Chucker

Everyone who has ever hunted chucker could sign their name at the bottom of this story, and no one would doubt they wrote it.  I heard it many times before my first (and only) chucker hunt, and I’ve heard it many times since.  The only way to hunt chucker effectively is in one’s dreams.

Bird hunting was usually an afterthought for me.  Fishing was always first on my list, and hunting was a second choice.  In the category of hunting, deer hunting was first, elk came in second, and at the very bottom of the list was bird hunting somewhere below rabbit hunting, squirrel hunting, and ‘possum hunting.  I was good with a shotgun, but I preferred single projectile hunting.

I was visiting a company store in Arizona one year and the store’s manager invited me on a quail hunt.  Okay, but I didn’t have a shotgun with me.  No problem.  The store manager had one I could borrow, if I didn’t mind using a twenty-gauge.  If I am going to bird hunt, I prefer a twenty-gauge, so the hunt was on.  We finished our work, and made plans for the next morning.

Lanny picked me up at my hotel about 3:30 the next morning and we drove about two hours to a valley where he said his family had farmed and ranched since the 1870’s.  Apparently they were the target of various raids by the people who occupied the land before them, but they had managed to remain and build generations of family.  Now the family just used the old farmhouse as a weekend retreat and hunting lodge.

We arrived with the sky growing light in the east, and I really enjoyed watching the valley come alive as the first rays of light met up with the lush green meadows and hillsides.  The stream running through the middle of it made me wish I had brought along my fishing equipment.  I thought this was a fantasy world—a painting that became a reality.  But this wasn’t where we were going to hunt.  This was where we were stopping for breakfast.

After a breakfast that was the dream of every Texan, we drove over to another nearby valley, and the contrast between the two valleys was indescribable.  The second valley was definitely a desert.  The cacti were everywhere, grass was nonexistent, and every bush had a rattlesnake under it.  This was where we were going to hunt.

The quail were running everywhere, and we kept the dogs busy for several hours as we gained our limit.  But I kept noticing another bird, and finally I asked about it.  Lanny bit his lower lip and looked down at the ground for a while before responding.

“They’re chucker.”

“Can we hunt them?”

“Only once.”

“Just once?  Why just once?”

“I’d rather not say.”

I couldn’t get anything more out of Lanny about the chucker, but as I traveled about the country, I began asking about chucker hunting.  I heard the same story over and over and over about how they are the mathematicians of the bird world.  They examine the type of shotgun one is carrying, the chokes, and the loads, They then watch the speed one is walking and calculate how fast they have to run uphill to stay just out of the range of the pellets.

Yeah, right.  But it took a long time for me to find someone who would join me for a chucker hunt.  At last I found someone.  $300 for the day (1971), plus food and beverages.  And fuel.  A dog would be $100 extra.

The hunt was back in Arizona, not too far from where I had been quail hunting with Lanny the year before.  This time I was much more prepared with snake guards and my own twenty-gauge.  Rhonda (the guide) suggested I use magnum #6 shot and a full choke.  He (yes, the name was Rhonda) also suggested I train by wearing heavy boots with 5 pound ankle weights and run up several flights of stairs four or five times a day for a couple of months before the hunt.

I felt stupid wearing a suit with heavy boots and ankle weights, but I did it anyway, and I’m glad I did.  As anyone who has ever hunted chucker knows, these birds always run uphill.  No matter how fast or slow a hunter is, the birds will always be about 50 to 60 yards ahead—running uphill.  I climbed those hills so much that day, my next stop could easily have been the top of Mt. Everest. 

Each time the birds reached the top of the hill, they would fly up into the air above my head and settle back down at the bottom the hill—always 50 to 60 yards from me.  I was glad for the magnum loads for the few shots I was able to take, but it was only for the birds that were behind in their mathematics homework.  I took about a dozen shots at chucker who strayed within 50 yards, and four of them went home with me.  But I must say it was a very tough day.

About 3 o’clock I had had enough.  I was hot, tired, thirsty, dirty, and frustrated.  I had encountered so many cacti that I had as many thorns as any of them.  I don’t remember ever having wasted so much money for such a small return on my investment.  And I now understood why Lanny didn’t want to talk about hunting chucker.  No one wants to be outsmarted by a bird with a Ph.D. in mathematics. 

Charlie’s Ribs

My Uncle Charlie made very good pork ribs, but I didn’t realize this until just before I moved away from Texas.  From time to time I would hear of plans for a family gathering where Charlie was going to be the cook, and I was never able to join in on one of these feasts until just a few months before my departure.  I had been to many feasts over the years, just not one where Charlie was cooking.

 

Charlie had married one of my grandmother’s sisters, and they owned a lake home next door to my grandparents.  In their back yard was a large brick barbeque pit my grandfather (a brick mason specializing in barbeque pits) had built for them.  I knew it was there, but I had never seen it used, and I always thought it was going to waste.  Little did I know, when Charlie cooked, it was all about the barbeque.

 

We didn’t have pork very often in our family.  It was usually too expensive for us, so we raised our chickens, and a steer from time to time.  In my travels with the company I worked for, I began to appreciate barbeque in forms other than beef and chicken, with pork being one of my great surprises.  When I joined in for what would be my last big family gathering, I was astounded to see Charlie cooking pork ribs on that barbeque.

 

The air was filled with the fragrance of pork scented post oak smoke, and my stomach decided it was time to eat right now, but Charlie knew what he was doing and there would be no rushing the ribs to completion.  The process took nearly 5 hours, and Charlie wouldn’t even consider shaving off just a single minute of time.  He would serve them perfectly cooked, or he would throw them away.  Simple as that.  So I waited.

 

My grandmother and her sisters knew just what to do for everyone while we waited.  At about 30 minute intervals, something was set out for everyone to nibble on and give us some momentary distraction.  A few fried oysters, a plate of cheese and crackers, some Fritos with Dog Food Dip, roasted nuts, and even some fried pies.  But nothing stopped the hunger.  As long as we could smell the ribs cooking, we were hungry.

