Recetas de mi vida by Gemini Ink

Recetas De Mi Vida Edited by

Bárbara Renaud González BiblioTech Digital Library The National Endowment for the Arts Gemini Ink San Antonio, Texas Gemini Ink helps people create and share the human story. All rights revert to the individual authors. Recetas de mi vida © 2015 by Gemini Ink Book Design by Machete Inc. 1. American literature—Texas. 2. Recipes—South Texas 4. Bilingual—English—Spanish 3. Texas—Literary collections. I. Bárbara Renaud González This project was generously funded by The National Endowment for the Arts nea.org Gemini Ink 1111 Navarro St San Antonio, Texas 78205 (210) 734-9673 geminiink.org

Introduction

Arthur Gallegos, “Rehearsing”

Part 1 ¿Ya sabes hacer tortillas? / You Know

How to Make Tortillas? Now You Can Get Married!

Patricia Lemppaf, “Tortillas con mescal” (Spanish) Eddie Sánchez, “El palote”

Part 2

The Soul-Marrow of Soup / El tuétano es la mayor parte del caldo

Edna Leal Hinojosa, “Las Pita Blossoms de Kingsville, Texas” Eddie Sánchez, “Vámonos, Emilia, vámonos por favor” Edna Leal Hinojosa, “Armadillo Soup” Eddie Sánchez, “Aselga /Spinach”

Part 3

Beef isn’t the Poor Man’s Food / La carne de la pobreza no es de rez Dolores Zapata-Murff, “Turkey Gone Wild” Nelva Abernathy, “Carne deshebrada /Shredded Meat” (Spanish and English versions) Edna Leal Hinojosa, “Mountain Oysters Paranda, South Texas Style” Edward Guadalupe Acuña Lucio Cody Jr., “Barbacoa and Big Red”

Part 4

Eres tan dulce como un piloncillo/ You’re as Sweet as Mexican Brown-Sugar

Edward Guadalupe Acuña Lucio Cody Jr., “Amor empanadas” María Carrillo, “I Don’t Have a Recipe” Nelva Abernathy, “Púdin de pan/Bread Pudding” (Spanish and English versions) Tanisha Hurd, “I Remember a Pot of Beans”

Recipe Index Flour Tortillas Pita/Chochita Blossoms Lone Star Armadillo Soup Aselga (Boiled Spinach) Wild Turkey Carne Deshebrada (Shredded Meat) Barbacoa (Beef Cheek Meat) Púdin de pan Bread Pudding

17 21 27 31 35 37 45 55 57

About the Writer in Residence,

Bibliotech Digital Library, and Gemini Ink

INTRODUCTION By Bárbara Renaud González This past year, I’ve been teaching at Palo Alto College, on the city’s Southside. My students don’t know who César Chávez was—much less María Antonietta Berriozábal, the first Latina councilwoman in the country who served for almost ten years. So they don’t know the history of their neighborhood, and how San Antonio came to be.

But what we are really craving, I think, is the story of the food we love so much. Something happened when abuelita made us those tamales. Or when Mami made me caldo de camarón. And there is something sacred about Big Red, I swear.

They need stories. They rarely speak Spanish—their parents have deliberately spoken to them in English— and my students are beginning to see they live in a world that has denied them their past, their culture, their language, at the moment that the professional rewards require they understand where they came from.

secrets behind the food we love. From Edna Leal Hinojosa’s “Armadillo Soup,” to Eddie Sánchez’s bittersweet stories of tortillas and spinach, “El Palote,” and “Aselga,” a story of San Antonio is revealed with every teaspoon of cumin and every cup of love.

But when I ask them, What is your favorite food? They answer their mother makes the best tortillas! The best menudo! And the barbacoa on the Southside is the best! San Antonio is a city of great food. People come from all over the world to taste our margaritas, enchiladas, nachos. My community knows better. We know that our homemade tortillas and fideo are really worldclass. A World Heritage Site, for sure.

The writers in this workshop, all over sixty-years-old and great cooks, found the courage to tell you the

Why are these empanadas so good? Aphrodisia, I thought, asking my future grandmother-in-law, a Moorish Mexicana from the Valley, why her pumpkin empanadas melted in my mouth. I had never tasted anything so delectable.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I made them with love, mijita.â&#x20AC;? And so it is. These stories are made of love that was hard-won and sometimes shut-up, but these writers are now cooking, writing down the stories that nourish me, and will nourish my studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;for the rest of our lives. Gracias, Gemini Ink, for getting me in the kitchen, and gracias to the writers for sharing these recipes.

March 15, 2015 San Antonio, Tejas

REHEARSING Arthur Gallegos I reflect back, think, and wonder Often much louder than the silence Surrounding these empty corridors... Diminishing recollection of you. The panoramic scenes, memories, and hues Whenever I saw you. Joy. Hearthrobbing, born of expectation Your sweet scent and the loving sound Of your voice.

Now drinking coffee. Reading the morning paper Immersed, enjoying the reverie Without a beacon to guide me. I sit here rehearsing all these things That we never said to each other.

L A C Z E M TORTILLAS CON

Patricia Lemppaf

En el norte de México no podemos comer sin tortillas de harina. Es tradición que acompañamos nuestras comidas con suculentas tortillas, principalmente en el desayuno y la cena. ¿Por qué comemos tortillas de harina los norteños? No lo sé, pero nosotros todo lo atribuimos a que estamos muy cerca de los Estados Unidos y la harina es blanca… ¿será por eso? ¡Decida usted! Un día en que hacía mucho frio mi abuelita estaba muy contenta en la cocina. Cuando me vio, me dijo “Acércate, está muy calientito aquí, voy a hacer tortillas, ¿quieres aprender?” Yo no quería aprender, pero el frio calaba y el calor de la estufa me invitaba a acercarme para calentar mis entumidas manos. La voz de mi conciencia me dijo “sal corriendo de aquí”, y en lugar de eso yo solo dije, Sí. Si hubiera sabido que tenía que llegar a hacer muchas tortillas hubiera salido corriendo de ahí, pero ni modo, muy a mi pesar aprendí. A dos kilos de harina le agregas un cuarto de manteca vegetal, una pizca de sal y un poco de polvo de hornear, es la medida justa si no quieres que salgan mantecosas ni brillosas. Con agüita tibia juntas la masa. Una vez amasada la masa, y listos los testales

S 12 12

hay que dejarlos reposar, y poner el comal a calentar. Y así en el transcurso preparas lo que a las tortillas les vas a echar. Con movimientos hacía afuera, extiendes los testales, no presiones mucho porque se pega la masa, no presiones poco, porque si no nunca acabas. Son buenas con mantequilla y sal, y también con un poco de mezcal. La comida además de buen sabor, tiene que tener buena presentación. Porque la comida, como el amor, entra por los ojos y se te hace agua la boca. Así es que una vez que extiendas el testal, redondito debe quedar como las lunas de octubre que invitan al amor. Porque comer es un acto de amor que te llena de satisfacción. Y en eso casi oigo al comal que dice, “Ya llegó su papi chulo, ya llego su adoración, saquen la masa pa’ las tortillas porque pa’ todas hoy tengo yo. No se me alebresten ni arrebaten. Ahorita las inflo con mi calor.” Extiendes la tortilla sobre el enamorado comal y volteas solamente dos veces, y siguiendo los consejos de la receta de la abuelita comes las tortillas más suaves, calientitas e infladitas. Es de buena suerte que se inflen las tortillas porque significa que pronto habrá boda. Y todo se vuelve alegría en la cocina porque las chicas todas se quieren casar, aunque después se tengan que divorciar.

Pero, espera…ten cuidado, me dijo mi abuelita. “No te comas la primera tortilla, porque si te la comes, te irás a vivir muy lejos.” Ah que mi abuelita, siempre con sus dichos, pero hoy confirmo que ella tenía razón.

