Fishing Local

In Southern California exists an unexplainable urge to turn all rivers into a cement trough.  Actually the idea is to keep the waters manageable during the floods that occur after a hard rain, but the concept of a ‘river’ disappears in all the cement.  For anyone wanting to fish the local waters, this limits the choices; however, there are still a number of places to hunt for fish.  Whether or not the fish are actually there may be another story.

 

Recently Clark and I headed to some of the local parks to fly fish.  These parks ranged in size from an acre or so to two rather large pieces of turf covering many city blocks each.  All of the parks had at least one pond or small lake stocked with trout and other fish by the Department of Fish and Game, or so it is rumored.

 

The first stop was a very small pond about eight miles away.  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this many ducks in one place in my life.  If there was water in the pond, it was under a thick layer of, um, duck exhaust.  And the smell.  I’ve spent many years around farm animals, and this was as bad a smell as I’ve ever experienced.  Needless to say, we drove to the next park on our list.

 

Park number two was about two or three miles away from the first park, and it showed some promise.  The pond was maybe 40 yards wide at it greatest width and no more than a hundred yards long, and it was ringed with fisherpersons (is that the right term?) standing on the concrete sidewalk around its perimeter.  They must know something about this place for so many to be fishing at one time.  We spent about an hour or so there and came to the conclusion that the fisherpersons were wrong.

 

From there we journeyed a couple of miles to a large park with a small lake that covered several acres.  Now this looked like a place to fish.  The banks were dirt, grass, and mud just like it should be.  There was stuff growing in the water along the edges, and there were birds flying overhead.  (Not that the birds had an effect on the conditions of this lake, I just happen to like birds around.)  But after an hour or so Clark and I decided to try elsewhere.

 

The last stop of the day was at Eldorado Park.  This is a very big city park with several ponds and lakes that are stocked occasionally by the Department of Fish and Game with trout, bass, catfish, etc., depending on the season.  We had heard that Area III is the place to fish, and we wanted to give it a try.  But it wasn’t our day.  Living in southern California has the occasional disadvantage of areas restricted for temporary use by the film industry, and this was one of those days.  So we drove around the remainder of the park checking out the concrete ponds.

 

There was, however, one place known as Horseshoe Lake.  It is a small impoundment with no concrete in sight, and it looked fishable.  For two hours we tossed our artificials into the water, and we had a couple of hits, but no fish were brought to hand.  Since these were the only hits of the day, we had to chalk this outing up to the enjoyment of the outdoors.

 

Since that day Clark and I revisited Eldorado Park.  I believe I could copy the last two paragraphs word for word concerning the second visit.  The one change would be that the Department of Fish and Game was about five minutes ahead of us entering the park; however, they dropped the fish into Area III, which was still off limits due to use by the film industry.  Rats!

Noodler

My fishing experiences have included some rather unorthodox methods of attracting fish.  Sure I’ve used a cane pole with a string and a hook attached.  And there was the trotline.   An old crank box telephone shocked more than a few fish to the surface, and a throw net brought in a few things other than fish.  I bow hunted fish on many occasions, and once tried my hand at spear fishing.  But the craziest fishing method I ever tried was noodling.

 

It would not surprise me to find out that most fishermen have seen illustrations concerning how to fish.  Any library in the country probably has more than a few books on the subject, and I know many fishermen who own a personal library on the topic.  I know I must own more than twenty books on how to fish various waters with an endless array of equipment.  And in several of these books are illustrations of someone reaching under a cut bank to grab a fish.  That technique is known as noodling.

 

In many states noodling is either illegal or is considered to be so ridiculous as to not even need a law.  Who in their right mind would reach under a bank to grab at an unknown entity?  Did it ever occur to anyone that it might not be a fish under that bank?  Most states understand that it is impossible to stop people from noodling and rarely enforce any laws as may exist on the subject.  There is a prevailing opinion that a noodler takes extreme risks, and if something goes wrong, the self-inflicted punishment is both justified and sufficient.  But noodlers are a breed of their own.

 

A neighboring state just to the north of Texas (I won’t say which one, but that’s OK) has some prime noodling waters.  At least according to my cousin.  My cousin was a noodler.  I don’t know why my cousin was a noodler, but he was a noodler.  He wasn’t raised that way.   I guess he just fell in with the wrong crowd.  Vern lived for just two things (three if one includes beer) and those were bull riding and noodling.  By far the bull riding was higher on the intelligence scale.

 

I didn’t see Vern very often due to the fact he was usually in some hospital somewhere recovering from bull riding or noodling, but we came across each other from time to time at my grandparent’s lake property.  On one occasion I was telling him about my hunt for a giant catfish at Possum Kingdom Lake west of Fort Worth.  He responded with stories of catching catfish by hand.  I knew he had been doing this for a few years, but this was something we in the family just didn’t talk about.  However, it was now in the open.  Vern came out from under the cut bank and was actually admitting he was a noodler.

 

My sense of adventure prevented me from just walking away from this nonsense, and by the evening I was thinking I might give it a try.  “Might” is the key word here.  I didn’t say I “Would” give it a try.  At the very least I wanted to see for myself how it was done.  Vern said he would pick me up in a couple of weeks and we would drive to his favorite noodling hole about a hundred miles to the north.  I felt a small panic attack start in my toes and work itself upward to my head.  The only thing I thought could be worse than noodling was riding somewhere with Vern.

 

I arranged to have a business meeting in Oklahoma City so I could meet up with Vern at the chosen lake and not have to ride anywhere with him.  This was a wise idea.  Trust me.  The lake was a number of miles away from my business meeting, but it was a lifetime of driving closer than had I ridden there from Texas with Vern at the wheel.  We met up at the appointed place.  I showed up about two hours late thinking Vern would just be arriving about that time, but I was still almost three hours early, so I used the time to watch some noodlers in action.  Oh, boy.

 

The first man was a loner.  He parked his truck a short distance from my car and started taking off his clothes.  He put on some shorts (thank God) and a pair of old tennis shoes, grabbed a coil of rope, and walked down the slope to the water’s edge.  He stepped into the water and began walking along the edge of the bank to an area of overhang.

 

I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but it appeared he was feeling the bank under the water with his feet.  Then he stopped, dived under the water for a long time, and finally came up with a big catfish.  His hand was in the big fish’s mouth with his fingers sticking out of the gills.  And the fish was thrashing hard.  More than once the man disappeared back under the water from fighting the fish, but he kept his hand in that fish’s mouth anyway.  After several minutes he managed to get the rope looped through the gills and mouth and started towing the monster back to where he had entered the water.

