SAN PANCHO—HOW I GOT THERE
IT IS THE BEGINNING OF MAY, AND THE HOTTEST MONTH of all, as I sit down to write this book in my ecological house in San Francisco Coatepec de Morelos, known locally as San Pancho. The sky is hazy with heat and the dust stirred up by the sudden gusts of high winds, with occasional palls of smoke from a forest fire in the mountains to the east. Often these fires are purposely started by clandestine agents scouting timber for the greedy timber merchants who can then go in to clear and to cut or by farmers’ unattended burning of last year’s stubble to prepare the land for planting. The hills to the south and west are brown and bare in sharp contrast to the brilliant green valley, where the dam provides irrigation to the low fields around it. This is the month when tempers flare and explode, when young blades and old machos drink up a storm and give primeval screams or shoot off their rounds of ammunition as they saunter through the lanes of San Pancho. There is a heaviness in the air and a sense of foreboding. Will the rains come on time? The signs are anxiously awaited. Heriberto, my nearest neighbor, says he has seen the first aludas, winged ants, that are a sure sign, but the mayates, June bugs, hovering around the lamps and bombarding me at night are still too small. André down at the hotel says the swifts have not yet finished their nests (of course it is hard to know, since he drives them away with a broom because their droppings offend his sense of order—inherited from his French colonialist father). Occasionally the sky will threaten rain toward evening, and the next morning there is a delicious scent of damp undergrowth from the tree-clad mountains above. But when the bullfrogs begin their first intermittent raspings, you know that rain is near. On the other hand, if the rainy season starts too early, the last of the coffee berries will burst and spoil, the tomatoes will rot and never ripen, and too often August, the month in which the ears of corn are filling out, will be dry. At this time of year I bless my adobe house, despite all its drawbacks. It keeps pleasantly cool while the water from the primitive solar collector gives me piping-hot showers. People who live in harsher climates tend to think that there are no seasons here in the semitropics of 5,900 feet. Yes, there’s no snow, and just a very occasional frost or brief, gusty hailstorm. January is a bare month, cool and sunny, and if we are in favor with the gods, the first days of February bring welcome rains, cabañuelas, which encourage the plums and peaches to bloom and help top up the tanks for the hot, dry months ahead. The weeks that follow bring the most brilliant-hued flowers of the year: bougainvilleas of all shades, geraniums, amaryllis, cacti, and tropical climbers contrasting with the pale blue masses of plumbago, while citrus blossoms perfume the air and my bees are satiated with these aromas. The vegetable garden is at its best. The first delicate peas and fava beans are harvested, and the nopal cactus rows come alive, shooting out their tender and succulent paddles. Carlos, who is in charge outside, cuts the vegetables and collects the blackberries and strawberries a little too early, but, as he explains, we have a host of eager and cunning winged sharecroppers who would leave me nothing if they had their way.
Yesterday he brought in the freshly winnowed crop of wheat. Not much—it was planted on a small patch of poor land—but it’s enough for my whole-wheat loaves for the year. Every month brings its own modest harvest, and as the last picking of coffee is completed the small, black, indigenous avocados are ready.
The orioles and red throats are scrapping over the mulberries, while the decorative maracuyá vine outside my study window is alive with its white passion flowers, all facing straight up to the sky with their green “antennae” to attract the attention of the hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees. The lime tree is heavy with fruit, while the oranges and tangerines are just forming for the summer crop. The stone walls around the house are bedecked with the showy white cereus blossoms of the pitahayas—that most exotic of fruits with shiny, shocking pink skin, pale green “hooks,” and deep magenta flesh, specked with myriad tiny black seeds.
The little red and yellow plums will ripen in the next months, next to the brilliant-colored tamarillos and the last of the citrons. As May draws to an end, it is the time to plant the corn and ask for the irrigation water that flows down through a maze of open canals through the orchards and pastures of my neighbors. The water comes from springs in land owned higher up by a nearby village and is shared between them, my neighbors, and the community lands down by the dam. I shall never forget the magical sound of the water gushing through the channels at four in the morning: it was a sound that always woke me up before high stone walls and extra trees were planted to muffle the sound. I used to help with the irrigating in those early days. It is compelling, almost addictive work as you direct the water into one channel between the rows of corn. At first it is absorbed by the dry soil, a trickle turns into a flow, and the young plants straighten up and glow. You make a small dike and then start the next row.
That sound of water is music, just like the first drops of rain that drum at night on the hot, dry tiles of the roof and resound against the pine shingles of my bedroom ceiling. I always pray to my pantheistic gods that it will drum long enough to freshen the plants and not just evaporate on the hard, dry soil. I often get up and open the terrace doors early the next morning and breathe in the air, alive with scents of pine, cedar, avocado leaves, and the damp undergrowth that smells of sage. With those first rains a certain cosmic tension is released and I find myself turning over and sleeping more at peace.
Weeds and lilies grow up between the flagstones of the kitchen terrace, and the gray stone walls gradually come alive with mosses, lichens, ferns, and miniature flowers that had lain dormant in the crevices. The hills around turn from burnt umber and ochre to many shades of green as they take part in this incredible metamorphosis.
We plant small patches of corn, all types and colors, that I bring back from my travels around the country. After the first weeding, beans and pumpkins are planted to accompany them.
As the rains progress, the high mesa to the south buzzes with activity long before dawn for the very brief spell when the first tender little field mushrooms appear. This is the time for the light green pear-shaped squash from a plant that creeps along the ground (all the year in Oaxaca) and provides not only the squash itself but also tender shoots for cooking and the largest and most fragrant yellow flowers of all the squash varieties. The chayotes are forming: dark green and prickly, long and pear shaped, and small and cream colored. The tips of their long, curling vines can also be cooked and mixed with scrambled eggs or in a soup. Later in the year, when the plant has dried and the leaves fallen, the bulbous root is unearthed, cooked, and eaten just as it is or made into small fritters. My neighbors can be seen carrying these long light brown tubers cooked, to be sold in the market or along the sidewalks or to be bartered with the chauffeur of the large van carrying them into town. Later still, when the plume at the top of the corn plant, the male flower, is just bursting open, we gather them, dry them in the sun, and winnow them for the anthers, later to be toasted for tamales de espiga (page 17).
In the fall the sweet potatoes are dug up and put out to “season” in the sun for three days before being baked so that their natural sugar exudes. As the days progress, a second crop of oranges, both sweet and bitter, and tangerines ripen and the granadillas (Granada china) whose vines have swarmed over the avocado trees begin to ripen, turning from purplish green to orangey yellow. As October advances, the land around my house as well as the meadows and fields are covered with a haze of yellow and pink wildflowers; as November approaches we are surrounded by clouds of white flowering shrubs that light up the land in contrast to the brilliant red of the poinsettias. If the year has been a fruitful one, there is always something to cook: blackberries from the forests higher up for atole and jam or large, juicy, cultivated ones for ices; quinces in July and guavas in December for ates (fruit pastes); passion fruit for ices; bitter oranges for marmalade; citrons and peaches for candy; and calamondins for preserves, enough to last for a year or more.
