Tag Archives: verde

Bigger than Jesus the Beatles, and yoga pants: Esteban Trabajars

15 Sep

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At the current rate of Final Cut Pro post-production, by Christmas 2020, the globe shall be subjected to more Steve Jobs cinematic biopics than those of Jesus Christ, The Beatles and Luke Skywalker en todo. This epidemic outbreak of epic celluloid certainly gives this one pause to ponder some deeply mundane ponderables: Is the iPhone our Gutenberg Bible (with upgrades)? Did Steve Jobs die for our Sims?*

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(*You read that right, a cringe-worthy blasphemous pun. So crucify me whydontcha?)

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Does SJ’s getting all messiahy with it not at least begin to explain the daily commute tableau wherein within a stuffed El train all but the homeless – me too – gaze into luminous Apple gadgets with a reverence traditionally reserved for sacred texts, Kim Jong and yoga pants?

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What but an unshakable iFaith sways we users into believing we the meek shall one day inherit an upgrade to auto-spell recognizing Spanglish as both a word and a dialect, accurate weather apps, and the voice of Siri shall be replaced by that of Demi Moore’s tadpole?
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What Would that these miraculous iPhones might trans-substantiate binary data into iGrub to feed the masses.
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Entrada Yo (and/or the Wu)

Communion Green Chile Green Alfredo Linguine Con Pork Chop Chop Chop Chop Ain’t Nuthin to You-Know-What With

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Ingredients con instructions:
1. Roasted NM Green Cream Sauce
Heat up and constantly stir 2 tbsp o butter and flour until brown

Separately warm 2 cups of whole milk

Remove roux from heat, slowly stir in milk by the ladle.

Stir in:
An onion – diced and sautéed
A bulb of oven roasted garlic – smushed
Quart bag of chopped, seeded and skinned rotated NM green chile
A fistful of fresh cilantro – chopped
Mexican oregano to taste
Salt and pepper to taste

Slowly simmer until all ingredients smell like one. Cool. Blend into purée. Return to pot. Stir in 2/3rds of queso.

2. Half-box of fettuccini – al dente
(Google it)

3. A seasoned to ur liking grilled pork chop or two –  chopped

Butter a casserole dish. Mix ingredients but for 1/3 cheese, then glop into casserole dish. Top with 1/3 cheese. At 350 bake covered for 30 minutes or until burbling and smelling as one. Slide under broiler till cheese browns.

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(aqui con huevo)

Mas sagradoso than Esteban Trabajars…

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Mas sabrosa than pantaloons Del yoga…

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El escarbajo optional.

Leftover T-Bird Green Chilenstein Enchiladasserole

6 Dec

Only caught a sense a local radio programme planned to run a piece about some gringo in NM who sent a batch of green chile seeds through the way back machine. His promise: a pre-genetically engineered chile verde = pure, unadulterated, virginal.

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By some reports our contemporary chile verde esta veritable genetic Frankenstein. Y what’s mas, the holocaust has been captured in glorious pixelated color, currently Netflixing. Oh my o my o mi dio.

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Am I alone in both my distaste and distrust the food superstition movement? Though I ‘spose it’s much more of a religious movement, how every time I log on to Netflix or NYTimes.com the documentation on why really only eating only Yeti is safe & ethical anymore grows quicker than AquAdvantage salmon.

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Yoo hoo, a-hem, yo, looky here overevolved Homo sapiens, did it possibly occur to you you are playing right into the hands of food? Look, I don’t want to eat ‘roided out chicken anymore than you do but we gotta keep eating up these mutants into extinction por population control RFN + once them chickens figure out how to wield a bat…we’re goners. chicken_slam_large_2

And C.) Back to the beginning, this supposed ghost of chile past. Pre-Colombian green sounds about as appetizing to me as authentic 1800s hard tack huslted up by a Civil War renactor. You know the breed, the Rebs and Union Oppressors who soak their coat buttons in their own urine, getting down to the last detail just right. Read: scary genetic freaks.

