Pirogue

I spent a lot of time in Louisiana working for the company I was tied to for several years.  I had to visit stores in Shreveport, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Lake Charles enough that the hotels I frequented not only knew me on a first name basis, but they also let me keep some clothing in a suitcase in their offices so I would have clean clothes available when I arrived after already spending a week or two on the road.

The Louisiana stores weren’t any more or less important than any of the other stores I visited throughout the United States and Canada, but I simply enjoyed the people, the lifestyle, and the food a bit more than some of the other places.  Especially the food.  The Creole/Cajun flavors are almost impossible to duplicate outside of Creole/Cajun country.

I never cease to be amazed at how people find ways to put food on the table.  Admittedly some methods are more difficult than others, but few are more interesting than in Louisiana.  I traveled on a shrimp boat for a few days just to see how it was done.  I won’t do that again.  They made me work, and it wasn’t much fun.  I also went out on an oyster trawler (at least that’s what I think they called it), and again they made me work.  I quit going out on the boats after that.

Crawfish farms were found in some areas where rice was raised part of the year.  After the rice was harvested crawfish were turned loose in the flooded fields to eat the stubble and multiply, which they seem to do with great efficiency.  Once I participated in a boucherie where a number of pigs and hogs were transformed into hams, ribs, pork chops, and sausages.  What an experience.

I grew up in rural Fort Worth where farming and all that goes with it had been in my family for generations.  When we prepared an animal for the table, it was just preparing an animal for the table.  But in Louisiana such occurrences were not just for the purpose of eating.  It was an excuse for a party; however, in Louisiana just getting up in the morning was an excuse for a party.  And invariably someone would bring an accordion.

By the time I arrived at the boucherie at the designated hour of 6:00am, the party had already been underway for hours.  The pigs, hogs, a few chickens, a steer, a few thousand crawfish, and several beaver like critters (I think they were called Nutria) were all in cages, pens, boxes, or buckets.  Water was boiling in big pots, and portable cook stoves were everywhere.  Pies were already coming out of the oven in the house, and breakfast was almost over.  At least I got there in time for breakfast.

The details of the day aren’t important, but it was a party that had happened on this very weekend for more than a hundred years, and no one in town missed it.  The music was non-stop, the dancing was spontaneous, and the beer was flowing.  Barbeques were filled with every animal named above, and smoke houses were filled with hams and sausages.  By the end of the day, little of the cooked food was left, but everyone went home with a supply of meat that would be further processed to individual preferences.  And that was just the first of two days.

On one trip to Lake Charles, I had some down time available from my job, and I was invited to go fishing.  Great!  I like to fish.  I went to purchase a license, but I was told that no license was needed where we were going.  Hmm.  So I grabbed my ever-present fishing pole from my car, but I was told to put it back.  Where we were going no fishing pole was needed.  Hmm.  Well, I was ready to go, but I was told that where we were going we needed to wait until after dark.  Hmmm…

Suddenly I wasn’t so sure about going on this adventure.  Something about this smelled a bit, well, fishy.  I was, however, caught in a situation I did not wish to exacerbate.  The people that invited me were the store manager and his assistant whose help I needed to promote a new store policy among the employees.  Not that it was a bad change, but in some stores any change was usually unwelcome even if it made life a bit easier.  So I waited until the store closed that evening, and I went fishing.

We got into an ancient battered pickup truck with a bunch of old junk piled in the bed and drove out of the small town toward some destination in the distance.  I know we left the road at some point and drove into the trees, and after a few twists and turns with the lights off, the truck stopped and we got out.

I was handed a flashlight with a red plastic covering over the lens, and I followed one of the two men into the swamp.  It was so dark I couldn’t tell which one I was following and which one was following me.  And the red light flashlight didn’t provide any help.

After some thirty hours (it was probably about five minutes, but the bugs…) we came to the edge of some water.  One of the men shuffled aside some brush, or maybe it was an old piece of carpet, and pulled out a hollowed out log and pushed it into the water.  I was told to get in.

One of the men (the assistant manager) walked to the front of the log, I crawled to the center, and the manager stepped onto the back end of it.  And they pushed off into the water with a long pole.  I was not happy.  I have a rather poor sense of balance, and I’m kneeling in a hollow log with the water level just an inch or two from coming over the edge, and there is a man bouncing around on each end of this thing.

We poled around for a short while (to me it was an eternity) and finally stopped while the man in front hooked a big chunk of meat on a giant treble hook tied to a rope.  He threw this out into the swamp and slowly dragged it back.  He did this a few times, then we moved on another seventy-five feet or so, and he tossed it out again.  After we had moved several times, we had a strike.

I didn’t know at first what had taken the bait, but I assumed it was an alligator since I could see quite a few eyes glowing in the very marginal moonlight.  But after a wild sleigh ride—more accurately a wild pirogue ride—a very large catfish was brought up beside the small boat.  Suddenly I saw just how we were going to deal with this big fish.  The assistant manager pulled out a pistol and fired a few shots into it.  Then we poled our way back to the edge of the swamp.  We pulled the fish up on the ground, stowed away the pirogue, cut the fish into three pieces and carried them back to the truck.

The next day nothing was said at the store about the fishing trip, but behind the store, a large grill was set up, and the employees were having catfish for lunch.  And someone brought along an accordion.

Mac 'n Cheese

Last year a friend of mine passed away.  He had had a long battle with cancer, and he didn’t win.  He had been instrumental in starting a monthly luncheon at our casting club, so a number of friends gathered together to have a luncheon to remember him.  It was a simple affair and very appropriate for his memory, and that day I found out macaroni and cheese was one of his favorite foods.  Now each time I have mac ‘n cheese I think of Burt.

I don’t care what you call it—Cheese and Pasta, Cheesey Pasta, Pasta Casserole, Macaroni and Cheese—it’s still just Mac ‘n Cheese.  But the ways it can be assembled is endless, and I’ve yet to find one I don’t like (although there were some I questioned).  There is something about pasta and cheese that borderlines perfection.  It can be as simple as two or three ingredients and a few minutes worth of work, or as complicated as working a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded in the dark.

I grew up eating the stuff out of the box, and I still like it, and I don’t apologize for liking it.  But sometimes I get out the Rubik’s Cube and a blindfold and turn off the lights in the kitchen.  That’s how I came up with the recipe for Pasta Medley with Five Cheeses, Oysters, and Caramelized Shallots.