 

I watched him haul the fish up onto dry ground and tie the rope to a tree so it couldn’t thrash its way back to the water.  The man walked back to his truck where he picked up his club and knife to do what he had to do to keep the fish.  After he put the cleaned fish into his ice chest, he calmly dressed, then walked over to me with a short piece of rope.

 

“Can you wrap this thing around my left arm just above the elbow?  And pull it real tight.”  I looked at his left arm and saw the snakebites.  Four of them.  “Water moccasins got me again.  Gotta’ go see the doc.”

 

My eyes followed him as he drove away, but I soon turned my attention to a group of four or five men working their way along a bank about two hundred yards away.  I could see the rope one man was hauling behind him and it looked as though they had already been successful.  I watched as one of the men dived under the water and came up with another catfish, but he had some help wrestling it, and soon it was on the rope with the others.

 

When they reached the sloped area where they could exit the water, they dragged their fish up onto the ground and tied them to the same tree the previous man had used.  Then one of them trotted up to the road and disappeared while the others produced a knife and began cleaning the fish.  Later the man who had disappeared returned with a truck and several large ice chests.

 

I took a few minutes to talk with the men about their adventures in noodling.  One man was missing several fingers from a snapping turtle mistake a few years earlier.  And another man had a heavily scarred arm from a beaver.  Apparently snapping turtles and beavers are as much a problem to noodlers as are snakes.  Every one of the men had been bitten more than once by various poisonous snakes.  I was beginning to think I needed to miss my appointment with Vern.  After all, he was running very late, and I could say I had to get back to a meeting.

 

The men left with their catch, and Vern arrived before their dust settled.  I told him about what I had seen, and he just laughed.  “Goes with the territory,” was his only comment about it.  Well, I had committed myself to this, so I was going through with it.

 

We drove to a nearby place that Vern believed held opportunities to noodle a catfish out of its hole in the bank.  We entered the water and worked our way along a bank.  Vern found a hole and had me feel of it with my foot so I would know what to look for in the future (like I was really going to do this in the future).  Then he pushed his foot deep into the hole to determine if there was something in there, and there was.  Just what it was remained an unknown at the moment.  Then Vern dived under the water.

 

I thought for a while Vern wasn’t coming up, but eventually he surfaced with his hand in the mouth of a big catfish.  And the fight was on.  I managed to get the rope looped around the fish’s tail and started dragging it to the shore.  Vern was trying to retrieve his hand, which the catfish had decided to keep as a souvenir of the event.  Ultimately I dragged the fish onto the ground and tied the rope to a nearby tree.

 

First things first, Vern’s hand needed help.  We used a t-shirt to form a wrap around his hand and forearm where the skin was missing and held it on with some masking tape.  Then we cleaned the fish.  We had just finished packing it into Vern’s ice chest when we had a visit from the Department of Game and Fish.  (Or was it Fish and Game?)

 

“You boys just noodling around?”  We answered that was what we were doing.  “Well good, ‘cause if you was fishing, I’d have to check your licenses.”  The warden looked over at Vern’s arm and said, “Looks like you took a nasty fall there.  You might want to go have a doctor look at it.”  With that he got back in his truck and drove away.

 

I actually had a valid fishing license for this state, but I doubt Vern did.  And I hadn’t really thought that noodling might be illegal here.  Most likely the warden thought Vern had already paid a price worthy of a noodler.

2013 Wild Game Feed

The Wild Game Feed in Irvine this year was another success.  There is nothing quite like a bunch of men getting together to drink beer and eat.  There were contests, games, demonstrations, raffles, and just plain fun.  The food was great as always, and the camaraderie of the men was fantastic. 

I set up my shelter and tables with a few chairs, opened some jars of pickled quail eggs I always bring along, and talked with anyone that came by.  Cigars were exchanged, stories were swapped, and I’m quite certain some of the fish tales were not based entirely on reality.  (What is it about fishermen?)

Again, I must congratulate the members of the Annual Wild Game Feed on the superb planning, execution and management of this event.  It works like a well-oiled machine.

Well, the food is gone, the beer kegs are empty, and the cigars are just stubs in the ashtrays.  Now the waiting begins for next year’s Annual Wild Game Feed.  Waiting, waiting, waiting…

Sport

Today I went fishing again with Clark.  Eldorado Park is just a few miles from where we live, and several of the ponds are regularly stocked with trout, bass, and catfish, so it has become a close and quick getaway for us.  The grounds are rather large and accommodate many fisherpersons of all skill levels with ease.  We worked our way around to the far north end of Area III where access is a little more restrictive due to trees and reeds, and this is where I had a small accident.

 

Accidents are the norm with me.  I get my hand stuck in the doors at the malls.  I trip over small pebbles on the sidewalk.  I walk into trees.  Elevator doors, escalators, low tree branches—all are just accidents with my name on them.  And I absolutely fear steps and curbs.  You get the idea.  I wear trifocals after having had cataract surgery, and I just don’t notice the things that are about to bite me.  But sometimes the accidents aren’t completely my fault, although the one today was mostly my fault.  The rest of the blame goes to that big bass.

 

It was a simple thing, really.  I tossed a plastic worm through the reeds about ten feet into the water, and at the count of ‘one’ a big bass hit it.  The problem was that I was standing on a steep slippery slope and the bass just surprised me enough that I moved my feet the wrong way.  Down I went towards, and eventually into, the water.  As I fell I grabbed at a tree and left a few square inches of skin behind.  Then the bass broke the line and got away.  I’ve had worse, and I’m just fine.  But given a choice of keeping my skin or the bass, I’ll take the bass.  The skin grows back in a couple of weeks.

 

This reminded me of the number of times I’ve been told that fishing isn’t really a sport.  Football, baseball, hockey, soccer, etc., are sports; fishing is just for people without a life.  Growing up in Texas, there were those who rode horses and bulls, those who played football, those who played in a band, and those who fished.  (I would have included those who drink beer, but that category transcends all other categories.)  On the whole, the categories got along with each other, but occasionally there was an individual whose idea of a sport was very narrow.

 

I had a neighbor with a narrow mind.  In fact his forehead was only about three inches wide, and as one followed the length of his long nose downward, one could easily see that his mouth was his biggest feature.  He reminded me of a triangle with the point at the top.  He believed fishing could not possibly be a sport since one had no possibility of injury.  He did, however, believe being in a band was a sport since he personally witnessed the local high school band members whipping the football team in a Saturday afternoon game.