I have to keep these things firmly in my mind as changes are occurring: our lanes are not as quiet now, with passenger vans making their macho roar, garbage strewn at night along the entrance to the village, and the booming music of recurring local fiestas in Zitácuaro, all symptomatic of the mindless and raucous elements of any society that invade and destroy, with no thought for the future and what they are not leaving for future generations.
I am so often asked how I came to settle on San Pancho in the first place. Well, an English acquaintance who had built himself a charming house there and knew I was looking for land invited me for the weekend to see the area. I too fell in love with the place just as he had done years earlier. He was a meticulous person, so when he was searching for a place to build a weekend house, he methodically visited all the likely spots within a radius of one hundred miles around Mexico City. He came to know Zitácuaro when he stayed at Rancho San Cayetano, the small hotel owned and run by an elderly American lady. It is situated on the Huetamo highway, about three kilometers from Zitácuaro, precisely at the point where a roughly surfaced lane turns off to San Pancho. From there it is exactly one kilometer to the center of this sprawling village and its late-sixteenth-century Franciscan church.
In front of the church is a public garden—el jardín, which used to be the graveyard—with a small bandstand in the center. It used to be shadowed by towering jacaranda trees. Every spring they bloomed, forming a magnificent cloud of purply blue. Imagine that against an azure sky with the salmon-pink church in the background. As the weeks progressed you would walk on a thick carpet of blue that hid the bare earth. But one day the local politicos, who would easily find any pretext to get drunk, decided that the blossoms made a mess, and besides, they wanted a garden with flowers and less shade—or so they said. The trees were felled over my shrill protestations, which prompted the jefe del pueblo to inform me that prisons were built for women too, and I told him to go to hell . . . well, I have already written about that in my personal cookbook Nothing Fancy. The sale of the firewood kept them all in booze for weeks; it was one long bacchanalia.
Most of the houses are built in traditional style with white-painted adobe walls, earth red around the base to camouflage the mud splashed up from the streets in the heavy rains. The gently sloping roofs are covered with thick tiles that have mellowed to all shades of red and brown over the years. Each house has its piece of land and orchard at the back, and until recently fruit was still picked in bulk and sent daily to the local and Mexico City markets. But in that seemingly peaceful place there was discord: Catholics against Protestants, old political caciques against those who dared to oppose them, whole families closely interrelated, pitted against their relatives, even brothers and sisters at loggerheads. The causes were the normal ones: past or present feuds over inheritances, debts, or what you will.
The young people of the more affluent families were sent off to study for academic or professional careers, and very soon their parents joined them in the city. The village was almost dead except during holidays and feast days, weddings and funerals, though a few families managed to make a living from the lands and orchards that they stayed on and had twelve children each.
Many orchards were abandoned during those years, many of the sons went off as migrant workers to the United States, and irrigation water was not plentiful. The village above San Pancho, San Miguel, which controls most of the springs that bring water from the mountains, was growing too fast; people were dividing up their lands, and indiscriminate tree felling was taking its toll. Everything seemed to be contributing to the gradual disintegration of this once-beautiful place.
When I was thinking seriously of buying near Zitácuaro, I remembered what a friend and well-known Náhuatl scholar, who had studied the history of that area, had said: “Don’t buy there; there’s a lot of witchcraft around.” And I also remembered what a very wise friend, a renowned forestry expert and one of the first serious British ecologists, said when he heard of my infatuation with the place: “Beware of the ideal.” I thought of that again when a neighbor blocked my narrow entranceway, saying it was only for men walking or donkeys and not for trucks carrying building materials. A politician who was a friend of my late husband helped me regain my access rights and, when I nearly gave up in despair, said, “Diana, never let go of a dream.” For by then my plans had built themselves into a dream.
I wanted a house of locally made materials that would address itself to the resources of the area and be in tune with the restrictions with which my neighbors had to live, and had survived, for many years. I wanted it to become a center for my studies of Mexican foods, a place where I could not only plant chiles and herbs from different parts of the country but also plant trees and help the earth around come alive again after so many years of neglect.
To this day I don’t really know why I hung onto this dream—which threatened many times to become a nightmare—so tenaciously and against all odds. I was told by one of the taciturn, unfriendly men of the main family controlling most of the lands around me that San Pancho was a pueblo fantasmo (ghost village): people came but never stayed. I often thought of those words in the early days before I had a car, as I walked across the village in the early afternoons of those hot spring days. There was no sound of human life, only the braying of a donkey, the crowing of a misguided rooster, and the dry rustle of coffee bushes and avocado trees. The silence was eerie.
In those days I was known as la gringa loca, who had bought land without water. The story of getting that irrigation water by insisting on my rights as a bona fide landholder and then finally getting my one hour of dubious drinking water daily could itself fill a book. Gratefully, I have almost erased from my memory those arduous days, and when I do think fleetingly about them I try to rationalize it all as “building character” (a little late in life) or “adding to worldly experience,” shutting out the thought—much nearer the truth—that I was just plain stupid and stubborn in attempting what many others had tried and failed to do.
The small orchards around San Pancho are bordered by loose stone walls, bare and gray in the dry months and gloriously multicolored soon after the rains: with pale pink begonias and little red and purple trumpets. Today I can still see neighbors striding along the way to their fields, their curved machetes like extensions of their right arms and their faces shaded by wide-brimmed sombreros that have small tassels swaying from the back. There are donkeys laden with dried kindling for the local bakers, pattering surefootedly over the uneven rocky surface along the lane, and the occasional horseman erect and moving in rhythm with his mount, acknowledging another presence with a grudging “Buenos días.” Occasionally I meet opposition to my little truck from heavily plodding oxen—still used for plowing here—or a herd of Holsteins ambling along, as though they have all day to reach their pastures on the mesa that rises and extends along the southern limits of the village holdings.
Nowadays, despite the defacing Pepsi signs and carelessly thrown litter, the blaring of portable radios and noisy Volkswagen vans carrying people to and from Zitácuaro, some vestiges of the past remain in the memories of the older people, in the beliefs, the myths, and the food. Sra. Catalina, the mother of Carlos, my capataz, and eight other children (one now works for the Italian priests who have come to live here and from whom she learned to make spaghetti bolognese) is proud of her recipe for tamales de espiga. A few days after she had come to make them with me, she appeared with her husband at the entrance to my land, smiling and waving a piece of paper. On it her mother had written in a shaky hand, “Tamales de espiga datan de 1770 que tienen conocimiento y son originarios de San Francisco Coatepec de Morelos” (Tamales de espiga date from 1770, when they were known, and originated in San Francisco Coatepec de Morelos).
