The Green Chile Harvest- Can You Smell Those Chiles Roasting?

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bbum/2834468157/tion

Oh, if I could only include aromas in this blog with the ease that images and sound can be posted. In the technology of the future, I would post a picture taken outdoors by a large chile roaster and let you share in an aroma that is unique to the Southwest. 

My husband and I have had many adventures with the fall chile harvest each year, from picking our own chiles and roasting them on a grill in the backyard, to buying chiles that were so over roasted that no green chile was left (just blackened skins), to sharing the excitement of chile harvest with friends.

This is what happend one chile season.

It’s usually around mid-August when my husband Wayne starts asking me how many packages of green chiles we have left in the freezer.  “It’s almost chile season,” he observes ominously.  “We’d better be sure to get a good supply this year.”

One of the joys of living in El Paso, Texas is celebrating the chile harvest of our neighboring state of New Mexico.  During the waning days of summer, chile pods ripen to a bright green until they are ready to be picked and sold at roadside stands.  Many El Pasoans pride themselves on buying large quantities of green chiles to store in the freezer.  A quick defrosting and peeling of the chiles produces the basis for unforgettable dishes and sauces.  Fresh salsa, chiles rellenos, green chile cornbread, chiles fríos, chile con queso, and even green chile cranberry sauce come to mind.

For several years, our family ritual was to drive the 60 miles to Las Cruces, New Mexico on a warm autumn day and buy a 50 pound bag of green chiles at a roadside stand.  For a few extra dollars, the vendor would roast the chiles on the spot using a round metal cage mounted on a propane burner. 

propane chile roaster

With the chiles stowed in cardboard boxes in the trunk of the car, we would drive to the nearest convenience store to buy a package of flour tortillas.  The next step in the ritual would be to stop under a shady cottonwood tree on the side of the road.  We would pull over quickly, anticipating our first taste of the season’s green chiles. The procedure never varied.  Standing by the trunk of the car, we peeled the blackened skin off of a chile, wrapped the chile in a tortilla, rolling it up expertly by tucking in the ends as we rolled, and took a large bite, oohing and aahing over the flavor.

One year we invited our friends David and his wife Linda, who were raised on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, to join our chile harvest celebration.  “Do you just eat the chiles straight on the tortilla?  Aren’t they too hot?” they questioned cautiously.  “Naah.  You’ll love them,” Wayne replied confidently. 

The first part of the trip went as planned.  Drive to New Mexico, find a chile vendor, buy a large bag of chiles, have them roasted, buy  tortillas, and drive to a shady spot.  The aroma of chiles tantalized us on the short drive down a leafy back road.  We hopped out of the car and ran around to the trunk.  Wayne was the host, directing the ceremony and postponing his first bit of chile until everyone else had theirs.

David, Linda and I were happily munching on our tortilla and chile when we saw Wayne’s face change color as he took a big bite.  He started hopping around and gasping for breath.  “That’s the hottest chile I ever put in my mouth,” he managed to croak.  Wayne mopped his head and forehead, wet with perspiration, searching for something to put out the fire in his mouth.  We had water and cokes in a cooler, but as veteran chile lovers know, those liquids only spread the hot sensation throughout the lips and mouth.  “I’m dying,” Wayne moaned. 

We didn’t have any milk or butter, but bread is supposed to dampen the hotness, so we urged Wayne to eat several tortillas.  As with many bad experiences in life, the only real solution was letting time do its healing.  By the time we arrived home in El Paso an hour later, Wayne was back to normal, if a little shaken that his beloved green chiles had betrayed him.

What a great feeling to have a freezer shelf full of chiles.  I can make fresh salsa by chopping green chiles and adding chopped onions, garlic, tomatoes, cilantro, and salt and pepper.  If I want a hot dish, I combine the above ingredients (minus the cilantro) and cook them at a low heat on the stove in a large cast iron skillet.  The cooked chiles can be spread over grilled chicken or beef.  But, not being a carnivore, my favorite dish is to add a little white cheese to the cooked chile mixture along with a dash of evaporated milk to give the dish a soupy texture.  This chile con queso is great with tostadas or warmed tortillas. 

Another dish I like to make when I have a little extra time is chiles fríos.  I stuff the chiles with guacamole and chill them in the refrigerator.  I imagine that they could also be stuffed with other ingredients as well.  At Thanksgiving, I add some chopped green chiles to homemade cranberry sauce.  The hotness of the chiles and sweetness of the sauce make a great taste experience. 

