What is it about menudo?

If you’re a Chicano or Mexican, chances are you think its the cure-all for la cruda (hangover).  I’ve read that this is a folktale with no substantiated proof of its validity as a cure for the common hangover.  Still, millions of Mexicans would beg to differ and Juanita’s still sells cans and cans of the stuff.

I can see why it would work.  Dehydration is key in a hangover.  Your body is dried out from the alcohol and it makes your head pound and you’re feeling nauseous and ill.  Ok, so bring in the menudo which is essentially, a soup aka water. The water content alone would help you to start feeling better as did that shower you probably took before leaving the house in search of menudo.

But what about the rest?

There’s chili in menudo – not just the chili you cook into it, but also the red pepper flakes you shake liberally onto it and the salsa you scoop into it from the bowl on the table.  Vitamin C is in chili.  That’s gotta help.  What about the onions and garlic that went into it?  Or the freshly chopped raw onion you put on top?  The oregano which is high in antioxidants.  Hippocrates used it as an antiseptic and Mexican abuelas have used it for upset stomachs.  What about that lemon or lime you’re squeezing all over your bowl? More Vitamin C and more liquid.  No wonder you feel better.

Then there’s the fat.  That cow’s stomach that is so chewy, soft and delicious is coating your insides and settling your tummy.  So while I’m no scientist, I say menudo works.  If you don’t have a pot of menudo at home, the simple act of going out for it gives you exercise and gets your blood pumping, chasing that hangover away.

Me, I just love it for its complexity of tastes and textures.  That bitterness of the oregano, sharp bite of the raw onion, the rolled up corn tortilla I dip into it with its taste of char, the bite of the nixtamal or hominy, the chewiness of the panza, the slow burn of the chili and the citrusy freshness of the lemon all combine to make me a very happy girl.  My Uncle Adam would spend every New Year’s Eve perfecting his menudo and I was always a happy taste tester.

What Latino kid doesn’t like menudo?  We grow up picking out the stomach and asking our mothers and grandmothers to only put in the corn; nixtamal soaked over night until it blossoms then cooked into the menudo.  Little by little, the panza or stomach makes its way down our throats and we start putting more of it into our bowl, delighting in the chewiness mixed with the melty soft parts.  As kids, we might sneer and get grossed out by the pata, a pig’s foot neatly quartered by the carnicero (butcher) but menudo isn’t menudo without the pata.  We grow up demanding a piece of the previously despised pata in our bowls, sticking up proudly in a mountain of nixtamal.

At the table, you see the men sucking the bones clean with gusto.  The women are more dainty about it but all the same, they want that fatty, piggy feet goodness.  Everyone seasons their menudo differently.  Tio Nacho over there likes a LOT of oregano, Tia Fulana likes more onion than most, me; sitting on the end over there has a pile of squeezed lemons on the napkin next to me because  I like it sour.

Menudo, that peasant dish made of castoff cow and pig parts is truly el rey (the king) on Sundays in Latino houses and restaurants.  What’s your favorite part of a bowl of menudo?

*The FDA requires that I disclose that this is NOT a cure.  I am NOT prescribing menudo as a cure for a hangover. I’m just pondering…that’s all.  Menudo is food, not medicine.  Sabes? 

If you’re like me, once in a while there’s a day when you look in the fridge and say, “oh darn, the vegetables are starting to go soft and I might have to throw them away.”  I HATE wasting food.

I grew up mostly hungry.  My mother was on welfare and NEVER had much in the fridge.  She was a poor manager and really a bit of a space cadet when it came to household stuff.  Early on, my sisters and I learned that if we wanted to eat regularly and well, we’d have to do it ourselves.  My sister Wendy was the business manager.  It was she who would confiscate food stamps, make lists and handle the shopping with me (the oldest) to plan the menus and cook the food; and my sister Carol (the baby) to ride along in the shopping cart we would bring home.  Before we learned to do that, however it was either baloney in a tortilla, burnt beans (my mother was a horrible cook), and watery, unsweetened Kool-aid.  Blech.  I still can’t drink that stuff.

My Aunt Lupita remembers coming over and finding a very little me standing on a milk crate cooking something for my sisters.  I’ve been cooking for almost as long as I can remember and I can pretty much make a meal out of nothing, which in the current economy, is a darned good skill to have.