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Call this back to the cave cooking retro, call it vintage, call it pure, I call it playing God with horseshit. Fb Update: The entire universe has evolved several million times over since these supposed ancient seeds were unearthed, re-birthed and planted. Sin Machina de Tiempo: pass, me. Unless of course I can have my helping slathered on a loaf of SPAM. This paring  would be the closest and hopefully equally tastiest approximation of 2015’s T-Giving Leftover Casserole. Mi esposa went organic with the bird I went to the factory with a canned green chile, among other tinned ingredients:

Mira:

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Leftover T-Bird Green Chilenstein Enchiladasserole

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COMO:

Mix:

1-2 Cups leftover T-giving turkey: shredded

Above canned ingredients

Sauteed chopped onions and garlic

Salt, pepper, chile powder, oregano

Leftover turkey gravy

Layer in a buttered casserole dish:

Corn tortillas – Above mix – Mexi-cheese

Bake 350 covered in foil 25 min

uncovered 15 min

Under the broiler 5 minutes

Serve topped with sour cream, black olives, leftover canned cranberries

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Crank. It.

How happy am I my parsley has a Facebook page?

12 Nov

Amazing times these.

Diga me dudes and doo-dooettes: as a longstanding member of Facebookaholics Anonymous I’ll never know whether parsley might have ever accepted el amigo request para mi, let alone cilantro’s, rosemary’s or basil’s. One thing, that I do know there’s a lot of ruins in Meso-po-tamia uh uh uh uh uh oh uh….sorry but the great B-52s honoring our veterans go boom in me cans ahora…that parsley and some potatoes make the best of amigos, and on this here concocted western plata, besties for real for all time.

Besty Westerny Homey Fryies

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How: In a hot, small skilled unskinned boiled potato chunks fried atop diced onions seared in butter and olive oil seasoned with Jillipepper/garlic/salt/pepper add to this fresh NM green chile (2015) upon which you fry/steam and egg next to a slice of smoked cheddar by putting a couple drops of water in the lid of which you cover the heap with until said egg is cooked beyond its original slimy state: lowered to no heat. Go boom atop with the fresh, chopped (though I prefer mine scissored) Facebook parsley.

 

Hit it Fred:

Do salsa and a tortilla a Mexican dish make?

10 Oct

Not necesarioly, but it beats hell outta Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip.

You can be the judge and try any of the following fer yerself.

Exhibit 1: The Hello Darlin’ Dixiecan Carne Asada y Queso Grits y Amp & Alternator Burro

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Inhaled this tube ‘o old grits and glory serenaded by Howe Gelb, ergo the AA&A title reference. Tastes nothing like auto shop or hard tack even though the HDDCAyQGyAA&AB guts esta rooted in ancestral midnight moonshine runs & rusty rebel resentment. Mi esposa, a great great great grand daughter of the Confederacy, hustled up the skirt steak and Southern napalm. I added the refrieds and tort. The red stuff aka ‘octane boost’ is yer highly coveted Valentine salsa.

 

 

Exhibit 2: Dixiecan Casserole B-fast Burro

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 Innards:

1. Frozen shredded proper western hash browns fried in butter, onions and b-fast sausage (con grease) layered in a casserole dish with prepackaged shredded cheddar baked at 350 till crispy, bubbly, lethal.

2. Scrambled eggs
3. Canned refried frijoles

4. Salsa of your choosing. IMO, one can’t do better outside of Mexico than Herdez. The small cans epecially provide – por mi lengua y nariz – notes of first-class Puebla bus estacion diesel fumes and stray Die Hard battery volts forever singing me back to any one of several dozen viajes taken across the line. (Mas on salsa luego.)

 

 

Closing Argument: Faux Rancho Greenplat

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With dozens of superior green chile cheeseburgers for the wolfing up and down and back and forth across New Mexico – blogging from memory aqui – la pregunta para me’s never been one of quality but of quantity. For a decade now I’ve taken to the unofficial state plate like a sow to the truffles, sans merde. Rooting GCCB out of the unlikeliest of confines (gas stations/horse tracks/McDonalds), fue me. Me mentions this by way of introduction to another superior NM plata originel I’ve nearly cloned at home: The Faux Rancho Greenplat.

 

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 Faux Rancho Greenplat Bacchanalian back story:
Twas on a three GCCB bender, heading south to The Owl en San Antonio, btw GCCB #2 y tres, bisecting the interstate was we. Bacchus gripped the wheel of his company SUV. His company: Guiness. (His appetites mas grande than mine. Hence, why his name has been changed, both to protect the innocent and call off any open container charges.) Yo fue dios’s co-pilota.