[MAKES 60 TAMALES]
Tamales de espiga are traditionally made for the September independence festivities, but Sra. Catalina begins to prepare for them toward the end of July, when the male flower of the corn cultivated during the rainy season (not from irrigated corn in the dry months because Sra. Catalina says this does not have such a strong flavor) is just bursting out of its green sheath, as the local saying goes: “cuando la milpa está bandereando” (when the cornfield is bedecked with flags).
I had heard about these unique tamales from neighbors and must confess that the first time I tried one I was unimpressed, but then I hadn’t tried Sra. Catalina’s. It was then that I began to appreciate their delicate malty/honey flavor and spongy texture. The dough itself is made of white flour leavened with pulque, flavored with the dried toasted anthers or pollen sacs of the male flowers that crown the cornstalk, and sweetened with piloncillo, the dark-colored cones of raw sugar. The tamales are steamed in dried corn husks and traditionally eaten for breakfast or supper accompanied by a glass of milk.
The flowers themselves are made up of many (I have counted up to eighteen) strands. You have to reach up and, holding the bunch in your fist, lift them out of their sheathlike socket. We did this late one afternoon and immediately wrapped them in a piece of dry toweling until the following morning. The next day, about ten o’clock, when the sun was warm, they were spread out in one layer on a piece of cotton (not toweling) in the sun to dry. At noon they were turned over and again at two-thirty in the afternoon before they were wrapped once again in the toweling at about four o’clock, when the sun was beginning to lose its strength.
This whole process was repeated the following day since the espigas generally need two sunnings (dos soles). To test if they have been dried out enough, tap one of the strands and the anthers (anteras) or pollen sacs (erroneously referred to in my village as pistilos, or pistils) that resemble light green threads about half a centimeter long, and if they fall easily from their husks, the sprays are ready to be threshed.
Doña Catalina ordered a switch made of peach wood, about one and a half meters long, which should be flexible and stripped of its bark. Her son Carlos provided exactly what she had asked for. She started beating the sprays with a gentle rhythmic motion, then stopped and complained that the switch was too long. It was cut down to a more manageable size of one meter, and the work proceeded until she was satisfied that as many of the anthers as possible had been separated. The dried stalks were removed and the winnowing began.
The winnowing was not, as one might suspect, done with the wind or by tossing it in the air but by drawing the fringe of a rebozo slowly over the surface so that the husks adhered to the fabric. But it wasn’t quite as easy as that. Catalina said she had forgotten to bring her rebozo—actually she had lent it to her daughter, who had lost it. We sent across to some neighbors to borrow one. Elena, who had two, we were told, sent back word that she couldn’t find hers; Esther had just laundered her rebozo, and it was still damp. I produced a woolen one and thought it worked quite well, but it did not pass Catalina’s stringent test. The most efficient fringe for their work, so it turns out, is that of an ordinary rebozo de hilo (a common rebozo made of a more commercial thread).
The cleaned anthers, mixed with some of the brilliant yellow pollen that had been shaken from them, were a luminous pale green but needed to be dried for two extra days. At this point they could be stored in an airtight container for future use. (I have actually used them after one year, and they still retained their aroma and flavor.) Now to the recipe:
4-1/2 pounds (2 generous kilograms) all-purpose flour (about 18 cups)
1 quart (1 liter) fresh pulque (see box, opposite)
2-1/8 pounds (1 kilogram) piloncillo or dark brown sugar
Approximately 3 cups (750 milliliters) water
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) anthers
60 dried corn husks, soaked
Put one quarter of the flour into a wide bowl. Add the pulque and, after making the sign of the cross (even I as a pantheist do it), mix to a loose, rather lumpy batter. As an added assurance against mishaps, place two twigs in the form of a cross on top of the bowl and then cover with a towel. Set aside to proof at about 75°F (24°C) for about 4 hours; it should be bubbly and well fermented with a thin crust over the surface.
Meanwhile, break the piloncillo into small pieces and add it, or the sugar, to the water in a small pan. Dissolve over low heat and set aside to cool.
Put the anthers into an ungreased pan and stir over low heat until they begin to toast to a golden brown and a delicious malty aroma emanates from them. Grind them to a powder in an electric spice/coffee grinder (traditionally they are ground on a metate, which is then brushed down with an escobetilla, or little brush formed out of a bundle of dried roots).
Distribute the remaining flour evenly around the edge of the fermented starter. Sift the ground anthers into the middle and pour the syrup over them to form a central pool. Again, bless the mixture with the sign of the cross before beginning to fold the flour into the other ingredients with your hand. You must always fold in with a counterclockwise motion, turning the bowl gradually as you go.
When the ingredients are all well incorporated, the dough should be fairly stiff (if too stiff, add a little more water by degrees) and sticky and the color of cafe con leche.
Turn the mixture out onto a flat surface, form it into a round cushion shape, cover loosely with a cloth, and leave overnight or for not more than 14 hours, at room temperature (about 60°F/15°C).
The next day fill the bottom of a tamale steamer with water and a few coins that will rattle around as the water boils. If the rattling slows down or stops completely, you know that more boiling water should be added immediately. The steamer should then be set over a wood or charcoal fire; according to Sra. Catalina, this adds the authentic touch to the flavor of the tamales.
To form the tamales, start by cutting a strip of the dough about 2-1/2 inches (6.5 centimeters) wide and divide it into pieces about 2 inches (5 centimeters) long. Make only 10 or so to begin with. Place a piece of the dough into the corn husks, leaving about 2 inches (5 centimeters) of space between the cupped end of the husk and the dough to allow for expansion. Folding the edges of the cup loosely over the dough, fold the tip over to completely cover the dough, again very loosely.
When you have prepared the 10 tamales, open up the steamer (the water should be boiling) and bless it with a double sign of the cross. Start by placing the tamales in one layer around the edge of the steamer, with one in the middle to complete the layer, or tendida. Cover the steamer with a tight lid and steam the tamales for about 7 minutes so that they are just beginning to set (para que se sancochen—although this literally means to parboil) before adding another layer; then after 5 minutes add the next layer and subsequent layers at each 5-minute interval until they are packed loosely into the steamer.
The tamales should take about 1 hour to cook. To test, remove one, unwrap it, and make sure that it is spongy to the touch and that the dough comes easily away from the warm husk. Then, just to make sure, break one open to ensure the dough is cooked all the way through. Serve immediately.
. . .
Pulque is the fermented sap of the century plant (Agave atrovirens, A. americana). Rich in amino acids, with minerals, salts, and natural sugar, not only does it provide a healthful, slightly alcoholic drink, but it was also one of the principal elements—with corn and chiles—in the diet of the indigenous people of central Mexico from pre-Columbian times.
