Dessert Wars

Pecan Pie
Blackberry Cobbler
Peach Cobbler
Pecan Pralines
Texas Sheet Cake
Buttermilk Pie
Texas Soggy Cake (Tres Leches)
Banana Pudding
Apricot Fried Pies
Sweet Potato Pie
Homemade Ice Cream (vanilla, fresh peach, or fresh strawberry)
Bread Pudding (Capriotada)

I was thinking about dessert a few days ago (actually I think about it all of the time), and I realized I have 12 “go to” treats on my list.  Oh, believe me, there are many more on the list, but these 12 are my favorites.  The next 75 or so just barely missed the top 12, and the remainder is not to be ignored.  I decided to do some on-line research as to the preferences Texans have for dessert, and I wasn’t exactly surprised to find similar listings among other Texans.  If anything tops the lists it’s the pecan pie, but all others were very well represented.

Many other desserts showed up as favorites as well.  The pound cake, date cake, apple pie, etc.  The list is long, but the list I made is very representative of the basic Texas desserts.  My intention is not to make this into a “pie fight,” but to highlight a few of the approaches Texans take to satisfy the sweet tooth.  The title of this article is not about people fighting over dessert, but the difficulty I have in choosing one.

I like dessert, and one look at my recipe files will substantiate that claim.  If there is only one dessert available, I have no problem, but if there are two, my only choice is to have some of each.  Three desserts and I’m in trouble, although I will somehow find room for each one.  Four?  Oh, boy.

Long ago someone asked me to write my motto for life.  I thought about this for a long time, and I considered many things.  I examined my world of business.  I thought about my years of hunting and fishing.  I searched deeply into my religion.  I also considered all the good things one can be involved with, and well as the mundane things.  But the one thing that kept coming back to me was the brevity of life.  In the end I wrote, “Life is short.  Eat dessert first,” after which I immediately drove to a bakery and purchased a pecan pie.

My great-aunt Gertrude was a wonderful cook.  She was working as the cook for the old Circle X Ranch outside of Fort Worth when she met and married my great-uncle John.  The year they married was 1907.  She was expected to keep the family and ranch hands well fed, and I like to think my uncle (a ranch hand) was so happy with what he was eating he married the cook.

Anyway, she always made pies, especially pecan pies.  I don’t remember going to visit them when a pecan pie wasn’t readily available.  After my uncle passed away, she never again made her great pies.  But she passed on the recipes.


Circle X Pecan Pie

Beat together butter with a big scoop of sugar.  Add eggs until creamy.  Mix some chopped pecans with a bit of flour.  Mix everything together with some salt and corn syrup.  Pour into a piecrust and bake until done.


I watched her make this pie more than once, and the following is how I’ve written the recipe.  The finished pie is very close to the original.  I think the difference is because of her wood-burning stove—and something only a great-aunt can put into a pie for her wide-eyed nephew.

Serves 8.

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon butter                                           
1 1/2 cups sugar                                               
5 large eggs                                                   
1/4 teaspoon salt                                              
1 cup corn syrup (light or dark.  I prefer dark.)                                               
1 cup pecans, finely chopped                                   
1 tablespoon all purpose flour    
1 (8-inch) unbaked pie shell                            

Cream the butter and sugar.  Mix in the eggs one at a time and beat until smooth.  Mix the flour in with the pecans, and then mix everything together.  Pour into an unbaked 8-inch pie shell.  Bake at 375F for 35 to 40 minutes.

 

Aunt Gertrude used corn syrup in her recipes, but commercial corn syrup was not readily available when she worked at the Circle X Ranch.  I don’t know if the ranch made their own corn syrup (a distinct possibility), or if she used some other type of syrup originally.  But by the time I was watching her make the pies she was using corn syrup.

 

This is an old-style pecan pie.  Today’s pecan pies are usually larger (9-inch, deep-dish) and fancier (pecan halves, praline, etc.), but this old-style pie is pure Texas.

Biggie—Year Two

Biggie is now five years old, and he has been in my life for two years.  As I explained before in “Biggie”, he is my neighbor’s dog, but my wife and I take care of him on a part time basis.  We walk him every day while his ‘Mom’ is at work, and he ends up staying with us until she gets home in the evening.

 

There are days when he just lays around the house, but they are quite rare.  Laying around is not high on Biggie’s priorities.  He is not a hyper dog, but he is a curious dog.  He also wants to be held for hours on end.  And all socks in the house belong to him, whether or not they are on one’s feet.

 

A few months ago he gave us a scare.  My wife gives him a bath about once a week, and she noticed a large lump had developed under his chin in just a few short days since his last bath.  His “Mom” couldn’t afford to take him to the vet so I footed the bill.  The big bill.  Ouch!  I said before I would not pay his vet bills, but that resolve quickly disappeared when his life was on the line.  Biggie was slowly choking due to pressure on his windpipe, and I was NOT going to lose another dog, even if he wasn’t my dog.  A biopsy, many shots, and an oral medicine brought the problem under control, but for about two weeks, there was more than a small amount of doubt that it would work.  But it did.

 

Lately I’ve been the one walking him almost every weekday, and he knows exactly where he wants to go.  A few weeks ago I made the mistake of walking him by the taco stand across the street at the exact moment a lady dropped her taco.  Biggie was all over it like a, um, uh, dog on a taco.  And his memory is very long.  Now his walks have become a battle of wills, but so far I’ve been winning.

 

Each day Biggie has hopes of another taco, and he knows the shortest route to the taco stand.  The stress on his harness and leash is enormous as he pulls one direction, and I’m pulling another.  My biggest fear is that should I give in, walk him by the taco stand, and someone will drop another taco.  If that happens there will be no winning in the future.

 

I must admit though, I’m planning on a special trip there in a few days.  The stand has an outdoor patio where dogs are welcomed, and I’m willing to drop a few bites of taco, maybe a chunk or two of burrito, or some quesadilla.  Honestly, Biggie has me wrapped around his paw.  Oh, well. 