San Antonio. NM sits a non-God of Drink and GCCBs 90 minute drive South of The ‘Burque. I ‘splain this por que Bacchus measures time by the beer. So, from The Frontier’s breakfast green chile , egg, bacon guacamole, and western hashbrown (con chile verde y queso) burgers, at Bacchus speed, we were looking at an ETA of about 3 Guinness. I cracked open número two, turned down the Drive-by Truckers, eager to learn all about El Rancho Greenplat, a plata Bacchus had been howling about through the months leading to my virginal tour de NM.

‘Now that were alone together and not shoving anything into our pie holes* (*Bacchus hails from Dixie, hence the dialect) I gotta ask why the hell they gotta name a cheeseburger El Rancho Greenplat? Not the most appetizing…..’

‘The what?’

‘El Rancho Greenplat? The burger we’re driving 90 miles – I mean 3 beers for?’

‘The what the fuck?’

‘El. Rancho. Green. Plat.’

‘You. Stupid. Fuck.’

‘The El Rancho Greenplat is a stupid fuck?’

‘Jack ass. The El Rancho Greenplat is from Quarters Bar-b-que……………In Albuquerque.’

‘So it’s not a green chile…’

‘No’

‘Then what the hell are we driving to The Owl for?’

‘Jack. Ass. You said you wanted to blow up your body mass index with green chile cheeseburgers – whatever the fuck that means – so we are going to for the best goddamn green chile burgers you ever had.’

‘Does someone need a hug?’

‘No…a beer.’

(Crack, slurp, silence, acceleration,
Drive-by Truckers.)

‘Can we go get a El Rancho Greenplat after?’

Dos mas beers and The Owl burgers gone and then one more beer and 3 gallons of gas more and Bacchus talks Mrs. Quarters herself into rolling up dos ‘killer’ El Rancho Greenplats for our dining pleasure; an ugly plata with an even uglier name that:

Me: ‘definitely lives up to its billing’.
B: ‘Whatever the fuck that means.’

The ERG TKOed us both. I recall little more than a cracking jolt to the system as maw closed down on the final bite.

Post blackout, the Mrs shuffled me y B across the gravel parking lot to digest down and sober up ‘neath the shade of the Guinessmobile.

While I never set boot back into Quarters, yonder in NYC and again high in Colorado, I tracked down the ingredient which I believe provides El Rancho Greenplat with its essential ‘Fuck yeah!’: fresh smoked turkey breast.

No longer down the road from a Rocky MT smokehouse and/or Jewish deli I settle for the bridesmaid: applegate organic smoked pavo. The remaining ingredients: non-canned pinto beans or canned refrieds, fresh roasted NM Greenchile, prepackaged preshredded cheddar cheese, flour tort. Tasty cold to hot, sober to drunk.

No surprise aqui, all platas – to me -take no prisoners and even less time to make than they do to eat (quite to opposite to most things ‘worth the wait’) or to read about even. Guaranteed to make all go boom boom boom…down comes the gavel….and I’ll leave the last word on whether or not tu will buy torts y salsa turns all comers into Chorizo to Pat Travers:

If it looks like fish, smells like fish, and tastes like fish…

20 Jul

it must be fishy. Verdad? And if it’s a fish cake, should it be cakey? Served on a hamburger bun, bunny? Yet we’ve  been told bunny is supposed to taste chickeny, just like her cold-blooded anicmal friends froggy, alligatory and rattlesnakey?

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And if this all sounds mildly insaney that’s because waking hours ’round here pass interpreting the caterwauly requests of a 4 week old and/or re-re-re-re-reading books written for the under 4 set to the nearly 2 tortilla model which makes this blogger’s brain jell-o-y.

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So dig this big crux: even with dbl dad duties I managed to corral ingredients for a flippin’ rico patty as salmonly as it is Az-Mexi.

Before heading onto the recipe – and possiblamente the cooking secret of the century – as is my habit, I must clear my head:

Where is the logic in tossing out fishy fish? I mean, if it were gummy or furry or gnawing on your testicles, yeah, fish gotta go.

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Whomsoever won’t eat their meat meaty, fish fishy or elk elky can head on over to the latest vegan blog for a Satany seitan dish (conspiracy theory sidebar: veganism no doubt is the work of Satan. Mira, el diablo figures if he can convert Homo sapiens over to not eating and killing animals, well unless the Internet beats them to it, once the rest of animal kingdom friends up on Facebook, they will surely rise up and destroy us all.)