E T O L A P L E Eduardo!, my mother hollered. Whenever she called me Eduardo and not Eddie, man was I in trouble. Showing me her palote para las tortillas, cocking her right arm back, she threw it into the kitchen garbage can, cussing at me, something she never did. What did you do to my palote? Mom, I couldn’t find the hammer so I used it to nail some boards on my tree house, knee down in the corner and orita mismo yes mom, I’m sorry. Four inches to the end it was all beaten up and splintered up bad. The next day I took the palote with me to school, put it in my satchel, and after school I took it to Mr. Kolus’s machine shop and floor mats—I used to sweep the floors at the shop after school. Asking Mr. Klosus, How much will you charge me to fix my moms rolling pin that she uses to make

Eddie Sánchez

tortillas? Eddie it’s pretty banged up, what happened to it? I used it to nail some nails with it on my tree house. Well, let’s see what we can do. He set it up on this machine that turns the palote very fast then he got some sort of knife and started to cut into the palote, with shavings going all over the place. He took it off, looking at it and said, I’ll need to shave down the other end to make it even. Now it was tapered at both ends, not too bad. Mom I got your palote fixed. Look, Mr Klosus ground it down. Well, Eddie, now it looks like a trompo at the ends, yes like a two-sided top, Eddie. She told me, Thanks Eddie, but now the tortillas are going to look like a strip of taffy, long and narrow, and she finally laughed with me. You’re ten, Eddie, and

you’re still doing stuff that six-and seven-year-olds do. Well, that same night, I broke into the empty duplex next door, just found a window unlocked and crawled into the apartment. I went to the closet and took the stick that was for clothes, got the saw and cut it in half making my mom a new palote that was about 18-inches long, four or five inches longer than the old one. I carved the initial C on one end and S on the other, my mother’s name was Cleotilde Sánchez. Look Mom, it’s so long you can make us some pies, and some pizza like Tía Olivia that comes from Chicago makes us. Oh mijo, it’s beautiful, but where did you get this nice round stick? I avoided the question, and she didn’t pursue it. Orita mismo les voy a hacer tortillas for supper. It’s senseless to expect that women are usually going to make tortillas nowadays, they just buy them at the grocery store, and if they do make them, they just buy the pre-mix flour and just add water and roll them out and cook them. They’re pretty good.

Flour Tortillas Ingredients 2 ½ to 3 cups all-purpose flour 3 ¾ to 1 cup of lard or shortening 1 tsp baking powder 1 ½ tsp salt

Directions • Add flour to a large bowl. • Make a well in center of flour. Slowly add shortening, salt, and baking powder, mixing as you go. • Knead mixture 10-15 min. • Make 1 ½ to 2-inch dough balls. Roll out with a palote. • Cook tortillas on a warm griddle, checking for color. Turn only once. When they rise, they are ready. 17

S M O S S O L B LAS PITA VIL DE KINGS

LE , T EXA S

When I was a little girl, every spring there were these plants that would grow out on the fields, especially as you drove towards Rivera Beach. Yucca plants, tall with sword-leaves, I mean they were sharp! If you got stuck by one of them, híjole, you would need stitches coz they were very pontiagudas. And my three aunts would get their protective armor ready, towels, rope, gloves, sunglasses and el machete. You see, my aunts and mom were no taller than maybe 4’10”, and my mom, being the tallest, was la “mera mera,” the one to bring that towering white bouquet of soft-pedaled flowers down. Finer than spinach, what a delicacy! One leap, zwoosh, sand spilling from the little tiny botitas as the designated woman jumped on the hood of the car. The other auntie dearest waited for the bouquet that would fall into her arms, keeping it from falling onto the sand. And me? I was still running around, not getting close to the sword tree— it could hurt me, poke my eye, knifing me…monstrous thing that it was. But, when I saw my mom jumping on that ole Chrysler car hood, I knew the battle was about to begin, and it was something no one could miss. It was a conquest, especially when you saw the tiny woman swinging that machete high enough and at an angle so as to not hurt the quiote, the hard green 20

Edna Leal Hinojosa stem holding up the flowers. “No quiebres el quiote!” someone yelled, wiping sand off her face after la matadora jumped on the hood. Swoosh, the swinging machete etched out its own space under the blue sky in the heavy, salty, humid breeze from the Gulf. Such precision, gliding quickly, whoosh, a clean cut, sending the bouquet slowly sliding through the sword-leaves as some of the oval delicate white flowers broke off, sprinkling bitter yellow powder from the center of the pistil. I could see the deep concentration on my aunt’s faces as they closed their eyes, slowly turning their head away from the tiny debris escaping from the center of the plant. Slowly, tenderly, catching the precious bouquet like a little baby. Loud shrills could be heard for miles away, I’m sure—el baile de celebración. Now to get to the beach house where the men were piling mesquite tree logs to be used for firewood. When we drove up, my dad and uncles were all proud, especially my dad, giving her a kiss as she handed him the machete. Remember, she was the leader, the slayer, the mera mera, conqueror of the towering cactus-tree with the blades which blossomed every Spring and gave us such fantastic food. What a chochita!

Pita/Chochita Blossoms Ingredients Pita/Chochita Blossoms 1 tbsp olive oil 6 cloves garlic (This includes cloves for browning the shrimp, my favorite) 2 tbsp kosher salt ¾ tsp freshly ground black pepper 1 tbsp unsalted butter Thinly sliced chicken, beef, or shrimp (optional) 1 lemon for seasoning (optional)

Directions •

Rinse the blossoms well in cold water to make sure yellow powder and sand is removed.

•

Cover blossoms with paper towels to absorb extra moisture.

•

In a large skillet (preferably an iron one) heat the olive oil and sauté the garlic over medium heat for about 1 minute.

•

Add the optional meats, and brown before adding blossoms.

•

Add all the blossoms, salt, and pepper to the pot. Toss with the garlic and oil, and cover. Cook for 2 minutes.

• Uncover the pot and raise heat to high. Cook pitas for another minute, stirring with a wooden spoon, until all blossoms are wilted. •

Using a slotted spoon, lift the meal to a serving bowl. Add a squeeze of lemon if you’d like and a sprinkling of kosher salt.

• Serve hot! Scoop up with some warm and fresh corn tortillas…mmmmmm….Saboreale! 21

A I L I M E , S O VÁMON VA M O N O S

R , P O R FAV O

EdDIE SÁNCHEZ Eddie, mátame un pollo for me, my grandmother Mamá Bola says. My father’s cousin Lile shows me how when I’m about 8-years-old how to kill a chicken by holding it by the neck and twisting its body round and around until it goes limp. Squeeze its neck tight, don’t let it get away. Sometimes I got the pollo from the chicken coop. Try to get an older chicken because it gives the best caldo, mole, arroz con pollo, calabasita con pollo, a better flavor. The older chickens or roosters make better

soup, made with garlic, onions, tomatoes, carrots, celery and chickpeas, but my abuela and mother add 2 or 3 cloves to the soup. It gives it this exotic taste, rich flavor. Caldo con toda la mano, all the hand. When the coop was empty I’d shoot a chicken off the fence or off a mesquite limb where they roosted, shot them with my slingshot. If I got lucky, and I was most of the time, shooting them on the head, and they just ran a bit when they hit the ground. If my abuela didn’t want the head, I chopped the head off with the chopping axe, or if I felt travieso, I’d put their body under a washtub with only its head sticking out and sit on the washtub and break its neck!

I never had to pluck the chicken, that was the womenfolk’s job, I guess. They had a tub of hot water ready to pluck the feathers—it smelled so ugly. Tía told me to make the sign of the cross on the ground, and after I killed it she asks me, Eddie, calló el pollo en la cruz? Now, I don’t lie to elders, but when she asked me this, I would say, Yes, Tia, the chicken is dead on the cross. This made her so happy, it made her so, so happy. Bueno, que bueno, mijo. Tía Lile was blind, and she and my father, Lino, were boogiewoogie and swing dancing champions after WWII. My father was at Fort Sam Houston for four months, so as he would say, para que se saliera el Diablo! That’s why he danced so much—it’s how the devil got out. Tía Lile had a bunch of pictures and trophies on the shelf. Mira, she says, first place champions, Lino and mi, sí, champions. Mira, mijo, tú también, baila conmigo, and she’d put Benny Goodman on her record player. Baila conmigo, Prieto. Mamá Bola, besides raising my father and my five aunts, also raised her niece, Emilia until she was 13. Emilia was the daughter of my Tío Pancho, mamá’s oldest brother, who was tall, very dark and goodlooking and the rascal fought in the revolution under Pancho Villa y sus Dorados, was born in 1890 at Parral, Mexico. He told me some good stories of the

war, and he also told me he ran liquor, like anisado, and tequila to Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Louis. He knew Frank Nite who was Al Capone’s right-hand man. He also knew Alfonso Capone in the twenties and thirties, took truckloads until he got caught, and said that the federales put him in Leavenworth prison, and made him wear black and white piyamas. Most of the stories he would tell me in his adobe hut in Seco Mines in front of the waist-high fireplace and stove. We’d drink café de olla de barro with lots of sugar and fresh milk that he got from one of his two vacas lecheras. How he wound up a dairyman after being a bootlegger, I don’t know, I guess a few years in prison straightened him up. Tío Pancho, while in the revolution, fell in love with a 15-year-old girl, una hacendada in Nava, Coahuila, México. The girl became pregnant. He said he wanted to marry her but her father didn’t approve, so he took her away to southern Mexico and she had her baby girl, but the baby was taken away from her and given to relatives. Two months later tío Pancho took his daughter and named her Emilia, after his mother, my great-greatgrandmother. He told me, así se llamaba tu tartabuela Emilia, and brought her to Eagle Pass, to my Mamá Bola to raise her.