Pulque is often curado, flavored with fruits—strawberries, pineapples, tunas (fruits of certain cacti), among others—and sold in pulquerías or cantinas and even canned for consumption both at home and abroad.
It has a rather sour, earthy, fruity flavor and slightly slimy consistency and is very much an acquired taste. More acceptable to most “outsiders” is the lighter, frothy aguamiel from which it is made. When the maguey or agave matures, anywhere from seven to nine years, and is about to send up its thick stalk crowned with flowers, the center is scraped to form a bowl into which the sap, or aguamiel, drains. This liquid is drawn off with a special gourd twice daily (like milking a cow). Timing has to be exact and all utensils and hands cleaned scrupulously to prevent the aguamiel from spoiling. It is then added to the vat of mature pulque to be transformed through fermentation into pulque within a few hours.
Not only is pulque consumed as a drink, but it is also used for leavening bread, for making rustic table sauces (salsa borracha, etc.), for grinding dried chiles, for seasoning pastes for barbecued meats, for cooking stews, or for adding with piloncillo (cones of brown unrefined sugar) to make a fermented tepache (a drink more often made with pineapple).
In recipes light beer makes an acceptable substitute.
. . .
Frutas en tacha (Preserved Fruits)
There are three stands in the Zitácuaro market that sell frutas en tacha—fruits cured in a solution of lime or wood ash and cooked to a brown stickiness in raw sugar. The bitter oranges, citrons, figs, pumpkins, and chilacayotes are grown locally. During Holy Week, street stands do a brisk trade in selling these fruits stuffed into white bread rolls: the standard breakfast for most families who still observe traditional ways of eating.
You don’t have to drive very far south of Zitácuaro to reach the hot country, where there are still remains of haciendas and the ingenios, sugar mills, that belonged to them. Before the Revolution and land reforms, extensive areas there were planted with sugarcane. After the partition of these lands to the campesinos, a few of them elected to continue cultivating cane but, of course, on a much smaller scale. Up until more than a decade ago, every year at the end of January I used to drive down with one or two neighbors to a village about thirty kilometers away to buy my year’s supply of the large, dark brown cones of unrefined sugar. Sadly, all the small mills have now disappeared. I always enjoyed those morning drives. The village stood several kilometers back from the highway on a rough, narrow road that wound through a steep canyon. The sweet smell of the crushed cane met you as you neared the first houses and the trapiche, a rustic sugar mill, but we always went on through the ranchería on a bumpy track that finally led to a wide opening in the cane fields.
DURAZNOS EN TACHA
PRESERVED PEACHES
[MAKES 50 PEACHES]
Many years ago a governor of the state came to lunch and I proudly showed him my very interesting but poor land. Remembering that it was mostly neglected orchard, he thoughtfully sent me a truckload of fruit trees. I distributed them through the village as a gesture of goodwill, and we all had ten trees each. The rascally old jefe del pueblo, the authority in our village, who was an inveterate drunk, kept sending people who did not own land to try to get more trees for himself than the allotted amount. We caught on very fast.
There were peach trees among those sent that produce a firm fruit with crisp orange-colored flesh. They are not only delicious to eat but ideal just before they become too ripe, to preserve in the traditional way, tachados.
When my peach trees first started to fruit, I decided that now was the time to learn the recipe. I had eaten them from the market, from a local restaurant, and finally from a neighbor. I tried their recipes but somehow wasn’t satisfied. The subject came up one day when chatting with Sra. Lola†, who also lived in the village, and I invited her to try my first efforts. . . . “No,” she said, “these are too correoso” (coarse and chewy). “My mother knows how to make them much better.” I checked every step of the recipe with Sra. Lucinda†, but when it came to “How long do they take to cook?” she replied: “They will let you know.” I think I cooked about one hundred that first time, and it took eight hours! If the rains do not extend into the fall for too long, the peaches will dry out nicely and will last for up to two years. They get drier, less sweet, and a little more chewy.
Don’t be put off by the cooking time. Get a fascinating book or invite a talkative person to keep you company. If you hurry the peaches, they boil so fast they will not cook right through evenly and have a tougher skin. Be sure to pick peaches that are still underripe.
50 small underripe peaches, about 4 pounds (1.8–2.5 kilograms)
Approximately 3 quarts (3 liters) cold water
Just over 1/4 cup (63 milliliters) wood ash, ground and sifted (see note)
4 pounds (3 kilograms 600 grams) granulated sugar
5 cups (1.25 liters) water
NOTE: The amount of ash given is for hard wood; if you are using soft wood ash like pine, increase the amount by almost double.
Rinse the peaches, removing any remains of the stalk. Prick each peach with a fork three times, making sure that the tines reach down to the pit.
Put the 3 quarts (3 liters) water into a glass, stainless steel, or hard-baked stoneware crock. Stir the wood ash into the water and allow the gray particles to settle to the bottom. This will take about 20 minutes.
Place the peaches carefully in the water, which should cover them, and leave them to soak overnight. While they are soaking and while you are still awake, gently tilt the pan from side to side to make sure the peaches are soaking evenly.
The following day, remove the peaches, rinse them well in fresh water, and gently rub the downy surface from the skin. Meanwhile, put the sugar and 5 cups (1.25 liters) water in a preserving pan, bring to a boil, lower the heat, and stir until the sugar has melted. Add the peaches. Now the water should come only three quarters of the way up the fruit. Cook uncovered over low heat, so that the peaches just simmer until the syrup begins to thicken and the skin of the peaches takes on a greenish hue. As the syrup thickens, it will coat the peaches and penetrate the flesh. They are done when the peaches and the flesh inside are a deep brown color and the sugar hangs in a thick strand from the spoon. This may take 4 to 5 hours or more! Transfer to a drying rack to drain and dry them off in a dry, airy place—in the sun if you don’t have beehives around. Store in a dry, well-ventilated place to avoid mold.
CHILAQUILES EN SALSA VERDE DE SRA. JUANA
SRA. JUANA’S CHILAQUILES IN GREEN SAUCE
[SERVES 4]
Friends who stay at Rancho San Cayetano, the small hotel about a mile from where I live, always rave about Juana’s chilaquiles in green sauce that are served at breakfast time. Chilaquiles is colloquially referred to as “broken up old sombrero” but is in fact stale corn tortillas broken up and served with a lavish topping of cream cheese, chopped onion, and sometimes chorizo or shredded chicken. It is a very popular breakfast dish in central Mexico in particular, and each area has its own, slightly different version. Here in the eastern part of Michoacán the tortilla pieces are fried crisp and remain al dente when the sauce has been added; elsewhere they are often cooked to a softer consistency.
Since Juana has to provide for late risers who amble into the breakfast room throughout the morning, she cooks the sauce separately and adds it to the fried tortillas just before serving.
