion and grind until you have what looks like a slushy green relish at the bottom of the molcajete.

Cut the avocados in half with a sharp chef's knife, first piercing an avocado all the way to the pit inside, then rotating the avocado lengthwise against the knife blade 360 degrees. Set the knife down and twist the two halves of the avocado, separating them. To remove the pit, hold the avocado half in the palm of one hand and with the other hand strike the pit with the blade of your knife. The pit should hold to the knife. Just twist it out of the avocado meat and toss the pit away. Now use a paring knife to score the meat in both halves of the avocado in a cross-hatch pattern all the way to the inside of the peel (don't cut the peel.) Use a spoon to scoop the meat into the molcajete--if you scored it properly, the meat should fall apart into large dice.

Add the tomatoes and most of the cilantro to the mix and toss thoroughly with your spoon to combine. Mash the avocado a little as you go, but not too much. You want some texture to your finished guacamole, not a paste. Adjust seasoning as desired. Garnish with the remaining cilantro and present the guacamole in the molcajete with your favorite corn chips.

Note: we don't normally add lime or lemon juice to our guacamole but you may certainly do so if you like.

Kids Make Black Bean Tamales

Kids love working with their hands, which makes tamales--mixing the dough, wrapping it in corn husks--the perfect assignment for our "food appreciation" classes.

This week on our virtual world culinary tour we are in Puebla, a city south of Mexico City known for its colorful ceramics and its clever chefs. But really, tamales are almost ubiquitous in Mexico, an emblematic part of a corn culture that stretches back thousands of years and is central to the country's cuisine.

An ancient technique for treating corn is to soak the dried kernels in a solution of lye or lime to remove the tough hull or pericarp. Although the original cooks surely did not know it at the time, this process--called nixtimalization--has the added benefit of making the essential niacin in the corn available for human digestion. The soft part of the corn can then be ground into a meal--or masa--that is the staple for so many uses, such as making tortillas and tamales.

Masa is readily available in Latin groceries or even in convenience stores catering to immigrants from south of the border. We look for a masa specifically designed for tamales. It is a rougher grind with a pleasing texture. You will also need corn husks, which are sold dried, usually in a stack of several dozen. Soak these 24 hours in advance in plenty of water to soften them. Remove and stray corn silk.

Tamales can be stuffed with almost anything: roast chicken or pork, beans or other cooked vegetables, even chocolate or other sweets to make dessert tamales. We stuffed ours with black beans cooked with onion, garlic and red and green bell pepper. But you could use any other savory bean.

Making tamale dough is usually a two step process, first beating a fat such as lard or vegetable shortening into a fluffy mass, then mixing the corn meal with other ingredients before combining with the fat. Some people like to do the mixing parts with an electric blender to work air into the dough. But it can also be done by hand.

The easiest way to procede may be to just follow the directions on your package of masa. We made ours as follows.

In a large bowl, beat 2/3 cup chilled lard or vegetable shortening until light and almost fluffy.

In a separate bowl, mix 2 cups masa with 1 teaspoon baking powder and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Add 2 cups warm broth (such as chicken stock or vegetable stock) or water and stir well. Empty the dough into the fat and combine. Use a wooden spoon to beat the dough until it is soft and fluffy. Add more liquid if it is too stiff.

Lay a softened corn husk on a flat work surface and spoon a small fistful of dough into the center (it helps to use wider rather than narrower husks). Use a knife or a stiff spatula to spread the dough out, leaving several inches of husk uncovered at the top and bottom and an inch or so on the sides. Into the middle of the dough spoon some prepared beans. Now fold the tamale over, rolling the dough into a sausage shape. Wrap the husk closed, like a big cigar, and fold over the narrow bottom part to seal the tamale on one end. The fold should be two or three inches long. Wrap the end with a length of string and tie snuggly with a firm knot to hold the tamale together.

The finished tamales are cooked in a steamer. Lightweight aluminum tamale steamers are sold fairly inexpensively in Latin groceries. We used a pasta pot with a strainer insert. Or you could improvise a steamer using a wire rack at the bottom of a large pot. Stand the tamales in the steamer with the open ends pointing up. Pour about 1 inch water into the bottom and bring to a boil. Cover the pot snugly and steam at reduced heat for about one hour, or until the tamales are cooked through and firm.

This recipe makes a dozen or more tamales, depending on how big your corn husks are. To eat them, cut the string and unwrap the corn husk. Serve the tamales with your favorite sauce or salsa. We dressed ours with crema, a kind of liquid sour cream, and a dusting of fresh white cheese, or queso fresco. The kids begged for seconds.

Fiery Pumpkin Seed Dip

Now it can be revealed: One of the most popular things we make is deceptively simple and doesn't even look edible. It's this humble dip made with toasted pumpkin seeds and cooked tomatoes, flavored to a fiery pitch with a roasted habanero pepper. We always make it in a Mexican molcajete, the traditional mortar made out of basalt stone.

Start with the habanero pepper. We have an electric range with large, flat elements. These are perfect for roasting peppers, but you can also use a traditional comal or a heavy iron skillet. Over moderately high heat, lay the pepper on its side and turn occasionally as it cooks, until it is lightly charred all around. Remove the pepper and when it is cool enough to handle remove the stem, slic it open and remove all the seeds. (I like to wear rubber gloves for this part.)

Next, grind the pepper in the molcajete with 1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt.

Use your heaviest skillet to toast 1 1/4 cups hulled pumpkin seeds. We buy ours in bulk from Whole Foods. Over moderate heat, toss the seeds frequently. They will begin to pop and turn from green to tan. Be careful not to burn them. Place the toasted seeds in the molcajete and grind away until you have a rough powder. This may take some elbow grease, but if you're like me, you can use the exercise.


Meanwhile, in a saucepan, cook three ripe plum tomatoes in plenty of water. They should be completely cooked through and soft, almost like tomatoes from a can. Set the tomatoes aside to cool and when they are cool enough to handle remove the stem ends and the skin. Place the tomatoes with the ground pumpkin seeds in the molcajete and grind together until you have a smooth mix.

To the pumpkin seed and tomato mix add 2 tablespoon roughly chopped cilantro (or more) and 2 tablespoons chopped chives. Use a fork or a spoon to mix in the herbs.