 

One day I had enough, and I challenged him to a weekend of combat fishing.  In exchange I would subject myself to his sport—Saturday afternoon football at the local park.  Strangely enough he agreed to this.  His only stipulation was that I had to provide my own football team to play against his.  Okay, I know about seven or eight guys who would be glad to join me, fishermen every one.

 

I picked up Willie at about five a.m. the next Saturday morning and drove him to my grandparent’s lake house where we launched one of the boats and motored over to a fishing hole.  I knew the fishing here would be good, and I knew Willie would have fun catching a few fish in spite of his idea that fishing was not a sport.  What I didn’t tell him about was long-sleeved shirts, sunscreen, bug repellant, lunch, water, a hat, and the fact that I don’t stop fishing until dark.

 

About two in the afternoon Willie was almost in tears, and I was almost feeling sorry for him, but not quite.  I do give him credit for not whining or complaining about his situation; however, I wanted him to understand that fishing is not something to make light of.  It is a sport, and it can be a tough sport.  As the sun began to settle in the west, I turned the boat back to the landing.

 

I was actually afraid I might have overdone it a bit when I discovered Willie was too stiff to get out of the boat without help.  And any help involved touching his sun-scorched skin.  For about half and hour I eased him around until the feeling returned to his legs, and finally he could step over the boat rail and climb up to the dock under his own power.  Then he discovered we still had to clean the boat and put it away right after we cleaned the fish and put them away. 

 

On the way home that night I stopped at a local burger joint to get the poor guy something to eat.  Very slowly Willie worked his way into the restaurant and into a booth where he sat staring into the distance.  When the waitress came by for our order, Willie didn’t even notice her, so I ordered for him.  When the food came, he methodically ate the burger and fries, and downed the soda without ever changing his stare into the unknown void.  When he finished, I directed him back into the car and took him home.

 

I didn’t see or hear from Willie for several weeks after that trip, but eventually he recovered, because he came over to remind me about the football game.  I invited him in and we had a talk about ‘sport.’  I didn’t convert him into a fisherman, but he was willing to concede the category of fishing did belong with horse and bull riding, football, and band.  He told me the only other time he had ever hurt so much was after the football game when the band members outscored the football team by some thirty-five points.  Anything that could cause such pain must be a sport.

 

We arranged for the football game to take place at the Peewee league field at the local park in two weeks.  It was a shorter field than regulation, but it was free to use just for requesting a reservation.  When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was about a dozen guys in helmets and pads.  But I wasn’t worried.  I brought along ten band members.

Old Badgers

In my young adult days I was standing in the right place at the right time to get a promotion at the company where I worked.  It wasn’t just any promotion, it was a big promotion.  I jumped from a local department manager to a national corporate manager by being in the physical line of sight of one of the big wigs in the company when he decided he needed some help.  I had no idea of what I was getting in to, but I was able to keep the position for almost seven years before seeking another life.

 

Due to the position, I was expected to be in each of four offices around the country at least twice every three weeks, and the rest of the time I spent on the road (or in the sky) among more than seventy territorial offices, and whenever I could spare the time, I was to visit the individual company stores.  Since I was almost completely in control of my own schedule, I was able to take “down time” just about anywhere I wished, and I used my “down time” in the best hunting and fishing areas I could find.

 

Hunting was never at the top of my list of things to do, but I did hunt a few times each year.  The basic problem was that hunting usually took more than a day to accomplish, and it almost always required “tags” to hunt what I wanted to hunt.  More often than not, I wasn’t successful when the drawings occurred, but luck was there from time to time.

 

One year I drew a deer tag for Colorado, but I missed out on the elk tag.  Oh well.  I took some of my down time in southwest Colorado in the rough Uncompahgre National Forest area and started my hunt.  I hiked about six or so miles from the campground into the wilderness where I came upon an old barbed-wire fence (in Texas we would call it bob-war).  It was mid-morning and warm so I sat down and leaned back on one of the fence posts to look out across the large mountain meadow in front of me.  I guess I was tired and fell asleep, because the next thing I knew a foot was nudging me in the side.

 

The game warden said he was just testing to see if I was alive.  Apparently I gave him some cause for concern.  He checked my rifle to see if it was loaded, chambered, safety on or off, etc., and I passed the exam since I was still carrying the rounds in my pocket instead of the rifle.  Then he asked if he could sit down and have some lunch with me.  That got my attention.  I checked my watch and realized I had been asleep at least three hours.  We had lunch.

 

Just as we were finishing up, I noticed a movement at the far end of the meadow and motioned to the warden to take a look.  Neither of us could see it clearly due to some shadows, but he encouraged me to load up and use the scope on the rifle.  I did, but it wasn’t a deer.  Instead it was an eight by eight elk.  It was beautiful, but I didn’t have the right tag, and I was sitting beside a game warden.  I handed the rifle to him to look at it, and he sat there looking at it no more than four seconds before he pulled the trigger.

 

I didn’t quite know what to do.  He handed me back the rifle and thanked me for the opportunity to harvest such a trophy.  We found the elk within twenty feet of the impact point, and it was just plain big.  The warden had some kind of a portable two-way communication radio with him, and he used it to call for help.  About forty-five minutes later, another warden with a 4 x 4 pickup arrived, and we winched the elk into the bed.  It was about that time I realized these wardens had done this before.  Now I was thinking I had better disappear before someone decides I shot the elk.  But before I had a chance to run, they drove away leaving me to my own fate.

 

Not all down times were as exciting, and few were more than just a day or so visiting the great open cathedral we call nature, but another instance comes to mind where I took a day to go fishing.

 

I was at one of our stores in Minnesota, and the store manager asked if I would like to go fishing.  The store sold licenses, so I was ready in less than an hour.  We traveled to a nearby body of water that covered maybe ten to twelve acres, and there we threw our lines in the water.  He was a fly fisherman, and I was a wannabe, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask for lessons.  Instead I used the spinning gear I always packed for my travels.  I don’t know if there were any fish in that pond, or just why we chose it in the first place, but it wasn’t work, and you know what they say about the “worst day fishing…”

 

We had been there about twenty minutes or so when we heard a racket just to the north of us.  Looking over that direction, I spotted the first badger I had ever seen outside of a picture book, zoo, or taxidermy shop.  It was actually fun to look at until I realized it was mad at me.  Apparently I had invaded its territory.