 

About three hours or so into the process, Charlie raised the big lid on the barbeque and pulled out all 30 racks of ribs and laid them onto a big table beside the pit.  I thought it was time to eat, but NoOo.  He grabbed a big paint brush to coat the ribs with his special sauce before placing them back in the pit for another 2 hours.  I actually thought he was doing this just to tease me.  He knew those ribs were done enough to eat at that point, and he knew that I knew it also, but back into the pit they went.

 

When those ribs were finally finished, Charlie removed them to a cutting board where I was given the job of cutting them in half to serve.  That meant I had the privilege of sampling each rack to make certain there was nothing wrong with it.  I took my job seriously.

 

I have never forgotten those ribs, and they are still the standard by which I judge all pork ribs.  I’ve had good pork ribs from many places over the many years since that day, and some were every bit the equal of Charlie’s ribs, but none have ever been better.  His were simple ribs with a slightly complex basting sauce, but they were pull apart tender, and never ever touched by a flame.

 

This takes a big grill for indirect cooking, but the best way to go is with a large offset smoker.

 

 

Charlie’s Ribs

Serves 6 to 8

 

    2 quarts or more oak chips, chunks, or logs if possible

    1/2 cup Kosher salt

    1 tablespoon fresh coarse-ground black pepper

    1 1/2 teaspoons ground cayenne pepper

    12 pounds meaty pork loin back ribs (4 to 6 racks)

    Charlie’s Sauce (recipe follows)

 

Soak oak chips or chunks (not logs) in water to cover for 30 minutes up to 1 hour.  Drain well.

 

Prepare a charcoal grill by lighting fire at one end only or in the offset box of a smoker.  When coals turn white, spread about 1/3 of the oak over the coals.  Bring the temperature to 250F.

 

In a small bowl, mix together salt, black pepper, and red pepper for dry rub.

 

Remove the membrane from the backside of the ribs and pat the dry rub into the ribs.  Place on the grill away from the fire.  Cover and smoke 3 hours, maintaining the temperature at about 225F to 250F and turning ribs every hour; add more soaked chips every hour.

 

After 3 hours baste both sides of the ribs with Charlie’s Sauce.  Cover and cook until very tender, basting and turning occasionally, about 1 ½ to 2 hours.  Cut ribs in half to serve.

 

Charlie’s Sauce

Makes about 5 cups.

 

    1 tablespoon mild smoked paprika

    2 teaspoons ground black pepper

    2 teaspoons chili powder (use Pendry’s if you can find it, otherwise use Gebhardt’s)

    1 teaspoon ground cumin

    1 tablespoon bacon drippings (or melted butter)

    1 medium onion, finely chopped

    4 to 6 cloves garlic, minced

    1 red bell pepper, finely chopped

    1 cup beer (Shiner Bock, Tecate, or Original Coors)*

    1/4 cup ketchup

    1/4 cup apple cider vinegar

    1 tablespoon low-sodium soy sauce

    2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

    ¼ cup steak sauce (I like Heinz, but A1 is also good)

    2 tablespoons light brown sugar

    Hot sauce to taste

    2 cups beef stock

 

Mix the paprika, black pepper, chili powder, and cumin in a small bowl.

 

In a one or two quart saucepan, melt the bacon drippings or butter and slowly cook the onion over medium heat until translucent.

 

Add the garlic, bell pepper, and the spice mix. Stir, and cook for about four to five minutes, and then add the stock and the rest of the ingredients. Stir until well blended. Simmer for about 15 minutes. Allow to cool for 15 to 30 minutes, then place in a blender.  Process until somewhat smooth.  Use as a basting sauce for pork ribs.  Can also be warmed and served on the side for dipping.  (Since it has not been used on raw ribs, the same sauce used for basting can be used for dipping.)

 

*Charlie originally used Griesedieck Beer until the mid- or late-fifties.  At that time he switched to Falstaff Beer, and sometime in the mid-sixties he started using Jax Beer.  When Jax Brewery closed the doors, he switched to Pearl.  Good luck finding that.  Original Coors brings the recipe close to Charlie’s original taste, but I like to use Shiner Bock when I can find it.  Otherwise I use Tecate.  I’ve tried many beers over the years, but most don’t taste right in this recipe.  Stick with Shiner Bock, Tecate, or Original Coors, and you won’t be disappointed.

 

 

Dog Food Dip

Makes about 6 to 7 cups.

 

    2 tablespoons canola oil

    2 pounds ground beef

    1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped

    1 cup roasted corn kernels

    1 (10 3/4-ounce) can condensed cream of mushroom soup

    1 pound cubed Velveeta cheese

    1/2 cup chopped pickled jalapeno chilies, well drained

 

In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium heat.  Cook the beef with the onions until the beef is browned and the onions are soft and translucent.  Drain the excess fat and oil, but leave the beef and onions in the skillet.  Add the roasted corn and stir for 1 minute.

 

Stir in the mushroom soup, and then mix in the Velveeta and jalapenos.  Cook over medium-low heat, stirring until everything is well blended, 10 to 12 minutes.

 

Can be served immediately, but the flavor improves if covered and placed in the refrigerator for a few hours or overnight and slowly reheated before serving.  A small slow cooker works perfect for this.  If the dip has thickened too much, add some water two or three teaspoons at a time and mix well.  It’s easy to over thin this, so add the water slowly, mix well, and wait before adding more.

 

This is perfect with big Fritos, but taco chips also work well.  Potato chips just don’t cut it.  And something simply isn’t right about celery sticks.  In a pinch, just use a spoon.

St. Patrick's Day

When I was a kid St. Patrick’s Day meant I could pinch anyone not wearing green.  I thought this was great fun until I forgot to wear green when I was eleven years old, and everyone I had ever pinched got even.  Now no one would even consider pinching this old fat man.  And I find that it’s best if I don’t try to pinch anyone else.

 

St. Patrick’s day was also a day for celebration of sorts.  I had heard of gatherings of people to eat boiled corned beef brisket, boiled cabbage, boiled potatoes, and dry soda bread.  But we did it a little different.