Visiting my grandparent’s house wasn’t just a holiday, it was salvation.  We’d walk in and there would be food EVERYWHERE.  The pantries were full, the fridge and freezers were full, the garden had food growing in it.  It was heaven to me, and if I could have lived there forever, I would have.

Once I had my own place, I made it my mission to always have food.  I’m a little obsessed with food and I hate waste.  So my vegetable drawer drives me crazy when I see things starting to soften.  That’s when I make soup and freeze it.

You can get some amazing soups out of the vegetables in your crisper that are starting to go soft.  Just the other day, I found broccoli that needed to be cooked immediately, some celery and carrots that were a couple of days away from being thrown out.  So I made soup.  I boiled the veggies with onion, garlic, a bit of fresh thyme then pureed it in the blender when it was cooled.  I used a can of evaporated milk in the vegetable puree, some salt, pepper, nutmeg and heated it through.  I served it with crusty brown bread and some grated cheese on top.  The rest, I froze and now can have some really great soup whenever I want.

It only takes a bit of time and the result it healthy, nutritious and cost effective.  Don’t throw the soft veggies away – make soup.  If you waste your vegetables, I just might throw a chancla at you.

Gina’s Creamy Broccoli, Celery and Carrot Soup

1/2 a head of broccoli, stems and florets – chopped into small chunks

1/2 a stalk of celery, leaves included – chopped

3 carrots – chopped

1/2 an onion – quartered

2 cloves of garlic

a few stems of fresh thyme

water

1 can of evaporated milk

salt and pepper to taste

Chop the vegetables and place in a saucepan with just enough water to cover.  Bring to a boil, then lower flame and cook covered, till the vegetables are very soft (about 15 minutes).

Let vegetables cool to room temperature, then strain, reserving the cooking liquid.

Puree in a blender or food processor until smooth.

Pour the puree into a heavy saucepan, add the milk and the reserved cooking liquid.  Whisk the mixture. Add salt and pepper to taste and heat through, stirring often to prevent the milk from scorching.

Makes about 4-6 servings.

Frigidaire and Jennifer Garner are teaming up to inspire families everywhere to roll up their sleeves and get cooking together. Starting today, people can join in the Frigidaire Kids’ Cooking Academy ( www.maketimeforchange.com) to get great recipes, how-to videos and tips, all designed to help involve kids in the kitchen.

My kid-friendly recipe is one for a fig jam I made this summer with my grandchildren on a hot night when we couldn’t sleep for the heat.  It was tons of fun making it and I love the idea that every or every post submitted, Foodbuzz and Frigidaire will donate $50 to Save the Children.

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It’s 12:45 a.m after one of the hottest days of summer.  It was 105 degrees!

The grandkids who are visiting for this week can’t sleep, house is too hot and my a/c wall unit is icing over.  What to do, what to do?  In the fridge was a massive bowl of the past two days harvest of figs from our tree just begging me to do something with but it’s been too darned hot.  I took an almost midnight shower and came out to two small children that were hot, grumpy, tired and in need of something, anything to do to get them to relax enough to sleep.  I went to the fridge, saw that big bowl of figs and remembered the jam I had been intending to make.  “Who wants to have a midnight jam session?” I asked the kids.  “We do!”

I had had an idea in mind on how to make my jam, an older recipe that called for cinnamon, lemon rind, fresh figs and sugar but whenever the kids help me cook, things change.  I really like letting them improvise and find their way around my kitchen.  We discuss flavors and ideas all the time.  They’ve been cooking with me since before I started Dona Lupe’s so I’ve learned to trust them the way they trust in me.

Insomniac grandkids

Aiden took charge of this jam session.  He just turned five on Friday the 20th and was in a very assertive mood.  He handed me a bottle of caraway seed and said, “Grammy use this, it almost smells like figs.”  Into the simmering cinnamon and water it went.  What the heck, how bad could it be?  I searched for lemons but we were out and being midnight by now, we were out of luck with a store.  David suggested the rice vinegar in the pantry for a little acidity and it made sense to me so I added it.  This was so not the jam I had planned on but as we all took turns chopping figs and adding them to the pot, the kitchen was starting to smell amazing.

Chop, chop, chop

Once the figs were all in the pot, Aiden handed me a jar.  Surprised, I looked down at a square box of chili powder from the Indian store I frequent in Los Feliz.  “Put some of that in Grammy” he said seriously.  I nodded and added about two tablespoons, stirred it in with crossed fingers and tasted.  Oh. My. God.  That was some amazing jam!  Things happen in midnight jam sessions, things you’d never expect but surprisingly sweet and good.