 

Reggie the store manager said that these things usually won’t try to out run us, and if we just move away it will settle down and leave us alone.  So we moved about fifty yards or so to the south.  About ten or fifteen minutes later the hissing and racket returned.  We looked up to see the badger had not given up on us.  So we moved further south and around the westward turn of the pond.  This time we were about one hundred or more yards from the critter.

 

One hundred yards wasn’t enough.  The old badger was relentless, so we moved on, this time circling around to the northwest corner of the water, where we were left in peace for about an hour.  But the peace was again disturbed, and we circled back to where we started.  When we heard the hissing again, we decided it was time to leave.  At this point one would think the badger would give up, but one would think incorrectly.

 

Reggie and I returned to the store, where we discussed business for a few hours, and then we walked over to a restaurant for dinner.  We returned to the store for another hour or two of discussions before he started to take me to my hotel for the night.  When we walked out to his car, the two rear tires were flat.  He called the car club he was a member of and soon a tow truck was there to do some tire repair.  When the first tire was pulled off, the repairman commented that we must have hit something hard to knock such a piece of the tire off.  The second tire had the same problem, but this time, caught in the cracked edges of the ruined tire was a large tuft of badger hair.

 

I had a good laugh over this, but Reggie did not.  At least not until I had him put two new tires on my expense account.  I figure that the work accomplished after the few hours of fishing was far more than if we had worked the entire day, therefore, the new tires could be justified by the time savings.  Well, that’s what I told Reggie.  When I got back to my main office in Chicago a few days later, I wrote a check to cover the tires.

 

My boss didn’t understand.  All he could comprehend was that I had used the expense account to cover personal expenses.  He backed off some when he found out I had already written the check to reimburse the company, but he didn’t let it go.  As the months went by, he would still remind me about it from time to time.

 

Almost two years later I found myself back at Reggie’s store and of course we went fishing.  Needless to say we went back to the same pond, but this time we caught a few fish, and we heard no hissing.  We laughed and joked about the badger the entire time we were there until we decided to go back to the store.  When we got to the car, the two rear tires were flat, and crawling off into the brush was the butt of our jokes from the last few hours.

 

I guess some old badgers just can’t take a joke.

Marfa

Somewhere around sunset I was having dinner at a small café in Marfa, Texas when an old cowboy came in with a bottle of his favorite beverage in a brown paper bag.  The older lady who had waited on me immediately grabbed a big wooden bean masher and informed him in rapid fire Spanish he was leaving right now if not sooner.  With that she snatched the bag from his hands and threw it out the front door toward the street, and then marched the man out the door with the bean masher held up in a very threatening manner.  This is how I met Carolina Borunda Humphries.

 

My cousin’s family had a ranch in west Texas where he and I spent a little time hunting for dove, deer and, at one time, a mountain lion.  It wasn’t too far (maybe 30 miles) from the small town of Marfa where one of the best cafés on this earth stood for most of the 20^th century—The Old Borunda.

 

I don’t know just how accurate this is, but I have read somewhere the cafe was started in 1887 by Tula Borunda Gutierrez and in about 1908 it was rented to Carolina Borunda a sister-in-law.  In 1938 the café was passed on to Carolina Borunda Humphries, the daughter of Carolina Borunda.  And in her hands it thrived until 1985 when a family illness forced the doors to close.  When those doors closed, an era ended, but Tex-Mex is alive and well because of this small café.  Many Tex-Mex historians point directly to this establishment as the point of origin for this gastronomical phenomenon.

 

The town of Marfa lives on today to a certain extent because of James Dean and the movie “Giant” filmed in part near the town.  Many of the Hollywood stars of the day stayed at the Hotel Paisano, and that was my hotel of choice also, but not because of the stars, it was because of room availability the first time I was in town.  There were other places to stay, but the Paisano was the only one with a vacancy the first time I was there.  They gave me the “James Dean” room.  Okay, it was just a room, but apparently James Dean slept there.  So did I, so why didn’t they rename it the “David Lloyd” room?  I need to talk to them about that.

 

Marfa is known for another happening.  It’s called “the Marfa lights.”  Who knows what they are, but they are the subjects of endless speculation.  These same blueish lights could be seen at my cousin’s ranch, or so he said.  I never saw them.

 

Many times I’ve thought back on the four times I ate at the Old Borunda.  I believe it was truly the center of the Tex-Mex universe when Carolina Humphries was the owner/cook, and maybe that’s what the lights are about.  Maybe some space aliens are out there searching for a great stacked enchilada with a fried egg on top.  I know I’ve never had a better one anywhere.

 

I won’t even try to copy her version of the enchilada.  Others such as Robb Walsh have done a wonderful job of keeping Carolina’s legacy alive, and I could do it no justice.  Therefore, here is my recipe for Sour Cream Chicken Enchiladas.  These enchiladas were a favorite of mine before visiting the Old Borunda.

 

Sour Cream Chicken Enchiladas

Makes 6 servings, or 4 large servings, or maybe 2 really large servings.  One?

4 Anaheim chiles

3 jalapeno chiles

4 medium tomatillos

1 tablespoon vegetable oil, or more as needed

1 large yellow onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 teaspoons all purpose flour

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 (14 1/2-ounce) can low-sodium chicken broth

1 cup tightly packed cilantro leaves

8 ounces sour cream

2 large boneless skinless chicken breast halves, cooked, cooled, and shredded

1 medium yellow onion, chopped

12 (6-inch) flour or corn tortillas

1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese

1 cup shredded Longhorn or Colby cheese             

 

Under a broiler or over a gas flame, roast the chiles until blackened and blistered, turning every few minutes.  Place in a tight sealing plastic bag and let stand 15 to 20 minutes.  When cool enough to handle, peel off the blackened skins and discard.  Remove the seeds and stems and discard.  Chop the remaining chiles.  Should measure just under 3/4 cup.  Husk, rinse and chop the tomatillos and add to the chiles.

 

Heat the oil in a skillet over a medium-high flame and add the onion to the pan.  Cook about 5 minutes, stirring frequently.  Add the garlic and continue to cook about 1 additional minute.  Sprinkle with the flour, and stir for about 1 minute.  Add the chiles, tomatillos, cumin, coriander, salt, and chicken broth.  Bring to a simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring frequently.  Remove from heat and allow to cool at least one hour, and three is preferable.

 

When cool, puree until smooth.  Use batches if necessary.  Remove 3 cups of the mixture to a bowl and set aside.  To the blender add the cilantro and the sour cream and puree to make the sour cream sauce.  Set aside.