Pasta Medley with Five Cheeses, Oysters, and Caramelized Shallots

Makes 24 servings

    6 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for baking dish       

    6 slices bacon                                                 

    4 1/2 cups sliced, large shallots                               

    8 cups fresh spinach, washed, stemmed, and coarsely chopped    

    24 to 30 jumbo pasta shells                                    

    8 ounces small spiral pasta (rotini)                           

    8 ounces miniature cheese ravioli or tortellini                

    12 ounces penne pasta or elbow macaroni                  

    1 1/2 cups half and half, or more if needed                    

    1/3 cup heavy cream                                            

    3 teaspoons hot sauce (such as Tapatio)                        

    1 1/2 cups (packed) coarsely grated Gouda cheese or Edam cheese

    1 1/2 cups (packed) coarsely grated extra-sharp cheddar cheese 

    2 tablespoons all purpose flour                                

    1/4 cup Pernod or Herbsaint                                           

    24 shucked medium oysters, reserve liquor for another use      

    2 cups (packed) coarsely grated Monterey Jack cheese           

    2 cups crumbled soft fresh goat cheese or shredded mozzarella  

    2 cups medium cheddar cheese                                   
    2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley or chervil          

    1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh tarragon                     

    Coarsely ground black pepper                                   
    1 1/2 cups Japanese panko                                      

Note:  The volume of the pasta medley varies according to the brand of pasta used.  If more pasta is needed, add about 4 ounces of small to medium size shell pasta.

Preheat oven to 400°F.  Butter two 9x13x2-inch glass or ceramic baking dishes.  Melt 1 tablespoon butter in heavy large skillet over medium-high heat and add bacon slices.  Cook until crispy; remove from skillet, and drain on paper towels.  Without draining the skillet, add the spinach (in batches if necessary) and sauté until wilted, about 3 minutes.  Remove spinach and set aside in a small bowl.  Add remaining butter to the skillet, then add shallots; sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Cover and cook 5 minutes, stirring often.  Reduce heat to medium.  Cook, covered, until shallots are deep brown, stirring often, about 6 to 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, cook jumbo pasta shells in large saucepan of boiling water until just tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and place in a large bowl.  Reserve pan.

In the same pan (or another), cook spiral pasta in boiling water just until tender but firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and place in a separate bowl from the pasta shells.

In the same pan (or another), cook ravioli or tortellini in boiling water just until tender but firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and mix together with the spiral pasta.

In the same pan (or another), cook penne or elbow macaroni in boiling water just until tender but firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and mix together with spiral pasta, and ravioli or tortellini.

Bring half and half, cream, and hot sauce to barely a simmer in same saucepan over medium heat.  Toss the Gouda cheese and the extra-sharp cheddar cheese and flour in medium bowl to coat; add to half and half mixture.  Whisk in Pernod and continue whisking until sauce is smooth and just returns to simmer, about 3 to 4 minutes.  If sauce is too thick, add more half and half by tablespoonfuls up to 1/2 cup.  Mix into a large bowl with the combined pastas leaving the jumbo shells aside.  Season with salt and pepper.

Divide the pasta mixture into 4 parts, and spread 1 part of the pasta mixture evenly in each of the prepared dishes.  Stuff 1 oyster in each jumbo pasta shell and place a single layer of the stuffed jumbo shells into each dish (spaced evenly, 12 to each dish), then distribute the sautéed spinach evenly into each dish.  Top with the Monterrey Jack cheese working some of the cheese into each of the jumbo shells with the oyster. Then spoon remaining pasta mixture over the oysters, spinich, and cheese.  Top evenly with shallots, finely crumbled bacon bits, then the goat cheese, the medium cheddar cheese, and the parsley and tarragon.  Sprinkle with coarsely ground black pepper to taste, then top evenly with panko.  Bake until heated through, about 18 to 20 minutes.  If needed, place in broiler for 1 to 2 minutes to lightly brown the top.  Remove from oven and place on a wire rack for 10 minutes.  Serve hot.  Serving size approximately 3 inches by 3 inches including 1 oyster.

Rockefeller never had it so good.

Note:  If the oysters are to be omitted, just leave them out and change the Gouda to a smoked Gouda or smoked cheddar.

Horseshoe Meadows

The Brookie Bash was actually the second fishing event I went on sponsored by the Long Beach Casting Club.  The first was a local trip to the San Gabriel River near Los Angeles.  But the Brookie Bash was not local, and I believe I was the only beginner in the group of fly fisherpersons.

Traveling north on highway 395 from Los Angeles to Mammoth Lakes, I took a break in the town of Lone Pine.  I like this town.  I’ve traveled through it many times over the years, and I always stop to gaze at Mt. Whitney to the west.  On occasion I’ve driven the Whitney Portal Road to its terminus just to enjoy the views of the giant mountain.  But on this occasion I drove only a few miles before turning back to finish my journey to Mammoth Lakes.  However, this time I noticed a road leading off to the south called Horseshoe Meadows Road.

I don’t know why this stuck in my head, but it did.  I didn’t know anything about Horseshoe Meadows, nor did I care.  Anyway, I needed to finish my drive, find the condo the club had rented, and get on with the Brookie Bash.  I was on a mission to catch and release all five of the trout species found in the area—golden, rainbow, brown, cutthroat, and brookie—and I needed to stay focused.

At the condo I found out that several people had stopped at places along the journey from Los Angeles to fish for golden trout.  Kennedy Meadows was the most utilized location, but there were others as well.  One place everyone seemed to know about, although no one stopped there on this trip, was Horseshoe Meadows.  I decided that if I had time, I would stop there on the way home to see what it was about.

The Brookie Bash was great fun, but all too soon it was over, and on the final morning I reluctantly packed the car to drive home.  When I stopped in Lone Pine for my Mt. Whitney break, I realized I was several hours ahead of schedule, so the drive to Horseshoe Meadows was on. 

The drive was a bit longer than I had expected.  At first it was a relatively straight road with a gentle rise, but then it made a sharp turn to the right and the switchbacks began.  “Onward and upward” as the saying goes.  It was a good road, but there was no room for error, and there were no guardrails.  I didn’t keep track of the miles, but I would guess it to be about twenty-five from bottom to top.  And probably the same back down if one could stay on the road.

At one sharp turn there were a number of hang gliders waiting to launch, so I stopped to watch for a few minutes.  I put hang gliding in the same bucket as bungee jumping, skydiving, bull riding, and noodling.  Interesting to watch, but not for me to do.  One of the individuals awaiting her turn to jump off the mountain came over to my car and told me I was late, and where was my gear?  Then she noticed that I probably weighed more than any three of them combined, and she realized most likely I wasn’t there to hang glide.

I finished the drive to the campground at the meadows, and there I saw some people returning to their vehicles after some fly-fishing.  So I walked over and asked how they did.  “The golden are hungry” was the basic reply, so I grabbed my 5-weight (all I owned at the time) and journeyed into the meadow. 

This stream was three to five feet wide at the most, but it was full of trout.  I could see them, but this meant they could also see me.  So I slowly made my way upstream about fifteen feet from the water’s edge.  I had a #16 elk hair caddis still tied on my line from my last fish, so I tried it.  I flipped it into the water and the water churned as several of the little golden fish leaped for it at the same time.  I brought out a beautiful six-inch long golden trout.  I stepped up to the water’s edge and released it and threw the caddis back to the same place and pulled out another small golden.  There was nothing to this.  I spent about an hour and a half walking along the small stream pulling out fish at will, until it was time for me to hit the road.