Hunting Dog

My friend Mike had a dog he wanted to train to hunt.  On the surface, this sounds reasonable, but when one considers Mike and I were only some 10 years on this earth, and the dog was a freebie from a bin of puppies in front of Buddie’s Hardware, one must reconsider the word ‘reasonable.’

 

Mike and I liked to think we were hunters.  We had made bows from willow sticks, bowstrings from kite string, and arrows from a pile of old bent dowel rods we found in the trash behind the hardware store.  We sharpened the dowel rods and cut notches in the other end and called them ‘arrows.’  Good enough.

 

The hunting instinct runs deep in some dogs and people.  In others, well, it just isn’t there.  Mike and I were hunter wannabees, and over time we became real hunters, but this dog had no concept of hunting anything more than his feed bowl and a place to nap.  This dog knew the difference between opening a can of dog food and a can of corned beef hash.  Essentially they look and smell the same, but the dog knew the difference by sound.  What a dog.

 

This dog had a name.  It was ‘Mutt’, and we usually called him that, but he answered only the to sound of a can opener.  He was big, shaggy (probably a sheepdog mix), and was about 3 years old when Mike decided to train him to hunt, and he had never done anything but eat and sleep.  We borrowed some books on dog training from the local library, and in a few days had fashioned Mutt a dog collar and leash from a long piece of old rope we picked up somewhere.  Neither one made Mutt very happy.

 

We took turns trying to get Mutt to ‘heel, sit, come, and stay.’  ‘Stay’ was the only command Mutt would obey, and only because he was too lazy to get up to do anything at all.  Finally Mike tied the rope to his bicycle handlebars to take Mutt for a walk.  The ride was a short one.  In fact Mutt never moved.  Mike reached the end of the rope, and the rope tightened as Mutt was still lying down.  Mutt never moved in the slightest, but the handlebars on the bike were twisted to the side, and Mike took a hard fall.  End of the first training lesson.

 

Over a few weeks, we managed to get Mutt to understand that when the rope was tied to the bicycle, it was time for a walk.  Slowly Mutt would get to his feet, and slowly he would walk behind the bike, and slowly the bike would be peddled, because if the rope grew tight, Mutt would lie down and not move until he heard the sound of a can opener.  This was working well enough until the day Mutt crossed paths with a cat.

 

It was my turn to walk Mutt.  I had learned to tie the rope to my seat post rather than my handlebars since this gave me a bit more stability if Mutt suddenly stopped.  We had gone about two houses distance down the sidewalk when a big fuzzy white cat walked in front of us.  I heard a hiss from the cat, a whimper from the dog, and the next thing I knew I was lying in someone’s yard.  I sat up to see that the cat was still where I remembered it, but Mutt and my bike were not to be seen.

 

I looked down the sidewalk and saw Mike chasing Mutt while my bicycle was bouncing along behind him as though he didn’t know it was there.  The chase ended when Mutt jumped a low fence and the bike didn’t make it over.  Mike caught up with his dog and untied the rope from his neck.  Then he picked up my bicycle and started to carry it back to me, but Mutt picked up the rope dangling from the seat and took the lead in returning my bike.  Mike and I just stared at the dog for a moment simply not believing he actually did something on his own.  Maybe something had changed.  We were going to find out.

 

The next day Mike had the honors of taking Mutt for a walk, besides, my bike needed some repair.  It was nothing serious, but the handlebars and seat were twisted, and the rear fender was smashed.  When Mike tried to tie the rope onto Mutt’s collar, Mutt growled and bared his teeth.  Wisely Mike backed off, but when he got on his bike to ride over to where I lived, Mutt followed along on his own.  Unbelievable.

 

We decided it was time for Mutt to go hunting.  When my bike was repaired enough to ride, we gathered up our bows and arrows and rode over to the field near the railroad tracks where cottontail rabbits were everywhere.  Mutt just followed along.  We rode at our normal speed, and the dog kept up with us.  When we reached the field, we dropped our bikes, grabbed our bows, and began our hunt.  Rabbits were jumping everywhere, arrows were flying everywhere, and Mutt was guarding our bikes and watching the show.

 

Mutt was right.  He didn’t need to be trained to be a hunting dog.  It was Mike and I who needed to be trained as hunters.  We gathered our arrows and tried again.  The rabbits had nothing to worry about.  Our unfletched crooked dowel rods couldn’t shoot straight under any circumstances.  I don’t remember how many times we gathered up our arrows and tried to hit a rabbit.  It must have been at least seven or eight times and could easily have been many more.  But no rabbit went home with us that day—or for several more years.

 

Mutt sat patiently as we gathered up our arrows one last time.  The ride home was hot and dusty, and when we got to Mike’s home, we sat for a while on his front lawn and cooled off with a Big Red.  Mutt found a cool drink of water and came over to join us.  Mike reached out to pet his dog, but Mutt just backed away a few feet.  When Mike told him he’d never have to go hunting again, Mutt stood up, walked over to Mike and lay down with his head in Mike’s lap.  I commented that I just might like to try it again.  Mutt’s response was a low growl, bared teeth, and a stare that made me take back my words.  That dog was a whole lot smarter than I had ever given him credit for.  What a dog.

Super Bowl

A couple of weeks ago was Super Bowl XLVII.   Each year I try to watch this game, and some years I succeed, and some years I don’t succeed.  This year I succeeded.

 

Television team sports don’t have much attraction to me, but playoffs or finals in baseball, football, or basketball are something I will watch if given the opportunity.  Mostly I’m just trying to understand why these sports have such a huge following, while hunting and fishing do not.

 

Already I can’t remember which team won.  In fact, I can hardly remember which teams played.  I do know I had fun because I was with a few members of my fishing club at the clubhouse.  The main topic of the day was usually football, but there was just as much excitement over several of the upcoming club activities, and, at least to me, that was far more important than the game on the television.

 

Even though there were only five or six of us, the gathering included more food than we could possible eat, but we did manage to eat most of it.  Chips, dips, cheese balls, and just good ol’ stuff.  Since there were only a handful of us to bring snacks, the diversity was lacking a bit; however, the fun was not diminished because of it.