Jam!

We’re going on 1:00 a.m. now and the kids are drifting off to sleep while Aiden’s Midnight Fig Jam is slowly simmering on the stove.  When he wakes tomorrow there will be toast smeared with his jam and the day, however hot it turns out to be will keep that spicy sweetness.

Aiden’s Midnight Fig Jam

5 lbs of fresh figs, washed, trimmed and chopped roughly
3 c. Sugar
1 cinnamon stick
3 c. of water
Pinch caraway seeds
4 tablespoons of rice vinegar
2 tablespoons of dark red chili powder

Set a large pot with the water and cinnamon stick to boil, then bring to a slow simmer.

Trim off the points and ends of the figs and rough chop them.  Add the caraway seeds to the simmering cinnamon water, the sugar and rice vinegar.  Stir until well blended.

Add the chopped figs, the chili powder and stir slowly.  Let simmer for two hours till well thickened, stirring frequently so the sugar doesn’t burn and stick to the bottom of your pot.

Remove the cinnamon stick, let cool and store in Mason jars using proper canning techniques.

Best cooked at midnight to the strains of Luciano Pavaroti (you know we had to listen to Figaro), Lauryn Hill and Trio Los Panchos.  Insomniac grandchildren optional.

Project Food Blog ay, ay, ay….what did I do?  Project Food Blog is a contest run by the amazing Foodbuzz social network for foodies.  When the contest first came into my email, I blindly signed up thinking, “Wow, que cool!”  PFB is a contest where Foodbuzz Featured Publishers are competing in a series of culinary blogging challenges.  The prize is $10,000 and a special feature on Foodbuzz for one year.

The competition is stiff.  1855 contestants, 1 winner.  Wow.  The first cut is brutal.  Only 400 will advance.  Intimidated?  Scared?  You bet I am.  So why am I even doing this?  One answer: To preserve a rich legacy and pass it on.

I started this blog three years ago on my birthday as not only a tribute to my beautiful, gentle grandmother who cooked like a goddess, but as a legacy to my grandchildren.  I’d had some pretty hairy health scares and illnesses which got me thinking about legacy, about what a rich culture and family history I had and how often those things fall through the cracks.  How many times had I sat in a room with family members bemoaning that certain thing my grandmother had made that we didn’t have the recipe for?  Enough times to have it worry me that what had been saved, remembered and maintained would also be lost.  My granddaughter Jasmine once asked me, “Did your grammy cook with you like you do with us?” and that was what fueled me into starting Doña Lupe’s Kitchen.

This blog isn’t just about food, though food is a constant presence.   Food is a large part of our Mexican cultural patrimony.  Doña Lupe’s is about the traditions, the love, the memories.  It’s about culture, family, music and even poetry.  Occasionally, my rather outspoken opinions about politics or random things work their way into it, but I just see it like that brightly colored sarape of my Papa Chava’s that was woven so expertly.  We Mexican’s have a saying that holds very true for me; we stand on the shoulders of our ancestors.  Doña Lupe’s Kitchen is in a way those shoulders I stand upon, the traditions and food handed down from mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter.  It is the  love that got me through my life, the dreams I have of a future where my grandchildren and their grandchildren all know where they came from, who their ancestors were as well as know the smells, tastes and memories that came from our collective ancestry.  This blog is far more than a food blog – it is a legacy, the one I am trying to leave.  It is my way of preserving something precious that absolutely cannot be lost.

I don’t know if I have what it takes to be the next Food Blog Star or even if I will make it past the first cut, I do know that no matter what, my grandchildren will be proud of me.  I know that my grandmother’s recipes will live on not just in my family but perhaps in yours.  Maybe they will even start new traditions in other families, other cultures.  I truly believe that food transcends borders and helps us understand each other. Project Food Blog gives my family stories and recipes a chance to be spread to a wider audience and for that, I am grateful.

This post gives you an idea of what drives me, what this blog is about but I strongly encourage you to visit the About page to get to know more about the wonderful woman who inspired it.  Wander amongst the recipes and stories and get to know me, my family and most of all the food.  Nuestra casa es tu casa.  Feel free to comment, linger, have a cafecito and a recipe or two.  You’re always welcome in my kitchen.