It couldn’t have been a better ending to a perfect fishing trip.  But then there was the return to Lone Pine back down the switchbacks.  This time I was on the outer edge of the road looking down instead of the inner edge against the mountain.  Where are the guardrails when you need them?  Actually I didn’t need them to keep me on the road; I needed them more as a security blanket than anything else.  Forty-five minutes up the road, and two hours back down.  I wasn’t going to take the shortcut.

The hang gliders were gone, but there were several cars and trucks parked along the side of the road.  I’m sure they figured out some way to retrieve them.  At the bottom of the switchbacks I stopped to look back up the road, and I decided I would definitely be back.

Catfish

As a Texan by birth, the two fish of choice are catfish and bass.  Yes, there are other fish in the waters, but catfish and bass are the real reasons a Texan fishes.  I personally never really cared what I caught as long as it had fins, until I learned to scuba dive. 

I had a long running contest with a friend where one would issue a challenge, and the other would accept or forfeit.  Oh, and there was a sizeable bet along with this contest.  The rules were relatively simple.  If one refused, the contest was over.  If both participated to completion, the contest went on to another challenge.  It went on for years, and through it I learned among other things to kayak, mountain climb, scuba dive, and sky dive.  Ultimately I lost the contest on the sky dive, but that’s another story.

Hank and I had just returned from a kayak adventure in the Grand Canyon when he challenged me to learn scuba diving.  It sounded interesting, plus there was that big ten-dollar bet I didn’t wish to loose, not to mention bragging rights.  We headed to a sporting goods store to find out about the process, and in a couple of weeks we were sitting in a small class learning the process and safety guidelines.  Soon we were in wet suits in a tank learning to breath underwater.  And soon after that we were certified, which ended this round of the challenge.

We had gone on several lake dives in the certification process, and we had found that it was very interesting as long as the waters were not too murky.  One week in the late summer I mentioned to Hank that I would like to dive at a lake west of Fort Worth known as Possum Kingdom.  He agreed that it would be fun, and off we went. 

We arrived near the dam area and realized the water was a bit dark, but we suited up anyway and jumped in.  It was more than dark, it was black.  I had no idea where Hank was and had no hope of finding him.  Just then I felt a bump, and I turned my light in that direction expecting to see Hank.  All I saw were two eyes about eighteen inches apart and one big mouth—one very big mouth.  The catfish swam by me and its head was out of sight before its tail came into view.  I shot straight up out of the water and ran to shore about four feet above the waves.  By the time I had stripped out of the wet suit, I knew I was coming back next week with a boat and some heavy fishing gear.

Hank couldn’t join me for the catfish hunt the next week, so I went alone.  I hooked up the biggest boat in the collection of fishing boats at my grandparents lake home, borrowed my Uncle Sam’s big saltwater rod and reel, bought a few huge hooks, and drove back to Possum Kingdom.  I stopped on the way to fill the cooler with sodas, ice, and a couple of fresh chickens.  After arriving and launching the boat, I motored out onto the lake about where I had encountered the giant catfish, tied on one of the big hooks to that heavy saltwater outfit, and skewered half of one of those chickens onto the hook.  Into the water it went.  And I waited. 

Two hours went by, and I noticed a small boat drifting about 50 yards away with an older man and a young boy in it fishing.  I had fun watching them realizing that the boy’s grandpa was teaching him how to fish.  I could hear some of the conversation they were having and was reminded of some of the things my Uncle Sam had taught me about fishing in the past few years.  Sam was a very good fisherman, and for about two years he taught me everything he could before he suddenly quit fishing.  I never really understood why he quit, but I had grown to really enjoy our outings together, and listening to the conversation in the other boat brought back those memories.

Then the boy got a strike—a hard strike.  He pulled hard, but the fish pulled harder.  Back and forth they went for about half a minute, then the boy was pulled overboard.  I retrieved my line as fast as I could, but before I could start my motor, the boy popped up to the surface.  This is the reason for a lifejacket.  His grandpa pulled him back into the boat, and I powered over to them anyway to see if they needed any help.

The boy was wet but just fine otherwise.  He was upset about losing the fish and his rod and reel, but he had tried to hang onto it as long as he could.  It took some work to convince him that it would be easier to replace the rod and reel than him.  Still he was mad about losing the fish.  In some ways I can’t blame him for that one.  As they headed back up the lake to their launch, I went back to fishing.  I know the boy hooked that big catfish, or one of its cousins.  I replaced the chicken half with a fresh one and I waited.  And I waited. 

 
I made it back to Possum Kingdom only a handful of times over the next 3 years, and I never did catch that catfish.  Oh, I caught many catfish, just not that catfish.  I didn’t lose interest in catching other fish, I simply wanted that fish.  But it was never to be.  Sometimes I wonder just how big that fish really was.  The mind plays tricks on perception when in a strange environment, and that catfish may have been a little smaller than I remember.  Still, I remember that mouth—that very big mouth.

Santa Caught Fly-Fishing on the San Gabriel River

Once again Santa has made the news.  This time he was caught fly-fishing on the West Fork of the San Gabriel River for Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing and was given coverage in the Fisheries Resource Volunteer Corp newsletter.  FRVC is a group of volunteers working to protect the fisheries in our national forests.

The link is http://frvc.net/newsletter-archives .  The pdf. file is FRVC Newsletter 2012-1 pdf . 

Pig Hunt

I was never an avid hunter, but I did enjoy it, and I always found it difficult to walk away from an opportunity.  Fishing was my first love, but the outdoors has always had a loud voice in my ears, and given a choice of hunting or nothing, I would definitely go hunting. 

My first real hunt was when I was sixteen years old.  I had a deer tag, but since I had no adult to go with me, I was limited to the use of a bow and arrow.  Texas laws at that time prevented me from owning a firearm of any kind until I reached twenty-one, although I could use one if someone over twenty-one was supervising.  I didn’t have that luxury, and I didn’t mind.  I was very good on a target up to sixty yards with the bow, but I had never been tested with a hunting situation other than a few rabbits.

My bow was three-piece takedown recurve with a seventy-pound pull.  I had six cedar-shafted arrows with a four-blade hunting tip on each one, and I loaded these into my hip quiver.  I had secured permission to hunt on some property about an hour outside of Fort Worth, and I drove my old car (yes, I was sixteen, but things were a bit different in the mid-sixties) to the gate and let my self in.  The dirt road disappeared into the trees, but I just parked out of site of the main road, grabbed my bow, strapped on my quiver, and started into the woods.

I followed the road for about two hundred yards, and then I moved into the trees.  It was a bit difficult to walk quietly on the fallen leaves of the oak trees, but I was taking my time and moving as slowly as I could while searching for a deer.  This process took me about sixty yards in an hour and a half, but I saw a deer between the trees about forty-five to fifty yards ahead.  It was a fat forked horn whitetail, and it had no idea I was around.

I slowly brought up my bow, drew back, held my breath, and released.  The twang of the bowstring seemed as loud as any rifle shot I had ever heard, but the deer simply looked up for a moment, and then went back to browsing.  I had missed.  I rarely missed a target center at that distance, but I missed the deer.  So I did it again, and again, and again.  The deer by now was fidgeting and soon began to wander off.