 

My family was a mix of cultures from Europe and a few other places.  My dad’s mother’s dad was an Irish ‘Adams’ but they had been in America since at least the late 1600’s and had missed out on developing many Irish (from Ireland) traditions.  To mix it up a little, my great-grandfather was also mixed with some Irish-Mexican and some Irish-Cherokee.  Then consider this branch of the family had been in Texas since the 1820’s.  Overall, my family possessed only a small percentage of Irish in the mixture, but in Texas it was enough to have at least some kind of a celebration on St. Patrick’s Day.

 

Our version of the corned beef brisket was simply to skip the corning process and just toss a fresh brisket onto the smoker for some twelve to sixteen hours.  During the last couple of hours a few cabbages made their way onto the smoker also.  Potatoes were usually baked or mashed in the kitchen, and bread was white sandwich bread, crackers, or tortillas.  And we mustn’t forget beverages.  Depending upon age we drank Dr. Pepper, Big Red, iced tea, or beer (Lone Star, Pearl, Shiner Bock, or any other Texas beer).

 

Over the years I began to appreciate the more traditional Irish-American approach to the celebration meal, although I never quite made friends with green beer.  I do, however, like warm brown soda bread with Irish butter.  This is good stuff.  Really good.  I find I could eat this stuff every day, but only if I make it fresh.  Stale Irish soda bread does not make me happy.

 

Every month the Long Beach Casting Club has a luncheon on the third Wednesday, and each March we have a traditional Irish-American St. Patrick’s Day meal of corned beef and cabbage.  I’m not certain, but I think this is the most attended lunch of the year.  Everyone nowadays seems to find a way to celebrate this most American of Irish days.

 

I recently was in communication with one of my last remaining family members who shares the same great-grandfather as me.  I asked if he was doing anything special for the day o’ the green, and he got all excited.  He told me he had just discovered a way to prepare brisket without firing up the smoker.  It’s called ‘corning’.  He told me all about it.  He told me all about it several times.  I suggested he make an extra one just to smoke after the corning process was over, and he got even more excited.  I didn’t tell him it’s been done before, and it’s called pastrami.  I think he’ll like the results.

 

Vern never lived outside of Texas, but that doesn’t mean his world is narrow.  As a Texan he has plenty to keep him occupied, but I have to admit there is another world of excitement to be found beyond the borders.  I just wish good barbeque was more readily available.  There is nothing quite like a Texas St. Patrick’s Day Barbeque.

Remember the Alamo

It was the summer of 1955, and I was almost 6 years old the first time I saw the Alamo in San Antonio.  Dad had some vacation time, so he packed up the car, and the family went for a Texas road trip.  I don’t remember much about traveling in the car, but I do remember several of the stops we made before returning home to Fort Worth.

 

The first stop was in Hillsboro (just a little south of Itasca and not too far from Carl’s Corner) where we stopped for gasoline and a Dr. Pepper.  I remember it because I wanted to know where the hills were.  For some reason I needed to know the answer to this, and I made certain to ask everyone I saw why there were no hills in Hillsboro.  Finally Dad put me back into the car and we drove down the road to West.

 

Wait a minute!  West?  It was a great stop, and I was introduced to my first kolache at a bakery where no one spoke English or Spanish, but why was the name of the town West when clearly it was South of Fort Worth?  Dad rushed me back to the car.

 

It was just about one half of an hour before we stopped again.  Mom went into a convenience store for a few minutes, and Dad, my brother James, and I walked around outside.  I couldn’t read much at that time, but I could figure out some simple words.  It didn’t take me long to figure out the name of the town—Waco.  Now Waco is pronounced with a long ‘a’ as in ‘David,’ but I was absolutely certain it was pronounced a short ‘a’ as in ‘wacko.’

 

I needed to know how and why this town got the name Wacko.  Was there something wrong with the people living there?  Or was there something wrong with the people who stopped there as we had done?  As soon as Mom came out of the store, we hit the road again.  A little fast as I remember.

 

Where was the big wooden horse in Troy?  I want to see the temple in Temple.  I can’t hear the bells in Belton.  Is everyone in Georgetown named George?  We spent the night in Round Rock, and I never did see that rock.

 

The next morning was a new day, and the things so important to me yesterday were already forgotten.  Our first stop was the Texas capitol building in Austin.  I think I was actually speechless.  I can remember the giant paintings hanging on the walls in a big room.  Sam Houston, William Barrett Travis, Stephen F. Austin, and many other heroes of Texas history were depicted there.  But as hard as I tried I couldn’t find Davy Crockett.  I was told he was on one of the paintings, and all I had to do was look, but he should have had a prominent place on the wall.  He should have been easy to find.

 

I didn’t say anything about this, but it bothered me that I couldn’t find the greatest hero in world history among the paintings on the walls of that huge building.  Didn’t they see the television show about him?  I kept my disappointment to myself, but I thought about this for years.

 

We hit the road again, but this time we turned east and drove to a market in Elgin.  There Dad bought a big bag of sausages, some Dr. Pepper, Grapette, Big Red, and orange Nehi sodas along with some ice for our cooler.  As we traveled, we munched on those sausages and drank those sodas to cool the burn, but we kept on munching.  This was my first taste of the famous Elgin ‘Hot Guts,’ and it certainly wasn’t my last.  Yes, they were hot, but to someone raised on fresh jalapeno peppers for breakfast, this wasn’t a problem, even at my young age.

 

We ended up in San Jacinto where Sam Houston and his rag-tag army defeated General Santa Ana and gave Texas its independence from Mexico.  I understood some of this, but why didn’t anyone acknowledge Davy Crockett’s contribution?  That night we were on Galveston Island and I saw my first palm trees.  But where were the monkeys and coconuts?

 

I think we spent another night there before driving up to Houston.  Somewhere in that city we stopped for lunch and I can remember that hamburger as though it was yesterday.  It had three slices of bread and two pieces of meat.  I didn’t know this could be done to a hamburger, but there it was.  Should I eat the top part or the bottom part first?  I can’t remember just how I resolved this problem, but I also don’t remember going hungry.

 

We got back on the road and that night we slept in San Antonio.  The next morning I had one the best surprises of my young life.  We went to the Alamo.