Present the finished dip in your molcajete garnished with more cilantro. We like to serve it with freshly sliced jicama. The crispy coolness of the jicama acts as a nice foil for the spicy dip. But you can also scoop it up with your favorite corn chips. Have plenty of cold beer on hand to douse the flames.

Another Chilaquiles Smackdown

Can you guess what's missing from this photo of the dessert portion of the chilaquiles fiesta we held here yesterday?

Yes, I know it's hard to take your eyes off the exquisite fruit platter assembled by our friend Keith, laden as it is with passion fruit and mangos and prickly pear. And friend Susan's version of Mexican wedding cookies have been almost completely consumed. No, it must be Janice's churros, of which only a few scant crumbs remain. They were definitely a huge hit, made with fresh pate choux, deep fried and rolled in cinnamon sugar.

And that was after the chilaquiles--red and green versions--all muddled with tangy crema and queso fresco. And Yayo's perfectly cooked Spanish torta. And the chorizo sausage. And the poached eggs.

Most of the party is a blur for me. That's what I get for agreeing to make chilaquiles a la minute for 40 people. You are familiar with chilaquiles, yes? I like to think of them as the Mexican equivalent of French bread. The French call their stale baguettes "pan perdu," or "lost bread. They make economical use of it by soaking the bread in egg and frying it. In Mexico, tortillas are eaten with every meal. It's common for families to buy a tall stack of them in the morning. Should any go stale, you can fry them in some oil to make chips, then toss them in a sauce of tomatoes, onions and chipotle chilies.

Having thrown this party the last several years, we continue to refine our technique. Last year I struggled with the poached eggs. Now I think I have cracked that nut: a couple of hours before guests arrive, poach three dozen eggs as usual in a large skillet of simmering water with white vinegar (use the freshest eggs possible). Instead of dropping the cooked eggs into a cold water bath, however, cook them just to the point of doneness and spread them on lightly greased sheet pans. The eggs will continue to cook a bit. As guests begin to arrive, place the eggs in a warm (not hot) oven until you are ready to serve. Use a metal spatula to place them on a warm ceramic serving platter and garnish lightly with chopped cilantro. Guests can easily help themselves to the poached eggs at the buffet using a serving fork.

For the chilaquiles, we cut stacks of fresh corn tortillas into squares and fry them in the deep fryer. Have your sauces simmering on the stove, then simply toss the chips with sauce in a heavy skillet, stirring in some thinly sliced white onion. When the chips begin to soften, spread them on a platter and garnish liberally with crema, queso fresco and chopped cilantro.

Here's the recipe we use for our red sauce:

Red Sauce for Chilaquiles
Serves 6

2 tablespoons lard or canola oil
1/2 white onion, roughly chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes, with juice
2 chipotle chiles in adobo, seeds removed and chopped fine
1 cup chicken stock or broth
2 teaspoons oregano, preferably Mexican)
¼ teaspoon ground cumin
1 bay leaf
salt to taste

In a saucepan over medium-low heat, heat 1 tablespoon lard or canola oil. Sweat the onion and garlic until soft, about 10 minutes. Add remaining ingredients except salt and bring almost to a boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer gently one hour. Remove from heat.

Remove bay leaf. Pour sauce in into a blender and blend until smooth. Over moderately-high heat, heat 1 tablespoon lard or canola oil in a heavy skillet. Pour in sauce. Cook vigorously and reduce until sauce until it is the consistency of thick soup. If too thick, add chicken broth. Season with salt as needed. Remove from heat and reserve.

And here's a green chilaquiles sauce you might like to try:

3 tablespoons lard or canola oil
1 medium white onion, roughly chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
1 jalapeno pepper (about the size of your thumb), seeds removed and chopped fine
2 pounds fresh tomatillos (paper husks removed), cleaned and roughly chopped
½ cup roughly chopped fresh cilantro leaves
2 teaspoons dried oregano, preferably Mexican
1 cup chicken broth
salt to taste

Over medium-low heat, sweat the onion, garlic and jalapeno in 2 tablespoons lard or canola oil until onions are soft, about 10 minutes. Add remaining ingredients except salt and bring almost to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer gently 1 hour. Remove from heat.

Pour the sauce into a blender and blend until the ingredients retain just a bit of texture. Meanwhile, over moderately high heat, heat 1 tablespoon lard or canola oil in a heavy skillet. Pour in sauce. Cook vigorously and reduce until the sauce is the consistency of thick soup. If too thick, add chicken broth. Season with salt as needed. Remove from heat and reserve.

These sauces can be made days ahead and reheated.

Note: crema, a tangy sort of liquid sour cream, and queso fresco, literally a fresh white cheese that crumbles easily, are instant markers of Mexican and Central American cuisine and can readily be found at Latin markets. Tomatillos are not a form of green tomato but a relative of the gooseberry. They also can be found in Latin neighorhoods.

Kids Make Catfish Veracruz

Fish in the style of Veracruz Mexico is a classic treatment that at first blush looks like a strange cocktail of ingredients. Tomatoes with cinnamon and cloves? Olives and capers? Pickled jalapeno juice?

There is definitely a Spanish influence here and an almost Renaissance approach to flavors. Yet somehow it all works, producing in the end a dish that many of the kids in our "food appreciation" classes went absolutely wild over.

Others just don't like fish. Well, there's no accounting for taste.

We happen to be in Veracruz on our virtual world food tour after three weeks hopping around the Caribbean. Veracruz is the steamy Mexican port on the Carribean side of the country, perhaps best known for its sugar cane refineries. But Veracruz also has a style of food all its own and we definitely wanted to sample what may be its signature dish.

Typically, fish Veracruz would be made with red snapper but snapper has been overfished and is rated "avoid" by seafood sustainability groups such as "Seafood Watch" at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Consequently we chose a farmed U.S. catfish, which holds up very well to being cooked in a tomato sauce, almost like a seafood stew.

The list of ingredients for this preparation is lengthy. But the actual assembly is rather quick and easy. The reward is all in the unique flavor--a bit sweet and sour, a little spicy--definitely exotic and perhaps unlike anything you've tried before.