Voting begins on September 20th…more details to come.

My oldest son Albert is a fiend for my fried chicken.  He’s probably gonna scream and holler on the phone at me, but I call him Nano.  I never call him Albert even though he’s trained the rest of the family to do so.  He was a tiny preemie baby, nothing like the huge beast he is now and we called him Nanito, the nickname his father’s family dubbed him with the day he was born because he was so tiny.  The name stuck, he’s been Nano or Nanito ever since and he HATES it.  I can’t help it though, he’s still my baby boy that I’d do just about anything for.

Growing up, he was always asking me for fried chicken, coleslaw and mashed potatoes or my hamburgers.  When he moved to San Diego where he was stationed in the Navy, he’d occasionally show up with a pack of big Navy guys all ravenously hungry, hand me some money and ask me to make my fried chicken for his friends.  I never said no.  When he married, he asked me to teach his new wife how to make it and that didn’t go over so well, so he just had me make piles of it and he and his brother ate it all in one day.

Nano is a big old beast now - I'm sure it's partly because of the chicken

With all the health problems I’ve had over the past year and a half, I’m not eating much in the way of fried foods.  I’d mostly given it up before getting ill, but a serious illness then a gall bladder removal really have me vigilant about what I eat and how I prepare it.  Fried chicken hasn’t been on my menu in a couple of years.

I had planned on doing a chicken salad today with the fresh chicken my roommate David brought home but he asked if I wouldn’t mind changing the menu to fried chicken.  I considered and figured I might as well do him a favor and make it.  Once in a great while is okay, right?  Yeah I talked myself into it and he totally twisted my arm.  I’m laughing at myself as I write this.

I don’t know how other people make fried chicken.  The only kind I had when I was growing up was Kentucky Fried or the Mexican Pollo Frito en Salsa de Cacahuate that I make on occasion.  It wasn’t until I married that I attempted it.  The recipes I tried, I didn’t really like so I fiddled with stuff and came up with my own way.  It’s simple, tasty and the batter is light and crunchy.  Best of all, my boy loves it.  It was a hit tonight too.

Nano’s Fried Chicken

1 large chicken, cut into pieces, trimmed, washed and patted dry
Olive oil
2 cups of flour, plus 1 cup
1 tbsp paprika
2 tbsp Knorr Suissa
Salt and pepper to taste
Dash allspice
3 eggs
2 tbsp buttermilk

In a medium sized bowl, mix together two cups of sifted flour with the paprika, Knorr Suissa, allspice salt and pepper, making sure its well blended.  In another bowl beat the eggs with the buttermilk and in the third bowl add the plain flour.

In a large cast iron skillet add enough olive oil to fry the chicken in.  I typically fill the pan halfway.  Heat on medium flame.

Salt the chicken lightly and then dredge first in the plain flour, next the egg mixture coating the chicken completely and finally the seasoned flour.

Carefully add in the chicken one piece at a time into the hot oil.  Fry for about 15 minutes on each side till golden brown on medium, then lower the flame and let the chicken cook another 10-15 minutes to ensure it’s cooked through.

Remove the chicken and drain on paper towels or brown paper.

That’s it!  Simple but it takes a little care, watch to make sure the chicken isn’t getting too dark, don’t keep turning it or your crust will fall off and make sure it’s cooked through.

Buen provecho!

Some things are just meant to be simple, delicious and evocative.  My earliest memories of food and cooking always have the gorgeous aroma of beans simmering on my grandmother’s stove.  She made a fresh pot almost every day and the smell is woven into all my memories of her, the house with the creaky wooden floors and the smells of her flowers.

Every time I make a pot, it is like she is right back front and center, larger than life with her gentle little hands, showing me how to pat a tortilla, measure something out for baking, how to chop finely, how to pinch up the sides of a sope and a million other life lessons.  I miss her as keenly over 20 years since she’s been gone from this world as the day I lost her, but the scent of beans cooking in the pot always makes me feel her presence and it comforts me.
Beans seem like simple fare, maybe even bothersome or peasant food to some but to me they are necessary.  They go with just about any meal, are loaded with nutrients, are economical, versatile and filling and I couldn’t imagine life without them.  My favorite though is just out of the pot topped with chopped onion, tomato and cilantro.  It’s like a soup, absolutely delicious and with a freshly made tortilla dipped in, pure ecstasy.