 

To the 3 reserved cups of puree, add the shredded chicken, and chopped medium onion, and mix well.

 

Preheat oven to 350F.

 

Wrap the tortillas in a damp cloth and heat in a microwave until soft. Pour about 1/3 cup of the sour cream mixture into a 9x13 inch baking dish and spread to coat the bottom. Place 3 tablespoonfuls of the chicken mixture in each tortilla, roll up and place seam side down in the baking dish. Pour remaining sour cream mixture over all and top with shredded cheeses.

 

Cover dish tightly with aluminum foil and bake at 350F for about 1/2 hour.  Serve hot and bubbling.

 

It doesn’t hurt to have a James Dean movie playing on the television.

 

I know I’ve said many times that everything is better with a couple of big cheese enchiladas.  This may be one of the few exceptions, but I’m not willing to find out.

Mountain Lion

There are times when luck works for you, and there are times when it doesn’t.  Sometimes two persons will split the good and bad luck with one hogging the all the good stuff and the other taking the leftovers.  But I think there is just as much of one as the other.  And for me the bad always follows the good.

When I was returning from a very successful fishing trip in Pennsylvania I realized I left my ice chest full of fish at the motel near Harrisburg.  The problem was that I was in Oklahoma when I realized it.  And there had been business stops in Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Missouri.  I was some eight days down the road.  I turned around and drove straight through to the motel.

I arrived to find my ice chest waiting for me.  I thanked the managers for saving it for me, paid the storage fee, and drove a few blocks away where I found a trash bin.  I opened the lid to throw out the well-spoiled fish and heard a growl that I didn’t like hearing.  I abandoned the ice chest and ran back to my car to escape the bear emerging from the bin.  I drove away, and I didn’t look back.  Forgetting that ice chest at the motel cost me a lot of time and travel money, and I had nothing to show for it.  But at least I had enjoyed a great fishing trip.

Georgia has some great bass fishing water, and I took a couple of days to rent a boat and do some serious fishing on the Georgia side of Lake Hartwell northeast of Atlanta.  I had a great time, and in addition to returning more than sixty fish to the water, I caught the biggest bass of my fishing career.  My hand scales showed it to be a little over nine pounds.  Just after taking a picture of it, I dropped my camera overboard.  I kept fishing and catching, but I was really trying to hook my camera, although I knew that it was ruined even if by some miracle I did retrieve it.  It was only a small amount of bad luck after the good luck of catching the big bass, but I was catching a lot of fish; therefore, something really bad was going to happen.  It did.

Returning to the boat rental company’s dock, I hit a submerged stump or rock or something, and down went the boat.  It didn’t sink, but that was only because of the floatation tanks in the bow and under the seats, but the motor was submerged.  Another boater rescued me and towed the submerged boat back to the dock.  That cost me a fifty.  Then I had to pay for the boat and motor.  Good luck/bad luck.

My cousin Vern was “unique” in my family.  Not that the entire family wasn’t “unique,” but Vern was possibly the most “unique.”  I didn’t see Vern very often, but this wasn’t a bad thing.  Whenever I did see him, I knew something was about to go very wrong. 

Vern’s portion of the family either owned or leased a ranch in southwest Texas, and they raised some cattle and had a small herd of sheep there.  It was a big place, and he and I had done a bit of hunting there for deer from time to time.  Now he was having some problems with a mountain lion taking about two sheep per week.  And so he came looking for me.  Vern was an experienced hunter, but a mountain lion was a bit daunting for him.  He decided that two daunted hunters would be better than one.

Neither of us knew much about the habits of the big cat, so we headed to the library to do some research.  In our quest for knowledge, we discovered many things, but the most important thing we came across was the bounty being paid for the skin, and we could keep the skin after it was marked and registered.  My first thought was about covering the cost of the trip.  Vern’s first thought was about beer.

We met at his ranch on a Friday evening and studied a map showing where the sheep kills were occurring.  We thought we could determine the approximate location of the next kill, and hopefully be close enough to it to take the lion.  Early Saturday morning we drove out to the location where we thought we could succeed at our task and took a long look around.

We glassed the range for four or five hours before driving back to the ranch house.  We knew we were up against a formidable opponent on his home ground.  But we were hopeful.  We took a long nap, and waited for the sun to move low in the western sky.

About eight in the evening we were back in the cat’s territory waiting for the moon to make it’s appearance.  But we were going to have a long wait.  The stars disappeared one by one as the clouds moved in and soon the rain began.  We got out of there in a hurry.  I can’t blame this on bad luck, because it hadn’t been preceded by good luck.  I can blame ourselves for not getting a weather report before starting the hunt.  We could try again next weekend.

I needed to spend a few days in New Mexico and Arizona on business and couldn’t return until the following Sunday, but I arranged to take up to four days vacation at the ranch and hunt for the mountain lion.  Vern, to his credit, didn’t go off bull riding or noodling, and he was there when I returned to the hunt.

This time the moon was just a couple of days past full, and we had plenty of light under the clear skies.  We walked the trails and roads on the property until about one in the morning, and then stopped to take a break.  We had just sat down when we heard the bells on the sheep start ringing, and we knew the cat was on the move.  We slipped into the shadows as much as we could and walked toward the disturbance.  Suddenly Vern started punching my shoulder and pointing into the distance.

Sometimes luck is in abundance.  The wind was slight, but it was blowing straight at us from the direction of the lion.  And lined up somewhat behind us was the moon.  Very gently I brought the hammer back to full cock on the .30-30 and lifted it up to peer down the iron sights.  I squeezed the trigger, and the cat tumbled end over end and never moved again.

Vern stood there with his mouth open for about as long as I did.  Then we decided we had better get it back to the ranch house.  But was it really dead?  Neither of us wanted to get very close to it to find out, so we threw a few rocks at it, but it just lay there.  After about half an hour Vern went back after the truck, leaving me to get eaten if it suddenly came back to life.  I chambered another round.

Vern drove up to the cat and rolled his window down just enough to push a fishing pole through and poke the cat a few times.  It still didn’t move, so I summoned enough courage to walk up to it—rifle ready, of course.  A few feet away I could see there was no need to worry.  The exit wound had come up through the spine a few inches behind the head.  We tossed the cat into the back of the truck and drove back to the ranch house.