For the fish:

1 1/2 pounds thick farmed catfish fillet, cut into 2-inch chunks

For the sauce:

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 onion, peeled, halved lengthwise and sliced thin

1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes with juices

12 pitted green olives, preferably Manzanillo, roughly chopped

1 tablespoon Spanish capers

1 large pickled jalapeno pepper, stemmed, seeded and cut into thin strips

1 tablespoon pickled jalapeno juice

3 /4 teaspoon dried oregano

3/4 teaspoon dried thyme

2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

1 spice sachet consisting of 3 bay leaves, 1 cinnamon stick, 2 cloves and six crushed black peppercorns tied in cheesecloth

1 cup fish stock

Salt to taste

In a heavy pot, heat the olive oil over moderately low heat. Sweat the onions and garlic until soft, about 8 minutes. Add the tomatoes, olives, capers, jalapenos, pickling juice, oregano, thyme, parsley, spice sachet and fish stock. Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer for about 30 minutes. Season with salt as needed. Add catfish and cook another 10 minutes, or until the fish is just cooked through.

Ladle the stew over brown rice and garnish with additional parsley. Serve immediately with warm corn tortillas.

Turkey Tonic: Green Pozole

We ate and drank too much on Thanksgiving. Friday, it was my turn to make dinner and since we had a big piece of pork shoulder in the fridge, I had a ready plan: green pozole.

Writing about green pozole was one of my first efforts as a food writer. It was never published. But that's okay, because I much prefer eating pozole than writing about it. In Mexico, a very close cousin of pozole soup--menudo, made with beef tripe--is considered the ultimate hangover remedy. So why not my green pozole with pork shoulder to sweep away that fuzzy feeling left over from the Thanksgiving binge?

Pozole, a soupy stew traditionally made with pork and hominy, may be the closest thing to a national dish of Mexico that most Americans have never heard of. On Thursday evenings in the southwestern state of Guererro, pozole vendors pop up as if on queue, and townsfolk fall into line with buckets to collect their take-out dinner. At the ubiquitous pozoleria, lighthearted diners lean over their steaming earthenware bowls, adding heaps of sliced avocados, radishes, onion and crumbled pork crackling called chicharon.

Like our own chili, pozole is made in innumerable variations. Just about every household has its own version. Folks in the west and south of Mexico prefer the green pozole made with fresh poblano peppers, tomatillos and pumpkin seeds swimming with shredded pork shoulder. Red pozole is a simpler brew of garlic and dried chiles. For “white” pozole, a red pepper sauce is served on the side, along with a platter of stewed pork shoulder and pig’s feet.

Some families insist on presenting half a pig’s head with the stew. The cooked eyeball is reserved for the honored guest.

One reason you may never have seen pozole on a menu is because pozole has never achieved the rank of restaurant fare. Even in Mexico, it is more likely consumed at a market stall or a curbside vendor. This is one of those dishes best made at home.

Americans have been trained to expect Mexican food slathered in cheese and sour cream. Pozole celebrates that other Mexican food, the more traditional cuisine that evolved thousands of years ago. The Spanish introduced domesticated meats and dairy products in the 16th century. Before that, life revolved around corn.

The ancient Mayans believed that humans were fashioned from corn gathered from a mountain and mixed with the blood of gods. The Aztecs sacrificed a maiden by way of blessing the new corn. The peyote worshipping Huichol people of the Sierra Madre continue to hold that the transcendental soul passes through a corn phase on its path to enlightenment.

Even the name of the particular corn used in Mexican pozole recalls ancient cycles, sun worship, a fecund earth: cacahuacentli.

In Mexico and to the north, natives preserved corn by drying it. They processed the dried kernels in lye or lime to remove the tough hull, or pericarp. By a fortuitous quirk of history, this caustic bath--known as nixtamalization--made the vitally important niacin within the corn available for digestion. Nixtamalization also imparts a pleasantly acrid flavor.

In this country, we call this kind of corn hominy. It is frequently ground into grits. In Mexico, the dried corn is ground to form masa, a basic dough used to make the tortillas served at nearly every meal. The Mexican hominy used in pozole—cacahuacentli--is improbably large, about the size of a nickel. After soaking the dried corn, chefs pinch off the tip of the kernel so that it opens like a crocus blossom when cooked.

Making pozole is a good way to get out and see the displays of exotic products in Latin supermarkets. Finding all of the ingredients may require a bit of initial detective work. But the final result makes a great family-style fest: Once the stew is ladled into bowls, everyone gets to pass the condiments around while they create their own meal.

For condiments, choose from the following: Sliced radishes, diced avocado, dried oregano, chopped fresh tomato, shredded lettuce or Napa cabbage, chopped red onion, chicharon--or fried pork skin--and wedges of lime. And of course warm corn tortillas on the side are mandatory.

Traditional pozole is a simple, one-pot meal. But I like to cook the different elements--the corn, the meat, the vegetables--separately, starting days in advance. The stew just gets better with re-heating. I’ve also jazzed it up with a few spices—allspice, cinnamon, clove--that might make some Mexican chefs cluck with disapproval. But I think the extra flavor is worth bending tradition.

Pozole verde (green pozole)

Serves 12

6 cups cooked or canned hominy (Juanita's is one good brand)


For the Broth:

I’ve eliminated the pig’s head, but there’s no reason to if you want to make an impression. Otherwise, the pork comes from the shoulder, a very inexpensive cut. Pig’s feet contribute gelatin for a richer broth, though they can be left out as tastes dictate. Latin markets sell them sliced into manageable pieces.

3 pounds pork shoulder

1 ½ pounds pig’s feet, cut into pieces (optional)

3 quarts (12 cups) chicken stock

½ large white onion, studded with six whole cloves

1 bay leaf

4 allspice berries, crushed

1 whole stick cinnamon

Combine ingredients in a stockpot. Bring almost to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer very gently for three hours. Remove the meat to a plate and set aside. Discard the onion. Strain the broth through cheesecloth or a fine sieve. When the pork is cool, shred it into pieces, discarding unwanted fat. Return the shredded pork to the broth. (I pick over the pig’s feet and save the edible pieces for those guests who volunteer for it. Otherwise, discard the cooked pig’s feet.)

At this point, add the hominy to the broth and refrigerate until the next step is completed.

