Breakfast

To a Texan the only way to start a day is by attacking a substantial breakfast.  I’m not talking about a leisurely conversation with a cup of coffee and a roll, I’m talking about a literal attack against a formidable opponent.  It could also be called ‘striving toward a goal,’ or ‘man vs. food,’ or ‘a winning attitude.’  It could be.  But that would be a Texas-sized understatement.  But any way you look at it, breakfast in Texas is not for wimps.

A simple breakfast is just a couple of eggs, a chicken fried steak or two, biscuits and gravy, and some home fries.  Grits may or may not be included, just keep them off my plate.  But it’s not too unusual to see the addition of bacon, ham, fried catfish, enchiladas, beefsteak, pork chops, and fruit pies.  Beans, rice, and tortillas are a given.  French fries are always a welcomed change from home fries, and one could easily include just about anything else found on a Tex-Mex menu from tamales to carne asada.  Even a barbeque menu makes a good breakfast.  Coffee is no-brainer, and I’ve been asked more than once at a restaurant if I wanted a beer.  Once I was brought a shot of tequila with my orange juice.  Yes!!  That’s what I’m talking about!

It’s a wonder that Texans aren’t as big as the state, or at least the region of abode, but hard work is the norm and the calories are put to good use.  Life on the farms and ranches starts early and isn’t over until the sun is long gone.  Every day.  Some of the larger spreads have two breakfasts.  The first one is just enough to get started gathering eggs or other small chores.  Then comes the big one.  After that, it’s off to the hard work for five or six hours before the next meal arrives.

After I began working and traveling for a company in the late ‘sixties, I discovered breakfast isn’t the same in other parts of the country.  In Denver I encountered something called a ‘quiche.’  Basically it was just a small slice of baked scrambled eggs in a pie shell with a few things such as onions, cheese and spinach thrown in.  After eating two full breakfasts of these things, I was still hungry.

New York was some fish on a piece of bread shaped like a doughnut.  It took me a few years to appreciate the bagel, but it’s still just fish on a piece of bread.

Many of the southern states served grits with some substantial sides such as shrimp or ham and bacon and eggs.  Not too bad, but not enough, and I’m not a fan of grits anyway.

California served juice and salad, or just a cinnamon roll.  Idaho served potatoes and eggs (more please).  Wisconsin served eggs and cheese with a sausage (a very good sausage).  Chicago was pastry and weak coffee.  A restaurant in Vermont served unlimited pancakes with maple syrup.  The main problem was the use of sawdust instead of flour to make the pancakes.  Many places had a good, but rather small, breakfast.  And just as many places served a large inedible breakfast.

In St. Louis I encountered a pork steak for breakfast.  It came with three eggs, biscuits and gravy, home fries, a big slice of ham and some sausage links.  I was just about to declare St. Louis a part of Texas when I discovered this was being served family style to the three of us at the table.  Oh, well.

I found a place near Oklahoma City that served a fantastic breakfast.  It was a truck stop café with seating for about 30 or so, but the parking area was a bit small, and about 20 trucks would fill it up.  Even so, the place always had people standing outside the door waiting to get in.  I was driving by one morning when several of the truckers were leaving, so I took advantage of the open parking and stopped in.  It was the right thing to do.

The waitress looked at me for about 3 seconds, and then said, “Fort Worth, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get your breakfast.  Meanwhile, coffee’s over there.  Help yourself.”

I got my coffee and sat back down before I realized I hadn’t even ordered my breakfast.  But it didn’t matter.  Within a couple of minutes the biscuits and gravy arrived with a big chicken fried steak.  Two more minutes and I had three eggs over easy with home fries.  I was swallowing the last bite of the chicken fried steak when a plate of ham, bacon and sausages arrived, along with more biscuits and gravy and two more eggs.  She came back by with a bowl of grits, but before she set them down, she looked at me for a moment, and then walked away with the bowl.  She returned with two big cheese enchiladas and a wedge of apple pie.  (How did she know?)

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of apricot pie.  Hope the apple is okay.”

“Perfect.”

There were a few other ‘perfect’ breakfasts I found outside of Texas, and they were mostly at truck stops or out of the way cafes.  Not every perfect breakfast came with enchiladas and pie, but every one of them was good and in quantity.

A recipe for a Texas breakfast menu is not an easy thing to do, but here is a recipe for one of my favorite inclusions in a Texas breakfast.  Just remember, every breakfast is better with a couple of big cheese enchiladas.