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But because as I blogged antes, ‘my idea of seafood is a cow standing in a puddle’ one might pensar I’d be the last person on earth – save the few remaining teetoaling vegans foraging for twigs and loam – to delight in a fishy dish concocted from pungent Puget sound canned pink salmon
(actually from Trader Joe’s, Chicago).

Message to ‘The One’ doubter, in the words of the prophet James Brown, ‘Get Up Offa That Thing” and get up on this:

Stinkin’ Salmony Salmon Green Chile Gringo Fishy Fish Cakes

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The Innards:

1 can of canned Pink Salmon (skin, bones and all)

1 quarter bag of roasted, peeled, defrosted (duh) NM green chile (in a pinch roast, peel and seed a fresh jalapeno)

1 egg

1 handful binder (I used saltines, flour and bread crumbs will do)

1/3 cup of roasted cut fresh from the cob corn (0r canned)

chopped handful of fresh cilantro, parsley and scallions

salt, pepper, garlic powder to taste

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Optional toppings: lime, sour cream, crumbly queso blanco, fried egg.

Optional edible delivery vehicles: hamburger bun, english muffin, etc


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The How To:

Mash together the fishy, stinky mess with your bare hands then form patties. Size does not matter. Fridge till firm. Fire up the grill to medium. Grill 3-5 a side. NOTE: Don’t blame me if the cakes lose their firm grip on the grates and jump to their own fiery death.

Orale, ready for that how about that Cooking Secret of The 21st Century? Glad you reminded me – wait for it –

How to prevent a fish cake freefall through the grill grates.

Option A – My Great Idea:
Add binder. Fine and dandy if you prefer your fish to taste, um, ‘bricky’.

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Option B. y mi esposa gets full credit for aqui y ahora: Fry the patties up on a piping hot griddle. No caca, right?

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You, in the back row with your hand up, pinching your nose, you have a question? How do I compensate for the essential and superb deliciousness of ‘grilly’ness?

Uno word mi amigo: butter.

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Anyone who has a beef with ‘buttery’, I say let’s feed ‘that one’ to the salmon.

On ‘The One’ now if you please, JB:

 

Avarice, Lent & Microwaving Burritos

2 May

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Even though I am not a Catholic, I soooo wanted to give up Googling for Lent. The thought – remember those? – being I might reconnect with my brain via a neuron and/or God by way of prayer. “Figure stuff out” like they used to in the old days. Put one’s faith in a higher power (though we kind of do when prostrate before Father Google) or if that fails at the very least a real live human being. Seek fantasy baseball guidance from a Mayan shaman. Talk to a barista about the foam futures. Haggle with a librarian over overdue fines. Ask a gas station attendant for directions to Wrigley Field. Get a tip on a racehorse from the shoeshine man. Man, am I starting to sound like an old fart or what? (Google: “Old fart”, yep, that’s yo.)

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So novel a Lenten undertaking lasted a whole three hours. I blame the devil: my iPhone. Look no further than this dastardly device Father.

(And then forgive me, gracias).

Steve Jobs confounded invention neglected to remind me to grab my nightly burrito before bicycling workward on Ash Wednesday. (yeah, I know this was like three months ago but I get a lot lost online with my fantasy baseball waiver wire wanderings. I still eat pretty much the same stuff daily which is the point entire). And since Madison Avenue regularly adds a tentacle here a forked tongue there to the ever-colonizing tattoo of Taco Bell cravings (viva almuerzo!) en ye olde frontal temporal lobe, come break time, I rocketed West to inhale a trio of Taco Supremes (hard shell/ground beef/yum) and nick a few dozen hot sauces for future reference.

The only Loop TB serves only lunch. Or at least that’s what Google once told me. Google must have. Must have been why I forgot. Google never forgets. I do. I think. I think I forget. I forget therefore I am not Google. I think it Must have been why I ended up rattling the 10’ foot high steel gate separating me from a Run To The Border instead chowing down on PepsiCo Mexi-versimilitude….

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We interrupt this blog to post a conversation overheard on the Red Line Elevated Train yesterday around suppertime, a testament of sorts to the power of the T-Bell:

Kid 1: Isn’t Wrigleyvile at Addison?

Kid 2: Yeah, you ever been there?