In 1964 when I was 17, I worked part-time at the San Antonio State Hospital, did yardwork about 4 days a week, and one week before Christmas my father sent me to Emilia’s house, gave me $50, told me to take my Buick, leave your car with me, and take Emilia to the doctor! She lived on S. Flores Street in a duplex next to the

Blue Moon Café, and it was about 11am. Emilia jumped from the bed that was in a corner of the room where her other three children were lying under a mountain of Mexican wool blankets. There was no heater to be seen, only a tiny little two-burner stove, the ones that people use in their hunting cabins.

It was very cold outside and there too. Eddie, mijito, mijito, que bueno que veniste. Sientate, sientate, and

she had me sit at the table even though she had to brace herself with the chair to keep from falling down. Déjame hacerte un cafecito, o mejor un chocolate calientito. No, Emilia, Dad sent me to take you to the doctor. Oh mijito, why? I’m alright, I just have a little pain in my estómago, un cóloico. Next to the bed was a pail where she had been throwing up. I could see the bile in it, just like I did months before when I had my appendix removed. Estoy bien, Eddie. Mijo, I was just going to make calabasita con pollo for lunch, she said as she walked over to their little icebox and almost

stumbled getting to it, so I helped her get the things from the icebox. When she got to the counter she drank sal de ova picot. I got the chicken, the tauma squash, Mexican calabasita, tomatoes, onions, garlic, which she had on a plate, and she was at the molcajete grinding a few black pepper seeds and comino seeds. Then she added cloves of garlic, cutting the chicken in pieces and putting them in a cast iron pot, added onion and tomato, took the kernels off the cob, putting that into the pot, just like the many times I’d seen my Mamá Bola and my mother do. Please Emilia, I persisted, Emilia vamonos al doctor. Mamá Bola raised her until she was 13-years-old. Tío Pancho, her father, married my mother’s aunt, Adelina, and I think that Emilia was treated like a maid. Worse, Emilia was the pretty daughter, a brown Cinderella for sure. Emilia went ahead with her cooking, dicing the calabasita in her hand into small small pieces. This was the last ingredient, and finally adding a cup of water. She could barely stand. I was nearly crying, begging— Emilia, vamonos, vamonos. Ay, Eddie, estoy bien. Let’s go, Emilia, please. I’m alright. By this time the kids woke up, I guess, because of the aroma of the calabasita con pollo cooking. They were all bundled up with layers and layers of cloth. Ah, Eddie, ahi tengo una poca de masa, te voy a hacer unas tortillas. El comal esta caliente y tengo frijoles. Ok, Emilia, I said Ok. This made her so happy. Que bueno, so we will all eat. It was so good, just like my Mamá Bolas and my mother’s. Emilia was trained by the best, the best. I held the baby on my lap as we ate, she was three.

I still kept asking her to come to the doctor. Eddie, I have to wash the dishes. Emilia, I said, lay down, please. I’ll wash the dishes. By this time she had a pot of water on the stove warming up, so I washed them with Fab detergent and rinsed them with cold water. When I turned around, she was asleep. She didn’t eat. I went across the street to Pete’s Groceries and Meat Market and bought the kids each a little bag of cookies and lollipops, some Pepto Bismol and sal de ova picot, and some hamburger meat, bologna, two loaves of bread, and a gallon of Borden’s milk for the kids. I gave Emilia the $50 and told her to stay in bed. I remember that the kids all walked me to the door. They were all looking at me out of the glass on the door. I’ll never forget their cute little faces up against the glass, chewing their Super Bubble Gum. At 7pm, on that bitter cold, December day, Emilia died in that bed, probably with a smile on her beautiful humble face. Her gallbladder burst, poisoning her body. Vámonos, Emilia, vámonos, por favor!

P U O S O L L I D ARMA

Edna Leal Hinojosa

He had set his sights on a wild turkey he kept seeing flying across the fields to my aunt’s house, there on the King Ranch. Mami, Daddy, and I got into the old greenish Plymouth car early on a Saturday morning and slowly drove into the ranch. We drove up into one of the camp sites called “El Muerto” and took out our gear and prepared it while Mami took out hot chocolate, coffee, and a couple of tacos for us to eat. “Buenos días. ¿Como están?” A friend of Dad’s yelled out as they prepared to hunt for venison—must’ve been a family hunting day or something. We ate, and took off in the opposite direction. “Mira, sshh, quiet, walk softly, try not to step on branches cos they hear it y corren los animalitos.” What is my father talking about? I don’t see anyone…whoa, there it was—a furry bunny chewing on some green shrub. Daddy signaled to prepare my bow and arrow. Quietly, I took the arrow and lined it into the cord, lined up my sight to the lower back of the bunny’s neck, pulled the arrow back as far as I could, squeezing tightly, and to my surprise he just stood there! His nose wiggling back and forth, like nothing was around him, only silence. I let go of the arrow and hit him, and he trotted off… How could it? I knew I hit him, could see the arrow bonking up and down, and then just before I could shoot another arrow…Dad waved his hand for me to wait. I began to look for the rabbit and as I saw it, heard this loud blast coming from where Daddy was. Must’ve jumped up at least 10 feet and as I was

falling, saw my Dad running toward me and as I looked down I saw the snake. Have you ever tried to walk on air? Dove instead and, ouch, my knee hit a big ole rock, but I didn’t care cos I landed on the rock instead of the dirt and on the snake! Daddy literally plucked me up from the rock and we both fell on the other side. I started to scream and he pushed me away and started laughing and laughing. I had fallen on top of an armadillo and it was trying to squirm away. I thought it was the snake. My salty tears turned into soup back at the camp. Mami had been worried when she heard my screams, but now it was the best story ever. And we had the rabbit left over for the next meal. We called it Lone Star Armadillo Soup because we had no water to boil the meat and other veggies, and we didn’t want to use the water running up the creek. But another family had a sixpack of Lone Star, and it is our national beer, of course.

Here’s the recipe!

•

Lone Star Armadillo Soup

Combine 2 tsp cinnamon mixture, rice, onion, ½ tsp salt, meat and garlic in a large bowl. Set remaining mixture aside.

•

Heat pan to medium heat and coat with cooking oil. Add armadillo meat and brown.

Ingredients

•

Add cabbage and chopped onion to pan. Cook 8 minutes, stirring frequently.

•

Add remaining cinnamon mixture, chili powder and chipotle. Cook 1 minute, stirring constantly.

•

Stir in ¼ tsp salt, broth and tomatoes. Bring to a boil.

•

Reduce heat to simmer. Add browned meat. Cover and cook 30-45 minutes.

•

Add potatoes. Cook uncovered over medium heat 20 more minutes, until potatoes are tender.

2 tsp coriander seeds 1 ½ tsp cumin seeds 4 cloves garlic, minced 1 1/3 sticks cinnamon, broken ½ cup uncooked long grain white rice ¾ tsp salt 1 cup chopped onion 1 head chopped cabbage 1 tbsp chili powder 1 tbsp cooking oil 2 (14-oz) cans of fat-free, low-sodium chicken broth 1 small can of chopped fire-roasted whole tomatoes (do not drain) 2-3 potatoes, peeled and quartered 1 ½ lbs armadillo meat, cut into small chunks 1 1/2 tbsp chopped chipotle chile in adobo sauce (optional)

Directions •

Cook the coriander and cumin seeds in a large pot over medium heat for 1-2 minutes, or until toasted and you can smell the earthy fragrance.

•

Place the toasted spices, garlic cloves, and cinnamon in a spice or coffee grinder. Process until finely ground.

That said, let’s take care of a persistent rumor. A 2008 study firmly put to rest the notion that you can get leprosy from eating armadillo. No correlation was found between handling armadillos, hunting them, cleaning them, or eating them, and getting leprosy. Armadillo meat is an acceptable substitute for pork, chicken or beef in many dishes. In many areas of Central and South America, armadillo meat is often used as part of an average diet. Armadillo meat is a traditional ingredient in Oaxaca, Mexico. You should skin and dress an armadillo as soon as possible. The easiest method is to skin from the underside to split the skin from the neck most of the way down to the tail, best be careful not to puncture the abdominal cavity. You’ll need a sharp knife. Peel the animal out as you would a squirrel or rabbit. Remove all fat from under the front and back legs and wash meat thoroughly. After meat is cleaned completely, cut into quarters.