To my mind, nothing is better than that first bowl of beans fresh out of a clay pot before they get re-fried or used for other things like tostadas, burritos, etc.  I still love them however they are cooked, but that first bowl of soupy pinto beans with the bright Mexican flag colors is just special.

I often get asked, “how do your beans come out so good?” or “what did you do to make them so good?” and it always surprises me, because to me beans are beans and no work at all.  I do remember my mother couldn’t make a pot to save her life.  We’d come home from school to the smell of burnt beans permeating the house and think, “Jeez, mom forgot to put water in the beans again.”  That never happened at Grandma’s house.  When I go over the steps in my head to my Grandma Lupe’s perfect pot of beans, its almost zen-like to me.  Maybe other Mexican cooks have different ways of preparing them but I only know hers and they’re always, always perfect so I thought I’d share the steps.

My grandmother never used just pinto beans.  She had this beautiful, big acrylic container my Uncle Adam had made for her that was filled with a mixture of large white beans, kidney beans, pintos, small lima beans, navy beans and pink beans.  The varying colors and sizes were beautiful and to me as a child, like little gems in a treasure box.  I loved sticking my hands into that clear container and picking up handfuls and letting them stream back in.

First step to a pot of good beans is cleaning them.  This is where the zen comes in.  My grandmother would pile in front of me little hills of beans and my job was to carefully inspect each one.  Broken ones, little dirt rocks and ones with the skins peeling were swiftly scooted off into a discard pile.  Good ones went into the keep pile.  I always found it very soothing to sort the beans and still do.

Once you’re done sorting the beans, put the good ones into a colander and wash them throughoughly in warm water then set aside.

In a large pot* fill just about an inch below the rim with cool water and bring to a boil.

Once you have the water at a rolling boil, add salt (no measurements here – depends on taste and how much you are making), two cloves of garlic and one golden onion, peeled and quartered.

Next add the beans and lower the flame/heat to very low.  Cover with a tight fitting lid and let simmer (no peeking) for three hours.  You do need to keep adding boiling water every so often to keep the water level an inch from the rim.  Don’t forget to put water in the beans!!  My grandma always kept a small pot simmering on the back burner so she could add in water and keep the temp the same.

One thing I notice is if you want nice, pink beans you limit the lid lifting.  One of my friends is a compulsive lid-lifter and her beans, while they are delicious come out very dark.  Some weird chemical reaction (oxidation?) happens when you lift the lid.  I’ve also found that people who soak their beans before cooking them also get the dark thing going on.  I am not a fan of soaking them.  Why bother when you can put a pot on in the morning and have delicious beans in the afternoon?

Ok – so everyone is gonna ask but, but, but Gina you didn’t give us measurements and we don’t know how many beans to put in so I’ll attempt to gauge the amount I put in this morning. I’m using a large soup pot (stainless steel because my olla broke and I have to go back to Mexico and buy another one because I’m so not buying an olla from here but you can that’s just me) and it holds 18 cups of water just an inch below the rim, to those 18 cups I put in about 4 cups of beans.  Salt is to taste so no measurement there.  I start with about hmm three tablespoons and go from there.

So that’s it my grandmother’s secret for a perfect pot of beans.  Love, care and some patience.

*When I was growing up, beans were cooked in a clay olla or pot.  Nowadays, there is a concern with the lead content in Mexican ollas so I won’t tell you to use one even though I do.  I love the flavor my olla imparts to the beans.  If you want to use a traditional clay olla, please find one that is lead-free.

It’s morning and I’ve finally woken at a decent time, though I still can’t sleep at night for the silence.  I miss that L.A. lullaby of police sirens, music, traffic, voices, dogs barking and the Santa Anas ratting my window panes on a windy night.  I’m sitting on my bed still a little sleepy, wondering what to wear and thinking of those cold mornings in Atwater Village where the creaking of ancient hardwood floors would wake me and the smells of breakfast drifting from the kitchen would lure me out of my cocoon of blankets.

One of my favorite things my grandmother would cook was huevos con chile, scrambled eggs with salsa.  She’d wake up early, about 5am and throw open all the windows and doors to let the fresh air in.  She’d then go outside and water all her flowers and plants while my grandfather irrigated his garden.  From my bed, I would hear the water, feel the dewy morning chill and snuggle in to sleep a little more.  Safe, comforting sounds.  I’d wake again to the creaking of the floorboards, the rattling of pots and then the smells.