 

Next year we will try it again, and maybe there will be a few more gathered at the clubhouse for the game, and maybe there will be a bigger selection of snacks.  Already I’m planning what I will bring, and I’m not planning to skimp on anything.  After all, doesn’t ‘Super Bowl’ refer to a dish?

 

This year my contribution was a relative of the cheese enchilada.  I call it Chile con Queso, although it is basically cheese enchilada filling scooped up with tortilla chips or Fritos.  It’s really quick and simple to make, and it can be used as a dip or as a topping for nachos.  Sometimes a bowl and spoon are all that I use, but it is always a hit at ‘man gatherings.’

 

Chile con Queso

 

    2 pounds Velveeta Cheese

    1 pound shredded Mexican Four Cheese Blend

    3 (15-ounce) cans no-bean chili (I prefer Wolf Brand or Hormel)

    3 (10-ounce) cans Ro-Tel Tomatoes with Chiles

    ½ cup Crema or sour cream

    1 bunch green onions, chopped (white and green parts)

    2 cloves garlic, minced

    ½ bunch cilantro, chopped

    Chopped jalapeno peppers to taste

 

Stir all of the ingredients together in a slow cooker, cover, and turn to HIGH for one hour.  Stir all of the ingredients and turn to LOW for 2 hours.  Stir again and serve warm.

 

There are thousands of variations on this recipe, and most of them are pretty good.  Feel free to adjust or change the ingredients to your taste.  Sometimes I’ll throw in a cup or so of roasted corn kernels just because I have them in the freezer.  Also, this recipe can easily be cut in half, but since that isn’t enough for me, I always make the full amount.

Life on the Casting Pond

The Long Beach Casting Club has a cement casting pond that is the delight of every dog and child in Long Beach, not to mention the walkers.  Oh, boy—the walkers.  They somehow discovered the perimeter of the pond is about 1/8 of a mile around, so they can know just how far they have walked just by counting the laps.  And they are going to walk no matter what happens.  I mention these walkers because they can take you into your backing before they know they’ve been caught.  Dogs and children seem to know that a back cast may have consequences, besides they are usually playing in the water in front of the casters where they can be seen.  Not so the walkers.

 

The casting club, and almost every fly caster, uses a hookless fly, an indicator, or a plug to monitor their casts in practice.  Unfortunately, the lack of hooks makes it more difficult to get the attention of a walker.  The indicator wraps around their fanny pack or water bottle, and they have no idea of the situation.  True the hook just might wrap itself around these things also, but maybe not…  Well, maybe it would be better just to train the dogs to...

 

The club is located in an old mature city park where soccer games are regularly played, picnics are part of daily life, and children and dogs regularly come to play.  The spacious dog park just north of the club is well used, but many dog owners opt for the green grass of the park rather than the dirt of the dog park.  The clubhouse and pond are not separated from the rest of the park in any overtly identifying manner, and indeed the grounds are a public park even though the club leases the property.

 

The openness of the park makes it easy for anyone to observe the club’s activities, and many members joined just because they were able to stroll up to the pond and talk to someone about fly casting.  But the walkers never stop to talk, except to shout “move aside” while they are walking the perimeter of the pond.  (Sorry, I’m trying to get past the walkers.)  After my neighbor Clark introduced me to the pond, I began to make appearances at the club in the evenings just to observe the activities on the water under the lights, and the number of people who would help each other with their techniques quickly impressed me.

 

I bought my first rod.  It was a 5-weight kit from the local fly shop, and it cost a big chunk of change as far as I was concerned.  It was a name brand, but it wasn’t in the class of a “Holy Grail” or anything even close.  I brought it to the pond knowing from my observations that all I had to do was look pathetic (wait, I already look pathetic) and someone would help me.  I put the rod together, made one toss of the line, and Bert, George, Mick, Bill, and Joe surrounded me before I could make the second attempt.  My first thought was, “am I really that bad?”, but while the answer is a definite ‘yes’ these men didn’t care.  All they wanted to do was show me how to improve. 

 

For months I came to the casting pond at least once or twice a week to practice casting, and to learn how to work around obstructions (walkers).  My technique has improved a little over time, and still Bert, George, Mick, Bill, Joe, and countless others do not hesitate to help.  And I repeat the word ‘help.’  Never once have I been lectured or made to feel inadequate as a caster, although I am inadequate as a caster. 

 

It’s strange how what goes around comes around (and this time I don’t mean the walkers).  A few weeks ago I was on the pond by myself and a young lady came up to me and started asking questions about what I was doing.  I explained that I was practicing my casting techniques before going out to fish.  Her response was, “This looks like how fishing should be.”  I couldn’t have agreed more.

 

I handed her the 5-weight I was using and helped her to make a few simple casts.  Then she mentioned that she was going home to San Francisco in a few days, but she wanted to learn more about this.  It was fun.  She had fished all her life and always had a desire to know how to fly fish.  She was glad someone had taken a few minutes time to show her a little about it.  She promised me she would look up some of the clubs in her area and pursue this.  I hope she does.

 

Well, time moves forward whether we want it to or not.  Bert is gone now, and Gary has joined the club.  In a few years he will graduate high school.  All ages are represented at the club, and this is essential to the life of any organization.

 

Many things happen on the pond.  The spey casters throw their long rolls, the master casters practice accuracy, the beginners practice false casts, the dogs and children play in the water (where are their owners?), and the walkers walk.  But most of all, an unbroken fellowship of more than three-quarters of a century continues.  Thanks to everyone for passing on the instructions.  And thanks to every club that keeps this knowledge alive.

Fly in the Surf

For a number of years I have fished the surf at the nearby beaches with my spinning rigs, and have been successful more often than not.  The one thing about surf fishing is the variety of critters that may be brought up to sand.  I would say “to hand”, but the teeth on most of these fish are quite large and quite sharp.  Recently I’ve been trying my luck with the fly rod.