I love chiles rellenos, but since we aren’t using the frying technique much in our house these days, I haven’t made them in a while.  Before we decided that we had better get healthy, I would make a modified chile relleno by stuffing a chile with cheese, wrapping it in a won ton wrapper, and frying it in oil.  Green chiles and cheese added to a corn bread recipe make a complete meal in one.  And, although I don’t cook them myself, I used to love buying green chile bagels in Las Cruces on my way home from teaching classes there.  Somehow I always start out with half a dozen bagels and make it to El Paso about an hour later with only four left in the bag.

They say that the sense of smell is one of the most evocative of human experiences.  The aroma of roasting green chiles in autumn, even more than the actual taste, takes my mind to warm, sunshiny days, crisp mornings and nights, and outdoor festivals with food booths and music.  I also feel a little sad that we are enjoying the bountiful harvest now, but in a few short months our world will turn cold again as the cycle of life continues.

Bountiful harvest of green chiles

 

Billy the Kid's Still Got It

Can you recognize Billy the Kid?

Yes, Billy the Kid still has the power to capture the public imagination.  Folk hero, bandit, ladies' man, cold-blooded murderer, unruly teenager, defender of a lost way of life, Billy continues to be, well, intriguing.

And I happen to have a soft spot in my heart for Billy.  Sappy, unrealistic, uninformed you may call me, but having raised a son of my own, I would have given Billy shelter for the night and cooked him a good hot meal.  Besides, reports are that Billy was a fluent Spanish speaker.  As a fan of languages, I admire that.

Last Sunday my husband and I took a leisurely drive to San Elizario, Texas to participate in the monthly Mission Trail Art Market.  We timed the visit to see a re-enactment by the Pistoleros of San Elizario of an historic event involving Billy the Kid. 

Pistoleros of San Elizario

San Elizario boasts an historic jail, which in 1876 was the county jail.  Billy broke into (note into not out of) the jail to rescue a friend and gambling companion, Melquiades Segura.  Melquiades had been arrested for killing Margarito Mendoza ,who had accused him of cheating at the gambling table. Billy rode on horseback six hours from Mesilla, New Mexico to San Elizario, arriving at about 3:00 am. ( Today the same trip would take approximately two hours by car.)  

Billy knocked on the door and identified himself in Spanish as a Texas Ranger delivering prisoners to the jail. When a jailer opened the door, Billy used his .44 revolver to convince the jailer to give up his own gun.  Billy found the jail key, freed Melquiades, locked the two jailers in the cell, and escaped across the nearby Mexico border. The Pistoleros gave an admirable performance, re-enacting an historical version and then a Hollywood version, with guns blazing to entertain the public.  .

Pistolero Re-enactors

I can picture in my mind what the town of San Elizario must have looked and felt like on a  cool November morning in 1876. San Eli, as the locals call it,  is still a quiet refuge from city life,  with one main street, a plaza with a gazebo and an historic church. 

What I particularly like about this story is that there was no bloodshed during the escape.  One can admire the ingenuity of Billy and his loyalty to a friend without addressing the more violent aspects of his personality. 

One last thought.  I read that in the 20th century, when the jail was no longer in use as the county jail, that unruly school boys were sometimes housed in the jail for a few hours until they changed their ways! Goodness!

"El Brinco" - The Jump

Daily life in late summer has started to drag a bit around our household.  We seem to be searching for something unique to distinguish one week from the next.  I'm remembering a summer several years ago when we did have a unique experience.  We  witnessed "El Brinco" which translates to "The Jump."

“El Brinco” would happen very soon, the Mexican announcer assured the crowd gathered around the temporary stage set up on the Mexican side of the river.  My husband Wayne and I had awakened early on a Saturday morning to drive to West El Paso near the old Asarco plant to witness a daring motorcycle jump across the Rio Grande.  The river is not very wide at that point, only about 65 feet across, but it marks the boundary between two sovereign nations, the United States of America and the United States of Mexico. 

Publicity for the event had been by word of mouth, one friend passing along information to another.  The motorcycle rider was celebrating his 50^th birthday with an Evil Knievel-type demonstration, jumping from one country into another.  A friend of Wayne’s had constructed the jumping ramp, so we had a special invitation and felt part of the in crowd.