There was not much sleep allowed on this night.  Neither of us went to bed nor did we want to do so.  We sat up in the kitchen with a pot of coffee, but a couple of times I think we dozed off while talking about our adventure.  After the sun was an hour or so old the next morning, we took a look at our prize.  It was an old battle-worn male with broken teeth.  It had probably turned to sheep killing out of convenience when it became too difficult to hunt deer.  The sheep dogs didn’t pose much of a problem, and if one got too close, it could become a meal.

We were puzzled about the path of the bullet from the .30-30.  The exit wound was obvious, but it wasn’t until we skinned it that we found the entry point.  When I squeezed off the shot, its tail was lifted, and I couldn’t have shot more dead center with a target rifle in a tournament.  We bundled up the skin and drove about 30 miles to the nearest town where we could collect our bounty. 

“Boys, you’re out of luck.”  The game warden had checked over our licenses and identification.  “Last Monday we got us a new law.  You cain’t shoot these critters anymore.  They’re endangered.”

I knew the good luck we had in taking this cat would be punished.  The warden cited us for waiting too long to turn in the cat we had taken “last week.”  Maybe that was good luck.  It could have been a lot worse.

The interesting thing is that neither Vern nor I ever questioned this “new law.”  It was about three or four years later I discovered that in Texas the mountain lion (a.k.a. puma, cougar, painter, big kitty, etc.) was never considered endangered, and there was no law preventing us from killing it.  This can’t be classified as either good or bad luck, so I file it under the heading of “Screwed.”

Croissant

Today I read about the Croger.  It’s a cheeseburger stuffed into a croissant instead of a hamburger bun.  Recently I’ve also been reading about the marriage of a croissant and a donut known as a Cronut or a Dossant or a Doissant.  What’s going on here?  Is the croissant becoming the new food palate where we can just recycle old ideas by combining it with another old idea?

 

I like croissants.  A good quality jam and a cup of coffee make the croissant a perfect simple breakfast.  Fill it with some chocolate and it becomes almost a dessert.  But apparently that isn’t enough for some people, so I started thinking what I could do with the croissant.

 

Crofu—Croissant stuffed with tofu.

Chicken and Croissants—Croclucks.  Forget the waffle, have a croissant instead.

Croissants and Baby Back Ribs—Croink.  Why not?

Croissants and Weiners—Crodogs.  Just fill the croissant like a hot dog.

Macaroni and Croissants—Cromacs stuffed with mac and cheese.

Fish and Croissants—Crofin.  Toss the chips aside.

Crocos?  Stuff the croissant with taco fillings.

 

You get the idea.  I could make this a list several pages long of stupid ideas I would never try to eat (although I am thinking about the Crodog).  It seems the food world is desperate to come up with new or original ideas.  Has the world grown tired of eating the millions of good and great recipe ideas we already have?  If so, why are so many of us overweight?  Could it be because we don’t want quality?

 

Variations of a good idea are a good thing but are not always successful.  Granted, sometimes a new idea is born of old ideas, and sometimes they are quite good (think Buffalo wings), but usually they are just okay at best.  To me the idea of using the croissant to build upon has some merit, but I still like a simple croissant with some quality jam and a cup of coffee.

 

Since I’m on this subject, what’s with all the fried things at fairs?  Deep fried Snickers, deep fried butter, deep fried mac and cheese, deep fried anything.  While we are at it, why don’t we just deep fry beer?  Oh wait—it’s been done.

 

I guess I’m bored with fad foods.  What ever happened to just good old food?  Maybe I missed the memo.

A Pancake By Any Other Name…

My dad called them pancakes.  His dad called them flapjacks, and his mom called them hoecakes.  My mom called them griddlecakes.  Her dad called them johnnycakes, and her mom called them skillet cakes.  I called them breakfast.

In the mid ‘sixties I discovered a restaurant devoted to pancakes.  I sampled my way through the menu over the course of many weeks, and I came to the conclusion that some pancakes are better than others.  Not just at that restaurant, but anywhere I had a pancake.  What is so difficult about making a pancake? I decided to find out.

The first batch of pancakes I ever made was from the memory of watching my grandmothers making them.  Did I ever have a lapse of memory!  I couldn’t call them pancakes, but I did have another name for them.  Into the trash they went.  My next batch was from a box with the picture of someone’s aunt on it.  It was much better, but my pancake cooking skills needed developing, so I began to make a lot of box mix pancakes.  Finally I reached a place of being comfortable with the cooking process.  Now I needed a good recipe.

I tried to make pancakes the way my grandmother’s did, but I just couldn’t get it right.  I had watched them for years, and I knew I had the right ingredients and about the right proportions, but something wasn’t right.  I asked my grandmothers about this and even made pancakes right beside them, but theirs were good, and mine were not good.  Mine looked as good as theirs, but the taste was completely different.  They both said they made pancakes by ‘feel.’

I’ve heard this many times by seasoned cooks.  A recipe is just a guideline, after that it’s intuition.  After all these many years of cooking, I finally understand.  And I’ve developed several kinds of pancakes I really like.  One of my favorites is a cornmeal pancake.

Cornmeal Pancakes

Serves 6.

2 cups all purpose flour                                       

1/2 cup yellow cornmeal                                        

1/2 cup blue cornmeal                                           

1 1/2 tablespoons sugar                                        

2 tablespoons baking powder                                    

1 1/4 teaspoons salt                                           

3 large eggs                                                    

2 teaspoons Home Made Pecan Flavoring*                          

2 cups milk                                                    

3 tablespoons melted and cooled butter                         

3 tablespoons corn or canola oil                                       

In a large bowl, combine the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder and salt. In another bowl, whisk the eggs, Home Made Pecan Flavoring, milk butter and oil; stir into dry ingredients just until moistened.

Pour batter by 1/4 cupfuls onto a lightly greased hot griddle. Turn the pancakes over when bubbles form on top, and cook until the second side is golden brown.

I serve these with butter only or butter and jam.  Occasionally honey or molasses finds its way onto the pancakes, but never syrup.

*Home Made Pecan Flavoring:  Fill a jar with pecan halves or pieces.  Cover with inexpensive vodka.  Tighten the lid on the jar and set aside in a cool dark place for about 6 months.  Shake the jar from time to time.  Strain through several layers of cheesecloth into a clean jar and allow to settle for a few days.  Strain again being careful not to disturb the sediments.  It's ready to use.  Do not try to use the pecans for anything else.  Just toss them.  They’ve done their job.

I’ve tried this pancake recipe with vanilla extract, pecan-butter flavoring, and no flavoring at all.  There is no substitute for the Home Made Pecan Flavoring.

