sopes

Jul

31

Papaloquelite

Aztec Herbs / Herbs  Posted by / 5 comments

papalo Papaloquelite

Papaloquelite or Papalo – the word is ancient like many Mexican words.  Papalotl means butterfly and the word quelite means greens and is used for many edible greens and grasses including lamb’s quarters which I’ve written about before.  My grandmother, who knew just about everything about plants and herbs told me that the plant got its name because its scent attracted butterflies.  The word hearkens back to Azteca/Mexica times just like the avocado (aguacatl), tomato (tomatl), chile, chocolate (chocolatl), maiz and the venerable frijole.  These staples form a large part of the cultural patrimony of Latin America and for me, to Mexico in particular.  In the U.S., it is slowly making its way into the Mexican or Latina American markets where the clientele knows what to do with it. Years ago I had to go buy it in small little Mexican shops where the store owner grew it in his backyard or grow it myself.  In Mexico, it grows rampant all over, its heady scent perfuming the air.
I love it.  Just the sight of it in the vegetable aisle at Superior market the other day got my heart racing and I was like a little girl, hopping up and down in the aisle as excited as my granddaughter gets over a pink cupcake.  My roommate David was looking at me in the oddest manner, wondering why his crazy Mexican, overly demonstrative business partner was in ecstasy over a humble green bunch of weeds.  “It’s papalo” I shrieked, “we HAVE to get papalo for the sopes”.  Looking at his skeptical face, I broke off a small leaf and told him to bite into it.  Immediately his face changed from bewilderment to sheer foodie pleasure as I knew it would.  I knew then I had him hooked and happily tucked my papalo into its little plastic bag and then into the shopping cart almost skipping (okay I actually did skip) down the aisle.

The Latin name for papaloquelite is Porophyllum ruderale and it is also known as Bolivian coriander though it is not a member of the coriander family.  Some seed companies sell it, likening it to a combo between arugula, coriander and rue.  There’s a wiki for it under Bolivian Coriander here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bolivian_Coriander  There are a few other posts about it online, but there still isn’t a huge wealth of info on it.  I would love to hear your stories about it, any nutritional info, recipes etc. for a follow-up post on the herb.

Papalo has many uses.  The scent is not unlike cilantro but headier, more perfumey.  The leaves are wide and somewhat rippled, almost like watercress but without the crunch.  It’s hard to describe the taste – some people compare it to cilantro but there’s no comparison to me.  Papalo is its own.  While sometimes it takes the place of cilantro in dishes, its taste is unique.  It makes amazingly delicious salsas. I use it to top sopes instead of lettuce, I use it in salads,  The citrusey, almost arugula-like strength of it lends well to pork dishes in particular.  It makes a great lettuce substitute and I’ve used it in chopped up fresh on top of pastas.  I love mixing papalo with cilantro too.  One of my favorite meals is cilantro chicken served with white rice accompanied by a papalo and papaya salad.  It is AMAZING with papaya.  In Puebla, it is an important ingredient in the famous Cemita (a type of sandwich).  It also is a perfect companion for fishes dishes, especially ceviche.  David got hold of it last night and mixed it into some ice cream with lavender and basil and said it was great.  I’ll have to try that too.

Papalo or papaloquelite is an amazing herb, one I’m glad to see is becoming more available here.  My grandmother said it was good for me, but I have yet to find out the nutritional value of it.  Either way this is an herb worth investigating.  I

Mar

08

The Sopes at the Fair

history / stories  Posted by / 0 comments

My grandparents were avidly religious, devout Catholics which meant that my grandmother spent a lot of time working for the little church down the street, Christo Rey.  When I was little, they’d have little tardeadas or late afternoon celebrations.  There were booths where food was sold to make money for the programs at the church, etc.  My grandmother tended a booth and hers was one of the busiest there.  She sold sopes, those wonderful cripsy corn tortillas with the pinched up sides filled with meat, beans and other toppings.

I remember helping make the sopes.  My job was to pinch up the sides of the tortilla, not such an easy job given it was a hot little thing.  My grandmother was make the masa, shape it into little balls and my Auntie Jessie would press them in the tortilla press.  She’d then had a fat little tortilla to my grandmother who would toast it on the griddle or comal till it was well cooked.  The hot sopes would land in a plate near me and my grandfather and we had the job of making the sides.

To create the sides on a sope it has to be hot or it just doesn’t hold up the side very well so you take it and pinch into the hot dough and pinch all the way around till you end up with about a 1/4 inch rim around the tortilla.  I always felt very brave and grown up pinching sopes because the tips of my little fingers would burn with the heat of them.  We kept a little bowl of cold water nearby and I’d dip my fingers into it when I felt them growing too hot.

Over the years, my fingers grew more and more accustomed to it and rather desensitized.  I pinch the sides of a sope without even thinking about it now, but when I was a kid in my grandmother’s kitchen it seemed a very grown up, big girl job that I was very proud to be able to do.

My grandmother and aunts made 100′s of sopes, chopped massive piles of tomatoes, onion and cilantro, shredded head after head of lettuce, cooked enormous pots of beans and meat.  They’d then schlep all that stuff to the church, set up the booth and using a little camping type fire, would immediately start heating the oil to fry the sopes in.

Soon enough there’d be a long line and the tias and my grandma would fry and fill, fry and fill.  I never remember a time when my grandmother’s booth didn’t sell out completely and then we were free to enjoy the event.  Once, there were even voladores that came and sent us all to gasping as they flew round and round the pole tied by just what appeared to be a ribbon.  I remember holding my grandpa’s hand thinking that they would fall and I still remember how he squeezed my hand and smiled down at me with that special smile that always made me feel safe and warm.  He was proud of the voladores, proud of being Mexican and proud of his heritage.

It’s been many, many years since those days of church fairs, sopes, cracked confetti eggs on the heads of my cousins and the music of boleros drifting in and out of the crowds of people in the transformed church parking lot, but the smells, sounds and memories are still as sharp as that first sting of hot dough on my fingers.

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