I stood still for about five more minutes and another deer walked up to almost the same place.  I brought my bow up again, drew back, and released.  Nothing.  So I did it one last time.  That was the sixth release.  I was baffled that I could not bring down a deer.  I walked back to the car.

I broke down my bow and put it into its case.  Then I took off my quiver, and to my surprise, all six arrows were still there.  It took me a while before I realized that I had simply been strumming that bow like a harp.  I never put an arrow to the string before making my draw.

I was too confused to go back into the woods that day, although I did return the following week and brought home a nice fat whitetail.  It took me several years before I talked about this event with anyone, but I did discover I wasn’t the first to do something like this.  It even has a name—buck fever.

A few years later I somehow managed to turn twenty-one, and I bought my first rifle and followed up quickly with a hunting pistol.  But I found that I still preferred the bow in most circumstances, and that was my weapon of choice when I was invited on a pig hunt.

The west Texas javalina is a mean pig.  They tend to not take kindly to strangers shooting at them and are known to take umbrage with even the smallest disturbance to their lifestyle.  And they smell bad.  I don’t mean they have a poor sense of smell, I mean they stink.

An old high school friend of mine called me one day and asked if I would be interested in going out to his family property in west Texas to hunt pig.  He and his dad were going, and if I could get a few days off work, they would be glad to have me join them.  I had some vacation time coming, and no plans, so the trip was arranged, and in a couple of weeks we were looking for pig.

I brought the rifle, pistol, and bow with me for the hunt, but I chose to use the bow.  As an afterthought I strapped on the pistol, and by sunup the first day, we were several miles back on the property.  The three of us were walking and watching for any movement that would betray the pig’s presence, but by mid-morning, we had not seen anything.

We walked up to a small hill, and I took the left side while my friend and his dad turned to the right.  It wasn’t a big hill, maybe fifty or sixty feet high, but it was about half a mile long and maybe a quarter mile wide.  I walked about five hundred yards and stopped near a small tree of sorts to take a break when I spotted a pig.  It was feeding on a prickly pear no more than thirty yards from me, and he hadn’t seen me.

I loaded an arrow (something I had learned to do several years earlier), brought up my bow, drew back, and released.  The twang of the bowstring startled the pig and it moved just before the arrow arrived.  Instead of a heart/lung shot, I clipped its ear.  And it didn’t like it.

That javalina turned to look at me, opened its mouth and squealed the most obnoxious noise I had ever heard.  And it was answered by many similar voices.  I looked at the low rise in the near distance and saw many dark quickly moving objects.  I was in trouble.  I grabbed another arrow and brought down the pig that started the problem, and then I looked at the only place I could take refuge—that low tree of sorts beside me.

The juniper tree was no more than ten feet high and had no real trunk, but I climbed in and up as high as I could.  My feet were about five feet from the ground, but there was no way to climb higher.  Then they arrived, and they were mad.  I unloaded my .357 carefully and deliberately making each shot count.  I reloaded with my last six rounds and brought down another six pigs.  Now I was stuck.  The pigs were madder than ever, and they were starting to chew the lower limbs of the tree.  I’m not certain how long I was in that tree before I saw the first pig fall over just before hearing the sound of the rifle, but I was already seeing my life flash in front of my eyes.

My friends unloaded their rifles into the pigs, reloaded and unloaded again before the pigs ran away.  They had heard my pistol and knew I wouldn’t be firing it unless I was in trouble, so they came running.  I climbed down from the tree and waded through the twenty-six dead pigs.  One look at the base of the tree told me that I had only a few minutes left before the pigs would have eaten through it.  Never again would I hunt with a bow, and never again would I short myself on ammunition.

Four years later they invited me to go back to hunt for more pig, but I had no desire to put myself back in that position, so I declined.  Later that summer, I learned that the pigs killed my friend’s dad on that trip.  I never learned the details, but it didn’t matter.  My friend was devastated by the loss; however, he understood the risk that was taken, and the last time I saw him, he was going hunting.

Javalinas are not something I hunt anymore; in fact, the only thing I hunt now is fish.  But pigs, deer, bear, or fish, it’s still a sport of man verses nature, and sometimes nature wins.

Barracuda

I fished freshwater for about 45 years before seriously considering saltwater fishing.  Oh, I had thrown a line into the saltwater on Padre Island once, and once in Charleston an acquaintance talked me into some fishing from his boat out on the Atlantic, but it didn’t have much appeal for me.  The halibut I nabbed in Alaska was fun, although it was more work than I cared for.  I had also been out on both shrimp and oyster boats in the Gulf.  I liked bass and trout.  I liked catfish and walleye.  I liked crappie and pike.  I knew nothing about saltwater fish.

Then I was introduced to the husband of my wife’s friend.  He couldn’t get enough of the ocean.  He had been in the Navy, and he kept returning to the ocean like a river to the sea.  Nothing could convince him to skip a fishing trip in order to make a living.  And one day I joined him on a local day-boat to fish the waters near Catalina Island.

I’ve been on boats before.  My grandparent’s lake home was surrounded by homes of family members, and boats were everywhere.  There were big boats, small boats, good boats, bad boats, and anyone could use any boat at any time.  And I did.  I’ve been on stormy lakes in small canoes, calm lakes in big boats, and in every combination possible of boat and weather—all on lakes and rivers.

The fishing on Padre Island was from the sandy beach into a very calm Gulf, and the shrimp and oyster boats in the Gulf also experienced very calm waters.  In Charleston, the Atlantic was relatively calm with very moderate swells, hardly enough to notice.  And the waters I fished off the Alaska shoreline were almost glass smooth.  But the southern California Pacific waters were different.  The boat was over eighty feet long and at least sixteen feet wide, and the swells topped at over twenty feet tossing this big boat around like a beach ball.  Sometime we were on top of the swell, and sometimes we were on the bottom.  For a while my stomach felt as though it would turn inside out.  Someone handed me a beer and told me to take a couple of swallows, then let it go overboard.  It would make me feel much better.  I did, and it did.  Suddenly I was just fine and ready to fish.

I had an old two-piece fiberglass rod that had been rewound by someone just learning to wrap rods.  The guides were in approximately the right places and most were in alignment.  It was triple wrapped, triple coated, triple thick, and triple heavy.  By itself the weight of this thing approached two pounds.  I added to it a reel I found at a yard sale.  The reel was adequate for the task, but it also weighed in at well over one pound.  By the time I added fishing line and tied on a lure, I was holding nearly four pounds of equipment.

The man who brought me on this journey was an old hand at this game.  He drove a truck with every conceivable piece of fishing equipment known to man in the camper shell, and when he arrived at the landing, he started asking questions about where we were going and what we could expect to catch.  Consequently he was able to choose what to bring onto the boat.  His equipment was in top shape and lightweight.  His tackle box was filled with exactly the right things for a day trip in these waters.  And he brought along a hat and sunscreen.