Sometimes I’d jump out of bed and run to help in the kitchen.  I’d see the comal going with tomatoes and chiles on it and know she was making salsa.  My grandfather would be there in the kitchen with his rolling pin dusted in flour, rolling out those massive flour tortillas he loved to make.  He worked powerfully and fast.  A quick three turns of the pin and he would have this huge tortilla that barely fit the comal.  I never failed to be amazed by how giant they were and he never tired of showing off for me.

My grandmother would put the molcajete in front of me and the peeled chiles, tomatoes and a few other things like roasted garlic cloves, translucent quarters of onion.  She’d start grinding the chile mixture while i stripped cilantro stems of their leaves and flowers.  She then would take about half of the freshly made salsa over to the stove where she’d scramble eggs and then pour in the salsa which sent off this luscious, spicy steam that made my mouth water.  Before I knew it, there’d be a plate in front of me with eggs colored red and green from the salsa, a scoop of beans with cheese, maybe fresh slices of avocado,  cantaloupe or papaya with lime and one of my Papa’s mega tortillas.

The first bite always tickled my tongue and put a smile on my face.  The eggs were always perfect, the tortillas fluffy and warm, and the best part was my grandmother finally sat down and I could jabber at her, my Aunt Jessie and my Papa while we ate.  What did we talk about?  Why food of course, recipes we wanted to try, how the chiles were growing in the garden and how many rows of cilantro there were.

What are your favorite memories of breakfasts?

The rain beats against my window with no rhythm, no rhyme.  At times it is unrelenting, vicious in its determination to get inside.  It batters the windows, rattles them; then frustrated, it takes a breath and prepares for the next assault.  It’s been raining five days now in Los Angeles.  There have been tornado warnings, 65 mph gale winds, hail and rain in buckets enough to generate a Twitter hashtag called #theendoftheworld.  At times the rain is gentle, soothing; the kind of rain that makes one long for Sunday papers in bed, a good book, a cuddle with a loved one or the smell of bacon and coffee drifting upstairs to waken you.

I love that kind of rain, it always propels me to the kitchen, to bake or make soup – the vegetable rich, lemony caldo de pollo that my grandmother made so often.  Brimming with color from corn on the cob, translucent green cabbage, dark green zucchini, bright orange carrots, the pale quarters of onions and the earthy dark of unskinned potatoes.  She’d serve it in a deep bowl over a scoop of red Spanish rice with warm corn tortillas wrapped in a cloth to keep them warm and a half slice of lemon to squeeze over it.  She always did hers a little different, a way I thought special.  To hers, she’d slice up a regular banana, not a plaintain but a banana and add a sprig of mint.  It gave an unusual sweetness to the soup that was distinctly Grandma Lupe.  No one else ate it that way, it was Grandma’s soup.  Sweet, distinct, unusual with a gentle touch, just like her.

Always on the table was the fresh salsa de molcajete she made and my grandfather, Papa Chava would pile it up on his bowl.  It added a smoky, spicy flavor to the soup that I loved and still do now with the added flavor of memories.  I make it often, roasting the tomatoes on the comal till their skins burst, wrapping the roasted chiles in a damp cloth so their skins can steam off and gently removing the cilantro leaves from their stems to add whole to the salsa.  I am recreating my grandmother’s steps, I am keeping her memory alive in my kitchen.

My grandmother’s salsa had little cilantro flowers in it because my grandfather grew cilantro in a way to ensure she never ran out.  He’d stagger the planting carefully so that there were soft earthy mounds with tiny stems poking their heads out, the next with the cilantro a little bigger, the next in full cutting mode and the back mounds were left to go to seed.  He gathered those round seeds and dried them carefully, saving them in an old glass baby food jar that he kept in his garage/gardening shed.

When the cilantro flowered, my grandmother loved to put the tiny white blossoms in her salsa and in the tomato relish (I guess you can call it that) that she made for tacos and tostadas.  The blossoms were surprisingly flavorful, that sharp green tang of the cilantro intensified.  You’d never know such a tiny, wispy flower would pack such a punch.  Store bought cilantro just isn’t the same.  The leaves are so much bigger, the flavor not as intense and of course, there are no delicate, lacy white blossoms to beautify and flavor your dish.