H C A N I P S ASELGA/

Eddie Sánchez

My grandfather Manuel Sánchez came to Texas from Mexico in 1916. He and his family, his father Gorgonio, mother Romanita, four brothers and two sisters, crossed the Río Grande, along with them was my Papá Memes bride, Aurora Marín, she was fifteen, he was sixteen. Papá Meme, along with his father and his brothers—three of them fought in the Mexican Revolution under General Pancho Villa y sus Dorados. They came from Parral, Chihuahua, Mexico, the birthplace of the Mexican Revolution. They settled just west of Eagle Pass, at Seco Mines, and found work at the Seco Mines Coal Company. The Sánchez also bought and sold and trained horses, all the men were skilled horseman. Papá Meme, telling me of his time in the war, told me that the men slept on their horses to keep them from getting stolen, and to avoid rattlesnakes. They put grease on the horse’s back to keep them from getting raw, from the hours upon hours of the rider being on its back. They took care of their horses, those were his legs, his life. Told me they ate what they could find, burros, snakes, bobcats, coyotes, dogs, deer, bear, mountain goats, armadillo, wild hogs, mice. 28

In the late 20’s, the mines flooded when the Río Grande water ran over its banks. Fifty to sixty men drowned in that black hole. Two of Papá Meme’s cousins died in there along with his oldest brother, Lucas. My mother also lost two uncles in that mine. With the mines closing, and not much need for horses anymore, it was automobiles that became the means of transportation. So they turned to agriculture, working the winter garden soil of deep South Texas at Richie Bros Farms: Onions, broccoli, cauliflower, tomatoes, peppers, calabaza. But their main cash crop was spinach. The owner of the farm noticed this strong handsome very young man, the best picker and all-around hand, always got to work before the others, stayed longer, never leaving a task undone, promoting him to foreman, El Capatás of the field hands, and later became manager of the farm. In the early thirties the railroad came into play with shipping crops, especially spinach. It would get shipped as far north as Chicago. Many men and women worked for my grandfather at the bodegas cargando vagones de aselga. My father-in-law Manuel Salazar, along with four of his brothers, worked for my grandfather, Papá. I

remember he would bring home three to four bags of coins to do his payroll. My Papá could not read or write, but was great with numbers. Papá kept a small notebook in his vest pocket, always wore a vest on top of his white long-sleeve shirt, boots up to his knees and a Stetson hat. I still have his size 8 1/2 brown Nunn-Bush shoes, the ones he wore when he danced tangos at the Palenques in Mexico. In the notebook he had his employees’ names that he wrote in with some sort of mark for their names: Satorrino Salazar was xox, Porfidio Ibarra was wxo, Herculado Hernández was 0**, etc etc. He wrote their marks on small pieces of papers and put coins on them, he had them all over the table. No one was allowed in the kitchen at this time except me. I picked up any coin that fell to the floor, he would reward me with a nickel or a dime when he was finished. He would then put the coins, the pay, in little brown envelopes that he also marked with a workers marks, and he had them sign or mark the pieces of papers, to save it as a receipt. He paid 150 to 175 men in this manner, including the women, names like Noelín Ramírez, Romelia, Gonzales, Altagracia Martínez, who was my Mamá Vilas comadre. 30

In the teens and early twenties, many brave Mexicano men crossed into Texas, men that fought in the revolution, Dorados de Pancho Villa, Carrancistas Federales, Prietos, Morenos, Burris, Borados, but they put the past behind them and worked hand in hand for the further future of their family. This was the Mexicans second beginning, later, the Chicano. My grandfather, my abuelito, Papá Don Sánchez, the tanguero, the gambler, the revolutionary, the Capatás, the planter, grower, shipper of spinach, fed many, many people all over the USA. Spinach is now at its peak in the Winter Garden Region, that starts south of Uvalde to the west, and to Crystal City and Carrizo Springs to the east all the way to the Rio Bravo. November, December, January, are its months of harvest. Today’s spinach is not as rich in iron and minerals as it was back in the 20’s, then the 60’s, what with chemical fertilizers and herbicides. My Papá always beat the odds, but not diabetes. He died at 57-years of age, about the same time spinach lost its nutritional value. The taste of that sandy soil is in my mouth, el yerro, iron. It tastes like Papá.

Aselga (Boiled Spinach) Ingredients Spinach Bacon or salt pork 1 onion, chopped 1 tomato, chopped 3-4 cloves garlic, chopped 1/3 cup cilantro

Directions

You can cook it with chorizo, bacon, salt pork, chopped beef tips, or chopped pork, with sliced serrano peppers.

•

In a large pot, boil the spinach. Fill pot with

•

Fry bacon or salt pork, after chopping it up into small bits

•

Sauté onion, tomato, and garlic in the bacon grease.

•

Add spinach and cilantro to the mixture.

spinach to the top, because it will wilt into a cup or two.

D L I W E N O G TURKEY

f f r u M a t a p a Z s e r o Dol

Thanksgiving holiday at Güeras this year! Yay, we are all so excited because she loves to host holidays and generally she goes out of her way. She bakes things from scratch like cookies and deserts too. She never places instant mashed potatoes on her table. No ma’am not Güera. This year Güera had to take a day off from the holiday, she had to go to the hospital because her daughter was going to have outpatient surgery. I joined her at the hospital and soon the text messages started to come in…then it turned ugly…something that happened between the sisters ten years ago…just like that! Güera took the phone and proceeded to read the sender the riot act. Anyway, the barrage of insults soon blasted the little phone, draining the battery. Güera was so hurt! I tried to comfort and tell Güera that this too would pass, “but Thanksgiving is tomorrow!” she wailed. Tic toc Tic toc…we sat in silence, the joy of getting together now marred by those ugly text messages. Güeras phone rang. She looked at me with a look of misbelief… “Mom; she went and kidnapped the turkey!!! She actually drove all the way to my house to get the turkey!! “What am I going to do? I have guests coming over tomorrow. “I knew better than to 34

accept when she offered to buy the turkey….!!!” Sheer panic and hurt quickly filled the room as we waited for the surgery to be over. “I bet she put Tom the Turkey in the front seat,” I said. “I hope she seat-belted Tom!” We both looked at each other and busted out laughing. Then we laughed some more…finally, her daughter’s surgery was over, and we loaded her up in the car and went our separate ways. Hours later, Güera called. “I cannot find a fresh turkey anywhere tonight; what am I going to do?” I told her to come over and we’d go looking for a fresh turkey together. We went to the first HEB right here by the house …nada…but I just had to ask… “are there any fresh turkeys in the back sir?” The employee looked at us and said “Yes, just one …and it is a big one 26lbs… do you want it?” “Oh yes, we want it!!” We got to the register and I surprised Güera as I paid for the turkey. She gave me a big hug and just for laughs she seat-belted Tom into the front seat of her car. Lesson to be shared: If hosting a dinner, always buy the main course.

Wild Turkey Ingredients 12-26 lb turkey Poultry seasoning Salt and pepper 1 stick of real butter

Directions •

Rinse turkey with cool water and let it rest.

•

Remove the gizzard and check the other cavity for anything else that might be stuffed inside the bird. Rinse again and let rest.

•

Preheat oven to 325 degrees

•

Place turkey upside down on a rack in an oven safe pan.

•

Take the softened butter and spread all over the bird. Sprinkle poultry seasoning, salt, and pepper onto turkey, and place on bottom rack in the oven. Pour yourself a big glass of wine and let the bird cook for several hours according to weight. Enjoy. 35

CARNE A D A R B R E H DES Nelva Abernathy

La abuela nunca imaginó que llegaría el día en que estuviera junto a su nieta para, ambas, realizar un rito ancestral: cocinar para satisfacer el paladar de un hombre. En este caso, su esposo,quien por mas que intentaba ser amable, solo consegúa satisfacer su propio ego. Ahí estaba él de pie frente a la puerta. De cuerpo entero, vestido con su camisa, pantalón y sombrero color caqui. Había algo atrayente en él. De lo contrario, la abuela nunca hubiera cocinado para él. Pero, era un “hombre”, en pocas palabras un verdadero macho. Frente a él quedaba una mujer sumisa. Una mujer que había renunciado a ser ella misma. Una mujer que había abandonado el gozo de aprender nuevas palabras. Una mujer que anhelaba expresarse mejor frente a los demás. Una mujer que había renunciado al orgullo de ser mujer y que en vez de gritar se mordía los labios para no quejarse. Esa era mi abuela Inocencia, a quien no le sentaba nada mal su nombre. No solamente era su nombre de pila, se lo había ganado a golpe de pulso, por soportar, por tolerar a alguien, que se consideraba amo y señor. Ese era mi abuelo Tomas: “El patriarca de la familia” a quien nadie debía molestar, a quien todos tenían que

respetar y sobrellevar. Ese día, Don Tomas llego mas temprano que de costumbre. Y alrededor de él comenzó gran ajetreo en la casa. El ruiseñor que habitaba dentro del corazón de la abuela, dejó de cantar. Y la radionovela que estaba a punto de terminar vió su punto final antes de tiempo. El silencio del mediodía fuertemente se abrazó a las paredes del alma. Y poco a poco, se fueron escuchando, primero, el chorro del agua, era necesario verter mas agua en la cacerola donde cocinaba la carne. Ya era casi una hora y media—unos minutos mas—dijo la abuela. El aroma de la carne, el ajo y la cebolla casi inundaba la habitación. Nuestros sentidos estaban inundados de olores. Ahora, las especies, el clavo, el comino y la pimienta vigorosamente eran molidos en el molcajete, mientras que tomate y el chile terminaban de cocerse, para luego agregarlos a la salsa. El abuelo era especial. Tan especial que cada día se le preparaba un nuevo platillo. En esta ocasión era carne deshebrada, la cual después de cocerse se dejó reposando por unos veinte minutos. La abuela empezó a deshebrar la carne y con ello se fueron desatando los nudos del alma.