 

I couldn’t understand how the big battle took place with all the department stores just across the street, but I was assured this was where it happened.  There was as much about Davy Crockett as I could hope to find.  Coonskin caps were being sold at a small desk set up in the courtyard out front, and small plastic rifles called ‘Betsy’ were right beside those caps.  Finally someone appreciated this great hero.

 

There were a number of cannon on display nearby, and I didn’t want to leave without taking one of the cannon home with me.  Dad told me I could have one if I could get it into the car by myself, but in the end, I left it behind to safeguard Texas again if need be.

 

There are other missions in the San Antonio area and we did go to one or two of them before we drove to Brackenridge Park for a late lunch picnic.  Then we drove into the evening before we stopped in San Marcos.  The next morning we were back on the road, and Dad was in a hurry to get to some destination before it was too late.

 

By mid-morning we were a few miles to the east in Lockhart, and Dad stopped near an old brick building where he disappeared behind it for a while.  When he came back to the car he had a bunch of meat and bread wrapped up in butcher paper for us to enjoy for lunch—if we could wait that long.  The smell was wonderful, and I don’t think he drove more that a few blocks before stopping the car.  We devoured the barbeque.  As if that wasn’t enough, we were parked just a few yards away from another barbeque place.  Dad went in.

 

It was quite a few years later before I became a regular customer at those two places, and I certainly miss them now that I live in California.  The first one was Kreuz Market (now known as Smitty’s), and the second one was Black’s.  Two of the best.

 

We traveled home with a huge bag of barbeque, but by the time we drove into our driveway late that evening, the bag was empty, the sodas were gone, and James and I were asleep in the back seat.

 

I started the first grade in the fall of that year, and a few weeks into the torture process, I was asked to tell what my family had done that summer.  Like a true Texan, the only thing I could remember was the Alamo.

Nose in the Wind—Biggie—Year Three

Biggie is now seven years old.  I know.  Last year he was just five, but new information has come to my attention about his origins.  It was thought he was born in late 2007 or early 2008, but it happens that his appearance was at least one year earlier.

He is still my neighbor’s dog, and my wife and I still watch after him during the days while my neighbor is working.  At one point this past year my neighbor thought she was going to move away, and my first thought was about a custody battle.  Biggie is not my dog.  I must keep telling myself this.  Biggie is not my dog.  I said over thirty years ago I would never again own a dog, but I find myself longing to keep this one.

 

Biggie likes small adventures.  He has never met a park he didn’t like.  And Dog Beach near our home is a place he would visit every day if he could.  On our walks each day, he likes to explore wherever his nose is pointed, and that could mean alleys, porches, under bushes, the taco stand across the street, or just about anywhere.  One of his favorite adventures is a car ride.

 

When Biggie and I are alone in the car, he will stand beside me and rest his chin on my right arm as I grip the steering wheel.  Sometimes he will lie down in the floorboard and sleep, but whenever we drive by a fast food restaurant, he will instantly come up to let me know we should be stopping there.  Somehow he knows every time we drive by one.

 

When my wife Rachael is with us, Biggie will lie down in her lap for most of the journey (except when we drive by a fast food restaurant) expecting to be petted continuously and endlessly.  But sometimes, if we are moving slowly through a back street, she will roll down her window and hold on tightly as he sticks his head outside to feel the wind on his nose.  It is at these times I can see him in the passenger side-view mirror with his eyes squinted and his ears flopping in the breeze.  I don’t use the word “cute” very often, but there is no word more appropriate than “cute” in this scenario.

 

As I write this Biggie is asleep in my easy chair.  Or should I say His easy chair.  Somehow, some way he has taken ownership of that chair, and I am unable to convince him it is mine and not his.  He has more toys than me.  He has more snacks in the pantry than me.  He has his own bed.  He even has his own blanket.  This is a Part-Time Dog!  How did he take over??  If he had opposable thumbs, I believe he would control the world!  He already controls me.  At least he is a good dog, although I’ve had reason to question his motives lately.  I think he is trying to get me to open the refrigerator door for him.

 

Maybe I will.

Super Bowl XLVIII

Once again a few members of the Long Beach Casting Club got together for the Super Bowl, and once again a couple of teams played.  I’m told some team won and some team lost.  Even though I was there, I hardly know who played, nor do I really care.  I was just there for the Super Bowl.

 

To me a Super Bowl refers to a big bowl of something to eat.  And eat we did.  Poppers, chili, ham and black-eyed pea soup, ribs, cheese balls, sausages, chips, dips, cornbread, and much more stuff than I can remember.  And just 12 people showed up.  And we ate most of it.  Now That’s a Super Bowl!

 

In reality, I don’t follow sports, but I am not completely lost in football, or basketball.  On the other hand, I am clueless when it comes to baseball, soccer, curling, tennis, golf, Monopoly, and almost any other game.  This year I was aware that the Seattle Seahawks had whipped up on the Denver Broncos in pre-season, and I thought to myself ‘if these two teams meet again in the Super Bowl, I’ll place money on Seattle.’  Well I didn’t place any bets anywhere, but the outcome of the game was no surprise to me.

 

It was fun to watch the game, eat more than I normally consume in a week, and spend time with my friends.  In a few weeks, I will no longer remember who played or who won, but I will remember the great time with friends who are even more uninformed about the game than I.

 

Texas Goats

My family were basically omnivores.  We farmed much of the veggies we ate, and we raised a lot of chickens for the table.  One of my grandfathers almost always had a calf growing fat for the freezer, and pork was occasionally on our plates, although not very often.  We weren’t afraid to eat what we had, because if we didn’t eat it, we didn’t eat.  But we didn’t have much contact with goats.

I was in my early twenties when I first went hunting deer with a friend in south Texas.  There were whitetail everywhere, and we each had our deer by the end of day two.  We took them to a butcher in Freer and hanging in the shop were several dressed out goats.

I sometimes ask really stupid questions, such as “What’re those things?” and “What’cha do with ‘em?”

About two hours later my friend Marty was giving me instructions in goat cooking.  It took the entire night, but by sunup we were ready to feast on goat chili, barbequed goat, baked goat, goat stew, goat carne guisida (not the same thing as goat stew or goat chili), goat steaks, and fresh goat sausage.  Six goats make for a lot of cooking, but Marty’s family, and the ranch hands were all eager to dig in.