My first outing was with a 6-weight.  It was the biggest rod I had in my arsenal of two fly rods, but I thought it would work well enough for surfperch.  Well a halibut is not a surfperch.  It was a short 14-inch juvenile, but it pulled me into my backing before I got control of it.  WOW!  What a blast!  Within the hour I nailed its 11-inch sibling, and again it reached the backing.  I decided then and there that I would be a regular with the fly rod, but I wanted something a little bigger for these fighters.

I went on a popular auction website where I found an 8-weight in a decent brand at a price I felt was acceptable for saltwater use.  (I’ve always thoroughly cleaned my equipment after using, but the salt water inevitably wins in the long run, and replacements are the norm.)  When it arrived, along with the reel and line I also purchased, I learned that an 8-weight requires more muscle that I was carrying around, so the practice began.

After a few weeks of work at the casting pond with this big rod, I headed back to the surf where I promptly hooked something big.  I was glad for the heavy rod.  We fought for about 20 minutes before the 15-pound tippet finally broke off.  If I had been using the 6-weight, I believe the rod would have broken first, even with the 10 pound tipped I was using on it.  I don’t know what it was that got away, but like a catfish from days gone by, I want to go back after it.

Since the day of the big one that got away, I’ve been heavily studying about fly-fishing in the surf.  I’ve been to seminars at the local fly-fishing shop.  I’ve read books about how to cast into the trough.  I’ve read books and watched films on reading the water.  I’ve talked to people who fly fish the surf regularly.  When I get back out there, I’ll be ready when the big one strikes again. 

In the years I surf fished with a spinning rig, I had no clue what I was doing.  I can fish fresh water rivers, streams, creeks, lakes, ponds, canals, or mud holes, but I knew zero about the surf, and some days I caught fish and some days I caught sunshine.  Now I’m ready.  Now it’s time to throw some fly line into the salt water.

It has now been over two years since I wrote the words above, and I’ve been back to the surf many times with my fly rod.  There is nothing quite like catching a big salt-water fish on a fly line.  What a ride!

Cornmeal Biscuits

Okay, I hear you.  When I gave out the recipe for Jalapeno Brisket, I mentioned the cornmeal biscuit, and I didn’t include the recipe.  My fault.  I take the blame.  I’m sorry.

Actually I was planning on sharing this with everyone when I posted the Jalapeno Brisket recipe in ‘Subtlety’, but something went wrong, and it didn’t post the entire article, and I didn’t realize it.  After I wrote the line “Unbelievable on a Cornmeal Biscuit”, the post was supposed to continue with this:

 

Cornmeal Biscuits

Makes 8 to 12 biscuits, maybe more, maybe less.

    1 tablespoon unsalted butter                                   

    3/4 cup packed chopped green onions                            
    1 1/2 cups all purpose flour                                    
    1/2 cup yellow cornmeal                                        
    2 tablespoons sugar                                            
    2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder                                  
    3/4 teaspoon kosher salt                                        
    1/2 teaspoon baking soda                                       
    1/2 cup chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes       
    1 1/2 cups packed coarsely grated yellow extra-sharp cheddar cheese
    1 large egg                                                    
    3/4 cup buttermilk                                             
    1 large egg, beaten with 1 tablespoon whipping cream for glaze 

Position the rack in center of the oven; preheat to 425°F. Melt 1 tablespoon butter in a nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add the green onions and sauté 2 minutes to soften slightly. Remove from the heat.

Blend the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in a processor. Add 1/2 cup chilled butter; cut in using on/off turns until the mixture resembles a coarse meal. Add the cheese; cut in using on/off turns. Transfer the flour mixture to a large bowl. Whisk 1 egg in a glass measuring cup. Add enough buttermilk to the egg to measure 1 cup; stir in the green-onion mixture.  Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients. Pour the buttermilk mixture into well; mix just until evenly moistened.

Turn the dough out onto a generously floured surface. Knead gently just until the dough holds together, about 10 turns. Pat out on a generously floured surface to 3/4-inch-thick round. Using a 2-inch to 3-inch round cutter cut out the biscuits. Transfer to an ungreased baking sheet, spacing 1 inch apart. Gather the dough scraps; pat out to 3/4-inch thickness and cut out additional biscuits. Brush the biscuits with the egg glaze.

Bake the biscuits until golden, a tester inserted into the center comes out clean, and the biscuits feel firm, about 18 minutes. Cool on a rack 5 minutes. Serve warm.

Variation:  Mince one canned chipotle in adobo and add to the buttermilk/egg mixture.  This variation doesn’t pair well with the Jalapeno Brisket, but it is great on its own or made into an egg, smoked sausage, and jack cheese breakfast sandwich.

I promise to check my posts a little more carefully in the future.

Subtlety

Texans aren’t known for their subtlety.  Personalities tend to be as big as the state, and smiles are as wide as the horns on their famous cattle.  But there is one area where Texans are subtle—their jokes and pranks.  While jokes and pranks are usually on a grand scale, it’s the approach that’s subtle.

 

I had some neighbors who loved having people over for dinner.  They were very friendly and their Italian heritage was especially evident when they set out a meal.  It appeared as Italian-American as Sunday Gravy, but the family was Italian-Texan.  This was usually lost to the visitors underneath the appearance of everything Italian.

 

One of this family’s favorite moves was to replace a few of the pine nuts in their pesto with tiny pequin peppers.  They always made a normal pesto and as a garnish sprinkled on a few whole toasted pine nuts, but when visitors were at the table, a few pine nuts were a bit different looking from the others.

 

“Oh, we had to substitute a few Texas pine nuts,” was the normal response if someone noticed the difference.  However, the first indication of subterfuge was usually when someone was gasping for air and grabbing for water.

 

I don’t really know why Texans like “in your face” flavors, but they do.  Most foods Texans consume are simple but bold, like their barbeque, or their Tex-Mex.  Jalapenos are served with breakfast, coffee is very thick and strong, and French fries are covered with gravy or mustard.  For a snack, pour some chili into an open bag of Fritos, toss in some chopped onion and shredded cheese, and grab a handful of napkins.