Carne Deshebrada (Shredded Meat) Para 6 personas

Ingredients 2 kilos de carne de res para cocer 1 cebolla y una cabeza de ajo 1 tomate grande 1 manojo de cilantro Muy quedo empezó a entonar la canción “Celosa”... Si lloro no creas que es por tu cariño que ya lo he

perdido, no vale la pena derramar mas lágrimas por un amor ya llore bastante cuando imaginaba que

me olvidarías, antes si lloraba pero ya no lloro por tu

4 chiles serranos 4 piezas de chile cascabel clavo, comino, pimienta sal al gusto

corazón.

Preparación

Entre suspiro y suspiro fuimos deshebrando la carne.

•

En una olla de litro y medio se pone a cocer la carne junto con una cabeza de ajo, una cebolla y sal al gusto. El cocimiento puede variar entre una hora y media y dos (dependiendo de el tipo de carne).

•

En otra olla mas pequeña se coce el chile cascabel y los tomates. Cuando la carne está lista se deja reposar por 20 minutos. Mientras tanto en un molcajete podemos empezar por moler el clavo, el comino, la pimienta y los dientes de ajo que previamente se habían cocido. Posteriormente cuando el tomate y el chile estón listos se añaden al molcajete para preparar la salsa.

•

Inmediato, ponemos aceite en un sartén y nos disponemos a cocinar la salsa junto con los chiles serranos y el cilantro.

•

Después de 10 minutos añadimos la carne. Y el guiso queda listo.

Después de hacer la salsa la vertimos en un sartén previamente listo con aceite calientito. la dejamos

cocer por unos minutos y luego añadimos la carne. Mi

abuela, no solamente poseía el gusto por la música sino por la cocina también. A la hora de servir el platillo lo acompañaba con arroz, frijoles en bola (recien

hechecitos) y con tortillas de maíz hechas a mano.

Cuando el plato estaba listo en la mesa, me pedía: ve a despertar a tu abuelo para que venga a comer.

El abuelo calladamente venía, se sentaba a la mesa.

Terminaba de comer y de nueva cuenta regresaba a la

siesta. Una hora después el caballero se enlistaba, llenaba los tambos de agua que a diario llevaba al rancho. Con un escueto—hasta mañana—salía de la casa. Delante

de nosotros nunca demostró sus afectos. Sin embargo

los guisos de la abuela le llenaban el estómago. Aunque al salir de casa hubiera otra mujer esperando. Ella sabía que como ella nadie lo amaría jamás.

T A E M D E SHREDD Nelva Abernathy Güela and granddaughter never imagined that, one day, together they would fulfill an ancestral rite: cooking to satisfy a man’s taste. A man who didn’t even try to be gentle but would show off his own ego. There he was, standing by the opened door, full length, dressed up like the actor John Wayne: solid color shirt, high-waisted khaki pants and silver belly hat. With the exception that he wasn’t in show business, he was a rancher raising cattle, goats and sheep. Passion embedded in the blood, tough job for a man. Long hours away from home. Great opportunity to cheat. Güela never figured out why she ended up married to a macho and never understood why she was so much in love with a man that not only oppressed her soul but kept her tied up to fulfill his own expectations. More than once he came back home with a child out of wedlock and Güela had to bite her tongue. It was his decision and if he wasn’t asking for an opinion, all she had to do was to open the door and let them in. Slowly Güela started losing her cheerful ways. Not as often, her sisters said, but sporadically she would sing. Reason enough for her to give advice to the younger generations: don’t give into your own flesh because someone is sweet talking you. Get to know the man first.

Güela was right. She gave up her dreams. She quit reading instead, the first 20 years of her marriage, she ended up living on the ranch, though she moved back into town. Without going into details, she was private and thought nobody else needed to know her life. This was my Güela Chenta whose name, as it apperared in the birth certificate, was Inocencia. The word innocence, which means freedom from sin. Yes, indeed, she was uncorrupted by evil. Her parents had chosen the right name. She was married to a man who loved to be treated as Lord and Master. A man who was the patriarch of the family. A man with a strong will who wouldn’t take no for an answer. That particular day, when Güela and granddaughter got together, he came in earlier than ever. It was like a strong rush of wind that got into the house. The radio show went off the air. The bird inside Güela’s soul all of a sudden quit singing, at the end silence. Slowly everything started coming back to normal when the water from the faucet reached the pan, we knew right there that the silence was broken. The meat had been cooking for one hour, we needed an extra 30 minutes. The aroma of the meat with garlic and onion was all over the house. It was like an open invitation for you to sit down at the table and eat. No matter what Güelo did, in Güelas life he was

special. It always was a delight to be close to Güela. It was good to learn from her. I never paid any attention to the outside. I always looked at her soul. It was beautiful! After the meat was cooked we let it cool off for about 20 minutes then after, as a child, I had a blast shredding the meat while my Güela was making the sauce with the tomatoe, serrano and chilli peppers, pepper, cumin, clove. When the sauce is ready in the pan, you add the meat to it, let it warm up for a few minutes and it is ready. You can eat this meat with rice, beans and corn tortillas made by hand. Which Güela did. I sat down and watched her, setting up the table, serving his plate, and with a sign she asked me to go and get my Güelo for him to come and eat. Quietly he came in, ate, and went back for his midday nap. Right before three in the afternoon, he was ready to leave. He didn’t like to be questioned, that’s why Güela never asked for answers. Till this day, even if both are gone, it’s still a mystery why he needed other women, if he had a woman that was so in love with him.

S R E T S Y O MOUNTAIN PA R A N D A

S T Y LE

In South Texas, they are called huevos de toro. Yup, testicles of bull calves used for human consumption, also known as “cowboy caviar,” or “rocky mountain oysters.” They are that part of the bull that is removed in his youth so that he can be more tractable, grow meatier, behave less masculine. When the calves are branded, the testicles are cut off and thrown in a bucket of water. They are then peeled, washed, rolled in flour and pepper, and fried in a pan. A delicacy—I like them. Like other organ meats, testicles may be cooked in a variety of ways—deep-fried whole, cut into broad slices, thin slices, or marinated. At the roundups, cowboys and ranch hands tossed the meat on a hot iron stove. With a very sharp knife, the cowboys would split the tough skin-like muscles that surround each testicle, peeling off the skin. You can remove the skin easily if the testicles are frozen first.

Edna Leal Hinojosa

My tío either left them whole or sliced each testicle into ½ inch thick ovals, placed them in a large pan or bowl with enough beer to cover them, covered them and let them sit for two hours. In a shallow bowl, he combined eggs, flour, cornmeal, salt and pepper. Or you can just throw them on the grill. The testicles shrink on the grill. Some like the testicles fried: In that case, dredge them in the flour mixture first, deep fry them in boiling oil for 3 minutes or until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Tío would whistle a special melody, and the guys would come to “meter la cuchara.” The adults would dip them into fresh, hot chile salsa. They got noisy, it must have been the Lone Star beer. I remember watching this, and wondering why everyone was laughing so much.