Why did I forget my hat and sunscreen?  It’s part of my basic fishing equipment, and I don’t leave home without them.  But on this day I just forgot.  I think it was because I was thrown off my routine of preparing to fish by the uncertainty of ocean fishing.  At least they sold ball caps at the landing.  That would provide some protection to the spot where hair used to grow.  And I could probably talk someone out of a dab or two of sunscreen.

We paid our fare and climbed onto the boat’s deck.  Racks were available to hold our tackle boxes and clips were attached to the outside of the enclosed cockpit and galley to hold the rods.  About sixty other fishermen followed us on board, stowed their equipment, and stormed the galley in search of beer.  The captain made an appearance to inform everyone of his rules, but I was the only one paying attention.  When he finished, he walked over to me, curled the right side of his upper lip and spat out, “Rookie!”  Then he walked over to the line of rods, grabbed mine, held it up and growled, “This @#$%!& thing’s yours, ain’t it?”  I thought he was going to toss my rod and reel overboard, but he stopped himself about halfway through the motion and just dropped it onto the deck.

Someone belched behind me, and I turned around to see several men watching what had just happened.  One of them put a hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry too much about it.  The captain was always like this when the boat was full.  Then again he was always like this when the boat wasn’t full.  Come to think of it, the captain was always like this.

I heard the captain make an announcement on his loud speaker.  “Today we got us a @#$%!& rookie on board.  I ain’t @#$%!& helping him none, and you @#$%!& better not neither.”  There was a series of words attached to the end of his announcement that are better off not included here, but needless to say, I wasn’t enjoying this.  I got a few more pats on the shoulder and several reassurances, but I noticed the men were looking to see if the captain was watching them.

I searched for my fishing companion, but he was nowhere to be seen.  I went into the galley, down to the bunks, and around the perimeter of the boat, but he had gone into hiding somewhere after the captain made his appearance.  So I leaned against the rail and watched as the crew cast off the lines and we pulled out of the slip.  Shortly afterwards a crewmember came around collecting for the jackpot.  It was ten dollars, and some men were declining, but most were laying down their money.  Considering my position with the captain, I thought I had better participate.

Almost two hours later the boat stopped where the swells were much diminished, and the anchor was dropped.  Men lined up at the rails and started tossing their lures and bait into the water.  Almost immediately fish were being pulled on board.  I quickly learned that these were mackerel, but where the mackerel were, bigger fish were there to eat them.  I heaved out my big blue and white lure and reeled it back.  Nothing.  I did it again, and again, and again, but nothing.  The man standing next to me leaned over to me and whispered, “Try blue and silver.”

I didn’t have blue and silver, but I had a small file, so I removed some of the white paint from the lure and tossed it back into the water.  I landed a small mackerel.  The man leaned back over to me and whispered he had never seen such a small fish take such a big lure.  Maybe I should just toss the lure back out there with the mackerel still attached and see what happens.  I thought this was a good idea.  I’ve used baits attached to lures in freshwater before and it was a dynamite combination, so why wouldn’t it work here.  Back out it went. 

The mackerel was a lively one, and it was interesting to have such a tug of war with my bait, but suddenly the tug shifted to a jerk and a hard pull.  I had hooked something much bigger than the mackerel.  It was everything I could do to keep the fish from tangling my line with everyone else’s line, but everyone was cooperative and moved aside as I fought the fish.  Finally, it came to the surface, and a crewmember gaffed it and brought it on board.  It was a big barracuda.  I looked down at it lying on the deck, and then up to see that the crewmember who gaffed it was the captain.  The resemblance was astounding.

He unhooked my fish, threw away the mackerel, and carried the barracuda to a burlap bag with my boarding number on it.  After tossing it in he climbed up on the bait tank and bellowed, “Why in the @#$%!& are you @#$%!& letting a @#$%!& rookie win the @#$%!& jackpot?  We ain’t @#$%!& going back ‘till you @#$%!& catch a bigger @#$%!& fish.”  He looked down at me from his perch and spat out, “Rookie!”

I went into the galley and there sat the guy who brought me on this journey.  He was just biting into a huge hamburger, and I thought I would get one also.  The cook made one for me, set me up with a large order of fries and a soda, and refused to take my money.  “It’s paid for.  Captain’s orders.”

Maybe it was just a rookie’s luck, but I won the jackpot that day.  It was almost five hundred dollars, and I was tempted to keep it, but as I looked at the crew working this boat, and thought about what they had to put up with to keep their jobs, I decided to give it to them.  I didn’t know at the time that it was customary for the jackpot winner to tip the crew, and I didn’t know that these workers labored for such minimal earnings, I just simply gave the crew the money.

When we got back to the landing, I was ready to set my feet on solid ground again.  The men lined up to disembark, and about one-third of the men had left the boat when my turn came.  Then a hand grabbed me and jerked me out of line.  My first instinct was to throw a punch, but one hand was holding a rod and the other was holding a tackle box.  “Stand here.”  It was the captain again.

After everyone except the crew, captain, and me had left the boat, he gave me a handful of free passes for future trips.  “Damn rookie, but a good one.  Next trip’s on me, and bring a few friends.”

Dogs

What is it about a dog that attracts me?  They smell bad, they have fleas and occasionally ticks, they scratch, they lick, they bark, they dig, they…  The list is endless, yet for some reason I have a soft spot for dogs.

I’ve had a few dogs over the years.  First was Blackie.  I was 6 years old, and someone gave me a puppy.  Since it was black, I named it Blackie, but the vet called him Elmer, so his name became Blackie-Elmer.  I don’t remember much about this dog except I was afraid of him.  As I recall, the dog loved to bite, and he was good at it.  The other thing he was good at was chasing his tail.  I remember one day he caught it and bit down on it so hard he yelped in pain.  Then he went back to chasing it again.

Blackie-Elmer lasted about 6 months before he “went away.”  I’m quite certain my dad took him to the pound, but I never asked.  I was just glad I could go into the back yard again to play.  But I knew this dog was the exception.  My friends had dogs, and they could play with their dogs.  And so could I for that matter, but I wanted to have one of my own to play with.

Tippie was the second dog.  By this time I was about 12 or 13, and someone driving by stopped and shouted,  “Hey, kid!  Want a dog?”  And Tippie joined our family.  Overall he was a good dog, but we didn’t have a fenced yard, so he ended up on a 20-foot chain attached to a doghouse.  This was not good, and after a short while, Tippie found a new home.

Terri was a stray I took in when I was about eighteen, but it turned out she was very ill and the vet couldn’t save her.  I decided owning a dog was never going to work for me, and I would never own another one.  Then a friend moved away and left me his dog Hubie.

Hubie and I had about 4 months together before he was killed in a hunting accident.  My pain stayed with me a long time.  My friends didn’t know what to do for me.  They tried parties, picnics, amusement parks, etc., but I wasn’t interested.  One of my friends took a wild guess that another dog would be the answer.  She gave me a little ball of white fluff that was taller than he was long.  Larry was his name.  He was half miniature poodle and half toy poodle, and he was not what I wanted, but he was what I needed.