 

Not everything is cooked on an open fire or in a pit in Texas, including brisket.  Jalapeno Brisket is one of those dishes with the full range of Texas personality—bold and subtle at the same time, but this is no joke.

 

 

Jalapeno Brisket

Serves 6

 

    1 (6-pound) first cut (flat cut) beef brisket, untrimmed                                      

    8 to 12 fresh jalapeno peppers, stemmed, seeded if desired                              

    5 cloves garlic

    1/3 cup brown sugar                                            

    1/3 cup apple cider vinegar                                    

    Olive oil as needed                                                  

    4 thick carrots, peeled

    1 large onion, peeled and thickly sliced                                       

    1 to 3 cups (or more if needed) beef stock                           

    1 lemon 

    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste          

    Fresh jalapeno slices and slivers for garnish

 

Puree the jalapenos and garlic in a food processor.  Add the brown sugar and pulse two or three more times.  Add the apple cider vinegar and process until the ingredients form a thin paste.

 

Pierce the meat all over with a fork, and place the meat into a large bowl. Cover with the jalapeno puree, and place in a refrigerator for about one hour, turning over after 30 minutes.

 

Preheat the oven to 450F.  Place a roasting pan on a burner, coat the bottom with olive oil, and turn on the heat to medium/high.  Remove the brisket from the puree and scrap off as much of the puree as possible, but reserve the puree in the bowl.  Brown both sides of the brisket in the roasting pan.  Be sure there is good ventilation for this step.

 

Remove the roasting pan from the heat.  Remove the brisket from the pan, and place the carrots and onions on the bottom of the roasting pan to form a base for the meat.  Place brisket (fat side up) on top of the vegetables.  Add enough beef stock to reach the bottom of the brisket.  Pour the remaining jalapeno puree over the brisket, and then juice the lemon over the top.  Cover and roast at 450F for 30 minutes.  Reduce the heat to 250F and slow roast for 6 - 8 hours.

 

Add additional stock to the bottom of the pan if it becomes dry.  Remove from the oven and let rest for 30 minutes before serving.  Slice across the grain to serve.  Salt and pepper to taste.  Garnish with fresh jalapeno slices and slivers.

 

Unbelievable on a Cornmeal Biscuit.

Return to Roaring River

In the mid-seventies I returned to Roaring River State Park in Missouri for the last time.  I guess I had been there at least 20 times in the 16 years since my family had first vacationed there in 1959, and I wasn’t tired of it yet.  By this time I had visited many of America’s greatest destinations, and this little park was simply my favorite.  It was here I first learned to enjoy nature.  It was here I first learned the basics of camping.  And it was here I developed my strong desire to fly fish.

For the past few years I had been privileged to hunt and fish across North America including Alaska, Canada, Spain, and a few other places.  I couldn’t get enough of the outdoors, and I took every opportunity to be there.  My first love was fishing, but hunting was a good second, and I had to be outdoors to do either one.  I thought nothing of strapping on a backpack, grabbing my fishing rod, and disappearing into the wild for a few days.  Sometimes I had a companion, and sometimes I did not.  But to Roaring River I always went alone.

I think my family traveled there only three or four times, and as soon as I could get there on my own, I didn’t hesitate to go.  For years I was drawn to the park like a moth to a flame.  Any opportunity to travel through Missouri or any of the states near the southern part of Missouri required a detour to the park.  I rarely spoke of the park to anyone because I was afraid that too many people would visit there and ruin it for me.  I guess I was selfish, but when one has found the end of the rainbow one becomes reluctant to share directions to the pot of gold. 

In 1969 I drove there on my own for the first time.  I knew the place was special from the family visits years earlier, and I knew I must return.  Besides, I had not seen anyone fly-fishing for a few years, and I wanted to see it again.  I was determined to learn the process, but at the same time I was unsure how to go about it.

I arrived at the park, paid my camping fee, found a campsite, and set up my tent.  I listened to the river talk to me for several days while I looked around the area.  I don’t recall talking to anyone in particular, nor do I remember seeing anything remarkable.  But the place had a voice of its own, and I listened.  When I drove out of the park to go home it was necessary for me to pull off the road into a picnic area just to cry.  I didn’t know why I was crying, but it seemed like the right thing to do.  It was a long drive home.

The following summer I drove back to the park four times.  Two of those times amounted to a stay of less than one day before I had to leave.  The other two times were three or four days each.  And the voice of the park was louder than ever.  The sound of the river was the same, but something else was tugging at me, and I couldn’t define it.

I always watched the fly fishermen with envy.  As I’ve said at other times, I’ve fished all my life, but the fly fishermen always had my undivided attention.  Each trip to this magical place was undertaken with the idea of spending time watching these special fishermen and learning from them.  I didn’t really know what it was I was learning, and I didn’t know that it was actually the river’s voice that was my instructor.  But I was trying to listen and understand.

On my last trip to the park I saw a man I had watched fishing many years before on my first trip to the park.  He was much older now, and his friend was still with him directing his casts toward the fish.  It was the blind man I had watched catch and release a rather large trout all those years ago.  He was still fishing and still catching and still releasing.

I sat down and just watched for a long time that morning.  The blind man released several fish in those hours, and his friend assisted him in everything he did.  They were close—brothers it turned out—and they were married to twin sisters.  I wouldn’t have known this if the blind man hadn’t started talking to me.

I don’t know how he knew I was there, but more remarkable, he asked me if I had ever learned to fly fish.  He said he remembered when I was just a small boy and had sat on a nearby log just watching him.  How could he remember that incident?  When I asked him, he simply asked if I remembered it.  I answered affirmatively.  Well, if I could remember it, he could also.

I spent the evening with him, his brother, and their wives at their campsite.  They were leaving the next morning, and they believed that because of age and distance, this would be their last night at Roaring River.  Little did I know it would be my last night as well.

It is nearly forty years since I placed my feet in Roaring River State Park, and often I think of the blind man and his family.  One of the things he told me that last night in the park was that he couldn’t stop hearing the river.  He had first heard it as a young man and was ever drawn back to it, and everything he had done in life was influenced by the river’s voice.  I had no idea what he meant when he said it.  Now it makes perfect sense.