BARBACOA D E R G I B AND

. r J y d o C o i c u L a ñ u c A Edward Guadalupe Forget the Wheaties; this is The Breakfast of Champions. It’s early Sunday morning and the four Comadres are gathered around Abuelas kitchen table. There is Abuela, Tía Maria, Tía Juana, and Vickie Estrada. An oilcloth on top of the table and right in the middle are the remains of the cow’s head I had last seen on top of the stove last night. They have their aprons on, ready to turn that head into a presentable Barbacoa. Abuelo’s rigged up a large aluminum pot with a garbage can lid as a cover; put in some water and emptied a couple of Lone Stars in the bottom of the pot, also threw in a few bay leaves, chili piquines, comino, some cilantro and brings it to a boil. A few large stones and burlap bags are placed in the bottom to keep the head up out of the liquid. Abuelo’s also partially wrapped the head in aluminum foil. There it sits in all its majesty, horns removed, skin peeled off to reveal the prized cachete meat and eyeballs staring straight ahead. Yesterday evening Abuelo arrived from the market with a large package wrapped in newspaper that he could hardly carry under his arm. He dropped it on the kitchen table, announced loudly so we could all hear him, “Barbacoa!” Tío Gilbert and I were outside in the backyard when we heard his call, elbowing each 42

other as we ran through the kitchen door and letting it slam with a loud bang. “Huercos jodidos, cuidado con la puerta”, Abuela yelling at us for slamming the door. We skidded up to the edge of the table, looking at the largest package of Barbacoa either of us had ever seen, our eyes big with excitement, man this was going to be a feast! Abuelo unwrapped the package; we saw that it was not the Barbacoa we were used to eating. Gilbert and I fell into each other as Abuelo unveiled the head of a cow. Those glazed over eyeballs were staring right at us and its huge tongue was sticking limply out the side of its mouth. I gathered enough courage to get a closer look and got up close to the table; Gilbert had run outside and was looking in through the screen door. The head was ugly, no horns, no skin, huge tongue, and the saddest eyes. It even had a few long hairs sticking out of its chin and ears. How could this be Barbacoa? Abuelo was playing a trick on us. But why did he bring this dead cow’s head home? “Mira, vieja, vamos a tener un chingo de barbacoa,” he told Abuela before she could start yelling at him. “Juan el Carnizero owed me some money from the dominos and he didn’t have it, so he gave me this fine cabeza, and I’m going to cook it tonight and then

tomorrow we can sell it to the vecinos.” Abuela glared at him and I knew it was not going to go well for him. “Viejo, chiflao, the last time you tried to cook a cabeza outside en un pozo, the vecinos called the firemen and they ruined it with their water hoses.” “I thought about that, Vieja, and I’m going to cook it inside on the stove. My friend Pancho told me how he does it. So don’t worry about it, I’ll do all the work of cooking, you just tell your comadres to help you get the meat off the cabeza tomorrow morning.” “Está bien, les llamo a las Comadres, but if it’s not any good, te voy a dar unos chingazos.”

After Abuelo washes the head, he rubs salt, black pepper and cayenne pepper all over it. He also cuts up an onion and smashes five or six cloves of garlic, he puts all these inside the cavity of the head. While he’s got the head opened up, he cuts out the tongue. He says he’s going to cook that separately because it gives the meat a strange flavor if it’s cooked in the head. He rubs the tongue with the same spices and wraps it in foil; he’ll put this in the same pot as the head, just not in the head.

“Órale, Junior help me get this pretty girl over to the sink so I can give her a bath.” So it’s true, they are going to cook this ugly head and make Barbacoa. My stomach is turning over, getting sick just thinking about all the Barbacoa tacos I’ve eaten; I think I won’t eat Barbacoa again.

So here we are, eight o’clock Sunday morning and Abuelo has stayed up all night making sure that the cabeza has cooked well and the pot did not run out of liquid. Of course, he also had a case of Lone Star to keep him company. Now he’s in the backyard sleeping in his chair, snoring rhythmically like a three-piece Conjunto. The head has steamed all night and the meat is ready to fall off the bone. Here it is in the middle of the table ready to offer itself up for breakfast. “Comadres, we’re going to make two piles, over here put the eyeballs, brains, lips, ears and any other part that’s not just meat. Y acá, pongan los cachetes and other good pieces. We’ll mix them together at the end. Once we get all the meat off the bone, we can start chopping it into small pieces. Oh, and one of you grab the lengua and start chopping it up.” That was Abuela taking charge and letting her Comadres know how she wanted the meat handled. With the radio blaring in the background playing the polka music that all the Comadres loved, they dove into the job with gusto and are grabbing the flesh off the bone with their bare hands and putting it where Abuela told them, and every once in awhile, I could see them put a tasty morsel in their mouths. A prized piece of cachete meat rolls off the table; before it hits the floor Tía Juana catches it and pops it noisily into her mouth. It doesn’t take long before the Comadres are busy pulling and chopping the two piles into small pieces. Soon the head is as naked as that of its sisters who’ve been lying out in the sun-baked fields of South Texas all summer. You’d never know that just yesterday it was running around the stockyard looking for a meal. Today it has become a feast for many. I’ve been standing by the edge of the table watching the work being done. The aroma of the cooking meat had awoken me early. The smell is like no other, heavy, earthy, inviting, it just works its way into your very being. I had to get up and see how that awful looking 44

head was going to turn into Barbacoa, not that I was going to have any. “Esté bien, Chicas, ora, take about half of the meat from the meat only pile and mix it in with all the other parts of the head. We are going to have Pura Carne Barbacoa which we can sell for more and Mezcla Barbacoa with everything in it which we will sell for less.” Tía María, she’s the outgoing one who always says what the others are thinking, says “I don’t know why anyone would pay more for the all meat Barbacoa, the lengua, ojos and cesos is what gives the Barbacoa its flavor.” All the Comadres laugh out loud and chime in in agreement. I know I’m going to be sick, they actually prefer the tongue, eyes and brains mixed in. Abuela is back at the table from the comal where she has been heating up some fresh corn tortillas that Tía Juana made this morning. I see Abuela reach into the mess of all meat and pile some onto two tortillas. “Junior, ven paraca, come here and try these tacos,” she says to me as she puts a plate with the tacos on the small table by the back door. “Y Abuelo brought you a surprise from the cantina last night.” I turn to the table to see what she is talking about; there I see the two beautiful looking tacos full of steaming all meat Barbacoa and a big frosty bottle of Big Red waiting for me. Ok, ok, so maybe I will have the Barbacoa this morning.

&BIG

BARBACOA (BEEF CHEEK MEAT) Ingredients 1 cow head, skinned and cleaned (3 lbs beef cheek meat) 2 onions, minced 5 cloves garlic, smashed 1 bunch of fresh cilantro, chopped 2 tbsp comino 2 bottles of beer (your preference) 1 handful whole chile piquin 2 tbsp cayenne pepper Several bay leaves Salt and black pepper to taste

Directions •

Combine all ingredients in a slow cooker. Cover

and cook on low for 6-8 hours, or on high for 3-4 hours, or until the beef is tender and falls apart

•

easily when shredded with a fork.

Using two forks, shred the beef into bite-sized pieces inside of the slow cooker. Toss the beef

with the juices, then cover and let the barbacoa

beef soak up the juices for an extra 10 minutes. Remove the bay leaves. Use a pair of tongs or a

•

slotted spoon to serve the barbacoa.

Serve with your favorite corn tortillas and a 12-oz bottle of Big Red.

S A D A N A P M E AMOR

. r J y d o C o i c u L a ñ u c A Edward Guadalupe

The first funeral I can remember going to was in Robstown, Texas in the summer of 1960. One of my mother’s sisters had passed away in Corpus Christi; I traveled with her from San Antonio to attend the services. My mother came from a family of thirteen children and now there were twelve. Sophia was the bohemian spirit in the family, a beautiful woman with green eyes, a very fair complexion and long curly red hair. She left behind no money for the burial or to take care of her kids, four children, two girls and twin boys. . . So who is going to pay for the funeral and what is going to be done with the kids is causing a big problema within the familia. Everyone in the family lives from paycheck to paycheck and no one has the extra money to spend on Sophia or her kids. Tía María, Tía Agapita, and Tía Josefina are at Tía Juanita’s house when we arrive. They are getting ready to make empanadas for after the service when everyone’s going to gather at her house. There is a big pot of camotes boiling on the stove next to una olla de cafe starting to boil; the sweet smell of canela and strong coffee fills the air. Tía María is in charge of preparing the dough; she has two bowls in front of her, in one she beats an egg, egg whites and vinegar together with ¾ cup of water. In the other bowl

she mixes 3 cups of flower with a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and 3 teaspoons of baking powder. Into this bowl she kneads the mixture with two forks and ½ cup of manteca until it’s a course consistency. She always says not to make it too smooth or it won’t be as flaky. As I get to the edge of the table she dumps the mixed flower onto the middle of the table dusted with flour. She starts to blend this by hand and forms a bowl in the middle of the dough. Now she pours all the wet stuff from the other bowl into the middle and starts to really knead it together. It’s fun to watch her work the dough over and over into a big ball, occasionally she scatters more flour on the table so the dough won’t stick. When she thinks its right, she covers it with a wet cloth and puts it into the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Tía Agapita is at the stove taking care of the camotes, she’s added a piloncillo for sweetness and the juice of a lime to the water as the camotes come to a boil. She says you have to be sure not to let them boil too much or they will get mushy, if you want mushy you should use calabaza. Camote has more flavor and needs to have chunks. When she feels they are ready, she drains the water and starts to peel the skins off each one, mashing them carefully with a fork. This is when she adds mantequilla, canela and a little Imperial sugar. Everyone in the family insists on using Imperial