Large numbers of cars and trucks were hurrying down the dirt road to the jump site.  It was hot, dusty and overgrown with weeds.  Climbing an embankment to get a better view, we were astonished to see a large crowd, numbering in the thousands, on the Mexican side of the river.  The crowd was being entertained with live and recorded rap music.  Ciudad Juárez, El Paso’s sister city across the border, has had a series of problems in recent years with increased violence caused by warring drug cartels.  This event was being celebrated on the Mexican side to rally citizens to bring peace back to the city.  Soldiers armed with AK47 attack rifles were in evidence as well as mounted policemen who patrolled the crowd.  We could also spot armed men stationed at strategic lookout points on the large mountain behind the river.  

On the American side of the river, the smaller crowd was more subdued.  Although there were the usual Border Patrol vehicles along the river on the route to the site, the only noticeable official presence at the jump was an ambulance which kept getting stuck in the sand and two young firemen in uniform.    It appeared that friends of the motorcyclist were going to be in charge of clearing a path for his run to the ramp.

Rumors were flying as the crowd waited. 

 “The media are asking him to make several false starts, so he won’t jump the first couple of times.”  

“He’s going to have to go back to the International Bridge to go through customs to return to the U.S.”  

“He was going to do the jump without government permission and try to return to the U.S. before getting  caught, but we talked him out of that plan.” 

 “The red tape to make this jump happen was incredible.” 

 “He’s keeping it at full throttle in third gear all the way, and he’ll hit the ramp at about 45 mph.”  

 We stretched our necks in anticipation.

Finally we heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.  A yellow-suited motorcyclist climbed the ramp and stopped at water's edge.  The crowds on both sides of the river cheered.  Tension rose as the rider repeated this two more times.  On the fourth run to the ramp, it happened.  He flew through the air and easily landed in the soft sand on the other side of the river.  The Mexican fans swarmed to give him a hero’s welcome.  Each time he tried to exit the area, he was deluged by fans wanted pictures and autographs.  Finally, the stage announcer had to call for crowd control by the mounted policemen.

After the motorcyclist had finally made his escape (to where, I wondered?), the two crowds, Mexican and American, stood observing each other curiously across the river.  A mere 65 feet is close enough to see many details.   Two Tarahumara Indian women in traditional costumes were carrying babies in slings across their backs.  A little Mexican child wanted a stick to play with in the water.  His father found a weed growing nearby and stripped off the leaves to make a wand.  Two young men in baggy pants were smiling and gesturing at the American crowd.  “Look, they’re inviting us over.”  “No, those are gang signs,” someone else observed.  

And then we all stood transfixed as a dog of unknown nationality swam unconcernedly down the middle of the river, looking neither left to the American side nor right to the Mexican side.  In contrast, how complicated we humans make our lives.

A Passion for Purple

Let me state right upfront that anything that grows in my Southwest garden is appreciated.  I have even been know to let weeds flourish in the springtime just to see a little green emerging into a gray world.

Have you noticed that many native Southwestern plants offer yellow and red blossoms to the world? Red is striking, yellow is cheerful, but my current passion is plants with purplish blooms.  I want to share with you some of the purple plants that are currently decorating the garden (cross my fingers - one never knows in the Southwest desert what a plant will decide to do from one day to the next).

Because we have had rain and higher humidity than usual in our area, the purple sages have been putting on a riotous show all over El Paso. The rest of the year, the sages just hang around, gray-green, and forgettable until just the right barometric moment.  Then they burst into blooms of many shades, from dark purple to lilac.

Purple Sage

Purple sage also goes by the name of Texas sage. This sage grows forgotten in a cactus garden in our backyard, and we basically ignore it most of the year.  I can't even baby it with frequent waterings, which would actually lead to its demise.  One online plant expert from Arizona recommended giving the plants a little extra water to encourage blooming, but with my tendency to overwater everything, I am afraid to indulge in any risky behaviors. 

I can't imagine a more spectacular plant when it finally does bloom.  I always promise myself to buy and plant more sages (there are many different varieties), but once the excitement of the blooming period ends, I forget how beautiful sages can be and become seduced by the colorful, cheaper annuals displayed by nurseries.  Local native plant experts bemoan the fact that local gardeners can't resist the urge to prune sages into unnatural shapes, like large balls or lollipops, because they do not bloom as well (and look fake).