A Couple of Big Cheese Enchiladas

Anyone who knows me knows I believe that everything goes better with a couple of big cheese enchiladas.  Brisket, chicken, beans, salad, grapes, chocolate—everything.  I don’t care which comes first, the pie or the enchiladas, as long as there are a couple of big cheese enchiladas involved.

This makes it sound as though the cheese enchilada is my favorite dish, but as much as I like them, I see them only as a side dish.  It’s just that I believe they improve any meal, no matter what the main dish may be.

I was in a restaurant in Fort Worth in the late ‘sixties where cheese enchiladas were served with anything ordered.  It was a Tex-Mex place but called itself Mexican food.  I won’t give the name of the place, but it was a popular buffet eatery serving all you could stand for $1.29.  When I ordered the chicken sour cream enchiladas with a tamale and a chile relleno, it came with two cheese enchiladas on the side.  On another visit I asked for the cheese enchiladas and they came with two cheese enchiladas on the side.  I liked this place.

In Laredo I had breakfast at a small diner made from an old Airstream trailer.  My chicken fried steak was topped with two cheese enchiladas.  Dinner in Alpine came with a cheese enchilada appetizer and with another on top of my steak.  A fried chicken restaurant near College Station served their potato fries in a paper boat with a cheese enchilada on top and a pickle on the side—I never figured that one out.  And a truck stop outside of El Paso served a hamburger with a cheese enchilada in the middle. 

A friend had a small ranch near Freer where cheese enchiladas were served at every meal.  And one could get a couple of them at any time just by stopping in at the cook’s kitchen.  My great-aunt Emma lived in Turkey, Texas, and she always had a batch of them around, just watch out for the ashes from her cigar.

My friends were deep into the cheese enchiladas also, and we would have a gathering every few months just to enjoy our latest versions.  I don’t believe we ever made the things the same way twice, but no matter what we did to them, they were still cheese enchiladas.  Life was good.

One of the versions was very unique.  It was a cheese enchilada pizza.  Very simple, but it may be the best pizza I’ve ever had.

 

Cheese Enchilada Pizza

Makes 4 individual pizzas.

    1 cup roughly chopped onion
    2 teaspoons olive oil
    1 pound fresh masa
    Cornmeal for the baking sheets
    1 cup Red Sauce (recipe follows)
    1 (7-ounce) can whole green chiles, drained
    1 1/3 cup coarsely grated cheese (your choice or choices)
    8 pre-made room temperature cheese enchiladas (use leftovers from breakfast)
    Additional Red Sauce
    Additional coarsely grated cheese
    Coarsely chopped cilantro

In a skillet heat the olive oil and sauté the onions until translucent.  Set aside to cool.  Wipe the skillet out with paper towels and return to the heat.

Knead the masa until smooth, and then divide into four equal pieces.  Form each piece into a flattened pizza shape with slightly raised edges and place in the heated skillet for about 45 seconds (do not turn over).  Remove to a baking sheet (you will need two of these) sprinkled with cornmeal.  When all four portions are placed on the sheets, top each with a scant ¼ cup of the Red Sauce, 1/3 cup of the cheese, and ¼ of the onions.  Slice the whole green chiles into strips and divide among the four pizzas.

Lay 2 room temperature cheese enchiladas in the middle of each pizza, drizzle more Red Sauce over the enchiladas, top with additional cheese, sprinkle with some chopped cilantro, and bake at 450F for 7 to 12 minutes or until the cheese is bubbling and browning.

There is no need to serve with a couple of big cheese enchiladas on the side, but it wouldn’t hurt.

Red Sauce
Makes about 4 1/2 cups.

    12 dried ancho chilies

    8 dried guajillo chilies
    4 dried New Mexico Chiles
    6 to 8 cups water                                                   
    1/3 cup white wine                                              
    1/2 white onion, peeled and diced                              
    5 cloves garlic, minced                                        
    8 teaspoons packed light brown sugar                           
    2 tablespoons ground cumin
    ½ teaspoon dried Mexican oregano                                    
    2 tablespoons honey                                            
    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste          

Rinse the chiles to remove any dirt.  Slit each chile with a sharp knife and remove and discard the seeds and stem.  Place the peppers in a large saucepan and cover with water by 1 inch.  Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce the heat and simmer for about 15 minutes.  The peppers should be soft and have absorbed some liquid.  When cooked, remove the pan from the heat and set aside without draining.

While the peppers are cooking, combine the wine, onion, garlic, brown sugar, cumin, oregano, and honey in a small saucepan.  Set this mixture over medium heat and simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the onions are soft.  Remove from the heat and set aside.

Using tongs, transfer the cooled chiles to the container of a blender.  Add about 2 cups of the chile liquid and all of the onion broth.  Cover the blender container and start blending at low speed, increasing to high speed as the puree becomes combined.  The result will be a thick, dark red sauce.  Adjust the seasonings with salt, pepper, and more honey if desired.  Use the sauce as is in a recipe, or place in a clean glass container and refrigerate.  Use the sauce within a week, or freeze for later.

This Red Sauce is a bit more complex than most, but the flavor is also more complex.  Perfect with a couple of big cheese enchiladas.

You may notice I didn’t give a recipe for cheese enchiladas.  This was not a mistake.  There are countless ways to make these things, and I never make them the same way twice unless it is by accident.

The Sleigh Trail

I first became a reluctant Santa in December 1969 while working for a Sears store in Fort Worth, Texas.  The store’s Santa had called in sick just a few minutes before time to appear, and the store manager pointed at me and said, “You’re the biggest guy in the store.  Get in the Santa suit.”  Thus I became Santa for the first time.  I donned the suit a few more times over the next two or three years, and while it was fun, it wasn’t my life’s passion.  Over the next 30 years, I put on the red suit only two or three more times, and it was always with great reluctance. 