Machaca con Huevos

Serves 4 to 6.

         Marinade:                                                 

    1 tablespoon A-1 Steak Sauce

    1 tablespoon soy sauce

    2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce                                   

    Juice of 4 to 5 limes

    Juice of 1 large orange

    1 chipotle chile in adobo, minced

    1 teaspoon adobo sauce                                              

    4 cloves garlic, chopped                                       

    1 teaspoon ground cumin                                        

    1 teaspoon chili powder mix                                        

    1/2 teaspoon dried crushed oregano                             

    1/2 teaspoon salt                                              

    1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper                        

    1/2 cup olive oil                                              

         Machaca:                                                  

    3 pounds boneless beef chuck, cut into 4 to 6 pieces     

    1 large red onion, cut in half lengthwise, then sliced across  

    1 large red or green bell pepper, sliced                       

    4 cloves garlic, chopped                                       

    1 (10-ounce) can tomatoes with chiles, diced                  

    1 (4-ounce) can diced green chiles                             

    1/2 cup beef stock                                             

    1 tablespoon dried crushed oregano                             

    1 tablespoon ground cumin                                       

    1 teaspoon Mexican hot pepper sauce such as Cholula or Tapatio                                     

    Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper                    

    Olive oil for the pan                                          

    8 large eggs, lightly beaten  

    1 small red onion, chopped

    2 New Mexico or Anaheim green chiles (preferably Hatch chiles)

    Unsalted butter

    3 plum tomatoes, chopped

    3 cups dried Machaca

    chopped cilantro

    flour tortillas

Marinade and Machaca:

Whisk all the marinade ingredients together.  Pierce the meat deeply all over with a sharp fork, then place the beef chunks into the marinade.  Cover and let marinate overnight in the refrigerator.

Remove meat from the marinade, drain, and pat dry.  Discard the marinade.  Allow the meat to sit, covered, for about 45 to 60 minutes to bring to room temperature. 

In a large heavy pot, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil.  Sear the meat well on all sides, in batches so as not to crowd them.  Remove the meat as it is browned and set aside.  When all of the pieces are browned, pour out the accumulated fat in the pot leaving a layer of drippings on the bottom of the pot.  Bring the pot back up to a medium heat, add in the onion, peppers, and garlic. Cook, stirring, for a few minutes to soften. 

Add the tomatoes, broth, pepper sauce and spices, and cook, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pot to release all the browned bits.  When it comes to a boil, place the beef chunks back in and push down until each piece is submerged, and then lower the heat to bring down to a low simmer.  Simmer, covered, for a few hours.  Stir from time to time, but keep the heat as low as possible and still simmer.

After 2 ½ to 3 hours the meat should be fall-apart tender. Lift the meat out of the sauce, let cool for about 15 minutes, and then using two forks shred the beef along the grain.  Return some of the meat back into the sauce in the pan and cook some more to reduce and thicken the sauce.  This is perfect for burrito or enchilada filling, or served with rice and beans.  But reserve at least half of the meat to make the dried machaca.

Spread the shredded meat in a single layer on a baking sheet.  Bake in a 250F oven for 20 minutes.  Check after 20 minutes. The meat should be dry to the touch with no accumulated moisture beneath.  If not, dry an additional 10 minutes.  Alternatively, the beef can be dried on top of the stove using a cast-iron skillet over medium low heat.  Stir often.

Machaca con Huevos:

Saute the onion and peppers in butter, and when they have softened, add in the chopped tomato and machaca.  When hot, remove from the pan, and then on medium heat cook scrambled eggs until almost done.  Stir in the machaca and tomato mixture.  Garnish with cilantro. Serve with hot flour or corn tortillas.

As always, breakfast is best served with a couple of big cheese enchiladas, but I’ve said this before.

Since I moved away from Texas I don’t hear much about machaca anymore, and I don’t know why this is so.  I occasionally find it in a restaurant in a chimichanga, or a burrito, but I can’t count on getting my machaca fix very often unless I make it myself.  This is the recipe I’ve been using for a very long time, and as with most good eats, it isn’t fast food.

Ice Fishing

I like warm weather.  Today is July 4^th, and it’s warm outside.  Actually, it’s almost hot, but that’s okay.  I can always find a cool spot if I need it, but I can never seem to find a way to get warm when it’s cold outside.