12 ounces (340 grams) tomates verdes, about 14 medium, husks removed and rinsed
4 serrano chiles or to taste
1 garlic clove, roughly chopped
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt to taste
Oil for frying
8 5-inch (13-centimeter) corn tortillas, cut into 1/2-inch (13-millimeter) squares and left to dry overnight
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
THE TOPPING
2/3 cup (164 milliliters) roughly chopped cilantro
3/4 cup (188 milliliters) crumbled queso fresco or substitute (page 437)
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) crème fraîche or sour cream thinned with a little milk
Put the tomates verdes and chiles into a small pan, cover with water, and cook over low heat until soft but not falling apart. Drain off all but 1/3 cup (83 milliliters) of the cooking water. Transfer to a blender jar with the garlic and blend until smooth.
Heat 1 tablespoon oil in a skillet, add the sauce with salt to taste, and cook over medium heat, stirring from time to time, until slightly reduced and seasoned—about 5 minutes. Keep warm.
Heat oil to a depth of about 1/4 inch (7 millimeters) in a deep skillet, add the tortilla pieces, a few at a time, and fry until crisp and light gold. Drain on paper toweling and continue with the remaining pieces. Drain off all but 1/4 cup (63 milliliters) of the oil in the pan. Add the tortilla pieces and the onion, cover, and fry over low heat, shaking the pan from time to time, until the onion is translucent; it should not be browned.
Add the warm sauce and cook, stirring to mix well for about 5 minutes. Serve immediately, topping each portion with a generous amount of cilantro, cheese, and cream.
ENSALADA DE NOPALITOS ESTILO SAN PANCHO
NOPAL SALAD, SAN PANCHO STYLE
[MAKES ENOUGH FOR 12 TACOS OR 4 MAIN-DISH SALADS]
Both Juana, one of the cooks at the hotel, and my housekeeper, Consuelo, prepare a cactus salad in this way. It is slightly different from those published in my other books. They boil the cactus pieces, while I always cook mine al vapor, in their own juice. Here the salad is often served with chicharrón scattered over the top as part of a mixed botana with drinks, although it can, of course, be served as a dinner salad or as a stuffing for tacos.
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
4 cups (1 liter) cactus pieces, cut into squares of just over 1/2 inch (7 millimeters)
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) water
Salt to taste
2 tablespoons finely chopped white onion
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) finely chopped tomatoes
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) loosely packed finely chopped cilantro leaves and small stems
1-1/2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
3 serrano chiles or to taste, finely chopped
1 additional tablespoon light olive oil or vegetable oil
3 ounces (85 g) chicharrón, broken into 1-inch (2.5-centimeter) pieces (optional)
In a heavy skillet, heat 1 tablespoon vegetable oil over medium heat, add the cactus pieces, water, and salt, cover the pan, and cook over medium heat for about 5 minutes. By then the cactus will be juicy and slimy (if it is fresh enough). Remove the lid and continue cooking, scraping the bottom of the pan from time to time to prevent sticking, until all the moisture has evaporated and the viscosity is absorbed back into the cactus, about 10 minutes. The quantity will have reduced by about half. Set aside to cool.
Mix in the rest of the ingredients and set aside to season for at least 30 minutes. Just before serving, scatter the top with the chicharrón.
BOTANA DE CHILACAS
CHILACAS WITH CREAM AND CHEESE
SRA. CONSUELO MENDOZA
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 1-1/4 CUPS (313 MILLILITERS)—8 BOTANAS]
There are foods in any cuisine that I can eat over and over again, and never tire of the taste or texture. The chilaca, that long, skinny, dark green chile, is one of them, either fresh or in its dried form as pasilla chile. It has a delicious flavor and, although generally mildly picante, it can surprise you at times with its fierceness.
Chilacas, occasionally found in New Mexico and California, are popular in the cooking of this part of Michoacán and around Morelia, I suppose because they are grown extensively in the fertile lands around Queréndaro in the valley farther east. When you drive through that little town in the fall, you can see the crop of chilacas and poblanos spread out on petates (mats) to dry along the main avenue alongside little stands selling honey and the local bread from the nearby pottery town of Zinapécuaro.
My housekeeper admits that she is not a great cook, although she does provide daily meals for her family and the relatives who are continually dropping by unannounced. Obviously having worked for me for several years, she knows the dishes that I more or less routinely (although there is not much of a routine in my house) prepare and those that I bring back from my travels, but occasionally she suggests something that her sisters-in-law have picked up. The following two recipes came from those welcome suggestions.
This delicious snack is eaten at room temperature with freshly made corn tortillas to accompany drinks before a meal.
8 chilacas, peeled and cleaned, or 7 small poblano chiles
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
2 tablespoons finely chopped white onion
3 tablespoons finely crumbled queso fresco or substitute (page 437)
1/3 cup (85 milliliters) crème fraîche or sour cream
Salt to taste
Tear (remember, this chile is often referred to as chile para deshebrar, or chile to shred) the chilacas into very thin strips, or cut the poblanos into very thin strips. Mix the chiles with the rest of the ingredients and set aside to season for at least 30 minutes before serving with fresh tortillas.
FAVA BEAN SNACK
CONSUELO MENDOZA
[MAKES 3-1/2 TO 4 CUPS (875 MILLILITERS TO 1 LITER)]
Last spring I had an abundance of tender and delicious fava beans. I had cooked them in every way possible and was searching for a new way of preparing them when my housekeeper, Consuelo, came up with this recipe. It was actually passed on to her from a sister-in-law who comes from a village near Toluca, where fava beans are a major crop. In fact, both fresh and dried fava beans are used extensively there. It is important to have tender beans. I have always had bad luck in the United States with favas since they are so often picked far too late, when they are large and starchy.
Serve this as a botana with drinks or as an appetizer, either warm or at room temperature.
3-1/2 cups (875 milliliters) hulled tender fava beans, inner skin left on
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) vegetable oil
2 cups (500 milliliters) thinly sliced white onion
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 manzano or jalapeño chiles, seeds and veins removed, cut into thin strips
Salt to taste
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) water
3 large sprigs epazote, roughly chopped
1 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
Shave off a small portion of the skin at the point where the beans were attached to the pod to enable the flavors to penetrate and prick with a fork on both sides. Heat the oil in a skillet, add the onion, garlic, and chiles, and cook gently without browning until the onion is translucent.
Add the beans, salt, and water, cover the pan, and continue cooking, shaking the pan from time to time to prevent sticking, for about 10 minutes. Add the epazote and cook for 5 minutes more, stirring in the oregano just before the end of the cooking time.