Vegetables:

The green chilies in this recipe are fresh poblanos, the kind typically deep-fried for chilies rellenos. They are sometimes erroneously labeled as “passilla” peppers. The poblano is broad at the stem like a green bell pepper, but much darker with a purplish tinge, and narrows to a point at the opposite end. Adding to the confusion, the poblano when dried is called “ancho.”

To prepare fresh chilies, roast them over a flame on the stovetop, or under a broiler, until the skins are blistered and charred. Place them in a paper bag to steam and cool. Then remove the stems; open the chilies and discard the seeds. Remove the skin with your fingers or the dull edge of a knife.

Tomatillos appear fresh in most supermarkets. They look like small green tomatoes wrapped in papery husks, but they are actually related to the Cape Gooseberry. They should be firm and unblemished, the husk loose and easily peeled.

5 fresh poblano peppers, roasted, peeled and roughly chopped

2 medium-sized jalapeno peppers (about the size of your thumb), roasted, peeled and finely chopped

2 tablespoons lard (or canola oil)

½ large white onion, chopped

4 cloves garlic, diced

12 ounces fresh tomatillos, husks removed and chopped

2 cups broth (from that made above)

1 ½ cups hulled, raw, unsalted pumpkin seeds

Heat the oil in a large saucepan, add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, until the onions are almost translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the chili peppers and tomatillos and cook an additional 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, toast the pumpkin seeds in an ungreased pan over high heat until golden and crispy. Place in a food processor and chop to a fine grind. Add the cooked vegetables and some broth (you may need to do this in two batches) and process until the chilies and tomatillos are minced. Add this to the pot with the remaining broth, pork and hominy. Mix well and refrigerate.

A couple of hours before serving, remove the stew from the refrigerator and heat slowly. The final ingredient is epazote (Chenopodium ambrosioides), an important cooking herb in southern and western Mexico, a medicinal tea in the north. In this country, it grows wild as a weed called “wormseed.” The pungent flavor is somewhere between green tea, oregano and dill.

2 teaspoons dried epazote, tied in cheese cloth (I now use the fresh epazote that grows wild in my yard)

Add the bundle to the stew pot while it is reheating, then discard.

Serve the stew hot in large bowls, with warm tortillas and separate bowls of condiments on the side.

Stone-Ground Guacamole

Sometimes it takes no small amount of effort to track down a ripe avocado in this town. We've found a small Latin store in the neighborhood where they keep a box of ripe ones near the cash register. But this is not the kind of information one gives away for nothing.

Lately, however, ripe avocados have appeared in abundance at the local Whole Foods. On an impulse, I grabbed a couple the other day along with a white onion, a serrano pepper and a plum tomato--the standard makings for my version of guacamole. In our house, we can easily make dinner out of a bowl of guacamole and corn chips.

I start my guacamole in a molcajete and I think that makes all the difference. In certain Mexican restaurants you may order guacamole and a waiter with show up at your table with a molcajete and tejolote--the Mexican version of a mortar and pestle, made out of volcanic basalt stone. But this is mostly for show. They aren't doing the real grinding that an authentic guacamole requires.

You can start a guacamole on a cutting board or even in a food process. But this merely chops the ingredients into little pieces. Grinding them in the molcajete breaks down the essential elements on a cellular level, releasing flavors that otherwise are merely hinted at in other guacamoles.

I start with cumin seed and coarse salt and grind that into a powder. Then I add white onion and a seeded serrano chili and continue grinding until there is a profoundly aromatic, green slush at the bottom of the molcajete. It is at this point that I begin adding the avocado. I do not grind it, but smash it with a fork, then add diced tomato and chopped cilantro. The finished guacamole is so flavorful and so good, there's no need for lime juice, but of course there's nothing to say you can't have some if that's what you like.

1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt, or to taste
¼ white onion finely chopped, plus two tablespoons for garnish
2 small chilies serranos (or to taste), seeds removed and chopped fine
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons roughly chopped cilantro leaves
3 ripe avocados, peeled (save one pit for garnish)
1 large ripe tomato, peeled and roughly chopped

In the molcajete, grind cumin seeds and salt to a fine powder. Add all but 2 tablespoons onion, the chilies, 1/3 cup cilantro. Pound and grind until the mixture resembles a coarse, green relish. Add avocado. Gently pound and mix with other ingredients. You can also use a fork at this point to smash the avocado.The dip should be a bit lumpy (not like the baby food or library paste that passes for guacamole in the supermarket). Fold in chopped tomato. Adjust seasonings.

Serve the guacamole proudly in your molcajete, garnished with the remaining chopped onion and cilantro.

Note: We bought our molcajete in Mexico, but you can get them at many better cookwares stores and over the internet. Just make sure you are getting one made out of genuine basalt and not an immitation made out of concrete.

Adios, Mexico

Yesterday we took our daughter to the Mexico City Zoo and among the vendors I noticed something new for us: stacks of some sort of meat looking edibles covered in a bright red powder, and next to these balls of some kind of food, about the size of a tennis ball, also covered in an almost neon irridescent red dust.

Questioning one of the vendors we learned that what we thought was meat was in fact grilled horse flesh, served with wedges of lime, while the food balls were made of tamarind, the pod fruit frequently used in sauces, candies and soft drinks this side of the border. The red substance covering both the horse meat and the tamarind was chili powder. And if the idea of spicy, savory tamarind balls doesn´t appeal, there were also tamarind balls dusted with sugar.

Mexico is a feast for the eyes and the belly. There´s something new around every corner. But it´s a country that stirs mixed emotions. The zoo is a marvel, absolutely lovely with its broad walkways and lush foliage, a place where one can easily lose oneself and forget entirely that it is surrounded by one of the world´s largest and most polluted metropolises.

Just a few blocks from this idyllic setting, where groups of uniformed school children romp and giggle, the sidewalks are jammed with vendors desperate to make a buck. There is barely room to pass in the crush of humanity. Pedestrians are pushed into the paths of buses and automobiles.

While we were visiting, the magnificent Belles Artes museum, originally commissioned by the dictator Perfirio Diaz to mimic the monumental architecture of Europe, was mounting the biggest exhibit ever of the radical artist Frida Kahlo. The line to enter was a block long. Meanwhile, at busy intersections children without shoes or parental supervision are performing cartwheels for motorists, begging for a peso or a few centavos.