While we were working in the big ranch kitchen, Marty began telling me about the real importance of the goat in Texas.  It seems that goats were one of the cheapest things a person could eat, and after the trail drives began in earnest in the late 1860’s, no one really wanted to eat their beeves when goat was so readily available.  The beef was worth money.  Real cash.  A goat was worth almost nothing, but it was quite edible.

He also mentioned that his roots were in San Antonio, where for well over two hundred years his family had operated eateries of various kinds.  One of his great grandmothers and her two sisters had sold chili in one of the plazas in front of their small café.  Food was prepared in the café’s kitchen and brought out in the evening to a big table where it would be dished up to the rich and poor alike.  Then she would sit down on a stool and play her guitar while everyone ate their goat chili.  The sisters never served beef, and rarely served pork or chicken.  Goat was the meat of choice for the chili pot.

Without having to think too hard about it, I realize one beef would feed a handful of cowboys for several days, but without refrigeration, most of the beef had to be made into jerky.  For fresh meat on a more consistent basis, goat was the answer.  It was smaller, cheaper, and quite tasty.  Very little, if any, was left over after a few hungry cowboys or vaqueros left the chuck wagon.

I knew about cabrito that was served in some of the restaurants in Texas, but I always thought it was some kind of “foreign food.”  At least it was foreign to me.  That morning I tasted my first goat.  It was goat chili on top of a fried egg with tortillas, onions, and queso fresco.  Very good.  Then I proceeded to eat my way through a little of everything else we had prepared.  I left the table a changed man.

A few weeks later I was in San Angelo on business, and there was a goat auction taking place that day.  I wandered over there and watched for a short while, but auctions aren’t my thing.  However, I spoke with a few of the men there about what they do with all those goats.  The answer was almost always the same.  Food.

I never knew just how important the goat was to Texans.  Or just how tasty goat is.  It may well be one of the best-kept secrets in the state.  Apparently all the goat eaters weren’t sharing their knowledge with anyone else.

There are as many ways to prepare goat as there are ways to cook beef or pork or chicken.  Here is one of my favorites.

Goat Chili

Serves 6.

    3 ancho chiles, stemmed and seeded

    2 guajillo chiles, stemmed and seeded 

    1 negro chiles, stemmed and seeded 

    1 dried chipotle chile

    Boiling water, to cover

    1 tablespoon chili powder

    1 tablespoon smoked paprika 

    1 tablespoon toasted and crushed coriander seeds 

    1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons ground cumin

    1 teaspoon dried oregano

    1 teaspoon minced fresh red jalapeno or serrano chile

    2 cloves garlic, minced

    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

    1 pound lean ground goat meat

    3 pounds cubed goat meat

    3 slices unsmoked bacon, chopped

    Canola oil as needed

    3 tablespoons all purpose flour

    2 medium onions, chopped

    1 cup or more Shiner Bock beer, or your choice, light or dark

    2 cups veal or chicken stock, or goat stock if you have it available

    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

    Hot pepper sauce                                               

 

Chop or tear the chiles into small pieces (under 1 inch), and place in a small pan or bowl.  Cover with boiling water and allow to sit covered with a lid for 30 to 45 minutes.  Drain, but save the liquid.

Place the chiles, chili powder, paprika, coriander seeds, cumin, oregano, jalapeno, and garlic in a blender and cover with the soaking liquid.  Blend until smooth.  Add about 2 teaspoons salt and 3 or 4 big grinds of black pepper to the puree and blend another 15 seconds.  Pour the puree over the cubed goat in a glass bowl, stir to coat, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate 8 to 12 hours.

Remove the goat mixture from the refrigerator and allow it to come to room temperature for about 1 hour.  Sprinkle the flour over the goat, and stir to mix well.

In a 10- to 12-inch skillet, cook the bacon to render the fat.  Remove the bacon to a platter.  Add about 1 tablespoon canola oil to the skillet and brown the ground goat meat, breaking up any clumps with the back of a spoon.  Remove the browned goat to the platter with the bacon.  Add 2 tablespoons canola oil to the skillet.  Cook the cubed goat over medium-high heat until browned all over, working in batches if necessary.  Add canola oil as needed.  Remove the browned goat to the platter with the bacon.

Turn the heat down to medium low and sauté the onions until soft.  Raise the heat to medium-high, and add the beer.  Bring to a boil and reduce to about 1/2 to 2/3 cup.  Pour in the veal stock and heat to a simmer for about 10 minutes.

Pour into a stockpot, add the meat from the platter and bring to a simmer for 6 to 8 hours.  Stir occasionally to prevent sticking.  When cooked, remove a small portion and taste for seasonings.  Add additional salt, pepper, and hot sauce as needed.

This recipe can also be finished in a slow cooker.  Reduce the onion/beer/stock mixture in the skillet by about one-fourth, and then pour the onion/beer/stock mixture into the cooker and add the meat.  Cover and cook on low for 8 to 10 hours, or on high 4 to 4 1/2 hours.

Serve with warm tortillas, queso fresco, chopped onions, and hot sauce.  And maybe a couple of big cheese enchiladas.

You’ll never look at a goat the same way again.

The West Fork

The San Gabriel River is in the Los Angeles Forest area of the San Gabriel Mountains just north of the town of Azusa.  It consists of three main forks—East Fork, North Fork, and West Fork—along with several other creeks and small rivers as tributaries.  I’ve never fished the North Fork, and I have rarely heard of anyone who has done so, but I have fished both the East and West Forks of the river, and I managed to find trout in each one.

 

The San Gabriel River completes its journey just a mile from where I live, emptying its waters into the Pacific Ocean after a winding through a number of Southern California cities.  The waters are dammed into reservoirs just before exiting the mountains, trapped in flood control projects along the side of a freeway, channeled through concrete troughs, and used to provide steam for electrical plants before it finally finds rest in the ocean.  But that’s just part of the story.