CALDO DE HONGO Y FLOR
BROTH WITH MUSHROOMS AND SQUASH FLOWERS
[SERVES 6]
This caldo is the inevitable soup course in my menus as the rainy season advances and there are still some of the delicate little mushrooms called clavitos (Lyophyllum decastes)—crudely called “fried chicken mushrooms” in the United States—and the squash flowers are large and fragrant. Of course, any tender mushroom may be substituted. The balance of ingredients could vary according to taste and availability of ingredients, but the base should be a good, flavorful, but not too strong chicken broth. I prefer to cook some of the vegetables separately to intensify their flavor before adding them to the broth—more trouble, but it is worth it.
Very sweet American corn won’t do here; look for field corn at a farmers’ market or farmstand.
3-1/2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 medium white onion, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
4 ounces (115 grams) zucchini, finely diced, 1 cup (250 milliliters) loosely packed
Salt to taste
3/4 cup (188 milliliters) fresh corn kernels, not sweet
12 ounces (340 grams) squash flowers, 4 cups (1 liter) very tightly packed, sepals removed and roughly chopped
8 ounces (225 grams) juicy mushrooms, tips of stems removed, rinsed
2 large sprigs epazote
5 cups (1.25 liters) chicken broth
2 poblano chiles, charred, peeled, seeds and veins removed, and cut into strips
Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a skillet over medium heat, add two-thirds of the onion and garlic, and cook without browning until translucent. Add the zucchini, sprinkle with salt, cover the pan, and cook for about 3 minutes. Add the corn and continue cooking for 3 more minutes. Add the squash flowers and cook, uncovered, until all the vegetables are just tender but not too juicy, about 10 minutes. If they are juicy, raise the heat for a few minutes.
Chop the larger mushrooms, leaving the smaller ones whole. Heat 1 tablespoon of the remaining oil in a skillet over medium heat, add the remaining onion and garlic, and cook until translucent. Add the mushrooms and cook over fairly high heat for about 5 minutes. Add the epazote and cook for 2 minutes more.
Add the mushrooms and vegetables to the broth in a saucepan. Bring the broth up to a simmer and continue simmering for about 10 minutes or until the flavors have mingled.
Heat the remaining 1/2 tablespoon oil, add the chile strips with a sprinkle of salt, and cook for 1 minute. Serve on top of the broth.
MEXICO CITY TO ZITÁCUARO, MICHOACÁN
Returning to San Pancho from Mexico City in those first years when the roads were still lightly traveled, I would often stop to take photographs or just gaze at the landscape that unfolded with every turn in the road—mountains, plains, and forests—always marveling at their beauty, the colors, the brilliance of the light, and the variety of wildflowers. You could listen to the silence then, broken now and again by birdsong.
No longer. I now think of that drive as a lesson in survival as trailers, trucks, and buses of enormous dimensions rush past and what I guess to be minor bureaucrats or traveling salesmen swing out wide around the bends and overtake on blind curves. The devil himself seems to be behind the wheel or snapping at their heels. Surely one is permitted some nostalgia for those less frenetic days!
The journey starts by driving out of Mexico City on Highway 15, which leads due west, climbing steeply up along the edge of the Desierto de los Leones, a thickly wooded national park. As you reach the highest point, a pass of about 9,000 feet, the road begins to drop in wide curves down to the valley of the Río Lerma. It is dominated to the southwest by an extinct volcano, the Nevado de Toluca, whose slopes around the crater are periodically covered with snow or wreathed in cloud. But before you reach Toluca, the next large town, you pass through La Marquesa, intersecting valleys mostly providing pastureland for sheep but now partly given over to an immense recreation area where go-cart tracks, football pitches, and hundreds of small shacks cater to the thousands of capitalinos who disgorge from the city every weekend or on national holidays to escape the smog. About twenty kilometers farther on, the broad highway becomes a divided boulevard, Paseo de Tollocan, lined with grassy banks and shaded by weeping willows—the only remaining traces of its former natural splendor as the marshy lakelands of the Río Lerma. Until it was drained to provide water for a profligate Mexico City, the whole area was traversed by hundreds of waterways that provided fish, shrimp like acociles, frogs, and many types of wildfowl for the local inhabitants who fished from small crafts and were known long ago as “the Venetians of Mexico.” It is now an industrial strip.
It takes much longer now to pass through the city of Toluca, the capital of the State of Mexico, despite the modern overpasses. Its immense and rapidly growing urban development stretches out and engulfs many of the surrounding villages and their cornfields, which a few farmers stubbornly refuse to sell.
Once past the city limits you find yourself in an expanse of cleared land given over exclusively to the cultivation of corn. I was told that about fifty years ago this area was heavily forested with pines of enormous girth, which may be only partially true, allowing for the fact that in colonial times it was recognized as the principal area in the country for growing first-quality corn. Nowadays the corn always looks short and sometimes rather sad, because it is often ravaged by the sudden hailstorms that sweep across the valley in the rainy season. Planting the same single crop year after year and the overly generous use of chemicals must have taken their toll on the thin topsoil.
This is a barren landscape in the winter, but as early as March there is a fuzz of green over the recently plowed land as the tips of the corn push up through the earth. The rains start earlier here at this high altitude, and by June the corn is standing high. But the days of late summer and early fall are those I wait for, when the land comes alive with flowers of different colors and as far as the eye can see there are odd patches of pink cosmos and yellow margaritas. The roadsides are bordered with these delicate flowers swaying in the breeze.
A few miles farther on, rounding a high bend in the road, you can see one gently curving valley after another of grasslands where sheep and cattle graze. Under the vigilance of two large haciendas that spread themselves low and comfortably over a rise in the land, on either side there are some well-ordered stands of trees . . . but too few. There are distant views, range upon range of foothills and the mountains beyond. All this is under a clear blue sky after the rains, its expanse broken only by billowing white clouds. You breathe a sigh of relief: at last, a space uninhibited and untrammeled by tires or feet. What a beautiful and varied highway this is, as you drive on through plantations of pine and cedar, some well cared for by the local communities, others partially destroyed by fire and beyond revival.
As you pass the junction of the Valle de Bravo road through another valley and yet another village, you come to Bosencheve, where the tall skinny pines bend perilously over the road, and then enter a shaded canyon. This is my favorite part of the drive. Every leaf and pine needle seems to shine, and there is a resinous scent in the air and damp undergrowth. Not so very long ago the whole area was thickly forested, but now only a narrow fringe remains.
As the road winds up and up through the canyon, you reach the boundary between the State of Mexico and that of Michoacán. Here and there are large patches of clear-cut areas that soon become scars worn bare of all vegetation. I concentrate on the road, which begins its winding descent into the eastern part of Michoacán. As you round each curve you get a different-angled view of the land that drops off steeply below: a patchwork of cornfields with only a fringe of trees left here and there to hold back the soil. Finally, the panorama broadens out. The peaks of Mil Cumbres are straight ahead, and to the west the beginning of the hot country. It was on one of these journeys on a winter’s afternoon that I had an unforgettable sight: a fiery ball of the setting sun perched directly on top of an isolated volcanic peak, El Coyote, against a background of misty gray. As the curves extend and finally flatten out, you can see Zitácuaro in the distance.