(NOTE: At the corner of Addison and Clark, larger than the Saturn, rises from the concrete one Wrigley Field, international temple to recreational day drinking and oh yes, home to those loveable losers The Chicago Cubs.)

Kid 1: Is there a Taco Bell there?

Kid 2: Yep.

Kid 1: Yeah, I walked to that Taco Bell once.

Kid 2: Cool.

Back to our regularly scheduled blather:

Though I do recall this episode now without the aid Google. I think. But is this my memory or is it Google’s? Won’t Google please pay David Byrne to re-record Once In A Lifetime with accompanying video and replace the lyric “My Google, what have I done?” Because even though eerily silent – not unlike A God – the sound I always imagined Google makes while Googling is something akin Eno’s digital burbling chimes that open one of a few tracks God most certainly had a hand in recording:

Blog to Blogger: “Where exactly the fck are you going with this?”

Taco Bell fue cerrado. Mi Corazon fue triste. My break lasts only an hour. The walk from my Mies Van Der Rohe work container to some other smug Modern architect’s steel and glass terrarium that is the Thompson Center takes eats up a quarter of that time: 15 minutes, if my math is correct.

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In a bit of a state, all Burt Lancastery at the end of The Swimmer – though dry & clothed – I tried God real quick, as in, “God expletive, where the expletive is an open Taco Bell?” When he/she didn’t answer I turned to the devil (iPhone Google app cuz  Siri has been about as helpful to me as an STD) and paid dearly for my transgression (even though I’m not a Catholic).

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No matter how many times ways or means I turn, rotate, wrap, and yes, even gently Kobe beef massage a nuked burrito (any variation: frozen or fridged)/machine, Mexican or homemade), upon inhalation, I somehow always manage to melt off several layers of inner-mouth flesh, blister tongue and gums and yet eventually bite into a gag-reflex flexing 60-30 degree Fahrenheit kernel of blech.

With the nearest Taco Bell being in Wrigleyville (about a 30 minute bike each way), time running out I settled for a quick fix at the 7-11.

7-11s in the Loop, and possibly Chicagoland, to deter either theft or microwaveable crystal meth cook ups, keep their microwaves behind the counter. Patron palates are victims of the culinary skills of 7-11 employees. True to stereotypes and The Simpsons, these Loop convenience stores are manned by men from India and/or Pakistan. (I suppose you could throw Trinidad into the mix too.) The point being, expectations for something piping hot and delicious cooked by such capable hands (Indian food (naan not fry bread) nips at the heels of Mexican food on the race to my mouth for eating bliss) were running high when said Michigan Avenue 7-11 Counter Man (his nametag hung blank) dispatched my dinner. Heck, MA7-11CM was forward thinking enough to bag said gut bomb, noting how obsessively I took to checking the time, before handing it over.

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Cut to: Divine Intervention: Here the Gods make me pay for poking fun at Lent, cursing them for closing Taco Bell, thinking for a second they are above Googling, my cultural insensitively, and being a smart ass at meal time when I should be grateful simply to have something to eat not dropped from plane, a pachyderm’s anus, and/or made of millet and/or dirt.

We covered the Donner party (as in chili con cousins not celebration con Kool and The Gang) here once already.

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As unappetizing a subject as they are for a faux-food blog I need to rear their ugly heads up again because the first bite of my quite room temperature dinner, both in tortilla texture and filling flavor suggested nothing less than forearm. I spit the limb chunk onto the sidewalk and with even less time to complete dinner returned to MA7-11CM requesting he throw the limb back in the nuker for another 2 minutes. MA7-11CM  happily agreed, not catching the arm joke – or maybe he did and took offense. (Take note germo-phobes: dbl nuking; though something tells me nuclear rays sanitize thoroughly evertying.)

 

Round-Two
Round two/bite two*

Score:

Gods: 2

Nedduh: 0

(*Like being French Kissed by Gene Simmons)

Lesson learned: don’t mess with the Gods, MA7-11CM, rock stars on fire, and never trust a microwave. So until Google innovates a way to cook using gamma rays beaming out of Google Glasses I am going native. From this day forward I will re-heat burros over open flames, er, on our Weber. (During regularly scheduled work hours will prove trickier.  Just have to burn that bridge when I get to it.)

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Parties interested in the open flame/conventional oven technique should know, time permitting, this may be the most thorough and by far sabrosa way to heat up burros. Es muy facil: Set grill to medium or oven to 350, wrap burro in aluminum foil and cook for about 10 minutes. Toaster ovens rock the re-heated burro tambien.