Ruellia in pot

Ruellia blossoms up close

My son discovered ruellias (commonly known as Mexican petunias) when he was living in Austin, Texas. They grew so well in the Austin climate that he called his plant "the little tree." My ruellias aren't nearly as lush, but they produce fascinating blossoms that last only a short time, much like a bougainvillea blossom. And ruellias are perennials, although they freeze to the soil line in our zone and emerge after the last frost date.  I must admit  this is ruellia number two.  The first one I inherited from my son didn't make the transition from Austin to El Paso.

Santa Rita cactus on left

My husband introduced me to the Santa Rita cactus that has purple pads.  It is a colorful change from the usual green pads on most cacti.  The other poor cactus on the right looks terminal.  I think I tend to water cacti in pots too much and have probably killed it.

Ice plant

Ice plant is classified as a ground cover, but my ice plant lives in the back of a frog pot.  It requires very little care. Recently, I saw a handwritten sign next to the ice plants at a nursery that said "Don't water!"  A good warning to me as well as the nursery staff, I thought.  I love the Spanish name for ice plant, dedo, which means "finger".  This plant is one of the smallest varieties.  I believe that the smaller plant is called dedo del niño (child's finder) and the large variety is called dedo del rey  (king's finger), but this information is anecdotal.  The large ice plant can be very invasive, so I stick to the small fingered plant and contain it in a pot.  I generally am not bothered by a plant labeled as "invasive", because that means it has a good chance of surviving in my garden.

Thai or Asian Basil

I fell for this curly basil when I was shopping for vegetable plants one day, and I'm glad that I did.  It produces long purple spikes that not only have a wonderful aroma but are also much more colorful than my regular green basil.  Thai restaurants are often named "Thai Basil".  It must be an important ingredient in Thai cuisine, which I am not into (yet).

All of these purple beauties are relatively easy to grow (or I wouldn't find them flourishing in my garden).

I bought several new purple plants  last weekend but haven't planted them yet.  If they survive until next week, I'll blog about them.  Do you have a favorite purple plant that survives (dare I say grows abundantly?) in the Southwest?

Could you have danced the Virginia Reel?

After my disastrous attempt at dancing at the Ft. Stanton Ball, described in last week's post, you will not be surprised to learn that I sat out the next dance, the Virginia Reel.  And that was probably for the best, because it is a dance that takes not only rhythm but brain work and concentration as well.  I later learned that the Virginia Reel is a traditional folk dance that was most popular in the United States in the years 1830-1890. 

Kenneth Dusenberry lined up four sets of dancers, with four males on one side of each set and four females on the other side.  Having a partner was imperative for this dance. (How different I thought from dances I have attended recently where women dance with women, parents dance with their children, and some brave souls even get out on the dance floor alone.)

I took the following notes on the steps the dancers were doing.  See if you can picture the Virginia Reel. Each step is done to the count of eight.

Step 1:  Couples move toward each other and bow (repeat).
Step 2:  Couples join right hands and circle each other.
Step 3:  Couples join left hands and circle each other.
Step 4:  Couples join both hands and circle each other.
Step 5:  Couples do- si- do around each other, passing right shoulders.
Step 6:  The first couple does a turn and a half, and dances down the line of dancers, always giving their partner the right hand, and the new person the left hand.  (Are you confused yet?  I was, just watching.)
Step 7:  The couple then does a back to front do-si-do, and the male and female dance outside their respective lines to meet up at the end to form a bridge with their hands.
Step 8:  The other couples follow the leader to the back of the line and go under the bridge, meeting up with their partner.

It looks like this couple has it down - right hand to left hand.

You can see the variety of people who were dancing.the Virginia Reel.

Here is the bridge that the partners form.

You may want to view this short YouTube video of other dancers doing the Virginia Reel to imagine what it it might be like.

There were quite a few dancers at Ft. Stanton who were struggling with the left hand/right hand distinction, but most eventually got the hang of it.  One of the most amusing things to watch was when elementary school age children were the bridge makers, and the taller adults had to squeeze through a very low bridge.

The laughter of the dancers was infectious, and it was obvious that everyone was enjoying themselves and the challenge of the Virginia Reel.  (Once again, I compared the happy looks on the dancers'  faces with other dancers I have seen recently who looked really bored or tried to look super-sexy).

The Grand March, the First Waltz, the Hat Dance and then the Virginia Reel had all been marvelous ice-breakers.  The Ft. Stanton Ball continued with a good time had by all.  I felt like I had participated in a piece of Civil War history.