Perhaps my preoccupation with what is happening here is exaggerated, but witnessing the disdain for beauty and order in the rough-and-tumble effort to survive with uncontrolled population growth and more and more mouths to feed, you cannot help wondering just how far the earth can be desecrated without giving up or fighting back.
Zitácuaro
In one of the very Mexican areas of Los Angeles, I was amused to see a bumper sticker with the usual red heart and “I love Zitácuaro.” I began to wonder why I couldn’t say the same, having had a house near there for so many years. But Three Times Heróica Zitácuaro is not a lovable place.
When I arrived in Mexico in 1957, I passed through what was then a quiet little town. The paved highway stopped as it entered the town and started again at the other side; Avenida Revolución, which ran through it, was unpaved but divided by a line of old shady trees. The local houses, typical of the region, were of adobe brick with gently sloping roofs of thick tiles. Many of them still had their solares, a plot of land at the back covering a square block, planted with fruit trees, vegetables, and herbs, with hens pecking around and often a cow grazing contentedly. As the timber merchants, cattle ranchers, truck owners, and merchants of Lebanese descent grew rich from the surrounding countryside and the people living in it, the tranquility was gradually broken. The main avenue was widened, paved, and stripped of its trees in the name of progress by some aspiring local politician. Only today, over thirty years later, have trees been replanted. Nearly all the old houses have been swept away to make room for ugly buildings, cement blocks of bizarre design and colors, the fantasies of the architects, the engineers, and their clients.
Alas, it is now a raucous town. Machos of all ages in fancy trucks, status symbols par excellence, or the local transport of noisy Volkswagen vans without their mufflers blare and rattle their way through the narrow streets. On practically every street corner the indolent young and deaf lounge disinterested by their stands, playing music cassettes through enormous loudspeakers. The streets are lined with people selling the same cheap merchandise: shoes, clothes, toys, but also chicken, bread, and vegetables. The peasants who come down from the surrounding hills are relegated to sitting on the sidewalks with small piles of their wares before them. It is there that I go first.
These country people provide a fascinating seasonal array: blackberries, mushrooms, little wild orchids, squash flowers, quince, citrus blossoms, and herbs for any ailment. There are large orange-colored dried shrimp and dried fish brought up from the coasts, a seven-hour drive to the west, coconuts from the south, and pecans from the north. For Good Friday there are woven palm crosses with sprays of bay leaves and, as the Christmas season approaches, lengths of sugarcane, crab apples, limas, and slightly charred, unshelled peanuts for all the piñatas. There are piles of gray stringy and green velvety mosses to decorate the nativity cribs.
Zitácuaro is known for its hearty eating. As you stroll through the market any morning of the year, the small stands offer steaming menudo from large cazuelas. Don Lacho, who has a monopoly on heads of the slaughtered cattle from the rastro, offers you a sample of his succulent barbecued meat (el rostro as it is known locally) prised from the cheek. If you feel squeamish, just shut your eyes and eat. It is delicious. Profy, another local purveyor, who prides himself on his culinary skills, pushes a little cart through the center of the market and parks conveniently next to the women selling their homemade tortillas. You buy two tortillas, either white or blue corn, to wrap around his succulent pork or deftly seasoned chicken.
As I pass farther on to buy bones for the dogs, the savory smell of rellena (“filling,” or it can mean blood sausage) meets me. There are always the same two women sitting there behind their pots of rich stew of pig’s blood and intestines seasoned with herbs and whole yellow perón chiles (sometimes it’s made with chicken blood and intestines—see the recipe in The Art of Mexican Cooking).
By ten o’clock literally everyone who has arrived early to work in the market is standing around these eateries, refresco (bottled drink) in one hand, a taco in the other held above the mouth at just the right angle to catch any dripping goodness, while a line of patient dogs sit alert for any scraps that just might miss their target.
The streets too have their food stands, which become more numerous and more varied by the day. Large oval huaraches, made of corn masa smeared with beans, sauce, crumbled cheese, or whatever you choose, have been a regular favorite for some time. Breakfast dishes of eggs and nopales (cactus pieces), chorizo and potato, and thin seared and chopped steaks take over the cool damp mornings from the genteel little jelly and custard forms or even the baked sweet potatoes covered with shiny syrup.
Housewives can be seen, some still with their hair curlers in, hurrying home early from the market. A few still carry their decorative baskets, but alas, too many stuff their purchases in a limply swinging plastic bag.
But if the town is not limpia y amable—clean and pleasant, says the slogan on ubiquitous signs posted by some well-meaning municipal president (much to the amusement of a well-known magazine writer who dubbed Zitácuaro one of the ugliest towns in Mexico)—there are many wonderful people there who have helped me through the years and generously shared their culinary knowledge. Some of their recipes are recorded here and others in The Art of Mexican Cooking.
RANCH SAUCE
SRA. CONSUELO G. DEL VALLE
[SERVES 4 TO 6]
One afternoon I had just finished making some jalapeños en escabeche and found I still had quite a lot of chiles left. I suddenly remembered having seen this recipe in a little book put together in Zitácuaro by the local Lions Club wives. Although Sra. del Valle now lives in Zitácuaro, she is originally from Jalisco, and most probably the recipe comes from that area or northern Michoacán, where there are many minguichis—variations on the theme of chiles, cream, and cheese.
Traditionally this is served with meats, especially broiled meats, but I like to serve it as a snack or first course with a nonpicante sauce of Mexican green tomatoes and corn tortillas—but it is only for those who simply love chiles.
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
8 ounces (225 grams) jalapeño chiles, seeds and veins removed, cut into very fine strips, about 2 cups (500 milliliters) firmly packed
8 ounces (225 grams) white onions, sliced as finely as possible, about 2 cups (500 milliliters)
1 cup (250 milliliters) chicken or beef broth
Salt to taste
8 ounces (225 grams) queso fresco, Muenster, or mild Cheddar, cut into thin strips
Heat the oil in a skillet or chafing dish. Add the garlic and cook briefly without browning. Add the chiles and onions and continue cooking gently until the onion is just turning a pale caramel color. Add the broth, taste for salt, and cook over medium heat until the onions and chiles are thoroughly cooked. Place the cheese over the top, lower the heat, cover the pan or put under a not-too-hot broiler, and serve as soon as the cheese has melted.
BOCOLES DE FRIJOL NEGRO
BLACK BEAN AND MASA SNACKS
SRA. HORTENSIA FAGOAGA
[MAKES 8 2-1/2-INCH (6.5-CENTIMETER) BOCOLES]
I include this recipe in this section because it was given to me by my neighbor and great cook Hortensia Fa goaga. It was given to her by a friend who lives in Monterrey but is probably originally from the Tampico area. There are any number of antojitos and tamales coming from the eastern part of Mexico, variations on the theme of black beans and masa. They are all delicious. These bocoles I fell for at first bite.