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Here’s a Chi-Mexi-Ski burro (refrieds, raw onions, pre-shredded cheddar, grilled kielbasa, fresh NM green) fresh off the grill:

unnamedHere’s a tasty polka to go with it:

 

How The Chili Cook-Off Invented Hip Hop aka Manifest Destiny’s Child

10 Mar

I for once am at a complete loss for completely random themes/narratives to diving into this blog to hopefully come up for air in a bowl of gnarly green-go bride’s maid/red ribbon/silver medal posole.

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I’ve mulled over subjects ranging from performance enhancing drugs to the opening scene in Apocalypse Now to Paczki (Pooch-keys) to texting in movie theaters to Zumbani gravy to daily affirmations for documentaries about sociopathic enlightened despots to fantasy baseball draft fantasies to glamping with Ernest Hemmingway and Campell McGrath to the death croak of a Florida Keys grouper to second helpings of ponch-keys to Kate Moss Single Malt Scotch to National Chili Day to Jon Wayne: Rap Album One to red to salt on ice cream to Colorado the state not the color because it’s blue and confusing but not nearly as baffling as the state “dish’ that goes by the name of Green Chili which is actually a clear soup the consistency of stomach flu bi-products made from John Denver’s sweat. I am not a fan, per se, of this Rocky Mountain version and so over the course of a few years holed up in Eagle County Colorado I mastered – so said my reflection in the mirror – a Varsity vat of a Colorado green chile pork stew soup thing.

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A-ha! That’s it, the chili cook-off as Wild West Shoot out.

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Vaya! But of course!!!! Calling all social anthropologists and cultural studies majors. This here is a landmark discovery in the field. If we trace the origins of hip hop….

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Okay so I lost most of you at the mention of ‘studies”. Oye oye, hear me out. Why doesn’t it make sense outside of Norte del Mexico where even the arrest of El Chapo sadly means only a short term cease fire in the otherwise wily, wild, outlaw ‘culture” in the CONCBPS (Country of Old Narco Capos with Bad Plastic Surgery)

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and I don’t mean for this to read like a Margaret Mead treatise but smash me in the face with a cast iron skillet if my brain didn’t just fart up the origins of not just the chili cook-off but how one can actually draw a meandering line from let’s say for the sake of argument, Reno to The Bronx.

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Damn it feels good to be a meanderer….

Once upon a time the Westwardly moving white Europeans, mostly bitter Civil War veterans on the losing team, taking notes watching John Ford and Clint Eastwood movies, having fulfilled “Manifest Destiny” these pioneers met with a vast nothingness that is Pacific Ocean and/or California. Having slaughtered their way across this great Nation their government and employers claimed as theirs, and because this was a time before PTSD – when Men were Men and so were children and women – again, according my notes once the land and narcotics ran out, these frontier people devoid of war, spirit, country, education, television, harmony, teeth, tolerance – ergo a meaningful existence – well, they simply seethed with fight. And as y’all know, you can take the rebel out of Dixie but take his right to bear arms (read: shoot people) and he may very well take you out.

Again, this according to Time-Life, John Ford, Clint, Skynrd. without bison and/or Indians to slaughter – and ignoring for the moment – just like Mr. Ford, Clint, and text books – all surrounding land and culture was recently Mexican/co – and their autonomic nervous systems basically cooking up a freebase of “fight” hormones atop their cerebral cortexes everyone naturally turned on one another: Outlaws vs Posses. Nobody served “the law”  or even the lord anymore. All answered to a higher order called “Justice”. They brought it on each other day in and day out. Sound familiar? Yep, The West Coast and gang violence go together like Ice Cube and Coors Light.

What throws this hypothesis for a loop though is that, well, the whole hip-hop anti-violence connection happened years before gangsta rap invented itself and yes, it wasn’t in the Wild West but up in the Bronx where the Zulu Warriors brought the peace by having kids remix all those “fight” hormones into “funk’, giving birth to break dancing/beats/tag throw downs and everyone really needs to read all about it in the flyiest, hypest, phattest comic book since Luke Cage: Power Man.

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Man, but do I love to digress. If I didn’t lose you at “studies” or “hypothesis” or “Coors Light” then…anyway, just as knife fights and gunplay and brass knuckles in The Bronx went the way of the 8-track tape as rap contests supplanted violence.

