So, let’s eat Chile

Puro chingon

So, let’s eat Chile

No knackers for this crew

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            Shall we be mad, or … just plain perplexed?

            The isolation of the American congress from the pulse of the People is simply staggering. We are left with no other recourse than to believe the arrogance that comes from higher office gives even the most forgiving patriot pause.

            The mandate signaled by the electorate was snubbed as if the process was nothing more than a symbolic celebration of an ancient right. The dismay of the People was given lip service. The formality of honoring the vote outcome was quickly set aside and business as usual commenced. Following an anemic dustup for his cardinal primacy, Speaker Kaiser von Boehner struck the gavel and the next order of business was brought before the grand body of kingettes.

            “It is time for the business of Congress to continue … the business of Congress!”

            Yessiree, Seńor von Boehner is the man, the patron of patrons, el jeffe masculino, numero uno, the he dog, and the mayordomo singulaire. He is none other than ‘Puro Chingon’!

            “Vengeance is mine,” sayeth von Boehner, and the real conservatives who voted against him have been relegated to the hallways and powder rooms. The mandate their constituency demanded was not as loud as the mandate of Herr Boehner. No favorite committee assignments will await them, and we, the People, will ponder who will carry our hopes and our pleas for reform. This is all too much. A wholesale cleansing is needed.

            Maybe it is just time to eat chile.

            Natural purifier

            There are few things as naturally cathartic as chile, and this day calls for purification. Yes, a chile trip is in order. For years after life took us to California, I’d salivate just thinking about chile. It was so engrained into us. We would get to the point we needed a chile fix. We needed the real thing, and, of course, that comes only from New Mexico.

            When it neared crisis point, we’d dwell on its absence. If only we could split a combination plate from the old Chavez Café overlooking Silver City from its eastern ridge or a taco from Jalisco’s. Just one bowl of Tom and Gerene’s salsa from Mesilla’s La Posta or a trip to La Mesa to hyperventilate on green chile at Chope’s would be the ultimate day dream.

            Actually, it didn’t matter if it was green or red, but, since simple fate prompted me to list green before red, how about the verdes first?

            As I have aged, I have become more cognizant of the subtly of the finest art of Mexican cuisine. Bold and powerful strokes notwithstanding, nothing can tingle the senses like the nuances of the finest New Mexico greens. Recipes may call for poblanos, or serranos, or Anaheims or whatever, but, from the heart of chile country, the Big Jim’s and NuMex varieties can cover all needs. Yes, throw in some jalepenos or even a habanero if they come from Hatch, or La Union, or even Deming, but the New Mexico greens are like taking an M-1 Abrams into battle. You don’t need anything else!

            Alas … Pozole.

            Like many things, the finest pozole came from Nana’s kitchen. The recipe was hers and the hominy came from the big cans in her pantry. The chicken came from her hen house where the hatchet was perpetually imbedded nearby in a big wooden block. Old hens were good for chicken and dumplings and pozole where the pressure cooker made them tender. She didn’t use cilantro, tomatillos or avcados like many recipes today, but her own blend of spices and chile made it unique and delicious.

            Chile verde came later in Las Cruces. The name comes from the green chiles and tomatillos which combine to make a tart, green sauce. Pork is the preferred meat and it was usually cut in cubes and browned in lard in a skillet. Add the chiles, garlic, salt, onion, bay leaf, pepper, cumin, and secrets and slow cook it for two hours. Rice, beans and a corn tortilla never had such a companion.

            Of course we grew up on New Mexico style enchiladas, and, I must say, the only worthy green chile sauce for smothering flat tortillas crowned with sautéed onions, cheese and an over easy egg comes from the kitchen of my wife, and at Andele’s on the north end of Mesilla. It is there Andrea is building fame and fortune with her genius at the turnstiles and in the kitchen. I remember watching her take orders and then run back to continue cooking when she first started next door. Now, she occupies a complete strip mall, and her Mexican cuisine is sensational. Her green chile sauce is simply, muy bueno.

            In the beginning, though, we native children got our start on a bowl of beans, a hunk of longhorn cheese, and a pod of fresh green chile. Going back to the basics is what makes the phenomenon lasting, and there is nothing more basic than that pod of green chile.

            We learned to eat the hot stuff, and we were changed forever.

            Queen Red

            If green assumes the roll of king, red is the queen.

            There is none better than from the kitchens of the Mesilla Valley. It is there that the rest of the state, and, now … the world is learning what red chile is all about. As kids on one of the occasional trips out of the mountains to Dona Ana County our imprinting of world class red chile was redoubled at the La Posta. We had been indoctrinated into the rarified strata of truly great red chile at our own Louisa’s at Whiskey Creek or the previously mentioned Chavez Café, but the Mesilla Valley variety sealed the deal. We knew that the very best Queen Red existed in an arch from Grant County down into Hidalgo County (at the El Charro) and on into the Mesilla Valley.

            When we had enchiladas at home in those days it was exclusively red chile. Like the green chile enchiladas, we always ate them with a fried egg, and we would have them at least once a week along with nearly a ubiquitous pot of beans. Our mothers, gringo mothers, generally couldn’t cook a tortilla worth eating so we had to rely on white bread with butter.

            Eating a good flour tortilla remained a luxury of highest order, and that was reserved for one of the noted restaurants, off Mrs. Ortega’s wood burning stove on the bench above Spring Canyon,  or at my Aunt 'Manda’s. It was Aunt 'Manda who taught me to eat ‘burros’ (burritos). She would refry the beans and roll them and cheese together into those hot flour tortillas taken off the skillet with her thumb and index finger like it was nothing. The result was heaven sent. We could eat them until her dough ran out. The very last one would be used to mop the bean crust out of the skillet where she had mashed them and dropped a dollop of butter into the mix as she cooked it.

            And, of course, any Gila River visit on the subject of red chile had to include tamales. In the days when my grandparents still butchered pigs, we were blessed with tamales. I can remember hauling the pig’s head (with its eyes looking at us from the pickup bed) to Mrs. Peru’s over at Gila and she’d split the tamales that she made from that meat. They would arrive steaming hot and … oh. There was real substance in them and they weren’t dominated by masa. They had that tender pork, and, with her red chile recipe, they were delicious! Maybe Christmas or the opening morning of deer season only rivaled the arrival of Mrs. Peru’s annual tamales.

            They would quickly be gone!

            Catharsis

            Well, I feel better.

            Indeed, chile is an effective purgative. For the moment, it took my mind off the disdain for the Washington ensemble of knackerless tyrannists. Perhaps there is a lesson in that, but what that might be just doesn’t seem to appear at this moment.

            I’ve spent enough time with this. I have to go to the ranch, but chile will not yet leave my senses. I’ll pass at least two fields where paprika and other reds are in the process of being handpicked for further drying. The now age old practice of employing human hands in the process is part of the chile allure.

            Hmmm … no, I can’t pass it up. If we could only slip a full pod of habanero into Mrs. Peru’s recipe for tamales or Aunt 'Manda’s burritos and get them to von Boehner, his actions would finally match his mantle.

            Catharsis indeed …

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Forgive me … it’s my birthday, Fox is still off Dish, and the whole Washington congress of crows has come home to roost!”

Happy Birthday Steve! Those crows may be roosting, but we're not eating any of it here. In fact, Sweet Sharon just said my red enchiladas with an egg on top is ready.