 

Along the East Fork is a road for a few miles from where one can easily reach the water for some recreational fishing.  Where the road ends, a person can hike along a trail above the water (occasionally crossing it) for a few more miles before arriving at the Bridge to Nowhere.  This oddity was constructed in the 1930’s for a road that was never built, and there it stands today as a launching place for bungee jumpers.

 

The fishing along the East Fork is interesting.  From the end of the road to the Bridge to Nowhere, the fishing is acceptable at times, but a bit difficult to reach, and for someone not in good shape (yours truly) the fishing is better elsewhere.   From the end of the road and westward, the East Fork has other fishing problems.  First are the gold miners.  They are somewhat touchy about someone jumping their claim, and distance from these unique persons is prudent.  The other main problem is the, um, ‘city wildlife.’  These critters have no regard for anyone else and don’t mind jumping into the water right in front of a fisherman.  And the trash.  And the dirty diapers.  And the graffiti.  There are fish in the waters, and they can be caught, but…

 

This leaves the West Fork.  At the main road, the side road to the West Fork is gated to prevent traffic along this fragile ecosystem.  It’s okay to hike or bike in, but motorized traffic is limited to service vehicles or, with permits, handicap access.  About one mile is the maximum the ‘city wildlife’ is willing to travel on foot, so for those individuals able to hike, bike, or gain handicap access, the upper reaches of this stream can be a delight to fish.

 

There are four handicap access ramps leading down to the river making access to the water very simple; however along most of the water, the access is rarely difficult.  The flow of the water is dependent upon the release rate from the dam at the Cogswell Reservoir just up stream (which means this is a tail water fishery), but rarely is the water too high or too fast to provide a good time for a fisherman.  The trout seem to range in size up to twelve or thirteen inches, but most are in the four to seven inch category.  Still, they are trout, and they are fun to catch.

 

I’ve been on the West Fork several times, and I look forward to going back again soon.  This is one of the few waters accessible from Southern California where one can still fish with a degree of solitude.  I’m certain the ‘city wildlife’ have made it back this far on occasion.  I’ve seen the scars where the graffiti on the rocks has been painted out or scrubbed off, and I’ve heard of vandalism to Forest Service signage, but the critters have been out of my line of sight.  And it’s been quite.

Plans

Wow!  Another year is basically over.  It’s amazing just how slow they go by and how quickly they end.  I spend each year planning things I never do, and doing things I never planned.  That’s not to say that everything I planned to do didn’t get done, nor did I finish all the things I never planned to do in the first place.  However, I did fail to finish much of what I planned to do, and I did actually finish much I really had no desire to do.

 

There are really only a few big things I plan to do each year.  The Annual Wild Game Feed is one, Santa Claus is another, and go fishing is not last on the list.  This past year I managed to do two out of three.  I didn’t make it out to the water to fish, and this is really sad since I live across the street from the beach.

 

I didn’t plan to get ill this year, but I did a good job of it, and even after eight months of this affliction, I’m still not finished with the project.  While I’m not well, I am functional, and I keep on keeping on.  I did make it to the Annual Wild Game Feed this year, I did work for a few weeks as Santa Claus, including some television time, and I did earn a certification as a Master Food Preserver.  So I guess this was a successful year in completing things I planned to do.

 

I’m just getting my feet wet as a master food preserver.  My early life on the farm gave me a curiosity about how things work, and food preservation was one of those things.  For years I’ve canned and pickled unique items just because I liked them, and no one was producing them commercially.  Now I’m starting to teach others how to do it.  Such fun.

 

The path to the certification required learning about food safety and the techniques to ensure a safe finished product.  The more I think about the methods we used on the farm to preserve our harvest, the more I realize how lucky we were not to have succumbed to botulism.

 

This year I planned to clean out my garage.  Oops.  I wanted to finish another novel.  Oh, well.  I had hopes of losing another 50 pounds.  I gained 10. 

 

Not all is lost, and nothing here can be considered a failure.  There is always next year.

Air Freshener

Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in many different atmospheres.  By atmosphere I’m talking about the scent(s) in the air.  It could be good, interesting, or a nose pincher.  Growing up in Texas there was the atmosphere of the barnyard, and it was completely different from the atmosphere of the stockyard.  The atmosphere of the slaughterhouse where I worked part time as a teenager was similar to the atmosphere at the bait house where I stopped before going fishing.  The atmosphere in the cities where I worked was the complete opposite of the atmosphere high in the mountains where I hunted.  And there is nothing quite like the atmosphere in a barbeque joint.

 

There are smells that are so neutral no one notices.  Some are a light scent (good or bad), and some are quite strong (good or bad), but not everyone perceives these scents the same way.  For instance, I like the smell of good strong cheese, but I’ve discovered it is not allowed in my home.  There is nothing like the smell of a possum roast; however, as much as my wife agrees with me on this, she doesn’t seem the think it is a good smell.  On the other hand, I can’t walk through the beauty section of a department store without gagging.  How these fragrances are supposed to be pleasing to men is beyond my understanding.

 

The waiting room at my doctor’s office uses a plug-in air freshener that literally makes my eyes burn and activates my asthma.  A popular import store reeks of burned dung.  They say it is incense.  I took my car to be washed and the air freshener they used was called ‘new car.’  I thought it smelled more like something rotting in the back of my refrigerator.

 

I’ve been thinking about the fragrances I would like surrounding me.  How about barbeque?  Or fried chicken?  Pizza anyone?  I miss the smell of real Tex-Mex, so this would be a good one for me.  Recently I was in a winery and the smell of fermentation was fantastic.  Speaking of fermentation, how about a beer fragrance?  Or a whiskey fragrance?  Make mine a single malt scotch.  What about fresh baked bread? Each year I attend the Wild Game Feed in Irvine, California, and I get to smell roasting pig, grilled game birds, chili, deep fried frog legs, buffalo ribs over wood smoke, and a few other things.  Each one would make a great fragrance.

 

I’m serious about this.  I recently heard of air freshener called ‘fart.’  If they can put this stuff into a container, why can’t they capture the smell of a good cigar?  I would buy that in a heartbeat.  In fact, I believe I could put it to good use the next time I walk into a department store and have to pass through the beauty section to get to the sporting goods area.