I Dare You

There are a few things a person can say to me that will cause me to lose all rationality.  One of those things is “I dare you.”  Another is “I double-dog dare you.”  Probably the number one thing on the list is “that snake is about to bite you.”  But that one is a story of its own.

 

In the late ‘sixties an acquaintance of mine had heard that I liked to do things outdoors.  He heard correctly.  I enjoyed fishing, hiking, hunting, canoeing, etc.  I didn’t enjoy baseball, skiing, football, golf, etc.  It seemed that Hank was a lot like me, if it connected with nature, it needed exploring.

 

Hank and I decided we needed to talk about this obsession of ours in a fishing boat.  We drove out to my grandparent’s lake home and launched one of the boats and motored over to the tulles where bass were known to hide.  Unfortunately we had a third party in the boat with us—my Uncle Sam.  I’m just glad Hank turned out to be blessed with an abundance of patience.

 

Sam was the first and last word on everything fishing.  Come to think of it, he was every word in between also.  Sam knew that I could fish, so he devoted his time to teaching Hank how to fish.  And Hank went along with it.  But the reality is that Hank caught a lot of fish that day just because he listened to Sam.

 

On the way home that evening Hank commented that I was very lucky to have a fishing partner like Sam.  It was the one thing he longed for but could never come up with.  I said I’d be more than willing to go fishing with him anytime.  This was the start of four years of adventure.

 

Hank was one of the fortunate few with absolute financial stability.  He worked, but not for a living.  He just wanted to be part of “normal” society.  So it was that anytime I could spare to go fishing, Hank was usually available.  But Hank wanted to do more than go fishing.  His draw to the outdoors was as big as mine, but with a small twist.  On one fishing trip Hank mentioned we should try mountain climbing.  Mountain climbing??  What did this have to do with fishing?  I told him that I just couldn’t see any reason to climb a mountain unless there’s a fish at the top.

 

“Where’s your sense of adventure, David?  I think it will be fun.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Oh, come on.  I dare you.”

 

That did it.  No one dares David without seeing David go into action.  “Okay, I’ll do it but let’s place some money on who will chicken out first.”

 

“Ten bucks.”

 

“Done.”

 

Three or four weeks later we were enrolled in a climbing school in Colorado.  My job prevented me from pursuing the education full time, but over a period of several months, I completed the two-week course.  Hank, naturally, completed it in two weeks.  Then we started looking for something to climb.

 

We found a few low cliffs along the riverbanks, and we even rappelled down the side of a building in downtown Fort Worth.  We sought out anything we could go up or down on, but the first real climb for us was near Farmington, New Mexico.  Shiprock had been a climbing destination for some fifty years, but only thirty years earlier it had been climbed the first time by a team of Sierra Club members.  We gathered together a team of very experienced climbers to join us on this ascent, and each and every one of them tried to talk us out of it.

 

“It’s too difficult for novice climbers.”  We must have heard this fifty times, but no one refused to go with us.  So we did it.  I look back on that ascent and subsequent decent and think to myself, “That was one of the dumbest things I ever did.”  But Hank and I made it just fine, and we liked to think we pulled our own weight the entire time.  The following year (1970) Shiprock was closed to all climbers by the Navajo Nation.  I don’t know for certain, but we may well have been the last group to legally make the climb.

 

Since neither Hank nor I backed down from the climb, we had to find another way to settle the wager.  I challenged Hank to a climb up Yosemite’s El Capitan.  Near the foot of this edifice was a campground where for several years some of the best climbers around would gather to work out new routes to the top.  We joined them and soon we were making a two-day climb with a sleepover about half way up.  That climb made Shiprock seem like a stroll in the meadow.  Well, I’m writing about it, so I must have made it to the top.

 

Hank and I moved on to other challenges.  We spent some time learning to Scuba dive.  White water kayaking became first and foremost for a while.  We did some hunting, and of course we did some fishing.  Then came the challenge to skydive.

 

The lessons were pretty basic.  We had to learn to pack our own parachute.  We had to practice jumping off an eight-foot platform and rolling when we hit the ground.  I really don’t remember much else.  I’m sure there were more instructions, but for years I’ve tried to push this entire memory out of my mind.

 

Then it came time for the first of the three jumps we were to take.  The plane took off and in a few minutes had reached the altitude for first time jumpers.  We hooked our static lines to a bar near the doorless opening in the side of the plane, and when he got the signal, Hank jumped.

 

I stepped into the door and froze.  I wasn’t going out of the plane for any amount of money.  I planted one hand and one foot on each side of the opening, and when the signal came to jump, I didn’t.  The jump captain began to push me, but I was well planted and determined to stay on board.  Then the pilot turned the plane on its side and shook it like a can of spray paint until I fell out.

 

I fell for a lifetime, and then the parachute opened.  I continued to fall, just a bit slower now.  I watched the ground get closer and closer, and when I hit, I dropped and rolled just like the instructor had taught me to do.  I unbuckled the parachute, gathered it into a bundle, and climbed onto the waiting jeep where Hank was sitting and watching the show.

 

“Man, I can’t wait for my second jump.”

 

I grabbed my wallet and pulled a twenty from it and handed it to Hank.  “Here’s ten for the bet, and ten more to keep you from making any more challenges.”

 

Yes, I lost the bet.  If that company is still in business, I have two jumps coming, but something tells me I’ll never take them.  I enjoyed the other challenges and would probably still be doing them with Hank, but a few days after he took his final jump, he died from a brain aneurysm.

45th Annual Wild Game Feed

New Post on July 8, 2019.  51st Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 30, 2018.  50th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 23, 2017.  49th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 1, 2016.  48th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 27, 2015.  47th Annual Wild Game Feed.

Everyone!  On May 26, 2014, I posted something about the 46th Annual Wild Game Feed.  Take a look.

Thanks,
David

The 2013 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake is on its way!!  My ticket order form has arrived, and it’s already filled out, stuffed in an envelope, stamped, and in the mail.  This year I plan to show up early, stay late, and have a truckload of fun—just like I do every year.

While I don’t live just for the Wild Game Feed, I do start looking forward to it about 364 days in advance.  It’s held on the third Friday of September each year (this year it is September 20, 2013), and by the second Friday of September each year, I’ve already loaded the car with the things I plan to bring (shelter, big mug, chairs, etc.).  Chances are the night before The Feed, I’ll just nap if I sleep at all.