I’ve lived most of my life in places like Texas, southern California, and Arizona, and I have rarely allowed myself to experience the cold.  At various times circumstances dictated a trip to cold country, but a shivering body and chattering teeth are not my favorite forms of exercise.  I think it is great that some persons like to ski, or ice skate, or snowboard.  I think it is great that some persons ride snowmobiles and some persons ride bobsleds.  I think it is great that Santa lives at the North Pole.  I think it is great that I live where it is warm.

In Fort Worth the temperature would occasionally drop below freezing in the winter and a reading of ‘zero’ was not overly unusual, but warmer days were never far off.  In Arizona cold nights were not uncommon, but warm days were expected.  And I’ve never seen snow in Long Beach, CA. 

My first experience with extreme cold was on a business trip to Great Falls, Montana.  I left Dallas in 70-degree weather and landed in Great Falls in minus 40-degree weather.  I had on a heavy coat, but it wasn’t enough.  When I stepped off the plane, I could instantly feel my various parts freezing.  Or maybe the problem was that I couldn’t feel my various parts freezing.  My parts were growing numb very fast.  I wore a handlebar mustache in those days, and when I placed my hand over my face to protect it from the weather, I broke off one side of my mustache.  It had instantly frozen.  So I did the only thing that made sense at the time—I broke off the other side.  Oh, well.

I rented a car that had a block heater.  At my motel I could park just outside my door and plug in the car to an electrical outlet to keep the engine block warm without running the car all night.  Cool.  (Maybe that was the wrong expression.)  I parked the car and went inside to get the extension cord the motel provided.  When I tossed it out of the door to uncoil it, the cord shattered in mid-toss.  It froze as fast as my mustache.  I guess that was the reason the motel had about a dozen extension cords in my room.

The following morning I met with the manager of the store I was visiting, and all he could do was stare at my face.  Finally I asked him if something was wrong.

“It’s your mustache.  Why is it so lopsided?  And your hair is a different length on each side.  Is this a new trend that hasn’t reached Montana yet?”

I knew my mustache had a problem, but my hair?  Apparently I had managed to break off a large portion of my hair on the way to the store that morning.  I wanted to go home.

On a business trip to Minnesota, I was talked into some ice fishing.  The temperature was only about 10 below so I wasn’t too worried about my newly re-grown mustache, but it was still very cold.  Leonard, the store manager, assured me we would be quite comfortable.  He had an ice hut.  I didn’t understand exactly what I was getting into, but I was reluctantly willing to give it a try.

About 5am we were standing at the edge of a frozen lake with a sled full of our gear.  Maybe I should say that it was all Leonard’s gear.  I owned absolutely nothing suited for this adventure.  In the dark distance I could see a number of cabin-like structures sitting out on the ice and most of them had smoke emanating from a pipe extending through the roof.  We were going out to the red one.  Wait, they were all red, but Leonard knew exactly which one was his.

I had never walked very far on ice before, but it wasn’t as difficult as I had supposed it would be.  Visions of slipping and sliding and falling were going through my brain, but nothing like that happened.  I just walked normally, and together we pulled the sled behind us to Leonard’s ice hut where a sign on the door identified him as the owner.

Inside we were sheltered from the elements to a degree.  The hut was about six feet wide and about eight feet long and had a wooden floor in it with a trap door that could be lifted up to expose the ice underneath.  There was a small cast iron stove at one end in which Leonard started a wood fire.  Soon there was a coffee pot on top of the stove and we were getting ready to fish.

The first thing to do was to open the trap door and cut a hole in the ice.  Leonard used an auger and a metal spade to accomplish this, and he threw the excess ice into a bucket and then he then tossed the contents out of the door.  He opened a small box and removed from it some heavy fishing line with a leader and a lure of some kind attached to the end.  Into the hole he dropped the lure and lowered the line about 10 feet.  And he sat there holding that line.  Occasionally Leonard would raise and lower the line a few inches, but mostly he sat there.  Finally I asked him what came next.

“Oh, well, uh, not much unless a fish bites.  Sometimes we need to scoop out the ice from the hole.  It re-freezes quickly.”  Leonard was happy, but I was bored—and cold.

It didn’t take me long to realize that only one person fished at a time, and Leonard was doing the fishing.  My job was to sit quietly, sip coffee, and keep the fire in the stove going.  After an hour of so of this, Leonard handed me the line so I could take a turn “fishing.”  No sooner than I had taken the line, a fish took the lure.