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I mean, I think it is safe, and culturally insensitive to say that the smoke the world saw during game whatever of the World Series which inspired Cosell to spout, “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bronx is buring”

and for many marked the birth of hip hop can be read as a Wild West tale with a Hollywood ending, though most Hollywood Westerns wipe out all the bad guys (and Indians) instead of teaching them to dance/rap/tag or make chili. Anyway, again, take Dr. Who’s phone booth time-travel fetish back to the late 1800s when both chili became a staple dish and the violence in the Wild West went the way of the bison and/or most Indians probably because the pioneers killed each other off, ran out of bullets or became Mormons but what if that twernt the case as all?

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Why? What? Where? Who cares? Don’t ask me to answer anything but How for now. What I propose, and it’s yet to be documented or maybe I just haven’t bothered Googling it yet, that the Chili Cooking Contest were the Rapper’s Delight of the Wild West. The proof, my friends is blowing in the lyrics:

Have you ever went over a friend’s house to eat
And the food just ain’t no good
I mean the macaroni’s soggy the peas are mushed
And the chicken tastes like wood
So you try to play it off like you think you can
By saying that you’re full
And then your friend says momma he’s just being polite
He ain’t finished uh uh that’s bull
So your heart starts pumping and you think of a lie
And you say that you already ate
And your friend says man there’s plenty of food
So you pile some more on your plate
While the stinky food’s steaming your mind starts to dreaming
Of the moment that it’s time to leave
And then you look at your plate and your chickens slowly rotting
Into something that looks like cheese
Oh so you say that’s it I got to leave this place
I don’t care what these people think
I’m just sitting here making myself nauseous
With this ugly food that stinks
So you bust out the door while its still closed
Still sick from the food you ate
And then you run to the store for quick relief
From a bottle of kaopectate
And then you call your friend two weeks later
To see how he has been
And he says I understand about the food
Baby bubbah but we’re still friends
With a hip hop the hippie to the hippie
The hip hip a hop a you don’t stop the rocking

If this isn’t an ironic post-modern wink to Chili Cook-offs then it’s probably just some classic food lyrics forever funny as shit.

Any any any…via

chili-cookoff-5thannual-poster

What is it about Chili Cook-offs that ended Random acts of Wild West Violence?

a. Slaughtering the meat = slaughtering the innocents

b. Beating someone over a burbling vat of chili  =  beating them with your stump

c. Brining on the chili pepper mouth heat = rabbit punch

d. Weapons of Mass Diareha  = Weapons of Mass Destruction

e Quality farts = quality farts

f. All of the above kept me from hauling off and kicking some little shit’s ass for not just beating me in a chili contest in Colorado circa 2008 but also taunting me by referring to me as “Jack Ass” (for the popular film and television star of the era, whom I purportedly resembled) during the awards ceremony (..still).

Answer: f

That blogged, here’s my losing recipe for Gnarly Green-Go-Stop-The-Violence Chile Posole (alias: Bride’s Maid Green Manna Leashy With The Three Pronged Claw, Stiffed by the Soviets Silver Medal Stew, Blue Ribbon Burgoo et al)

Gnarly Green-Go-Stop-The-Violence Chile Posole

INGREDIENTS

chileingredients

1 PORK (Shoulder or Roast; so long as it’s nice and fatty)

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1 cup o’ NM Green Chile (seeded and stemmed)

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1 Yellow Onion

1 garlic head (oven roasted in olive oil/salt/pepper @ 400 degrees for 45 min)

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Tomatillos (boiled)

Stock (chicken)

Flour (white)

Butter (yum)

Cilantro (fresh)

Mexican Oregano (old)

Salt & Pepper (to taste)

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INSTRUCTIONS

Brown one inch chunks of pork in oil and butter (roll in flour or don’t) – place in crock pot/stew pot

Brown onion in left over pork oil, add to pork – add salt/pepper/oregano

Blend tomatillos, green chile and garlic with a splash stock until smooth and pour over pork and onions. Add chicken stock, if needed, to completely cover pork.

Cook on low heat for 6 hours and then some.

Top a bowl off with a handful of cooked hominy, a dollop of sour cream, a squeeze of lime and some chopped cilantro sprigs. (Goes good with cheese crisp.)

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Eat. Rap. Delight.