Hank

I’ve received several requests for some more stories involving my friend Hank.  In my posts, I believe the first mention of him was in my 9^th post “Catfish”, and my second mentioned was in my 51^st post “I Dare You”.  He has appeared from time to time in some of my stories, and he will most likely appear again, but it is difficult for me to write about him.

 

Over the lengthening years of my life I have lost many friends and family members.  Some moved on, sometimes I moved on.  Some were killed by war, accident or disease, and some were far older than me and time took its toll.  But Hank’s death was much harder on me than most.

 

I grew up with a very large extended family.  My four grandparents had over forty siblings.  Most of these family members were very prolific; however, my parents were the only surviving children of their parents.  But many of my grandparent’s generation lived to be well over one hundred years of age.  By the time I was a teenager I had a family of many hundreds of members.

 

This also meant I attended many funerals.  Some months I attended more than one on the same day, and most months had at least one.  I was no stranger to losing people I liked and loved.  But Hank’s passing was like losing my own brother and best friend at the same time; therefore, writing about him is difficult.

 

On the positive side, our adventures together were great fun, and I will continue to remember the good times with him in some of my stories.  Here is a short one.

 

One afternoon I had a message waiting for me at a company store I was visiting in Alabama.  It was from Hank, and it said he was on his way to do some fishing in Montana.  If I could meet up with him in Billings in a few days, we could find out what kind of fish were in the Yellowstone River.  I was leaving that afternoon for Cheyenne, Wyoming for a business meeting, but I could take a couple of days to fish up in Montana after it was over.

 

I flew into the airport at Billings and rented a car to drive down into the city (the Billings airport is high up on a plateau above the city) and catch up with Hank at the hotel where he was staying.  When I drove into the parking lot of the hotel, I saw Hank getting out of his car with a big ice chest.  I let him struggle with it while I unloaded my baggage and headed in to get a room.  About an hour later we met in the lobby.

 

“I just talked to the chef, and he’s going to prepare dinner for us with the trout I caught today.”

 

Dinner that night was great.  I can’t recall a better trout dinner.

 

About 4:30 the next morning we left to drive to his fishing hole where he assured me there were more fish than we could handle.  However, when we got there, we couldn’t find a place to park.  Apparently this fishing hole was known to more than just Hank, so we drove up the highway a few more miles.

 

We stopped at a small coffee shop for breakfast, and while we were discussing where to go fishing, a gentleman came over to speak with us.

 

“I couldn’t help but overhear your situation.  Around here the best fishing spots are on private property, and you have to know someone to go there.  But if you don’t mind me tagging along, we can go to my ranch, and I’ll show you more trout than you’ve ever seen.”

 

It seems that we hit the jackpot.  We finished breakfast, and an hour later we were fishing.  Hank sat down on the bank beside the gentleman and started talking.  Before long they discovered they had family ties through marriage.  I don’t know how that worked out, but apparently they were some kind of cousins.  And we had a permanent invitation to visit and fish just about anytime we wanted.

 

Hank seemed to have relatives everywhere.  Over the few years of our adventures, we were joined in Tennessee by a cousin, in Utah by an uncle, in New Hampshire by a, uh, another relative, in New York by his grandfather, in California by some other relative, and in several other places by various family members.

 

We fished until early afternoon when hunger began to talk to us.  After packing things back into the car, Hank and I followed his newly found cousin to the ranch headquarters where lunch was being provided for the nearby workers.  For those hands farther out, a truck would be delivering boxed lunches for them.

 

The afternoon was spent just talking and having fun with our host.  He was a fourth generation rancher, and his wife was a fifth generation rancher.  Hank’s connection to them was never clear to me, but they figured it out and talked for a solid hour about people they both knew.

 

It wasn’t much of an adventure with Hank, but it was typical of many of our outings.  We basically just hung out together and did things we enjoyed.  This day was one of those hang out days.  Afterward, we went back to the hotel where we had dinner and talked about our upcoming first skydive.  See “I Dare You.”

Turkey and Stuffing

Thanksgiving is a turkey-eating day.  Yes, one can eat just about anything one chooses on any given day, including Thanksgiving, but a turkey just seems like the right thing to put on the table for this holiday.

 

I have always liked cooking turkeys.  It doesn’t matter to me if it goes in the oven, in the smoker, on the grill, on a spit, in a pit, in a roaster, or in a deep fryer.  I’ve breaded it and cooked it like fried chicken.  I’ve cut it into chunks and simmered it.  I’ve microwaved it.  I cooked one in a solar oven.  I cooked one in a reflector system made of aluminum foil and charcoal baskets.  I cooked one in a horno (southwest version of a pizza oven).  I even cooked one by cutting it into pieces and roasting it over a campfire on hotdog forks.

 

I also like cooking everything that goes with a turkey, but my favorite side dish is the stuffing.  Growing up in Texas, stuffing (or dressing) was quite simple.  Some cornbread and/or white bread, butter, sage, salt, and pepper.  Mix in some chicken stock, and shove it into the bird before cooking.  But I take a different approach.  To me, the amount of stuffing that will fit into a turkey will feed one person only; therefore, I cook the stuffing separately and in great quantity.  And mine is a little more complex that the stuff(ing) I grew up with.

 

I believe the stuffing should match the flavor of the turkey.  At times I’ve experienced things like a sage rubbed turkey with a fruit stuffing.  How about a smoked turkey with oyster jambalaya stuffing?  I’ll never forget the barbeque grilled turkey with honey and wild rice stuffing.  I ate every one of them, but the flavors were not quite right.  I’m not saying turkey and stuffing should be perfectly matched, but they should be very close so the stuffing becomes an extension of the flavor of the turkey.

 

Here is one of my favorite turkey/stuffing combinations:

 

Southwestern Turkey with Tamale Stuffing

Serves 12.