Over the years I’ve developed many WGF friends.  I don’t know the names of many of them, but I know their faces, and we will re-bond for another day.  The one thing that stands out to me is the camaraderie of these men (sorry ladies, this is a stag event).  Every type and background of man is represented in the attendance, but we are just a band of brothers.  A big band of brothers.  Some 1200 or more brothers.  And on the day of the feed, we are all equal.  I like this.  On this day we will eat, drink, smoke cigars, play games, share stories, and make plans to meet again next year.

The Annual Wild Game Feed is more than just an outing or a gathering of men.  It is also a fundraiser for charities.  Many dollars are raised each year to support a number of major and minor organizations providing help for others, and for this reason alone I support the WGF.  The rest is just bonus.

Tickets are limited and invitations are many.  Don’t hesitate or they may be sold out.

A Bowl of Green

Long ago I came to the conclusion that chili is more divisive than politics or barbeque.  When I developed my East Texas Chili (see Chili for One) in the mid-seventies, I managed to alienate virtually all of my Texas friends, but over time, I made a lot of new friends because of my chili.

 

After writing “Chili for One”, my email was rather busy for a long while.  Finally I wrote “Chili Controversy” to make my point of view quite clear, but all I managed to do was receive more emails on the subject.  I began to categorize the emails and quickly discovered the split was in two major areas with each area again divided into two groups.

 

The first division was those who agreed with me and those who did not agree with me.  The split was about 72% in agreement and 26% not in agreement.  The remaining 2% just complained because I didn’t use things such as tofu or shrimp.  The next split was in each category and was centered around whether or not they had made my chili.  In the non-agreement group, 14% had made a batch of East Texas Chili and liked it, and no one had disliked it.  The remaining 86% had not made it and would never make it.  Okay.

 

The group that had agreed with me had about 20% who had made the recipe, but only about 11% completely followed the recipe.  The other 9% had no problems with altering the ingredients to fit their individual tastes.  Hey, isn’t that what a recipe is about anyway?  The 80% who had not made the recipe were generally planning to make it in the near future.  Only a small number said they probably would not make it, but that they wanted to support my point of view.

 

Now the beans are about to fly again.  While in El Paso one fall, I was treated to a “bring what you got” chili party.  This was quite interesting.  Every one of the 40 or 50 people who attended brought a few ingredients to add to the pot, and the end result was enough chili to feed about 200.  But it wasn’t a red chili.  It was a green chili.  Not one person thought to bring beef, tomatoes, chili powder, or anything else red.  And I think this again proves my point that a “true Texas chili” is different in every part of the state.

 

After returning to my home in Fort Worth, I began a two-year trial and error green chili recipe development.  I tried to recreate the uniqueness of the El Paso “bring what you got” chili, and I think I came close. 

West Texas Chili

Serves about 30.

    1 pound thick-sliced center-cut smoked bacon, sliced crosswise into 1/2-inch strips    

    3 racks meaty pork loin back ribs, membrane removed, individually sliced
    2 pounds boneless pork shoulder, trimmed and cut into 1-inch cubes
    2 pounds boneless skinless chicken thighs, cut into 1/2-inch slices
    2 pounds smoked pork sausages, cut into 1/3-inch slices              
    2 pounds ground veal or pork                                         
    Olive oil as needed                                            
    2 large yellow onions, chopped                                 
    1 head garlic, peeled and finely chopped                       
    2 ancho chiles, seeded and cut into long very thin strips (no wider than 1/16-inch)      
    1 tablespoon Mexican dried oregano                                       
    1 tablespoon Kosher salt                                        
    Freshly ground black pepper, to taste                          
    2 tablespoons toasted cumin seeds, coarsely ground               
    2 quarts vegetable broth, not low-sodium                                      
    3 quarts chicken broth, not low-sodium                                        
    10 fresh poblano chiles, seeded and chopped                    
    6 fresh Anaheim chiles, seeded and chopped                     
    5 fresh jalapeno chiles, seeded and chopped                     
    3 yellow or green bell peppers, seeded and chopped            
    4 pounds fresh tomatillos, husked and coarsely chopped         
    1 bunch cilantro leaves, coarsely chopped (reserve stems for another use)                      
    2 (15-ounce) cans garbanzo beans, drained                       
    1 (1-pound) bag frozen roasted corn kernels
    1 tablespoon dried basil leaves, crumbled
    1/3 cup toasted corn flour (not masa harina)
    Zest and juice of 2 large limes

 

In a large skillet, cook the bacon over medium-high heat until almost crisp.  Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon into a large stockpot.  Place 1/2 of the ribs into the skillet and sear on all sides, about 6 to 7 minutes total.  Remove to the stockpot with the bacon and repeat with the remaining ribs.  When the ribs are completed, add the pork shoulder cubes to the skillet and sear on all sides.  Remove to the stockpot.  Repeat with the chicken and sausage.  Adjust the oil in the skillet to about 1 tablespoon then add the veal and brown, crumbling with the back of a spoon.  When brown add to the stockpot.

 

Adjust the oil again to 1 tablespoon and add the chopped onion.  Saute for 2 minutes and add the garlic.  Saute 2 minutes more, stirring often.  Remove to the stockpot.  Add the ancho chile strips, oregano, salt, pepper, cumin, vegetable broth, and 2 quarts of the chicken broth to the stockpot.  Bring to a simmer, uncovered for 45 minutes.  Add the remaining chicken broth, fresh chiles, and bell pepper, and simmer, covered, 30 minutes more.

 

Toast the corn flour by spreading on a baking sheet and placing in a 350F oven for about 5 minutes or until fragrant.  Remove from the oven and allow it to cool to room temperature.

 

In a blender puree the tomatillos and cilantro leaves.  Add to the stockpot, along with the garbanzo beans, frozen corn kernels, and toasted corn flour; loosely cover and simmer 45 minutes more.  Add the lime juice and zest, stir and serve with plenty of napkins.

 

Serve with your choices of cornbread, flour tortillas, grated Mexican Manchego cheese, lime wedges, cilantro, fresh sliced chiles, chopped red onion, green salsa, fresh corn tamales, etc.

 

Note:  A large can of drained and rinsed hominy can be added at the same time as the blended tomatillos, cilantro leaves, and garbanzo beans.  Also, 1/2 to 1 cup finely grated dry-aged jack cheese or Parmesan cheese can be added during the last 15 minutes.

 

The chili should be a little thin, but not watery.  To thicken, leave off the stockpot cover during cooking and increase cooking time to concentrate the stock.  To thin, add a bit more chicken and/or vegetable stock.

 

Made in Texas by Texans.