Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  • Scrub skins, cut off ends, and slice off damaged portions of 2 or 3 yellow and/or Mexican squash. Dice squash, 1 peeled white onion and a ripe tomato, removing seeds and liquid. Add corn niblets, and cook the mixture lightly in vegetable oil. Squash should be al dente.

  • Set oven at 350°F.

  • Grate white cheddar cheese or Monterey Jack.

  • On a greased cookie sheet, spread the vegetable mixture on 4 fresh corn tortillas (including liquid), sprinkle with cheese, layer another corn tortilla on top of each serving; spread and sprinkle more vegetable mixture and cheese. (You may soften tortillas in hot oil by dipping on each side for no more than 20 seconds or use them as they are if they are quite fresh.)

  • Bake in the oven until cheese melts.

  • Serve with whole, not refried, pinto beans.

  Serves 4.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Richmond Herald-Traveler.

  40

  Recipe Strategy

  Carolyn

  Evidently Frida Kahlo had not been a good subject with which to interrupt the family argument.

  “Humph,” said Uncle Javier. “Comunista. Her and her fat husband. Diego Rivera was a great artist, much admired in Mexico and all over the world, but his politics were quite unacceptable. I am myself a member of the PAN party, which, you may know, has a sensible philosophy on matters economic, which is what Mexico needs. More jobs, more industry, less mordida.”

  “PAN isn’t going to keep me out of jail,” said Adela. “I can’t even go home to visit Mama.”

  “Of course, you can,” said her uncle. “You just can’t come back.”

  “Leaving the country would make Adela look guilty,” said Aunt Julietta. “What is she guilty of? Making an excellent guacamole that did not turn black. I’m sure you noticed that, Senora Azul. By the way, this fish is very tasty. Perhaps you would like to sample it. Adela tells me that you write about food, and arguing with Javier has ruined my appetite.” She transferred a small filet to my plate.

  “Blue, Tia. Senora Blue,” said Adela. “If your name were Blanco, would you want Americans calling you Senora White?”

  “I did notice that the guacamole kept its color,” I interjected and took a bite of the fish after thanking Adela’s aunt. She was right. Very tasty, just slightly crisped, redolent of butter and garlic. “Even after several hours, the guacamole not only stayed green, but also it didn’t get that nasty, rotten flavor. Was that the addition of lime juice? I didn’t notice it in the flavoring.”

  “No limon,” said Aunt Julietta. “Is my herbs. They keep the avocado fresh. If the professor had not eaten it all, he would not have been sick. Not very sick.”

  “So the herb is a preservative?” I asked, seeing a way out of the maze in which Adela found herself.

  There was a discussion in Spanish over the meaning of preservative. Then Adela and her aunt agreed that one of the herb’s qualities was the preservation of freshness.

  “In that case, I think we should all go to the police station and explain the misunderstanding. We will say that we have heard the sergeant is looking for Adela because of a . . . compound discovered in the guacamole. Then Adela will give him the recipe.”

  “It is a family recipe. Mama would not be happy to think I gave it to the police.”

  “Your mother will be happier to know that you aren’t going to be arrested.”

  “Her mother does not know of that problem, but your reasoning, Senora, is impeccable,” said Uncle Javier.

  “Thank you. Then, when he asks about whatever it is that Adela’s aunt gave her, Adela will explain that ingredient is the preservative. If he does not accept that explanation, I will comment on the amazing freshness of the guacamole over such a long period of time. I will ask how to get some of the preservative. Tia Julietta will suggest sources. We will discuss what other preservative uses it might have—such as keeping apples from turning color after peeled and cut.”

  “It does not do that,” said Tia Julietta.

  “Well, it must do something besides keep guacamole green and cause people to vomit,” I suggested.

  “Of course it does,” she agreed.

  “Then you can tell me about that in front of the sergeant.”

  “Who by then will be very tired of cooking instructions and want us to go away,” said Uncle Javier gleefully. “A splendid strategy, Senora—Blue.”