We´ve come to regard Mexico as a bit schyzophrenic. For instance, there is no monument to Hernan Cortes, a conquistador first but arguably the man most responsible for organizing Mexico as a modern state. Mexico celebrates its Indian heritage and revolutionary struggles. Almost every city and town has a street named for the insrguentes. But the state also finds almost any excuse to call out the riot police with their body armor, helmets and shields, and to mount military checkpoints on the highways, where machine-gun toting soldiers stand vigil next to tanks and armored vehicles. And to what purpose?

And still, flags fly at half-staff on the death of Swedish film director Igmar Bergman.

The mood of the country manages to be ecstatic and repressive at the same time.

Mexico retains third-world problems while also supporting a construction boom. The state does not completely educate it´s children: paid schooling only runs through the sixth grade. Still, one can only be impressed with the rootedness of Mexican culture and sense of national pride. In its foodways, Mexico is still and always has been about corn. The tortilla is every bit as much a national symbol as the proud eagle with the squirming snake clutched in its beak.

A few images stand out: At a small, almost deserted restaurant near our hotel in Oaxaca, we were served goat cheese wrapped in a leaf from the hoja santa plant. Hoja santa typically is used as a cooking herb. The large, heart-shaped leaves have a sharp flavor of citrus and anise. What a surprise, and a revelation, to see it prepared this way.

On our drive into Amanalco, in the winding, pined covered hills west of Mexico City, we frequently passed small groups of people hailing us from the side of the road. They whistled as we approached, plastic buckets at their feet. These are the mushroom vendors, we learned, displaying their finds fresh from the forest.

In Valle de Bravo, we first learned of cecine de res, a kind of salted but still fresh beef that is sliced in terribly thin, rectangular pieces and displayed in the market in large mounds that look like edible building blocks. I still have the sharp scent of smoke and burning charcoal in my nostrils from the market in Oaxaca, where an entire hall was devoted to grilling beef. We will miss our breakfasts at the Mayordomo, where we lingered over cups of hot chocolate and baskets of sweet breads.

For our last meal together, our friend Ninfa prepared a small feast showing a more modern, cosmopolitan Mexico. There were fresh fillets of salmon, perfectly roasted with dill from the garden; chicken cooked in a light stew with cashews, chili peppers and ginger; lightly steamed broccoli and carrots; white rice with peas.

But on the table as well, like a phantom heartbeat of Mexico´s past and future, was the obligatory basket of warm tortillas. Always tortillas. Always.

Ninfa, Healer

I am looking back at a certain glass of agua of watermelon consumed in Oaxaca as the cause of certain distress in the nether regions. Otherwise, I can´t think of anything I consumed that was different from the others in our party, who are feeling no ill affects.

Needlesss to say, I am disappointed by a sudden loss of appetite. We have been so careful, even to the point of probing waiters as to the origin of the ice cubes in our drinks. We of course want to know that the cubes have been made from purified water. We have been taking no chances with the water or with raw foods. These are our normal precautions and after several trips to Mexico in recent years I can´t remember a time that any of us has been stricken with the malady so often associated with gringo tourists.

When Ninfa learned of my distress, she took matters into hand. And thus I was given a glimpse into the ways that Ninfa´s native upbringing lives on in these hectic, modern times.

Ninfa grew up in a small hillside village outside the town of Amanalco, up in the pine-forested hills about two hours west of Mexico City. The road to the village was barely passable. In fact, it only recently has been paved. A quiet girl with the striking, bold features of the indigenous folk, Ninfa learned the local ways from her mother.

¨My mother was a very quiet person,¨ Ninfa says. ¨But when she spoke, she was very forceful.¨

Ninfa followed her mother into fields and hillsides learning to gather various herbs and flower blossoms for the folk remedies they practiced. They would mix herbs and flowers for all kinds of potions, to help fevers, stomach ailments, menstrual pains. This herb is for that, the mother would explain to the daughter, and that herb is for the other. And so the daughter learned....

As a grown woman, Ninfa became a nurse, working the night shift at a hospital in Mexico City. But she still actively maintains a collection of herbs and potions for teas. Some she grows herself. Others she purchases from sources in Amanalco and in the city. She keeps a rack on her kitchen wall well-stocked with her collection, switching out the herbs at least once a year if she is able.

So when Ninfa learned that I was having problems, she reached for one of her herb blends and began to make a tea. How did I feel about bitter? she wanted to know. I mean, really bitter, she said.

Oh, Ed loves bitter, my wife replied. And from my bed I confirmed that bitter would be just fine. In fact, the bitter the better, or something like that.

The first cup was intended as a cleanser, and yes, it was bitter. I wish I could report exactly what it was. Ninfa had a name in Spanish, but an English translation eluded us. Be sure to finish the whole cup, every drop, she insisted. And I did.

Later came another tea, something I recognized from my youth when I´d been an exchange student in Switzerland, had suffered some stomach ailment, and my Swiss host mother also had reached into her bag of herbs. It turned out to be lemon verbena--something I´d never known to that point--sweetened with honey. This, Ninfa assured me, would help sooth my stomach.

There was, Ninfa explained, an even stronger purgative, something made with fruit. Did I think I would need it? Ninfa asked. Let´s see what the morning brings, I replied.

In the morning, I felt better, but I requested the stronger tea Ninfa had mentioned. It couldn´t hurt, and I only wondered if it would be more bitter than the first. In fact, it wasn´t bitter at all. It had a faint flavor of oranges, from the dried peel of oranges, Ninfa explained.

I was getting to like the teas so much, I started making them myself. Tea and toast started to look like a fine meal. I wondered how many pounds I could drop in this fashion.

Now it is a few days later. I am not 100 percent--maybe 90 percent--but my interest in the local cuisine has resumed. Tonight we gathered around the dining room table here in the city for a simple dinner of green pozole--made with wheat berries and garlic in the style of Amanalco--and with cheese and bean quesadillas. So far I have not resorted to any medicines--just the teas. According to Ninfa, the local doctors would probably prescribe a serum of some sort, along with antibiotics. I suppose I could seek out Milk of Magnesia or some such at one of the local pharmacies, but I want to play this out. I´m sticking with Ninfa´s teas.