It wasn’t a big fish, although it did require some effort to retrieve.  I’ve never been much for hand line fishing, but when attempting it with cold hands and heavy gloves, it becomes rather difficult.  I couldn’t feel the fishing line through the gloves.  In fact, I couldn’t feel the inside of my gloves with my cold hands.  But I managed to get the fish up through the hole and into the cabin.  It wiggled for about ten seconds before freezing, and after I removed the lure, the fish was tossed into the corner of the cabin.  We didn’t need an ice chest—we were sitting in a freezer.

Then Leonard took over the fishing duties again, and I can honestly say I was glad he did.  I believe I could find more enjoyment by watching paint dry.  I was cold, I was bored, I was cold.  I threw more wood into the stove, poured another cup of coffee, and I waited.  About 10am I began to wonder what was going on outside the hut.  I opened the door to see snow falling and several men pulling their sleds back toward the edge of the lake.  Maybe it was time to go.

Leonard laughed at the idea.  “Wimps!  They’re just fair weather fishermen.  Afraid of a little snow.”  Apparently we weren’t going to go.

At last Leonard caught a fish and tossed it over with the other one.  I took the line when he handed it back to me, and I dropped the lure back into the hole.  And I sat there with Leonard looking at me as though he was the happiest man on this earth.  Maybe he was.  He was certainly happier than me.

It was well into the afternoon when I caught another fish, and I thought we would go home at this point, but I was incorrect about this.  Leonard wanted to give it another try.  I opened the door again to look out at the snow and could see little more than a gray/white fog.  Now I was starting to worry.  I actually had thoughts of abandoning this effort and trying to find my own way back to the truck.  But, 1) I didn’t have a clue where the truck was, and 2) Leonard had the keys.  I closed the door, threw some wood into the stove, poured another cup of coffee, and sat down.

Leonard caught his second fish about 5:30 and said that was probably about all the fish were going to pull out of there today.  At last he was going home.  We packed our things (including the four fish) onto the sled and started off into the now very dark fog.  With unerring accuracy we walked to the truck and within an hour I was back in my hotel room where it was warm.  Warm.

I was to visit Leonard’s store several more times over the next few years, but always in the summer.  He would constantly remind me of the great time we experienced ice fishing, and he would never forget to invite me back; however, for some strange reason, my visits to his store were always in the summer.

John Henry

My great uncle was one of the most kind and gentle persons I’ve ever known, and his wife was every bit his equal.  Their life was hard, difficult at best, but the only time I ever heard a complaint was when the bag of pecans was getting low.

I’ve written before about Aunt Gertrude’s pies, but I’ve said little about Uncle John.  Sometimes it’s rather difficult to bring back his memory without remembering the loss I felt when he died.  I was almost twelve, and my family had just returned from a week in Missouri, when we were notified that Uncle John had fallen through the unfinished roof on one of his barns.  It took me a long time to adjust.  Even though it was over 50 years ago, the memories are still alive.

I enjoyed being at his farm near Kennedale where the world’s best watermelons grew.  I would go there during the summers with my grandfather to help out in the fields while the giant green orbs grew sweeter in the hot sun.  I don’t believe I was much of a helper, but I was made to feel useful, and always at the end of the day was the big dinner Aunt Gertrude would prepare.  After the pie was finished, we would retire to Uncle John’s sitting room where we would, uh, sit. 

There was no television, but we would watch the radio for a while.  Inevitably Uncle John would open his big bag of pecans, and we would all have a few.  That bag was never empty, although sometimes it would get a bit low; however, the following night it would be full again.  It took me a couple of years before I discovered the secret of the bottomless pecan bag, and it was so simple.  Uncle John kept several big barrels full of them in one of his barns.  Those pecans were used for Aunt Gertrude’s pecan pies, as well as many of the other special treats she made, but they were also used for just general munching.

The Texas state tree is the pecan tree, and they are everywhere.  The native pecan is a rather small nut with a hard shell and a rich oily flavor that no other pecan can equal.  There are many good pecans grown across America, and most of them are much better for decorating than is the Texas native pecan, but the flavor…  Uncle John’s barrels of pecans were gathered from the big native trees growing in the bottom lands along the banks of the Trinity River, but I also remember seeing a few 50 pound bags of paper shell pecans propped up against the sides of those barrels, so apparently any pecan was better than no pecan.  I agree completely.