  “But what if he still puts me in jail?” asked the dubious Adela.

  “Then I will provide bail and find you a good lawyer,” said her uncle. “However, our family name will be tarnished if you escape to Juarez and the Americans ask for extradition.”

  Thus it was agreed, and I, having finished my squash enchiladas and Julietta’s fish, ordered Mexican crepes.

  Pescado al Mojo de Ajo

  Our host, Henry Jurado, said, when I mentioned how much I liked the fish, that it was a very easy recipe to make. I pass it on to you.

  • Mix melted butter, not too much, with diced pimentos and garlic and chopped green onions (optional).

  • Sauté thin filets of orange roughy or rockfish in the garlic butter.

  • Serve.

  Recipe provided by the owners of Casa Jurado in El Paso, Texas

  Mexican Crepes

  This Mexican crepe dish is simple enough to make, or would be if you didn’t have to make the crepes. I’ve always wondered why some company doesn’t make frozen or refrigerated crepes that one can pop into the microwave before filling them with tasty things. I even called my favorite supermarket to ask if they had such an item. They informed me that there are no preprepared crepes on the market. What a disappointment.

  Therefore, you’ll have to make crepes if you want to try this recipe. Or go to Casa Jurado and order them. For home cooking, you may also have to order the caramel sauce. As for the pecans, many pecans come from our area. Stahmann Farms, in the upper Rio Grand valley, has the largest pecan orchard in the world, 96,000 trees, 5,000,000 pounds of nuts, probably more since the book I got these facts from was written. Whatever the current figure, that’s a lot of pecans. And they use geese to keep the grass trimmed between the trees; then they sell the geese. I wonder, if you stuffed a goose with pecans, whether the pate would be wonderful. Or maybe geese don’t like pecans. Personally, I think they’d be much tastier than grass.

  • CREPES: In a blender or food processor combine in order I cup half-and-half, 2 eggs, 2 teaspoons sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour, 3 tablespoons yellow cornmeal (stone ground if possible), and 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted. Blend until smooth. Transfer to bowl, cover, and let stand at room temperature for 1 hour.

  • Warm a 7-inch crepe pan, preferably nonstick, over medium-high heat. Brush it lightly with corn oil. Briefly stir the batter to recombine. When pan is hot (oil should smoke slightly), spoon ¼ cup batter into the skillet, tilting to coat the bottom completely. Set pan over the heat, cook 20 seconds, turn the crepe, and cook another 10 seconds. Slide the crepe onto waxed paper. Repeat this with the remaining batter, stacking crepes when cool between pieces of waxed paper. (Crepes can be wrapped tightly and refrigerated for up to 2 days.)

  • ASSEMBLY: Place a rack in upper third of oven and preheat the oven to 375°F.

  • Spread ½ cup pecans in a layer on a metal pan (like a cake tin) and toast them, stirring once or twice, until crisp and fragrant (8 to 10 minutes). Remove from pan, cool, and chop coarsely.

  • Fold crepes in quarters, most attractive side out. Spread on each ½ tablespoon out of 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened, and wrap in foil. Warm crepes about 15 minutes or until hot and butter has melted.

  • Meanwhile, in a small saucepan over low heat, warm, stirring often, 1 cups cajeta. (Available in specialty stores such as The El Paso Chile Company. Cajeta de leche, caramel based on goats’ milk, is preferable.)

  • Arrange two crepes on each of four plates, spoon the cajeta over and around t
hem. Sprinkle the pecans over all, and serve immediately.

  Recipe provided by W. Park Kerr and Norma Kerr from the El Paso Chile Company’s Texas Border Cookbook.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,” Nome News

  After dessert, we drove to the police station in Uncle Javier’s car, a huge, beautifully maintained vehicle that was probably twenty years old. It was so comfortable that I could easily have gone to sleep in the back seat if Adela hadn’t whispered an embarrassing question in my ear. She wanted to know if I had a black eye.