My job had me on the move every day, often several times a day.  I traveled the length and width and breadth of the United States on a regular basis, and Larry couldn’t travel with me very often.  I found a boarding kennel for him to stay in while I was gone, and the owners quickly adopted him as their own, but he knew to whom he belonged.  And I couldn’t get him off my mind.  I called to check on him every day when I was traveling, and they would hold the phone up to him so he could hear my voice.  They said he always responded to me.

Larry was with me for about four years before I moved from Texas to California.  In California my parents took him over.  I don’t know what happened, but suddenly he belonged to them and not me.  The deal was sealed when I got married and the apartment where we lived would not let us have a dog.  About two or three years later, my mother became ill and it was time to find Larry a new home.

I posted a photo and a note on a bulletin board in a feed store near where I worked, and the same day a little, well-aged gentleman contacted me.  The next day Larry was his, and his new name was Lee.

Larry stayed with them until just after the man’s wife passed away.  Soon after her passing, Larry also died.  By this time I had already let him go, more or less.

It was a few years later when Geoffrey came along.  I had helped a couple rebuild their business after a flood had literally wiped them off the map.  As a reward for my efforts, they presented me with a Springer Spaniel puppy.  Not just any puppy, but one with an impressive pedigree.  This time I was in a position to spend a lot of time with him.

As he grew, my wife and I took the time to properly train him for obedience and for hunting.  Actually, there was little we could do to train him for the hunt.  He was a natural.  And he was one fantastic dog.  But circumstances changed and we had to give him up.  Geoffrey was destined to spend many years in dog ecstasy.  We gave him to a breeder specializing in Springer’s for hunters and show.  And once again I made up my mind I would never own another dog.

Well, that was 30 years ago, and I’ve successfully avoided owning another dog all these years.  Sort of.  We’ll talk about Biggie later.

Santa in the News

My favorite time of the year is the fall with the first couple of weeks of winter thrown in there for good measure.  Even though I look forward to every season, I’ve always preferred the fall.  I guess it began with deer hunting in the fall and watching the leaves change colors on the trees.  But over time I hunted less and enjoyed nature more.  Then along came Santa.

Now the fall has taken on a different meaning for me.  I begin preparing for Christmas in January each year, but somewhere in September or October I start the transformation into Santa.  Granted I look like the Jolly Old Elf all year long, but mentally I become Santa in the fall.  For years I’ve answered to “Santa” from just about anyone I encounter, but there is something special about those last three months of the year.

A few weeks ago the Long Beach Press Telegram reporter Karen Meeks interviewed me about my world as Santa.  Here is the link to the article.

http://www.presstelegram.com/ci_19593316?IADID=Search-www.presstelegram.com-www.presstelegram.com

Enjoy.

Brookie Bash

At the time of my first journey into the wild in search of my first trout on a fly, I was experiencing failing eyesight due to cataracts.  I was trying to tie flies, but anything smaller than a 2/0 hook was just too small to focus.  It was time for the surgery whether I liked the idea or not.  Fortunately my eye doctor is a good one, and the surgery went smoothly, but for about 4 or 5 months my vision prevented me another opportunity to stalk the ferocious wild trout.  Then came the new glasses about a week before the annual “Brookie Bash.”

Each year the Long Beach Casting Club puts together a weekend trip to the Mammoth Lakes/Bishop area of the eastern Sierra Nevada mountain range.  The idea is to catch (and release) in one weekend all five of the trout species found in the area.  The trip is named after the Brook trout found in Rock Creek, and the Brook trout must be taken from that particular drainage (also known as Little Lakes Valley); however, the remaining four species can come from just about anywhere else that can be reached that weekend. 

I drove up there on an uneventful Thursday, stopping at every restroom, uh, rest stop (yeah, that’s it—rest stop) along the way to, uh, enjoy the scenery.  It had been many years since I drove north on Highway 395 along the eastern Sierras, and I had forgotten just how far it is between, uh, rest stops.  I arrived at Mammoth Lakes in the mid-afternoon, found the condo the club had rented, moved my things in, and fell asleep for a couple of hours.  I went out for a bite of dinner later that evening, and when I returned to the condo, several of the other members had arrived and were sitting around talking and strategizing about the next two days.  These members were accomplished fly fishermen, so I listened to their strategy while making my own. 

It seemed to me that a lot of time could be wasted at a single location catching and releasing fish just for the enjoyment of it.  Not that this kind of fishing was a waste of time, but I was here to catch the grand slam, and if I caught one of the species from a location, and if there was no other species at that location, I would move on.  Catching fish is great fun, but I was on a mission.

That night I had trouble sleeping.  I went to bed about 10:30pm and woke up every hour reworking my strategy.  Finally I got up about 5:00am and headed over to the local fishing store for some advice.  I had seen them the day before when I was searching for the condo and noticed the sign on the door stating they opened at 6:00am.  And they really were open.  After discussing my strategy with them and purchasing a handful of beetles and ladybugs and Sierra Bright Dots and…   I felt better about my choice of targeting one fish at a time at each location.  Unless of course there were more than one species at that location.  Not much of a plan, but it took me all night to work it out, and it made sense to me at the time.

The Lahontan cutthroat is found in McLeod Lake above the small town of Mammoth Lakes.  At the end of the road is a parking lot near the very dead Horseshoe Lake, and from there a 1-mile uphill hike brings a person to a wonderful lake filled with the required cutthroat.  The only problem with the hike is that the nearly 9,000-foot elevation starting point is much higher than sea level where I reside.  Then it goes uphill from there.  I made the hike up to McLeod Lake, but I was definitely searching for oxygen molecules along the way.  And I caught my cutthroat.

For the first 15 minutes or so I watched several cruisers swimming around me, and I thought they would make a quick, easy catch.  I cast out two or three different dry flies to discover that were just not interested in the standard fare.  Then I finally tied on a beetle.  About 6 casts were all that was needed to hook a nice 13-inch cutthroat.  I expected a fight, but it seems this trout knew the routine.  He understood that the quicker he was landed, the quicker the hook would be removed, and he would be free to swim again.  So he swam over to me and waited.  I believe he had been through this process more than once.  Well I had the cutthroat, now it was time for something else.

From McLeod Lake I drove down to a place known as Hot Creek.  Again I was unprepared for the situation.  I followed several other members who had been there many times and knew where they wanted to fish.  This time the climb was only a few dozen yards downhill to the creek (and a few dozen yards uphill back to the car) to meet up with some of the pickiest fish I’ve ever encountered.  Finally I caught a small brown trout, but the rainbows in the water were not interested in anything I had to offer.  At the end of the day I let the rainbows win.

That one brown trout was not enough for me.  Although I needed to catch a rainbow while I was at Hot Creek, the brown was a welcome change after the lethargic cutthroat I caught that morning.  This brown was a fighter, and I needed a fight.  After it was over, I wanted another fight, but it didn’t happen.  Oh, well.  I now had two of the five species checked off the list, and it was time to retreat for the evening.