A few years ago I realized that I have very few recipes requiring any nut other than pecans.  As I inherited or developed these cooking instructions, the pecan was always the preferred nut.  I never use peanuts (I’m allergic to them), hazel nuts sometimes appear, as do walnuts.  Somehow Chiles en Nogada would just be wrong with pecans instead of walnuts, but the pecan is the nut of choice for most of my cooking. 

I have often wondered if I made my choice of using the pecan based on taste preference, or through the influence of Uncle John.  Either way, I do like pecans, and one of my three- or four-hundred favorite ways to consume them in the form of a praline.  This is one of the simplest of candies to make, but be careful, it is extremely hot when forming the patty.

Texas Pecan Pralines

Makes a whole bunch, but never enough.

    1/2 cup granulated sugar                                       

    1/2 cup light corn syrup                                       

    1/2 cup butter                                                 

    1/2 cup heavy cream                                            

    1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract                              

    1 pinch ground cinnamon                                        

    1 1/2 cups chopped pecans                                      

Cook the sugar and syrup over a medium high heat to 250F. Remove from heat and stir in the butter until melted. Slowly add the cream until thoroughly blended (return to heat if needed).

Return to heat and bring the mixture to 242F. The caramel should be a deep golden color. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla, cinnamon, and pecans. Beat for 5-10 minutes until almost cool. Mixture should mound on the spoon but still be able to drop and be stirred easily. Drop (using 2 tablespoons) onto parchment. Allow pralines to cool completely before serving.

I don’t know how long the pralines keep.  They never lasted long enough to find out.

This praline is the chewy type.  My favorite, but I’ll never turn down the crunchy type either.

The Deer Suit

I have written several times that I no longer hunt.  My body just can’t do it any more, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.  One of the things I often think about is my last deer hunt.

It was a simple affair in the mountains above San Bernardino, California many years ago.  I had two tags, one for bear and one for deer, and I had set up a small camp where I could spend a few days if I found it necessary to stay that long.

I arrived in the late afternoon to set up my camp, and later I grabbed my rifle to do some exploring.  I walked around for a few hours, returned to camp, ate dinner, and crawled into my sleeping bag.  By 6:30am the following morning, I was about a mile from my camp looking for deer.  A bear would be bonus, but even if I saw one, I don’t believe I would have taken it.

When the light became bright enough to distinguish the details of my surroundings, I slowly shifted my position for a better look around me.  There was a small clearing a few yards away, and just beyond that was a small flowing stream.  I waited.  And waited.

By late morning, I gave up and moved a few hundred yards uphill and a few hundred yards to the east.  From this position I could see down a long brushy slope to a grove of trees about 250 yards away.  It was a good spot, but the weather was a little warm, so I guessed the deer wouldn’t be moving around for another few hours.  I dug my lunch out of my pack and enjoyed the scenery for a while before taking a nap.

I awoke about 4pm to the faint sound of cracking twigs.  It wasn’t a big noise, but it was not the sound of a branch falling from a tree.  It was the sound of something being stepped upon, and I started searching for the point of origin.

I used my field glasses to examine the landscape around me, and I saw some movement in the shrubs about 200 to 220 yards downhill near the trees.  I focused in as sharp as I could with those 4x glasses, but I just could not tell with certainty what it was that was moving about.  I could tell from the movement of the vegetation that it was big.

I watched it for about 10 minutes before I could finally see a set of antlers moving about.  At first I thought it was just some twigs, but they were closely matched and moving in tandem.  It had to be antlers.

I exchanged the field glasses for my 30-06 and watched the movement through the scope just waiting for a clear shot.  After a few minutes the antlers began to sway side to side, and then they turned around as though the deer’s head was spinning 360 degrees.  Something wasn’t right.

I zoomed my scope to its full 10 power and looked as closely as I could at the deer.  Now I was really confused.  No deer I had ever seen was the golden color of dyed buckskin leather.  I made sure the safety was in place on the rifle, and exchanged it for the field glasses again.  I watched for maybe 15 minutes before the deer stood up on its hind legs, reached up with its front legs and pulled off its head revealing a man with a beard bushier than my own.

What was he thinking?  If I had possessed less patience and had decided to go ahead and harvest the deer I was seeing, the man could have been severely injured or dead.  I could go on a rant for many pages here, but I won’t.  I’ll just say that dressing up in a deer suit and running about in front of other hunters during deer season isn’t the smartest thing I have ever witnessed.

I immediately returned to my camp, loaded everything into my car and drove home.  I’ve never hunted since.

46th 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.