  Her question was evidently heard in the front seat because she received a sharp reprimand in Spanish from her aunt. It had something to do with my esposo. Possibly Aunt Julietta was saying that my husband might have hit me and that it was impolite for Adela to embarrass me by asking.

  In order to clear Jason’s good name, I replied to Adela, but loudly enough to be heard by the relatives in the front seat, that during the investigation made by my friend and myself into the murder of Vladik, I had been assaulted by an evil man, who was now in jail. They were all sorry to hear of my misfortune but glad to hear that my attacker had been arrested. Uncle Javier, whose last name I can’t remember, told me that I should try not to interfere in police business in the future for the sake of my own safety. He had a point, one that Jason would have made had he not been in Austin with his graduate student, Mercedes.

  At Five Points we were told that Sergeant Guevara had gone home. I asked for Lieutenant Matalisse, who had, after all, mentioned that he had hours of paper work ahead of him. He scowled at me when we were escorted into his office. “I’ve set the wheels in motion on the doctor,” he said.

  “This is another matter. You’ll remember you said Sergeant Guevara was looking for the guacamole maker. This is she—Adela Mariscal. She’s a graduate student in music at the university. She sang one of the witches’ parts in the Macbeth performance. Then I introduced her aunt and uncle, who, I explained, were visiting when they heard that the police were looking for Adela. Adela had then called me, so we’d all come over after dinner at Casa Jurado.

  The lieutenant shook their hands and directed them to seats. He asked me if I ever ordered the chicken mole, a favorite of his. I said I didn’t care for unsweetened chocolate and hot chiles on my meat, but I did love the wonderful spinach enchiladas, among other outstanding dinners. The lieutenant had never ordered the spinach enchiladas, which was no surprise to me. I hadn’t talked Jason into trying them either. It must have been a male thing.

  “So you think the family guacamole recipe killed this man?” Aunt Julietta asked, evidently tired of the polite conversation. I sympathized. Adela was looking more and more stressed as we talked. “Generations of our family have eaten that guacamole with no sickness.“

  “That may be so, ma’am, but there was something weird in that guacamole. Our toxicologists analyzed it along with the rest of the victim’s stomach contents.”

  “That must be an unpleasant job. Who would wish to examine such things?” Aunt Julietta remarked.

  “My niece is prepared to give you her recipe. In fact, she has written it out for you,” said Uncle Javier. “Please examine it. There is nothing in it to be blamed for a man’s death.” He nodded to Adela, who, with a trembling hand, passed the recipe across to the lieutenant.

  Lieutenant Matalisse studied the list of ingredients. “Looks innocent enough, but the recipe is no guarantee that she didn’t put in something more she didn’t mention to you folks—wait. What’s this?” He pointed to the last ingredient.

  “That is the preservative,” said Aunt Julietta, as if preservation was its only role. “You will know that the avocados turn black and—untasteful—if they are allowed to sit out of their skins. That is my special herb for preventing this tragedy. Otherwise, a big guacamole could not be served. You understand?”

  “Could it make someone sick?” asked the lieutenant, not to be bamboozled by talk of exotic herbs he’d never heard of.

  “Perhaps. But one would have to eat very much guacamole for sickness to occur.”

  “He did, right?” The lieutenant turned to me.

  “Yes, he tried to keep it all for himself.”

  “But my niece could not have known he would do this. It would not be gentlemanly to do so,” said Uncle Javier. “Therefore, if he experienced illness, he brought that illness on himself. My niece cannot be held responsible for his gluttony, which is one of the seven deadly sins. He should have considered the deadly element in his sin.”

  “I’ll have to ask the toxicologist about this stuff,” said the lieutenant. “In the meantime, young lady, you stay at the university until we get this cleared up.”

  “My niece is a student. She will stay at the universidad until the end of the semester, traffic on the bridges being dangerous and time consuming. I, a lawyer, will see to it. American police are known to be reliable, so my niece, as you see, is cooperating.”