In 1975 I grew my beard, but not to be Santa.  I just wanted to grow a beard.  Over time it began to turn gray, then white, and in 2002, I was standing in a grocery store line when a little girl peering over her father’s shoulder suddenly looked at me and shouted, “Santa!”  Well, it was December, so I went along with it and became Santa for her and other children in the store—and I liked it. 

A few months later, about April or so, I was in a Home Depot when a young boy ran up to me and grabbed hold of my leg shouting, “Thank you, Santa!  Thank you for my gift!”  The first thing I did was look around for a parent, then when I located his father grinning at the scene, I became Santa in the middle of the plumbing aisle.

In 2004, I heard on the news about a Santa organization having their annual meeting at a restaurant in Long Beach, CA, so I showed up.  Soon I was enrolled in a Santa School, and I’ve been Santa ever since. 

There is no end to the training and preparation to be a quality Santa.  I have a Master Santa Claus certificate from one the Santa schools, and I study being Santa on my own.  I look like Santa every day of the year, so I must always be prepared to be the best Santa I can be even when I think no one is looking, and in the middle of June.

This means grooming the hair and beard every day.  No drinking or smoking.  No bad breath or spicy foods.  Language must always be guarded.  The list is long, but I have to remember that no matter what I’m doing, people (especially children) always recognize me as Santa.

This also means there are places I cannot go.  Disneyland is such a place.  Anyone whose appearance is of Santa, or a pirate, or any other recognizable character whose look could possibly be confused with the Disney characters, will be barred from entering the park.  Also, I cannot go anywhere there is another working Santa, such as a mall, but this extends to many stores during November and December as well.  Children do not need the confusion of multiple Santa’s in one location.

I have to be current on games, toys, and anything else a child may be hoping to receive as a gift.  I also have to be prepared for those tough questions such as, “Why didn’t you come to my house last year?” or “Can you bring my Daddy home?” or “Why do my Mommy and Daddy fight?”  There are many tough questions, and it’s always hard to hear them from a child, but Santa has to be ready for them.

I am often online with other working Santa’s sharing our knowledge and experiences.  We learn from each other, and we help each other.  Several times I have had the opportunity to be a mentor to newer Santa’s, but the learning process always continues for every one of us.

I was recently the first Santa for a child barely 24 hours old.  His mother said she would have brought him to see me the day he was born, but they wouldn’t let her out of the hospital.

And I have had children approaching 100 years of age sit in my lap to make their Christmas requests.  For many of these older visitors it’s a very emotional experience to be sitting in Santa’s lap for the first time in their lives.  It’s surprising how many older persons have always longed for a chance to get that special hug and attention that Santa provides.

Every year the request list changes a little bit from the year before.  Recently the list has included Angry birds, Barbie (and everything that goes with Barbie), i-phones, i-pads, electronic pets, anything Elmo, bicycles, Legos, Harleys, Cameros, Weii, Xbox, PS3.  It’s an unending list with a lot of surprises.  Many two and three year old children just want toys—any toys.  World Peace comes up a lot. 

 

I have had requests for a turnip, a can of chicken noodle soup, a hippopotamus, and a big box (I hope she wanted a present inside of the big box).  One four year old wanted deodorant.

I have been privileged to appear at tree lightings for cities and resorts.  I have also been privileged to appear at nursing homes, car lots, garden nurseries, corporate events, and private homes.  I’ve even been seen on national television shows.

Many Santa’s belong to organizations and groups across America and around the world.  Some are local, some are national, and some are international, but all promote quality.  These organizations are helping families and businesses (really, anyone who hires a Santa) to realize the difference between the professional Santa with a real beard, real suit, real boots, and real belt, and a boxed kit Santa with pillow falling out from under his jacket and a beard at a strange angle. 

These organizations also have created a network of many hundreds of professional Santa’s who are in contact throughout the year helping each other improve through training and advice.

In mentioning the Santa organizations, I have to recognize Santa Tim Connaghan.  Through his efforts, many of today’s groups have come into being, and several have reached national and international recognition.  Also, Santa Tim produces one of the most notable Santa schools in America.  Anyone seeking more information about his schools can reach him at santa@realsantas.com .

Today’s American Santa is the result of an evolution that only since WWII has become somewhat standardized.  In the late 1700’s the Dutch of New York celebrated December 6 (St. Nicholas Day) with the character Sinterklass who was included in Washington Irving’s 1809 comic History of New York.  Later Clement Moore gave him a more current description in his poem A Visit from St. Nicholas also known as ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.  During the post-Civil War era, Thomas Nast continued the development of the appearance of Santa Claus through many illustrations for Harper’s Weekly, but nothing was consistent in the overall appearance of the person.

Santa Claus often appeared jolly and plump, as in Clement Moore’s poem, but just as often he was very thin.  His clothing was more often blue, or brown, or green rather than red.  And he often wore the long robes of the Dutch Sinterklass or other European versions of St. Nicholas.  It wasn’t until Haddon Sundblom began painting Santa for Coca-Cola advertisements in 1931 that the modern image of the jolly old elf began to take shape.  America was just beginning to accept this image of Santa when WWII began, so it was only after the war that the current Santa Claus really exploded with the post war prosperity.

Now this image of the American Santa Claus is spreading around the world.  Countries with a tradition based on St. Nicholas are not unaware of the American Santa even though they still keep their own customs and practices.  But in countries where there is no such tradition, the American Santa is becoming very popular.

Each year several hotels, malls, and large businesses in places such as Tokyo and Hong Kong import American Santas to visit with everyone.  These Santas are treated almost like movie stars as the people celebrate the season (even if they don’t know what the season is about).  Everyone enjoys having a photo made with Santa.

It is believed that the first printed use of the name Santa Claus is found in Rivington’s Gazette (New York City), December 23, 1773.

A Philadelphia merchant J.W. Parkinson may have been the first person to have a store Santa when in 1841 he hired a man to dress up as Kris Kringle and climb the chimney of his department store.

And “Jingle Bells” was originally written as a song for Thanksgiving.

A little more about me can be found at www.NeedSanta.com .