The rain is calming now and I’m still making up my mind whether to go out, bake or make soup.  For now, I’m content to snuggle in, pet my dog and remember a kitchen where love what the secret ingredient.

Orangette

Coming from a Mexican family with an amazing group of cooks for aunts, grandaunts, second cousins and my phenomenal grandmother Lupe meant that I was surrounded by food: cooking, talking, eating, making, reading about, growing, learning. Food was everywhere and it was never just simple because in my family, food wasn’t food unless it was intricately layered in flavor and processes. Even the simplest of things were uncannily complex in one way or another. My grandmother taught me early on that color flavor, aroma, taste and even the plate you served it on was important and that there was joy to be found in creating something from the garden to the table.

It stands to reason that she, who taught me so much was the axis of my world and she was. I was her constant observer, her shadow and she was rarely without me in tow. My mother told me once that she remembered when I was just starting to eat fruit, my grandmother would cut tiny bits of strawberry, putting them on a toothpick one at a time and dipping them in honey to feed me bit by bit. I still love strawberries and I did the same with my granddaughter.

My grandmother was intensely interesting to me and she seemed the most magical of people. She grew up (the first to be born here in the US) on a ranch in Piru, California where they grew oranges. Her young life was poor and it must have been tremendously hard. Migrant farmworkers have never had it, easy (check the UFW website to see how many have died from heatstroke this year). If it had been me picking oranges season after season, I’d be heartily sick of them but my grandma Lupe loved them. Nothing made her happier than when on of my great uncles would drive down from Piru with a big box of freshly harvested Valencias for her. She’d sit out in the patio in back, take her paring knife and long curly waterfalls of peel would fall quickly into her apron in one long swoop. They never broke and she did it without thinking. I’d sit across from her goggle-eyed and wishing I could do it too. I still can’t without it breaking. She’d look at me, smile and hand me a section, popping it into my mouth. “It tastes like sunshine, doesn’t it, mi reina del cielo? (queen of heaven)” her name for me.

Another of her favorites were the chocolate-covered orange sticks my grandfather would bring her from the Thrifty’s in Glendale. He’d only bring a box every once in a while but those days were special. My grandmother would always be thrilled and giggly as a young girl. My grandfather would always hold his hands behind his back before bringing out the box and stand there with his boyish, blushing face holding it out to his sweetheart. I always felt the deep love they had for each other in those moments, love that spilled out like sugar all over everything and everyone around them. She’d smile and take one, just one and let me have it. The rest were hers and she hid them and kept the box for a long time, making it last. I’d savor my one piece and to me, it was the best thing in the world.

I don’t think she knew about orangettes or we would have made them. I was blessed to have a grandmother that gave me anything and everything I needed for cooking if I wanted to make something. She never gave it a second thought – I got the pan, the spice, the expensive nuts – whatever I needed, I got it. I know now what a sacrifice it must have been to two senior citizens on a fixed income with bills and family obligations, but she made it happily and I never once knew it was anything but a joy. I wonder if she knew what a difference cooking would make in my life, what a wonderful gift she gave not just to me but to my children, grandchildren and the people who share my life. I expect not. She was pure love, that woman and everything she did was filled with it.

I wish I could have made these for her, but I made them for Jasmine and Aiden and I think my grandmother is watching and smiling.

Orangette

What you’ll need:
Oranges, a thick skinned type like Valencias (you can do these with tangerine as well)
Water and sugar (ratio is about 1 ¼ c. water to 3 c of sugar)
A sharp knife
Sugar for dusting them
Chocolate that has been tempered

Scrub the oranges well and dry them off.
Cut off each end so they sit flat on a cutting board
Take your knife and score them just to the edge of the orange in about ¼ inch strips.
Peel away each strip, leaving rind on the orange but not the orange itself. Trim off any bits of orange.
Set aside.

Jasmine will show you how to peel off a section and what to do with the leftover orange.



See my orange Grammy scored for me?



Halfway there



I'm really careful to peel these off neatly.



Nom! I know just what to do with the orange.

I tried Jennifer Yu’s method of blanching the peels three times to do away with the bitterness but I still got some that was a little bitter when I tasted it as it cooled.  However, once it dried completely the bitterness was completely gone.  Weird, but cool.

Once blanched, I drained my orange peels and made my sugar syrup. Bring 1 ¼ c. water to boil and add the 3 c. sugar and stir till dissolved. Let it come to a full boil, then reduce heat to the lowest simmer. Add the orange peels and let simmer, stirring occasionally until they are transparent. Mine took about 40 minutes.