That night once again I had trouble sleeping.  I kept waking up wondering if I would manage to land the three remaining trout.  Eventually I got up and wandered outside to visit the morning.  The sun was very much hidden behind the mountains and the sky was dark gray but rapidly getting lighter.  I watched as two blue jays fought over some morsel, losing ultimately to a crow or raven.  I heard a door close and looked over to another condo to see someone standing outside in his underwear smoking a cigarette and scratching the various parts that needed scratching.  He wandered over to a SUV and extracted something from the back end of it, then disappeared back inside the condo not realizing he could have been on that television show about funny home videos—if I only had a video camera. 

The sky changed from a very light gray to a dark cloud mass within a minute or so, and the sun moved up to just below the top of a mountain.  The sky turned red and ugly, and my mind recalled some old saying about “red sky at morning…”.  Then the sun made its appearance, the red went away, and the day was perfect in my estimation.  I was ready to fish.

It was Saturday, and it was the last day of the Brookie Bash.  I got into my car and drove to the appropriately named Mosquito Flats at Rock Creek.  My shirt covered me well, and the gloves and buff and hat took care of most of the other exposed parts of my person.  Just to be safe I sprayed on some mosquito repellent.  I am certain I heard a high, shrill whistle and a shout from one of the mosquitoes as she summoned all of her friends to dinner.  I guess this particular repellent was especially attractive to these bugs.  Within seconds I was a walking mass of little hungry critters.  At least I had enough layers of clothing between their mouths and me. 

About 150 yards downhill from the parking lot was a bridge where the road crossed Rock Creek.  Just at the end of the bridge to the right was a ridge separating me from Serene Lake where the golden trout were supposed to be hiding, and that was the fish I was targeting at the moment.  I was told to look for the goat trail up the ridge, and that after reaching the top of the ridge, the lake would be visible just a few yards in front of me.  Goat trail my ass!!  No sensible goat would have considered climbing that ridge.  But I am no goat, so up I went.  About the time I came to the same understanding the goat would have reached much earlier, I was at the top, and there was the lake. 

I stepped into the water and waded out about 30 feet.  About 15 yards in front of me was a submerged log, and I could see some movement just on the other side of it, so I made it my target.  I tied on a #18 ladybug and cast to the spot.  One cast, one golden trout.  I stayed there a while longer casting a semi-circle around me searching for the rainbow trout that was supposed to be here and came up with another fish.  I took it to be a rainbow at first, but even though it had the pink stripe down the side, the bright red belly dots were all wrong, and the fins didn’t look right either.  I decided it had just been a long time since I had looked a rainbow in the eye, and I had forgotten what one actually looked like.  I now had four of the five trout.

The goat trail my ass had completely disappeared on the return trip to the parking lot.  I looked down that vertical slope and just hoped that someone would find my body within a few days.  At one point I saw a car coming down the road from the parking lot and thought a well timed jump would land me just in front of the car and very quickly put an end to this nonsense.  But as I contemplated the timing, I realized the car had speeded up, and I was too late to make it work.  So I continued down grasping onto anything that looked as though it was well anchored to the ridge face.  At last I was at the bottom.  I still had my rod, my pack, my wading staff, and my life.  The only thing to do now was to hunt down a brookie.

From the parking lot, I walked about 30 feet to the edge of Rock Creek and tossed in the ladybug I still had on my tippet.  Almost immediately I had a strike.  It came so quickly I couldn’t react in time to set the hook.  After that, I found brookies to be had every few casts.  This was fun, but the more I thought about that “rainbow”, the more I had doubts about its parents.  This thing had to be some kind of hybrid, so I couldn’t actually count it as one of the five trout I needed to finish the grand slam.  I got into the car and headed back to Hot Creek.

This time at Hot Creek I decided to avoid the gorge area and fish the flat meadowland above it.  This was the ultimate in picky fish.  I ended up tying on a 9-foot 4x tapered leader with a 3-foot 5x extension and a 3-foot 6x tippet.  To this I tied a ladybug (they worked in Rock Creek) and drifted it across a dark spot I could see up stream.  Immediately there was a rise and a hit.  I didn’t catch the first fish, but I was persistent, and that ladybug or one of its sisters nailed about 6 or 7 browns in the 10-inch to 14-inch range.  I managed to hook 2 or 3 much larger fish, but my excitement overpowered the 6x tippet, and I never brought them to hand.  And I still didn’t have my rainbow.

I was about to give up and try the Upper Owens River when I remembered someone saying the elk hair caddis was his “go to” fly on Hot Creek, and I had a few of them with me.  I opened up my fly box, and looked through the collection to find only 14’s and 16’s.  I wanted something smaller, but the 16 would have to do.  I tied it on and drifted across many of the dark spots that had given up the browns to my ladybug, but nothing was happening.  I walked up stream about 30 yards and as I cast my line, the wind came up.  Great!  Just what I wanted.

I decided to keep trying in spite of my inability to handle wind.  (I’m still a novice, remember?)  I managed to place that fly just about everywhere but in the water; however, occasionally it found the running liquid and drifted over a dark spot.  Then it happened.  I got a good hit, and I set the hook.  This fish was a fighter, and on his first jump I knew it was not a brown.  I just needed to bring it to hand to have my fifth trout.

I was nervous.  This was a few inches longer and it felt much heaver than any of the browns I had landed.  I also had very fresh memories of breaking off several trout of similar size over the past few hours on that 6x tippet.  But the trout was allowing me to do my job.  Unlike the cutthroat, this rainbow fought me, but like the cutthroat, he seemed to know that once this was over the hook would come out of his mouth, and he would be free to swim again.  I managed to bring him to the edge of the bank and reach down and remove the hook.  I’m quite certain he smiled and winked at me before swimming back to his home in that dark spot.  A cutthroat, a brown, a golden, something weird, a brookie, and a rainbow.  I headed back to the condo, kicked off my shoes, found a beverage, sat down, and fell asleep.

This was the culmination of 60 years of fishing.  As I write this, I am preparing to have long overdue shoulder surgery, so my next outing will be a few months away.  I can wait.  I am after all a fly fisherman.  Oh, the joy!

Chili for One

I grew up in Fort Worth and, at least in terms of food, it is the crossroads of Texas.  Influences from all parts of the state melted together in Fort Worth’s chuck wagons, uh, kitchens, and created what I believe is overall the best the state has to offer.  Yes, there are regions where certain food styles and types are as good as it gets, but all of those regions are superbly represented in Fort Worth.

It is difficult to find better central Texas barbeque than in central Texas, unless one wants east Texas style barbeque.  For that, one must go to east Texas.  The Tex-Mex food of south Texas is different from the Tex-Mex food of west Texas.  Chili is found everywhere, but certain ingredients are added or left out in different regions.  Does one add beans or tomatoes to Texas Chili?  How about chicken or pork instead of beef?  Tofu?  Forget I mentioned that one.  But each approach to authentic Texas chuck, uh, food, can be found in Fort Worth.