Matilija

The Matilija is a small stream.  Very small.  I believe I’ve caused more erosion than the Matilija just by spilling a glass of water.  But it is local.  And by local I’m referring to anything south of the Tejon or Cajon passes in Southern California, as well as anything between Santa Barbara and Palm Springs.

 

Clark took me up there on my first outing with a fly rod.  It was a two-hour drive, but since he was driving, I didn’t care.  I don’t get to be a passenger very often, and it was rather nice for a change.  We stopped at a market near Ojai and grabbed some things to chew on later, and then we drove the final few miles to the end of the road where we could park.  Actually it wasn’t the end of the road, but a gate prevented us from driving any farther.  At this place we put on the waders, assembled the rods, gathered up the chewables, and began the walk to the Matilija. 

 

I am a bit older than Clark.  Well, maybe I am a lot older than Clark.  He is compact.  I’ve grown sideways.  He is a fit outdoorsman.  I am an unfit indoorsman.  His boots are broken in.  My boots are new.  And the trail was either short or long, depending on who is recalling the hike.  But I had fun.

 

I caught my first trout on a fly on the Matilija that day.  It was a small wild rainbow that was all of five inches long, and it took me several hours to catch it.  The fly that did it was a gold ribbed hare’s ear in a size 16.  I was happy.

 

The Matilija allowed me to try out my new waders and boots.  I think the last time I wore waders was some forty years ago on a duck-hunting trip.  They were basically plastic coated canvas and were designed very well for letting the water leak in quickly and for chafing along the seams.  Oh, the chafing.  But it didn’t happen with these new breathable waders.  I did get a little damp, but not wet.  And the seams didn’t leak or chafe.  When I got home I turned them inside out and filled them with water to look for leaks, but no leaks, so I guess the dampness was self-induced.

 

As for the new boots, they could not have been better.  My last pair of hiking boots weighed in at about 15 pounds each, and took more than a year of heavy use to break in, and by then I needed new ones.  These wading boots are much better built than my old hiking boots, much lighter (although still about 4 pounds total), and I was able to have the insides rebuilt to fit my crooked feet exactly.  With these boots on I don’t need to wear the cumbersome brace I wear with my daily footwear.  I’m actually thinking about wearing them every day.  Maybe I’ll just wear the waders also—and keep a fly rod handy.

 

The walk to the Matilija was really a stroll by any standards, but I hadn’t been outdoors like this in many years and I am quite simply out of shape.  From the gate across the road we were able to cross through an access portal to follow the road over private property to the river.  While other hikers were trying to hop across on a few scattered rocks, Clark and I just waded through. 

 

We left the road to follow the trail alongside the river and again had a wade-through crossing.  After about ¾ of a mile, we came to another crossing, but this time we decided to wet our lines.  My 9-foot 5-weight rod was definitely overkill, but at the time it was all the fly rod I owned, so I used it.  I looked at the width of the river at this point and guessed that by extending my arm a bit I could simply drop a fly on the surface of the water by the bank across from me, and avoid casting altogether.  But then I looked upstream.  Beautiful.  And I could cast to the riffles from where I stood.

 

Nothing in my casting lessons at the Long Beach Casting Club prepared me for tree branches.  I raised my rod for a cast and hit a branch.  I tried side-arm and hit a tree.  I tried everything I could think of to cast that fly, but there just wasn’t enough room for my limited experience.  Then Clark mentioned the “bow and arrow” shot.  I have to admit that I felt somewhat stupid trying this method since it just didn’t match anything I knew about fishing—but it worked.  I got that fly exactly where I wanted it.  And a fish rose up to look at it.

 

I think the #16 mosquito I had tied on was about the same size as the fish that was looking at it.  The fish in this drainage are just not very big, and that was okay with me for this trip.  I considered the importance of this trip to be the experience of being outdoors again coupled with learning the real world use of my equipment.  Even I knew there would be a big difference between the casting pond and the river.  However, a 2-inch fish…

 

I “bow and arrowed” for a while, and discovered a 3-inch fish was also in the area.  Clark was downstream from me a ways, and when he reappeared he had caught and released a 4-inch trout.  I was jealous.  I wanted a trout, too.  But instead, we had lunch.

 

After our meal, I crossed the river and headed upriver about a quarter mile, past a camp with loud noise (I won’t say what kind of noise) coming from the couple in the tent, and on to a likely looking place.  The trail was about twenty feet or so above the water, but it was simple to pick my way down the slope to the falls with the pool below it.  I replaced my current fly with a gold ribbed hare’s ear and tossed my line into the froth at the bottom of the 8-foot falls.  I watched the drift, and I watched something rise up to look at it.

 

Four or five more attempts in different parts of the pool and a trout actually took the fly.  The 5-weight rod was way too big for this 5-inch fish, but I managed to get it to hand without ripping its lip apart.  It was just plain beautiful.  It was a small wild rainbow with a slight golden hue.  Wow.  My first trout on a fly rod.  Now for another.

 

I switched to a small pheasant tail and continued to work the corners of the pool and the edge of the froth under the falls.  And a second trout fell to my prowess.  This one was just 4 inches long, but just as wonderful to look at as the first.  I left the pheasant tail in place for a few more casts, then switched back to a mosquito. 

 

The mosquito was not effective except to catch tree branches and ultimately I left it in a branch.  I probably could have retrieved it, but I just left it there.  I went back to the gold ribbed hare’s ear and worked the pool for a while longer, but to no avail.

 

I gathered my things and climbed back up the slope where Clark was waiting for me.  He handed me a mosquito fly and said he had retrieved it for me.  He had been standing above me at the falls watching for a while.  I certainly didn’t see him, but it was a mosquito he handed me, and he knew I had lost it.

 

Such adventures come to an end.  We hiked back to the car where we shed the waders and replaced the boots with shoes.  Then we (he) drove back to Long Beach.  Clark did me a great favor that day.  He got me out of the house.  It’s something I had been threatening to do for a long time, but he knew just what to say to me that would get me moving—“Let’s go fishing.”