Domingo es Market Day

I was merely walking into town to look for a couple of batteries for a blood monitoring device when I stumbled into what must be the national passion in Mexico, Market Sunday.

We´d driven from Mexico City with friend Tom and Ninfa to the town of Amanalco about two hours west. It´s a sleepy, unobtrusive place, just a notch up from a village--plain stucco, cobblestone streets, fields of corn and sheep, cows, stray dogs. You find the narrow sidewalks by following the cow pies, basically, and the center of town is where the church steeples rise.

You would never guess this drowsy little place would be jamming on Sunday morning. Turn a corner and suddenly the streets are lined with vendors and the sun is hidden behind all the blue plastic tarpaulins stretched overhead.

The festivities stretch for blocks, up one street and down another, making left turns, then right turns. There are huge displays of fruits--mangoes, papayas, apples, pineapple--followed by stacks of the freshest local produce--perfectly white onions, immaculate radishes, potatoes, avocados and innumerable herbs and salad greens.

Certain sections are reserved for shoes of all descriptions. Hundreds of CDs are laid out on blankets for inspection. At various intervals stereo equipment is blaring the CD offerings. Meanwhile, the comals have been fired up. Heavy cleavers thump against wooden chopping blocks as grilled pork is minced for tortillas. The air is heavy with the aroma of meats grilling and cheese melting. Then there´s the steam rising from the elotes, or boiled corn on the cob. It´s usually slathered in mayonnaise and dusted with queso fresco, then served on a stick. Another vender is grilling the corn for a similar kind of street snack.

I notice at one of the food stalls a man tending a large, peculiar block of dark meat. We had seen this yesterday at the market in Valle de Bravo, the nearby lakeside resort town. When we asked about it there, we were told it is called cecine de res, a kind of salted beef. But not salted as in beef jerky. It is still fresh and pliable. In fact it is cut improbably thin in large rectangles, about the size of an unfolded newspaper section. I´m guessing it is skirt steak cut on a band saw while frozen. Otherwise, I cannot imagine how it is sliced so thinly. I had eaten a similar cecine de puerco in Oaxaca, a grilled piece of seasoned pork that had barely fit onto my plate.

I move on and ogle the fruit prepared by one vendor, neatly sliced and displayed in a fanciful array in plastic cups. Another man is pushing his cart with kegs of ice cream. Still another is ladling cups full of atole, a favorite breakfast drink of blended corn meal.

Sunday market is when the people from outlying villages come into town to purchase provisions for the week and enjoy the sights. Children are sucking on flavored ices and scampering around the square in front of the church. Grandmothers are buying their stacks of corn tortillas. Grandpa is inspecting some tools. There are stalls with assorted cook pots stacked to the rafters, electric appliances, breads. I am always amazed at the doggedness of these people, who begin their day setting up their stalls and hundreds of items, not knowing what the day will bring or what they will sell, then stoically disassembling everything that same evening and carting it all home again.

Well, I used the few words of Spanish I know to ask a clerk at the town´s only supermaket if I might find our batteries there. He shook his head no, not there, but indicated I would find them at another location up the street. But I could make neither heads nor tails of his directions and came home empty handed.

We headed back to Mexico city to find that Market Day was still in progress here in the capital. But in our neighborhood, the streets are almost empty. Families have hied it to the park, where we took our daughter to play on a trampoline and to paint watercolors--activities cleverly arranged by a local entrepreneur for a small fee. We took a leisurely stroll to a local coffee shop for chocolate malteds and nachos. Then we found our batteries at the nearby Sanborn´s department store.

It was a good day...

(Photo, top, by Tom Janota)

Fonda Withdrawal

Our friend Tom has introduced us to breakfast at the Mayordomo restaurant here in Oaxaca as one of the best bargains going. Seventy pesos, or a bit less that $7 US buys all you can eat at a buffet that opens for business at 8 am. Along with fresh fruits, ranging from cantaloupe to pineapple and papaya, there´s a selection of dry cereals, yogurt, pancakes, French toast, bacon, enchiladas of some sort, often pozole, quesadillas, Oxacan cheese with poblanos, omelets to order and small tortillas smothered in black beans and fresh cheese called memolitos.

At Mayordomo we were also introduced to a Oaxacan pizza called a tlayuda, which is actually a huge tortilla dressed with beans, cheese, lettuce, sausage or whatever your preferred toppings may be. A great late-night snack and dinner here often takes place late at night, since lunch often is not taken before two or three in the afternoon.

Tom´s wife, Ninfa, has always been extremely protective of us on our visits to Mexico. Meaning, she steers us away from our most natural inclinations, which are to find our food on the streets. Ninfa and Tom make sure that we, and especially our daughter, are not exposed to the local water, even insisting on purified water in the ice in our soft drinks. So we have been chaffing somewhat here in Oaxaca, long viewed as a culinary center of the country, and being confined to restaurants where our tendencies to eat anything and everything are restrained.

In the markets we have seen the legendary grasshoppers and grubs for sale. And finally one evening recently we found ourselves in a restaurant who´s name translates approximately as Grandma´s Place. And there I tasted my first grasshoppers as an appetizer. The didn´t look so much like bugs as dark, ground up meal. But salty, and thirst invoking when spread on a tortilla with the guacamole provided. But having hoofed around the city for several days we are constantly exposed to the little ladies patting out their tortillas and frying them on their propane-heated grills or comals, filling them to order with the local cheese and beans and seasonal squash blossoms.


In some parts of town, the streets are lined with temporary fondas or food stalls where tables are covered with plastic liners, the diners seated in plastic chairs and the street covered with blue plastic tarpaulins to protect against the rains that fall inevitably in the afternoons this time of year.



On particular market, the Mercado 30 Novembre, is devoted almost exclusively to more permanent version of the fonda. As elsewhere in the country, these are typically long diner-style counter tops clad in white tile with stools spaced in front for the diners. One or two or sometimes a whole contingent of female cooks and staff will stand behind the counter waiting for an order. Although unlike most fondas I have visited, there seems to be a rather intense competition for customers. Approach one of the stalls and you will be accosted with the day´s menu and the specialties of that particular fonda. Even as you eat, there is a crush of vendors pressing up behind you offering all manner of toys and trinkets and cheap jewelry for sale.