Sugar and the piloncillo has to be from Mexico. The piloncillo from Mexico has a dark, syrupy taste almost like molasses; she lets the prepared camote cool in the bowl and joins the other tías for el chisme. The tías take this time to have coffee and talk about the tíos and bet on which ones will not show up for the funeral tomorrow or will show up drunk. Tío Pancho is the oldest and will have to make the decision on what to do about paying for the funeral and what is going to happen to the kids. My mother breaks into the conversation saying that Mr. Gonzales, the owner of the funeraria, was one of Sophia’s friends and she is sure he will let the family make payments. Tía Agapita says that the problem with the kids is that they want to stay together, and no one has the room or the money to take them all. Tía María lets them know it’s time to roll out the dough and start to fill the empanadas. Tía Agapita takes chunks of dough and rolls them into round balls, she moves fast with hands that have made tortillas all their lives. Tía María and Tía Juanita start to roll the dough as if they were making tortillas. Tía Josefina and my mother use a large empty coffee can to cut perfect circles out of the rolled masa. They stack the circles waiting to be filled and the left over jagged edges go back into the masa bowl to be made into new balls. After all the dough has been rolled out and cut into circles, the tías sit at the table to start the filling process and continue the gossip. The camote bowl is in the middle of the table where they all can reach, grabbing a circle of masa, putting a couple of tablespoons of camote in the middle, folding it over in half and sealing the edges with a fork by making a crimping indention all around the edge. It doesn’t take long before all the empanadas are filled and ready to be fried.

We spend the night at Tía Juanita’s house, the next morning we all go in different cars to the funeral home. The service is small and subdued with mostly family paying their respects. There has been a great debate last night, if all of the brothers would show up for the service and if they would be sober? Apparently they did not approve of my Tía Sophía’s lifestyle and may still not be ready to forgive. As the service goes on and the reverend is about to say what a good person my aunt has been and how God is blessed to have her in his kingdom, I hear some of the tíos snicker in disapproval. My mother glares at them, whispering under her breath that they should look at their lives first. Sophía’s kids are all in a group sobbing deeply and I wonder if they are mourning the passing of their mother or the fact that they will probably be split up as a family or both. I didn’t really know my aunt that well but I am weeping deep tears of compassion and sadness for her death and my cousins’ dilemma. The cars are lined up outside la funeraria. We are all to proceed to the burial site which is several miles away under Hwy 77. I get separated from my mother, and one of my uncles comes up to me and says “Your mother’s in the front car with the tías and she asked me to take care of you.” We are going down the line of cars until we get to a two-tone green ‘53 Plymouth Belvedere. “Here, take the keys and drive this car to the camposanto, be careful, Tío Fito is sleeping it off in the back seat, he just got this car and he’ll be mad if you mess it up. I’ll be right in front so just follow me.” Holy shit, he thought I could drive because I was big for my age, I was not about to tell him I’m only 13! Sweat starts rolling down my face, my back, and everywhere else on my body that could sweat. Man oh man—I’ve been driving my Dad’s 1948 Studebaker since last year, I’m good with the clutch and the three 50

speed shifter on the column. How different could this be, a car’s a car right? I’ve mastered that Studebaker in the two acre lot we live on, carefully placing it in the same spot they park it in so as not to attract attention. Today’s the day I get on the highway, this is what I’ve been waiting for. As I step into the car and slide behind the wheel, I look around for the ignition switch, to familiarize myself with the layout. Where is it? Where’s the shifter, it’s not on the column or on the floor, and it doesn’t have a clutch either. What’s going on, what’s the matter with this piece of junk, how do you make it go? The passenger door flies open and in jumps my cousin Antonio; he’s a few years older than me and is already driving. “Órale, güey, what are you doing, you don’t know how to drive, pendejo.” I’ve been driving my Dad’s Studebaker all year, but this car doesn’t have a shifter or a clutch, what do I do? The line is starting to move—come on Tonio, help me out. “You’re just lucky I was with Tío Fito when he bought this baby; you’ve got to push those buttons on the dash to make it go, put your foot on the brake, push the D y dale gas. Vámonos, they’re getting away from you.” It didn’t take long to catch up to the other cars. Tonio found the beer in the glove box and we were officially drinking and driving for the first time. ¡A todo dar! It was sad at the gravesite watching Tía Sophía’s kids sitting on the front row, llorando with all the tías comforting them. They were crying for their mother, they looked so sad, they looked scared. What was going to happen to them tomorrow, where are they going to live, who is going to take care of them? I feel their pain, their sadness became mine, and I start sobbing wondering what my sisters and I would do if anything happened to my parents. Tío Fito surfaces before the service is over and gets the keys from me, slips five dollars in my hand and winks a knowing

look as if to say thanks for not letting anyone know he’s been sleeping in the car. Tonio and I ride back to the house with my mother; he keeps messing with me threatening to let my mother know about my driving. As we pull into Tía Juanita’s driveway, Tonio and I jump out and run into the kitchen, following the smell of the frying empanadas. We stop short in our tracks as we see the table overflowing with fried chicken, arroz con pollo, borracho beans, enchiladas, tacos, nopalitos, and a lot of other stuff I’ve never seen before. This all looks good and I am sure to get my share, but right now I have empanadas on the brain. I was disappointed last night when my Tía Agapita said they would fry the empanadas after the funeral so they would be hot and crispy. The funeral was over; the small kitchen is filled with the welcome aroma of camote in a light flaky crust and I am ready to sample

The three of them were sitting by themselves in the backyard looking lost. Tonio and I sit next to them and put the plate in the middle. “Aquí, tome esto, primos, Tía Angelita sent these empanadas de camote for us to share; she said to tell you she made them with your mother’s recipe.” We all take one. It seems like everyone has the first bite at the same time; we look at each other and we begin to cry as we savor the delicious hot empanadas. Tía Angelita had used plenty of Tía Sophía’s secret ingredient. Amor.

the first one. My tía turns from the stove with a plate full of the empanadas, sprinkled with just a touch of powdered sugar. Here Junior, you and Tonio take these and go share them with your cousins, I know they could use a little bit of love right now, tell them I used their mother’s recipe with her secret ingredient.

I DON’T E P I C E R A HAVE

o l l i r r a C a í r Ma

By the age of twelve, I was put in an orphanage. No one made tortillas, Spanish rice or pinto beans. Our rice was white, our meat was always oven-cooked. We had green beans or corn

and our tortillas, were white bread. From the age of six, I became a farmworker. And I would help feed the animals. I learned to eat cabrito, rabbit, armadillo, palomitas, vibora de cascavel and frog legs. I loved fried potatoes cooked in a cast iron skillet on a cast iron stove. They were the best tasting ever, with homemade tortillas and a molcajete of chile piquín.

Before, I had a foster mother, and she had a gift for baking Mexican sweet bread. She would make conchas, wedding cookies and campechanas too. I was too small to remember the recipes. I was around four or five. The second thing I remember is that at Christmas she would serve me half a cup of coffee with sugar, cream, and pecans. That is, if I had been a good girl. Now I can cook just about anything. My son-in-law Patrick puts an order every chance he gets.