Working carefully (sugar syrup burns are nasty), scoop them out onto drying racks with parchment paper underneath to catch the drips. When they are cool enough to touch you can roll them in sugar, but I prefer not too. I like them with just the chocolate but I sugared some for the grandkids. This time, I added a few sprigs of rosemary to the left over syrup to candy them and flavor the syrup for another recipe. The syrup will be the base for a rosemary citrus ade (thanks to @peckedbyducks for the idea) and the candied sprigs will be garnish for something later this month.

The orange peels take several hours before they are dry but once they are you can either store them as is or dip into tempered chocolate. For these I used bittersweet chocolate with a little butter. I took another hint from Jennifer Yu and dried the chocolate ones on a cookie sheet lined in parchment rather than on the racks. Thanks Jennifer!

Store in airtight container or eat them. Most of mine will be gone, but I’m saving a few for something I have planned to make later this month.

Oh and Aiden?  I so busted you stealing orangette when you thought I was distracted by photographing it.  Thing is, I photographed you.  Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky buddy and very cute.



Aiden being very, very sneaky

This post is dedicated to my grandmother, the UFW, Dolores Huerta, César Estrada Chávez and to farmworkers everywhere trabajando en la pisca. Show some love by donating to the UFW donation page.

Mexica tiahui y buen provecho.

For more pictures, please visit the photo gallery page here.  If you like the photos, they are courtesy of my son Albert, who with his typical generosity of spirit sent his mom a new Olympus Evolt camera to take her food pictures with.  Albert is former Navy from age 17 to 29 who was commended for saving lives and is currently in Iraq as a contractor working with the Army.  I miss him every day and no matter how tough he is, he will always be my little boy.  Love you mijo!

One of my Friday evening rituals is to head down to the local Farmer’s Market to see what goodies they have that I can play with.  I often, as in this case take the grandkids and have a blast with them.  This afternoon we packed up the stroller and headed out for adventure, fun and produce.  The Eagle Rock Farmer’s Market is small but fun.  We have an Elvis impersonator! Sorry, no pictures of him today – the kids were tired out before he came on.

We found dragonfruit at the booth of Teo and Otillio, which though I love the color – I was slightly under whelmed at the taste.  They tasted like tunas to me, or prickly pear in English.  Still, the color was brilliant and I wanted to dye yarn with it as soon as I saw it.  I also thought mmmm it would make a brilliant cheesecake and I could sugar the petals to decorate the sides….

There were my summer favorite, squash flowers for a dollar a bag.  The ones I found had tiny little squashes attached and they will make excellent quesadillas or a budin.  We also found huge nectarines, peaches and avocados.  I mean like Godzilla-sized.  Seriously.  Check out the gallery.  Huge.

Bacon-wrapped, Mexican-style hot dogs, aguas frescas, black grapes, peaches, apricots and gorgeous nectarines the choices were as endless as summer seems to be.  The sun was shining, the smell of fruit and flowers filled the air and mixed with the smoky smell of chicken roasting over wood.  Kids were playing and everyone was eating.

I found strawberries so big and sweet in rows and rows that had me singing that Beatle’s song to the kids.  Jasmine now knows the words to Strawberry Fields Forever.

Jasmine wanted me to buy balot because they are dyed pink, but I draw the line at eggs with baby chicken embryos in them.  Ick.  Sorry folks, I will get my protein elsewhere.

We stopped and bought jamaica (hibiscus flower drink), sat down at a table in the shade and met the cutest little baby named Maria Elena and her family.  Two-year Aiden did tricks on his skateboard he takes with him everywhere (he calls it his game and even sleeps with it) and Jasmine twirled her sun hat.

Refreshed and cooler, we set off to take pictures of the men making pollos al brassa and I knocked over the wrought iron divider they had set up.  Always graceful, me.  After that, I had had enough and the kids were getting cranky so we rolled over to That Yarn Store and visited with David and other Yarn Store regulars.  I fell in love with this gorgeous Rio de Plata hand-dyed turquoise yarn but didn’t buy it.  Being unemployed prohibits buying yarn these days but that one has my name on it and it will be a shawl for me soon.  We shared dragonfruit and stories and had a great time before walking out into the cool night air and heading home.