We finally convinced Tom and Ninfa that they would not hear the last of it if we did not visit one of the fondas at least once for one of our meals. So we trekked down to the Mercado 30 Novembre and somehow found the entrance where the meat grilling takes place. It would be a mistake to imagine that anything other than grilling meat takes place in this particular hall of the market. Each stall has its slabs of skirt steak and other cuts hanging for inspection. Between the stalls, along both walls, are charcoal fires burning and attendants fanning them furiously, almost in unison. Rising about the scene is a thick cloud of smoke, that resides permanently on the ceiling in the form of a gigantic stain of grease and creosote. Simply passing through the hall was so intensely hot that we felt we were running a gauntlet.

Deeper into the market we found our place, or a fonda for five. The menu is simple: tortillas, quesadillas, tamales, beans, rice, soup. There are votes for some of each. I am anxious to try the Oaxacan tamale with black mole, wrapped in a banana leaf.

Fonda food is home cooking, rustic and rough around the edges. No garnishes, bells or whistles. The soup, for instance, is a meal in itself, with whole green beans, big chunks of carrot and cabbage, a generous morsel of chicken breast meat. We receive cutlery, but often there is very little need. A plate of tortillas and any Mexican is set. We watch one gentleman in a straw caballero hat rip a tortillas in pieces. With a swatch in each hand, he pushes the food onto a piece of tortilla and into his mouth it goes. Occasionally he picks up his fork, but it is only to push some beans and rice onto his tortilla.

My tamale is everything I hoped for. Unlike a restaurant version I´d been served the night before, dry and bland, this one is fresh and tender. The mole is dark, slightly spicy and chocolaty. Inside is a piece of chicken, bones and all. We feel the fonda is where we belong....

(Photo, top, by Tom Janota)

Mole and More

There was some question whether we would make Oaxaca our destination on this trip. Last year protests by local teachers turned into clashes with riot police, leaving some teachers in prison and raising calls for the resignation of the Oaxacan governor. This year the teachers have focused their grievances around the Guelaguetza, an ancient dance festival honoring the corn goddess that draws thousands of spectators. Fierce pride in the local culture packs the local auditorium where the dancing takes place.

Although there have been some sporadic demonstrations and marches by the protesting teachers, dancing and vacations continue. I have aimed my own daily activities at discovering the ultimate mole, considered by some to be the apogee of Mexican cuisine and a specialty here in Oaxaca.

Mexico´s is a cuisine unlike most in the west. It developed without dairy products products and largely without meat. Those items did not arrive on the scene until the Spanish brought cows and pigs in the 16th Century. The Mexicans, meanwhile, had taken food to an art form with chili peppers, corn, squash, chocolate, seeds, avocados. What we call mole is a mix of dried chilies, seeds and sometimes nuts and chocolate turned into a sauce with water or chicken broth.

Home cooks in Mexico who still bother to make their own mole create their own favorite mixes of chilies, seeds and other ingredients take it to the local grinder, who turns it into a paste, saving lots of hand-grinding. Otherwise the markets are full of vendors who sell the different varieties of mole in huge plastic basins. Here in Oaxaca, mole is selling for about $2 per pound, which seems an absurdly low price to American who is deprived of real mole most of the time. But remember, this is Mexico, where chili peppers also are displayed in the markets in great heaps, in dozens of different varieties.

My first mole here was a red mole, or mole ¨rojo,¨ that was thick, complex and delicious. But chocolate also being a specialty of Oaxaca, I´ve gravitated toward the black mole, or mole ¨negro,¨ made with dark chilies and chocolate. Typically is is served as a sauce over a piece of chicken breast, garnished with sesame seeds. But an ultimate version has been elusive. My guess is that restaurants don´t bother making their own moles, but rather purchase it in bulk and then tweak it in the kitchen. The best black mole I have found so far was not in the city of Oaxaca at all, but in a cafe in a small town outside the city where we were investigating the local rug weaving craft.

Chocolate also is everywhere. Here the beans are on display in huge burlap bags and there are numerous shops where the locals line up and order their own preferred blends, chocolate with cinnamon or vanilla or almonds being typical. The ingredients are placed in large grinders and the final product sold in plastic bags. There are stalls in the markets devoted exclusively to chocolate in all its guises, the vendors handing out tiny plastic spoons containing samples. If you stop for any length of time, you are soon besieged with every variety of chocolate. Finally your defenses evaporate and you are buying a pound to take home.

Being a non-coffee drinker, chocolate has been a bright spot for me. I am drinking it every morning for breakfast. We´ve become partial to the breakfast buffet at the Mayordomo restaurant where the waiter brings steaming chocolate to the table in the traditional large green pitcher, then stirs it vigorously with the same chocolate stirrer that has been in use in Mexico for centuries. The cup fills with a foamy head, usually with a taste of cinnamon to go with our morning plate of chilaquiles.

Next, the market fondas....

Eating in the Streets

There is food in the streets in Mexico. And by that I mean literally in the street.

At heavily trafficked intersections the vendors are walking in traffic lanes, selling everything from candy bars to fruits and vegetables. In a country without a social safety net, this is a means of subsistence for many. Even young children frequently are seen wandering in traffic hawking gum and candy. Chicklet! Chicklet! they cry.

On our way out of Mexico City we were making great time until the freeway came to a sudden, screeching halt at a major construction site. Major may be an understatement. Huge new overpasses were being constructed. Traffic was at a standstill. Sure enough, we were soon swarmed over with vendors. Peanuts, nougat candy, quesadillas, sodas and juices. It´s a constant refrain of Non, gracias. Non, gracias.

You begin to think this is a country constantly nibbling on something. At the mountain passes, the highway is lined with small food shacks. Often just a wooden hut with a couple of plastic tables in front, but also a grill smoking aromatically. One eatery after another, all cheek by jowl and butting right up to the highway.

We were on the toll road and somehow the food vendors know where the delays are. Any time you are caught in line in front of a toll both, you can count on the old ladies in their black shawls approaching with boxes of sweet potato candy or men in straw hats twirling plastic bags stuffed with pistachios.