Some of my friends were “purists” when it came to chili.  One refused to eat my chili because it contained beans.  Another refused because it contained tomatoes.  And his wife wouldn’t eat it because it didn’t contain ketchup.  But I liked my chili.  I never considered it a competition chili, because I really don’t know what makes a competition chili.  And the competition chilies I’ve tried were boring at best, or often just too hot to enjoy.  I like flavor, and if I have to combine styles from the different regions of Texas to make my Texas chili, I will do it.  I finally reached a point where I wouldn’t invite anyone over for chili.  If they want boring, they can make it for themselves while I enjoy my chili alone.

My recipe is influenced mainly by an experience I had in Tyler, Texas, January 16, 1972.  The Dallas Cowboys were playing the Miami Dolphins in Super Bowl VI, and my car was broken down waiting for a mechanic to work on it the following day.  I was in a motel watching the game when I got a knock on the door.  It was the motel manager, and he had a cart with a big pot of chili, bowls, beverages, and other things.

“Mind if I join you?  My television is on the blink.  Brought along some chili.”

 I can’t recall a single time in my life when I turned down chili.  So we watched the Cowboys kick some Dolphin tail, and we ate chili.  It was different from any chili I had ever had.  It had real flavor.  And it had just enough heat to require a good beverage.  The motel manager said most Texans turn their noses up at it because it doesn’t fit their idea of a true Texas chili, but what is a true Texas chili anyway?

I had never asked myself that question before.  I decided that a true Texas chili isn’t determined by a regional preference, but by whether or not it’s any good.  I’ve eaten “true Texas chili” in all parts of the state, and some were good enough, and some were, well, not good enough.  To me, if it’s not any good, it doesn’t matter if it’s a “true Texas chili,” it’s just not any good.

With all that said, here is my recipe for East Texas Chili, so named because I was in East Texas when my eyes were opened to the idea that chili should first and foremost taste good.

East Texas Chili

Best when made one or two days ahead.

Serves 1 about 30 times.

    30 mixed dried chiles (ancho, negro, guajillo, California, etc.) , stemmed, seeded, coarsely torn*

    Olive oil as needed for sautéing                               
    1 1/4 pounds (4 cups) chopped yellow onions                    
    1 1/4 pounds (4 cups) chopped red onions                                 
    1 1/2 pounds leeks, cut into 1/4-inch circles, white and light green parts only
    1 pound chopped shallots                                       
    2 1/2 pounds good quality ground beef chuck                    
    2 1/2 pounds beef chuck eye roast, cut into 3/4-inch cubes     
    1 (3 1/2 to 4-pound) first (flat) cut beef brisket, cut into 1-inch cubes
    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper                    
    2 heads garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped                     
    1/4 cup toasted cumin seeds                                    
    4 teaspoons dried oregano                                      
    1/4 cup coriander seeds, crushed                               
    1/4 cup coarse salt                                             
    4 (10-ounce) cans fire-roasted, diced tomatoes with chiles, with juices
    3 to 4 bottles beer (Tecate is good, and so is Shiner Bock)    
    4 (7-ounce) cans diced roasted green chiles, with juices      
    1 bunch fresh cilantro stems, chopped into 1/4-inch pieces
    3 (15 1/2-ounce) cans pinto beans with juices                  
    2 (15-ounce) cans black beans, drained and rinsed              
    2 (15-ounce) cans garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed            
    1/2 pound Spanish hard manchego cheese, finely grated                 
    1 disk Mexican chocolate, finely chopped or grated
    1/2 cup stone ground corn flour (not masa harina)

*The best mix of dried chilies I’ve come up with begins with 10 to 12 ancho chiles.  After that, just use at least 4 other kinds of chiles.  The heat can be adjusted by the type of chiles added, but the best place to start is with a medium heat level.  Also, a few more chiles is okay especially if they are small.

Place stemmed and seeded chiles into a food processor and pulse until the pieces are about 1/4- inch or less in size.  Place chiles in a bowl, and pour enough boiling water over to cover.  Soak until chiles soften, at least 30 minutes and up to 4 hours.

Pour about 1 tablespoon olive oil into a large skillet and heat over medium heat until hot.  Add onions, leeks, and shallots (in batches if necessary and adding more oil as needed); cover and cook until tender, about 7 to 10 minutes per batch.  Remove to a very large deep stockpot, and keep warm over very low heat.

Add the ground chuck to the skillet and cook until browned.  Remove to the pot with the onions.  Sprinkle cubed beef all over with coarse salt and pepper.  Add to pot without browning; stir to mix everything together.  Set aside.

Drain chiles, reserving soaking liquid.  Place chiles in a blender.  Add 1 cup soaking liquid, garlic, chili powder, cumin seeds, oregano, coriander, and 1/4 cup coarse salt; blend to puree, adding more soaking liquid by 1/4 cupfuls if very thick.  Pour puree and remaining soaking liquid into the pot with the beef and onions.  Add tomatoes with juices, 3 bottles of the beer, roasted green chiles, and chopped cilantro stems.  Stir to coat evenly.  Bring chili to a simmer.  Cover and cook 2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, bring oven to 350F.  Spread corn flour onto a baking sheet and toast for 5 minutes.

Uncover the chili and cook until beef is almost tender, about 1 hour, stirring every 15 minutes.  Add beans; stir to coat, and cook about 45 minutes longer.  Season chili to taste with salt and pepper.  Tilt pot and spoon off any fat from surface of sauce.  Stir in all of the manchego cheese, Mexican chocolate, and toasted corn flour to thicken.  If the chili is still too thin, add a little more of the toasted corn flour.  If the chili is too thick, thin with remaining bottle of beer, otherwise enjoy the beer with the chili.

Can be made up to 2 days ahead.  Cool 1 hour.  Chill uncovered until cold, then cover and keep chilled.  To reheat, bring to room temperature (about 2 or 3 hours) and over a low heat warm for about 30 minutes before turning heat to medium-high.  Gently stir every 10 minutes, scraping the bottom of the pot to prevent sticking.  (Wait—it's probably already stuck from the initial cooking.)  If necessary to thin the chili, use beef stock and/or water.  Beer will give it an odd taste if used during reheating.

Garnishes:  Fresh cilantro leaves, Chopped red onion, Diced avocado, Shredded Monterey Jack cheese, Warm corn and/or flour tortillas.  Cornbread is good, and so are tortilla chips.  I like oyster crackers with it.

This recipe also works well enough with all pork, but do not mix beef and pork.  1-inch chunks of cooked all beef sausage also work well with this recipe.  Just add about 2 pounds of the beef sausage along with the cubed beef, and continue with the recipe.

Considerations for substitutions or additions:  1 cup tequila (omit the beer and add beef stock and/or water to make up the difference) -- 1/2 bottle dry red wine (omit the beer and add beef stock and/or water to make up the difference)

2 pounds pork baby back ribs -- 2 pounds pork loin -- 2 pounds beef tenderloin
2 pounds sausage -- 2 pounds beef short ribs -- 2 pounds tri-tip or sirloin
2 pounds lean ground beef -- 2 pounds lean ground pork

This is a versatile recipe—just do not mix beef and pork, or it will taste strange.  Trust me.