 

Garlic-Chile Paste:                                       

    50 cloves garlic, unpeeled (about 3 to 4 heads)                

    2 dried ancho chiles, rinsed                                   

    1 dried guajillo chiles, rinsed                                

    1 dried negro chile, rinsed                                    

    1/2 cup corn oil (prefered) or canola oil                      

    2 teaspoons toasted and ground cumin seeds                     

    1 teaspoon table molasses or honey                             

Turkey:                                                    

    1 (18 to 20) pound turkey                                      

    2 tablespoons corn oil (prefered) or canola oil                

    1 3/4 pounds turkey neck, wings, backs, cut into 1 to 2-inch pieces

    1 white or yellow onion, chopped                               

    3 ribs celery, chopped                                         

    2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and chopped                            

    1 teaspoon allspice berries                                    

    5 cups low-sodium chicken broth, or turkey stock               

Gravy:   

    1/3 cup (approximately) all purpose flour                                                                       

    1/2 cup Chili-Garlic Paste

     6 cups low-sodium chicken broth, or turkey stock               

     1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper                                    

Garlic-Chile Paste:  Preheat oven to 350F.  Cut a small slit in each clove of garlic and distribute on a baking sheet.  Place on center rack in oven for about 20 to 25 minutes until garlic begins to brown.  Remove and cool 5 to 10 minutes. Peel garlic and remove hard tips.  Measure 1/2 cup of the garlic, reserving any extra pieces.  Blend in a food processor to form a rough puree.

 

In a small cast-iron skillet, toast chiles until blistered and fragrant.  Allow to cool, then remove stems and seeds.  Tear into pieces and place in a small saucepan with enough water to cover. Simmer over medium-low heat until chiles are soft, about 15 minutes.  Add softened chiles and any remaining liquid, oil, cumin, and molasses to garlic in processor. Puree until smooth. Season with salt and pepper.

 

Turkey:  Remove the giblets, and dry the turkey with paper towels.  Sprinkle with salt and pepper to season.  Loosen skin of breast by sliding hand or wooden spoon under the skin.  Spread about 1/2 cup of the chile paste under the skin.  Fill the cavities with stuffing, if desired.  (If leaving the turkey unstuffed, place in the main cavity 1 yellow onion, halved, and 1 bunch of cilantro.  Place in the neck cavity ½ yellow onion and ½ bunch cilantro.)  Rub 2 tablespoons paste all over outside of turkey, and reserve remaining paste for gravy.  Tie the legs together and place the turkey on a rack in a roasting pan.

 

Preheat the oven to 325F with the rack in the lowest third of the oven.  Heat the 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat.  Add the cut-up turkey parts (and giblets if using) and the onion.  Saute about 15 minutes until brown.  Remove the parts to the roasting pan, surrounding the turkey.  Add to the roasting pan the celery, tomatoes, allspice, and any remaining garlic.  Add 2 cups broth or stock and roast the turkey for 1 1/2 hours.  Tent the turkey and pan loosely with heavy aluminum foil and continue to roast until a meat thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the thigh registers 180F (about 1 1/2 to 2 hours more).  During this time, baste the turkey with the pan drippings and the remaining 3 cups of broth or stock.  (If the turkey is stuffed, the additional roasting time will be up to 3 hours longer.)

 

When turkey is finished, remove to a platter or carving board and tent with aluminum foil for about 30 minutes.  Reserve the contents of the roasting pan for making the gravy.

 

Gravy:  With a large slotted spoon or tongs, remove turkey parts from pan and discard. Pour mixture in pan into sieve set over large bowl.  Press on the solids in sieve to release liquid. Spoon fat from pan juices; add enough broth to juices to measure 6 cups.

 

Stir 1/2 cup reserved garlic-chili paste in heavy saucepan over medium-high heat until liquefied. Add flour and stir 1 minute (mixture will be very thick). Gradually add 6 cups broth mixture, whisking until smooth. Simmer until reduced to 4 1/2 cups, about 20 minutes. Season with cayenne, salt and pepper.

Tamale Stuffing

Serves 12.

    ¼ cup butter, divided                                  

    1 medium yellow onion, diced                                 

    4 cloves garlic, minced                                         

    8 cups crumbled cornbread                                      

    1 teaspoon ground cumin                                      

    1 teaspoon dried sage                                        

    ½ cup chopped cilantro                                        

    6 jalapeño peppers stemmed, seeded, diced                      

    2 cup frozen roasted corn kernels                              

    2 cup toasted and chopped pecans                               

    8 ounces shredded pepper jack cheese                           

    12 cups turkey or chicken tamales, chopped                      

    4 cups turkey or chicken broth                                 

    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste          

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

 

In a large cast-iron skillet, melt the butter on medium-low heat. Add the onions to the skillet and cook until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for 30 more seconds.

 

Once cooked, remove the skillet from the heat and transfer the cooked onions and garlic to a large bowl. Add to the large bowl the crumbled cornbread, cumin, sage, cilantro, corn kernels, pecans, diced jalapenos, and pepper jack cheese. Stir until well combined. Gently stir in the chopped tamales, and place the stuffing in 2 greased 9x9 baking dishes.

 

Pour over the turkey or chicken broth over the stuffing and gently stir to combine. Adjust seasonings and add salt and pepper to taste. Cover the baking pans with foil and bake for 45 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for 15 more minutes or until top is lightly browned and the edges are crisp.

 

Note:  I use two 9x9 baking dishes rather than one larger baking dish in order to cook the stuffing more evenly.  You can use a larger dish, but the edges will be hard and the center very soft.  You can also stuff the turkey with this recipe, but I prefer an unstuffed turkey.  I think the turkey and stuffing both taste better when cooked separately.

 

Also:  There is a lot of turkey and stuffing here.  It can easily serve about 14 to 16 people, but I like larger portions and leftovers if possible.

 

For the tamales, I like to make my own, but I’m not opposed to buying them.  Red Pork tamales are acceptable here, but homemade chicken or turkey tamales are best, especially if the filling includes some Garlic-Chile Paste made according to the turkey recipe above.

 

I’m not a big gravy eater (other than biscuits and gravy), and sometimes I don’t even bother to make it.  Sometimes I just use salsa or pico de gallo.  I’ve even used chili.  Choose what works best for you.

 

I also find that this turkey and stuffing combination is perfect with a couple of big cheese enchiladas.