About halfway to Oaxaca, we stopped in a rest area to east the sandwiches our friend Ninfa had prepared for the trip, lovely sandwiches on a kind of hard roll with fresh tomato and cheese. She gave one to a policeman who was standing idly near his vehicle. Then two large transports full of soldiers with automatic weapons pulled up. At that point an entire family, from grandma down to the preteens, that had been sheltering themselves from the sun under a nearby underpass made their entrance, offering the soldiers tortillas and sandwiches from aluminum pots and plastic tubs.

On a good day, the drive to Oaxaca from Mexico city is five hours. But as we neared the ancient city, we learned that major road construction was underway. The toll road was being torn up and narrowed to one lane at various points. Often we were not only stopped but forced to wait long intervals. Long enough that most of the vehicles emptied out their loads of passengers, to be greeted by hoards of food vendors.

We were miles from the nearest village, yet here were pedaled vehicles with traveling ice cream stands, hot tamales and corn on the cob. Where do they come from? We wondered. The only thing we purchased was a small block of toasted amaranth seed held together with some kind of sugary syrup. It would last us several days. Now we know we have the same delays to look forward to on the return trip.

Next, we dive into Oaxaca´s famous mole...

Hola from Mexico

The Slow Cook Very stealthfully boarded an early flight this morning and arrived in Mexico City just around lunch for some serious touring in Oaxaca.

Our friends Tom and Ninfa brought us home to a refreshingly simple lunch of cheese quesadillas in whole wheat tortillas. Then we drove to the local Thursday market where there was a mad jumble of vegetable hawking, tamale steaming, pork skin frying and tortilla stuffing already in progress.

Unfortunately I am not able to offer photos at this time. But imagine the aromas rising from at least a dozen grills with skirt steak, onions, chilies frying. A communal dining table half a block long was packed with diners.

Ninfa stopped for a long while to negotiate a purchase of some fresh tortillas to take home for dinner. The saleswoman insisted we sample her sweet tamales, then another fried savory of corn and cheese.

At another stand, a cook with a long pair of steel tongs was removing slabs of pork skin from a cauldron of bubbling fat. The fried skins, or chicharron, were laid in tall stacks on the sales table. A crush of shoppers snaked their way through the stalls. We stopped for fresh mangoes, nopales, big white potatoes. Everywhere people were pressed up against the food stands, or fondas, eating off their plates of fresh tortillas.

As we left, a marching brass band and drum broke into song. I am thrilled to be back in the land of zea mays, or maize or corn used every which way. Yes, the world has intruded on Mexico in a big way. Sam´s Club has arrived. But we had a discussion about the important differences between fresh corn masa and the mass produced dry product. You can taste the difference in the toritllas, said Ninfa.

In the evening, Tom made a first-class blender full of margarittas and Ninfa served a simple vegetable soup, followed by chicken in a peanut and tomato sauce. How many people know that dinner in Mexico would be unthinkable without soup? And where did that come from, I would like to know. Blue corn tortillas. Fresh, vey ripe mangoes for dessert.

Welcome to Mexico.

Kids, Don't Try This at Home

Have you ever tried a cookbook recipe that was so wrong you wondered if anyone ever tested it before it went to the publisher?

I'm making tamales with the kids in my "food appreciation" classes. I approached the subject with some fear and trepidation, for, although I love Mexican food, and although I'm quite good preparing some Mexican foods, making tamales had somehow eluded me all these years.

I thought they'd be just the thing for Easter.

For a recipe, I sought a book exclusively about tamales. The author's bona fides appeared to be in good order. But something about the recipe didn't seem right: 12 cups of Masa, or corn flour mix; 7 cups of chicken broth; two cups of lard; 1 tablespoon salt.

Not that the ingredients or proportions sounded off. It was the quantity. Just mix in the blender with a paddle attachment, the author advised.

Against all my better instincts, I followed the directions. I was a bit alarmed as the 12 cups of masa dough piled higher and higher in the mixing bowl, finishing just short of the rim.

Something bad is going to happen here, I thought.

Trust me, I heard the author saying.

I turned on the blender--slowly--and began adding chicken broth.

Sure enough, the masa started to grow. And grow. And grow. Soon I was the main character in an I Love Lucy episode: Balls of masa were spillling out of the bowl. Balls of masa were leaping out of the bowl. And still the masa continued to grow. And grow. And grow.

I didn't know whether to curse or laugh outloud. I'd made a complete fool of myself and I had one hell of a mess to deal with. There was masa everywhere. Not what I needed first thing in the morning.

Finally, I'd had enough. Screw the blender. I dumped the whole thing on the counter top and started kneading it by hand.

I looked back at the recipe to see if I'd missed something. Had the author perhaps called for the use of a commercial-type blender, something much bigger than my household Kitchenaid? But the only guidance was this: "In the bowl of a heavy duty mixer...."

There were other things about this recipe that were just plain off. I looked at the huge pile of masa dough on the counter and started thinking this was going to make way more than the "2 or 3 dozen" tamales the author claimed. More like 5 or 6 dozen, it turns out.

The recipe also called for a 1/2-cup scoop of dough in each tamale. The author must have been using some kind of giant, Chernobyl-type corn husks to wrap her tamales. I'm finding that 1/4 cup of dough per tamale is more like it.

Too much chicken, not enough tomato in the filling. Quarter-inch slices from "large Russet potatoes" to be added to the filling, but no indication whether this meant a slice from the whole length of the potato, or something smaller. On and on...

"Did you look at other recipes?" my wife asked. "Usually when I'm researching something, I look at all my recipes before I start cooking."

Duh. Of course I hadn't. What was I thinking? I have volumes by Rick Bayless and Diana Kennedy, as well as other Mexican cookboks I've collected over the years. I could easily have checked. In fact, a little voice had told me to check and I had ignored it. Whatever made me think that a cookbook, simply because it was devoted exclusively to tamales, would be more authoritative?

Lesson learned: There really are some crappy cookbooks out there, even the ones (maybe especially the ones) with all the gorgeous photos. Even the ones with glowing editorial reviews at Amazon.com. I must say, though, this one does have some dynamite illustrations on the many different ways to fill and tie the finished tamales.

Tomorrow, we put this episode into our memory bank and begin to actually assemble and cook our tamales.

To be continued....