N A P E D N I PÚD

Nelva Abernathy

El aire fresco de la noche se pegó al cuerpo, mientras ambas, tía y sobrina, caminaban rumbo a la estación de ferrocarril. La emoción se deja—va escapar de los ojos de la niña, quien a sus seis años, vivía la experiencia de viajar, sola sin sus padres, a otra ciudad. Aspiraba honda y profundamente el olor de la libertad. Era una deliciosa sensación la de ir tomada de la mano de la tía. A su lado podía ser ella misma. A su lado las angus- tias se disipaban. La tía Elba era de sonrisa fácil aunque a veces se le veía triste, parecía que nunca había un acuerdo entre ella y el marido. En esos momentos sus hermosos ojos verdes se volvían como el mar - se llenaban de lágrimas. Y para no pelear enfrente de la niña, apresuradamente salía de casa sin importar que fueran las doce de la noche. Pero, que tanto se le puede platicar a un niña que ni siquiera ha empezado a vivir. De pronto, el silbato del tren, la arrancó de sus pensamientos. La gente, a su alrededor, hechó mano de sus maletas y dispusieron a salir de la estación. El chirrido de las llantas de acero en las vías anunció que había llegado. Abriéndose paso en la multitud, la niña trató de ser la primera en

treparse pero era imposible, átras estaba la tía quien feliz lucía a su sobrina como la hija que nunca había tenido. Sonrió por tener el privilegio de disfrutarla por unos cuantos días. De tal manera que la tia se encargaba de chiflarla para que no hubieran excusas. Para que la niña siempre quisiera venir a verla, se dedicó a hacer diferentes tipos de postre, de esa manera la tendía contenta, y efectivamente así era. Esa noche cuando salieron, todo parecía que la niña no tendría el permiso de viajar, pero grito tanto que tuvieron que mandar un policía a la casa para ver que clase de maltrato recibía. Y nada, sucedía que ya estaba chiflada. La tía tenía un hijo de 16 años y tomando evitaba enfrentar la realidad de sentirse menospreciada por un hijo que la señalaba por haber tenido un hijo sin padre. Y por otro lado, estaba casada a un hombre a quien no amaba, pero que hacía lo posible por satisfacerla. A pesar de todos sus esfuerzos, no conseguía enamorarla. Entre este tipo de situacion pasaba sus días. Por eso cuando la sobrina estaba con ella, se olvidaba de todo. Juntas podían reir, jugar y también por qué no, cocinar para su sobrina. Entre

los murmullos de la gente y uno que otro empujón, finalmente encontraron su asiento en el frío vagón de segunda. ¿Qué importaba el frío si venía abrazada a su tía? Era tanta su urgencia por llegar a su destino final que sin darse cuenta, la niña se quedó profundamente dormida. Soñó que ya estaban en casa y que cuando su tía abrió el horno había escapado un aroma que llenaba todos los cuartos de la casa. “Tía, tía”—pronto se dejó escuchar—“tía, tía”, decía la voz agitada de la niña quien apresuradamente venía corriendo. Cuando hubo llegado a donde estaba la tía, fuertemente se abrazó a su cintura y aspirando hondament—como queriendose llevar todo el aroma hasta el fondo del alma—preguntó: “¿Cómo supiste que quería púdin?” La tía soltándose suavemente de los brazos de su sobrina, sacó la bandeja del horno. Ahí estaba el púdin esponjosito, tostadito envuelto entre el aroma

de la canela y la harina recién horneada. No eran necesarias las palabras pero la niña no paraba de hacer sus propias conjeturas. “Ah, entonces por eso cortaste el pan en pedacitos y lo dejaste remojando con leche durante la mañana”. “Despierta ya llegamos—ya nos tenemos que bajar!” El tren al frenar hizo que la niña casi cayera. Y restregándose los ojos preguntó. ¿Cómo se hace el púdin de pan? A lo que la tía respondió, apurate niña, ya nos tenemos que bajar. Habían llegado al cambio vías y entre la oscuridad se fueron perdiendo las figuras hasta convertirse en siluetas.

PÚ din de pan Ingredients 8 a 10 piezas de pan frances 3 huevos 3/4 taza de azucar pasas

Preparación • • • • •

Se corta el pan en pedazos pequeños y en un refractario se pone a remojar por una hora. En otravasija se baten los huevos con la azucar, se agregan las pasas—al gusto. Se quita el exceso de la leche y se bate todo junto. Se calienta el horno. En una bandeja se dora la azucar para hacer una miel y sobre de ella se vierte el resto y se pone a cocinar por 25 minutos.

MEXICAN G N I D U P D A BRE Abernathy Nelva

The cool, fresh air of the night clung to both their bodies as aunt and niece made their way to the nearby railroad station. You could see the excitement in the eyes of the six-year-old little girl taking her first trip to another city without her parents. She breathed the aroma of her liberty and freedom deeply into her being. Just holding her aunt’s hand and being by her side took away all her worries. Her Aunt Elba had a ready smile although sometimes she looked sad. She and her husband did not get along and her beautiful, green eyes would fill with tears just like the sea. So as not to fight in front of her niece, she would quickly take the girl and leave the house even if it was midnight. What could she really share with a little girl that had barely started to live life? Suddenly, the sound of the train whistle—people all around her grabbed their suitcases and got ready to board the train. The loud screech of the iron wheels on the rails signaled that the train had arrived. The girl tried to open a path through the people so that she could be the first one on board, but it was impossible, her aunt was too far back in the crowd. Elba thought of her niece as the daughter she never had, and made sure to spoil her niece so that she would always want to come see her. To accomplish that goal she made all different kinds of desserts for her niece, this way the girl would be happy and that’s the way it had worked out to this day. This night when they left, the girl’s parents did not want her to go, 56

but she threw such a fit that the neighbors called the police to see if she was being abused. It was decided that she was just a spoiled child and to keep the peace, they allowed her to go with aunt Elba. With her niece beside her, Elba could forget everything that was wrong about her life and just laugh, play and cook for her niece. In between whispers, much shoving, pushing, they finally found a seat in the cold Second Class coach. The cold didn’t matter; the girl was traveling with her aunt, hugging her tight. She was in such a hurry to get to her aunt’s house, that in all the excitement of settling into their seats, she fell sound asleep and went right into a dream. In the dream, they were already at the house and when her aunt opened the oven door, there escaped such an aroma that filled the whole house. “Tía, Tía,” you could hear the niece’s voice as she ran into the kitchen. “Tía, Tía,” she screamed, hugging her Aunt by the waist, breathing in deeply the wonderful aroma as if she could take it into her very soul. “How did you know I wanted pudding?” The aunt gently freed herself from the child’s arms and took the pan out of the oven. Here was the pudding, spongy and toasty, warped in the sweet smell of canela and fresh baked cake. “Now I know why you cut the bread into small pieces and let it soak in the milk all morning, you were going to make my favorite bread pudding.”

Bread Pudding “Wake up, we are here, we’ve got to get off.” As the train applied the brakes, it jolted the niece awake and

almost made her fall. Rubbing her eyes she said, “How do you make bread pudding?” They had reached the station, peering outside all they could see was vague silhouettes through the fog.

Ingredients 3 cups of milk 8 to 10 pieces of French bread 3 eggs 3/4 cups of sugar 1 cup raisins 2 tsp of canela Preheat oven to 375 degrees

Directions Preheat oven to 375 • Cut the bread into small pieces and soak in milk for one hour • In a bowl, beat the eggs with the sugar, add raisins to your taste • In a pan, heat the sugar until it melts • Combine the egg mixture with the melted sugar • Remove the excess milk from the bread • Arrange the bread in a baking pan and cover with the mixture • Place in the oven and bake for 25 minutes Buen provecho!

A R E B M E M E IR S N A E B F O POT isha Hurd Tan

Thanksgiving, cold-numbed fingers, colder this year without great grandma Irene around. It must be her cold dead body freezing the world. Dew-fog lingers on the window, I stare through, beholding the Old Woman’s glasses, picturing her blurry vision, the perspiring lid on the dented pot appears to be her teary old eyes and the raisins lie gently on the muffins, and wrinkle. I reach over and feel one. Grandma’s skin needs cream, while scorching hot beans boil over. Grandma’s puffy hair is caught in the silhouette of the smoke, and in the back room, the house squeaks from the children playing because her bones are so frail.

ABOUT THE WRITER IN RESIDENCE Bárbara Renaud González is a published writer, journalist, activist and witness. Her essays and articles have appeared in The Nation, The Progressive, and the Los Angeles Times, and she was the first Chicana with a regular monthly column in a major Texas newspaper, the San Antonio ExpressNews. González is a recipient of the Inter-American Press Association Opinion Prize, and her novel, Golondrina, why did you leave me? was the first Chicana novel to be published by the University of Texas Press, becoming a finalist from the Texas Institute of Letters in 2009 for First Fiction. González’s most recent effort, The Boy Made of Lightning, a children’s book based on the life of voting rights pioneer Willie Velasquez from San Antonio, is the first in a series called “The Hero’s Journey,” telling the stories of marginalized heroes and sheroes of Texas.

barbararenaud.blogspot.com ABOUT BIBLIOTECH DIGITAL LIBRARY BiblioTech Digital Library is the first all-digital public library in the United States, located in Bexar County, Texas. Since the doors of the first branch opened on September 14th, 2013, BiblioTech has actively worked to bridge literacy and technology gaps in San Antonio and surrounding areas by establishing a community presence at the physical locations as well as an online presence through the digital collections and resources. Membership to the library is free to all Bexar County residents. Access to the digital collection is available 24/7.

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