  “Gringo estupido,” muttered Aunt Julietta as we left headquarters after friendly farewells to the lieutenant.

  41

  The Investigation Moves Elsewhere

  Carolyn

  Obviously things were going on Saturday night and Sunday morning in which I was only peripherally involved, which was fine with me. Adela’s uncle dropped me at my car on the university campus, and I drove home, very carefully, then fell into bed and read the fourth book in First Ladies Detective Agency series: The Kalahari Typing School for Men. It was quite as delightful as the first three books, and I found the title wonderfully amusing, since I pictured in my mind groups of small desert tribesman, virtually naked, squatting in the sand, typing. That was not the case, as I learned. The typing school in question was held in a church in the capital of Botswana and served men in Western clothing.

  I had only one interruption Saturday night. Luz called to say the lieutenant wanted the name of the nurse with whom I had spoken at the hospital. “Irma,” I said, remembering her name tag. That was the best I could do, other than reminding Luz that the nurse had worked the night shift on this weekend and the last. Glad as I was to realize that my information was leading to a stirring of police interest, I went back to my book and was asleep by ten o’clock, through no fault of the book. I fell asleep smiling, and that was directly attributable to the book.

  The next morning, thoroughly refreshed, I fixed myself breakfast—including eggs, in which Luz evidently didn’t believe or which she didn’t know how to cook, if her toast-only offerings the last two mornings were any indication. Then I settled down to read the Sunday paper. I was either getting used to reading one-eyed, or I was seeing more out of my black eye. I’d been careful not to look in the mirror when emerging from the shower.

  “INS Considers Deporting Russian Strip-Club Owner,” the Borderland section proclaimed. They included a picture of Boris Ignatenko, looking more ghoulish than ever in black and white, being escorted into a federal court-room. His lawyer argued that for a Russian army deserter deportation was akin to the death penalty, which would be overly harsh, considering the crimes of which he was accused. It would seem that Boris preferred to be tried in this country. Since I had been one of his victims, I was less inclined to view his predicament sympathetically. Before I could talk myself into a more tolerant frame of mind, I was saved by my telephone.

  When Vivian Brockman identified herself, I groaned inwardly, expecting that she intended to chastise me for focusing police suspicion on her husband. That was not the case, however. Vivian, sounding rather flustered, had called to ask if I knew what was going on with the investigation of Vladislav Gubenko’s death. I replied that I hadn’t heard anything lately, adding silently, which is to say today.

  “Well,” said Vivian, “this has been a very peculiar twelve hours. Last night we received a call from the police. They said they were checking the whereabouts afterward of everyone who had been at the opera party. I told them I had been at home asleep, and Peter had been called out for emergency surgery. Of c
ourse, I offered to put Peter on, but they said that wasn’t necessary. Then Peter received a call early this morning from the hospital. I checked the caller ID after he left the house. He was very upset with the caller, so of course, I asked what it had been about. ‘I have to go to Cincinnati,’ he said. Naturally, I asked when, wondering if I’d have to iron shirts for him, since the maid doesn’t come until Monday. To my amazement, he said, ‘Right now.’ Can you imagine? Why would the hospital be calling to send him to Cincinnati? He said he didn’t have time to explain, threw some clothes in a carry-on bag, and left. That’s quite unlike Peter.

  “Then,” she said dramatically, “well, actually a half hour may have passed, but the police arrived at my door. I was still in my dressing gown. They wanted to talk to Peter, so of course, I told them that he had left for Cincinnati. They had all sorts of questions for me: How long ago? Where in Cincinnati? For what reason? Traveling how? By plane I assumed, but I couldn’t even say that for sure. And finally, they wanted a description of his car. At least I could give them that, but they wouldn’t tell me why they were looking for Peter. The only thing I could think of was our artistic director’s death, which they’d talked to me about, indirectly, the night before.”