My order form for tickets to the 2014 Annual Wild Game Feed in Irvine, CA has arrived!   Last year I received several hundred requests for tickets from some who were just learning about the Feed, some who didn’t order tickets when the form arrived, and some who just forgot to order (how could anyone forget?).  The reality is the Feed was sold out of tickets by about July 1^st, and this year they expect to sell out even earlier.  I missed many friends last year simply because they hesitated to order their ticket when the form arrived.  Unfortunately, I do not have tickets other than my own.  I am just a purchaser like everyone else.

That being said, this is the biggest Wild Game Feed I’ve ever heard of, and it’s the best one I’ve ever attended.  The food is a carnivore’s utopia, and it never runs out.  The beer is unlimited, and it never runs out.  Last year I arrived with 78 cigars, gave away about 125, and came home with 88—a gain of ten—after consuming 6 myself.  I met many old friends, made many new friends, and I was still meeting and making friends when the sun went down and it was time to go home.

I value my friends from the Wild Game Feed.  We come from many different walks in life, and it doesn’t matter.  Male (required), old (like me), young (but at least 21), rich, not rich, just named Rich, Wall Street, sanitation worker, bottle collector—at the Feed, we are equal, and we are friends, and we will remain friends.  We are there for only a handful of reasons.  Fundraising for charities is the main reason, followed closely by food, beer, cigars, and old/new friends.  Some are there for the drawings for the great prizes, and some are there for the competitions.  But all are there to have fun.

The organizers know what they are doing, and every year I’m amazed to see how smoothly it works from start to finish.  At no time does this event appear to become chaotic or disorganized, even with more than 1,300 guests.  Each member of the Annual Wild Game Feed has a specific job, and it always gets done.  It takes a year of planning by these dedicated men to pull it off, and ‘pull it off’ they do.  While it is hard work (for them), it is also great fun (for everyone else), and it is a terrific revenue source for various charities.  To the organizers, I thank you.

Remember to order your ticket as quickly as you can.  They will sell out.

Catalina Island

Yesterday I was walking Biggie across the street at the plaza from where the Belmont Pier extends out into the ocean.  It was a nice warm day, but it wasn’t completely clear.  A light foggy haze/smog was slightly diminishing the view to distant Catalina Island, but I thought to myself, “I’ve been able to see this island almost every day for nearly twenty years.”

After moving to SoCal in 1975, I lived at the foot of Mt. San Antonio (Old Baldy) for five months before I was able to see it.  The smog was thick virtually every day, and when the smog was light, the wind was blowing dirt in thick clouds.  Finally, one day I was driving somewhere with some new friends, and I saw the mountains for the first time.

“Where did those come from?”  The question blurted from my mouth before I could stop it, and my friends looked at me as though I had just lost my mind.

It was somewhat the same thing the first time I walked across the sand at Huntington Beach.  I could hear the ocean, but I was about twenty-five feet away from it before I could see it.

For seven years I lived in SoCal, and for about two of those years, I was an independent sales rep for a number of companies.  I traveled the Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Barbara to San Diego regularly and almost never saw the ocean through the smog.  And the only times I was aware of the nearby mountains was when I was in them.

Smog was, and still is, a problem, but it is nothing like nearly forty years ago.  When Rachael and I returned in the early nineties from a ten-year stay in Arizona, the effect of emission controls on vehicles and industries was beginning to make a positive impact.  By the time we moved to our present home in Long Beach, Catalina Island (more than twenty miles away) was almost always visible, and I have rarely failed to start my day by looking at it.

Today, Biggie and I walked back to the plaza, and the island was perfectly clear.  We sat down on the edge of one of the big planters on the plaza and just watched as visitors from distant places came by and pointed out across the water and commented about how large the island is.  Of course, they also took time to pet Biggie.

I’ve been told I spend too much time reminiscing about the ‘good old days.’  Yes, I have some great (and not so great) memories of times gone by, but every day is another ‘good old day’ to add to my growing list.  Sitting on the planter with Biggie, long drives with my wife, friends at the Casting Club, the Wild Game Feed, working as an actor, writing, volunteering for projects as a master food preserver, leatherwork, fishing, cooking, reading—the list keeps on going, and it’s all good.  Catalina Island is just a bonus.  Maybe some day Rachael and I will take the ferry over there.  We’ve had tickets for almost fifteen years, and yes, they’re still usable. 

I don’t think of Catalina Island as a way to turn a bad day into a good day.  It’s just a reminder of how good I have it.  I am very blessed.

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.