I know the recipe looks complicated with all its various parts, but the snacks can be prepared in stages and ahead—once assembled, they have to be eaten immediately.
8 ounces (225 grams) tortilla masa (page 440), about 1 scant cup (245 milliliters), as dry as possible
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) bean paste (page 246)
1/2 teaspoon baking powder (optional)
Salt to taste
Lard or oil for frying
HAVE READY
The pork filling (recipe follows)
The tomato sauce (recipe follows)
1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) finely shredded cabbage or romaine lettuce
4 heaped tablespoons finely grated queso añejo or Romano
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) thinned crème fraîche or sour cream
Mix the masa, bean paste, baking powder, and salt together well. Divide the dough into 8 equal balls about 1-1/2 inches (4 centimeters) in diameter. Flatten each ball into a round about 2 inches (6.5 centimeters) across and just over 1/4 inch (7 millimeters) thick.
In a large skillet, melt enough lard or heat oil to a depth of about 1/8 inch (3 millimeters). Add the bocoles and cook over low heat for about 7 minutes on each side; they should be slightly crisp on the outside and the dough soft but cooked inside. Drain on absorbent paper.
While they are still warm, make a pocket by cutting almost halfway around the edge. Lifting up the dough, stuff with a little of the pork and 2 teaspoons of the sauce and place on a bed of cabbage or lettuce. Sprinkle with some of the cheese and a spoonful of the cream.
PORK FILLING
[MAKES 1 CUP (250 MILLILITERS)]
8 ounces (225 grams) boneless stewing pork or pork shoulder, cut into 3/4-inch (2-centimeter) cubes
1/4 medium white onion, roughly sliced
salt to taste
Cover the pork with water, add the onion and salt, and bring to a simmer. Continue simmering until the pork is tender, about 25 minutes. Set aside to cool off in the broth. Drain the meat and shred it, reserving the broth for another dish or soup.
TOMATO SAUCE
[MAKES 1 SCANT CUP (240 MILLILITERS)]
8 ounces (225 grams) tomatoes, broiled
1 small garlic clove, roughly chopped
2 serrano chiles, broiled
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt to taste
Put the tomatoes, garlic, and chiles into a blender jar and blend until smooth, adding only a little water if necessary. Heat the oil in a small skillet, add the blended ingredients and the salt, and cook until slightly reduced and well seasoned, about 5 minutes.
PORK COOKED WITH CHILACAS AND TOMATOES
SRA. IRMA CASTRELLÓN DE OLIVARES, CIUDAD HIDALGO, MICHOACÁN
[SERVES 6]
This is a very simple but very tasty recipe, an example of the one-pot stews typical of the region. It was given to me one hot and hazy day when I went to visit a small balneario just about one hour’s drive from Zitácuaro that was famous for its curative hot waters. It lies fifteen kilometers off the main road to Morelia near Ciudad Hidalgo. The owner’s sister is the wife of the architect who built my ecological house. Both she and her sister love cooking, an interest inherited from their grandmother. She came from a Spanish family who settled in the area and bought up great tracts of land before the Revolution. One of her excellent recipes, Pollo en cuñete, appears in The Art of Mexican Cooking. As we ate a simple but delicious meal of rice, followed by thin steaks of excellent quality cooked in a pasilla sauce, she gave me these two recipes.
This dish is traditionally served with tortillas and corundas (a recipe is given in The Art of Mexican Cooking), the regional tamales wrapped in a long corn leaf.
2-1/4 pounds (1 generous kilogram) pork, half country-style spareribs and half boneless stewing pork with some fat cut into 1-1/2-inch (4-centimeter) cubes
6 garlic cloves, peeled
2 peppercorns
1 tablespoon salt or to taste
1-1/4 pounds (565 grams) tomatoes
3 tomates verdes, husks removed, rinsed
3 serrano chiles or more to taste
About 6 medium chilacas or 3 poblano chiles, charred, peeled, seeds and veins removed, and torn or cut into narrow strips
Put the pork into a wide pan, cover with water, and set over medium heat. Crush the garlic with the peppercorns and salt and add to the pan. Cover and cook for about 15 minutes. Add the whole tomatoes, tomates verdes, and chiles and continue cooking until the chiles are soft but not falling apart—about 10 minutes.
Transfer the tomatoes, tomates verdes, and chiles to the blender jar with 1 cup (250 milliliters) of the meat broth and blend to a textured puree. Take out a second cup of the broth and reserve.
Remove the cover and continue to cook the pork until it is just tender—about 10 minutes. Remove any remaining broth and reserve. Continue to cook the meat over low heat until the fat renders out; there should be about 3 tablespoons—remove or make up to that amount with lard. Lightly brown the meat, add the blended ingredients, and fry over fairly high heat, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan to prevent sticking, for about 5 minutes. Add the chile strips and the reserved broth—there should be about 2 cups (500 milliliters). If not, make up to that amount with water. Taste for salt and cook for 5 more minutes.
CARNE DE PUERCO EN PIPIÁN DE CHILE PASILLA
PORK IN A PASILLA CHILE AND PUMPKIN SEED SAUCE
SRA. IRMA CASTRELLÓN DE OLIVARES, CIUDAD HIDALGO, MICHOACÁN
[SERVES 6]
The pasilla chile, which is the dried chilaca, is used a great deal in this part of Michoacán since it is grown in the next valley, around Queréndaro and Maravatío.
This is a simple pipián, but totally unlike that of other regions. It is a personal favorite of mine. It is traditionally served with local tamales called corundas (see the recipe in The Art of Mexican Cooking).
The pork used here would be meaty ribs and boneless shoulder, so I have suggested country-style pork ribs and stewing pork in equal quantities.
2-1/4 pounds (1 generous kilogram) pork, half country-style spareribs and half stewing pork with some fat, cut into 1-1/2-inch (4-centimeter) cubes
Approximately 2 quarts (2 liters) water
6 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
1 tablespoon salt or to taste
4 ounces (115 grams) pasilla chiles, about 15, wiped clean, veins and seeds removed, and seeds reserved (with seeds from other large chiles, if necessary, to make 1/2 cup/125 milliliters)
1 tablespoon lard or vegetable oil
1 cup (250 milliliters) hulled raw pumpkin seeds
2 small garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
2 peppercorns, crushed
2 whole allspice, crushed
2 cloves, crushed
Put the pork into a wide casserole (in which you can cook and serve the pipián), cover with the water, add the smashed garlic and salt, cover, and cook over medium heat until the pork is just half cooked—about 20 minutes. Remove 1 quart (1 liter) of the water and reserve.
Continue cooking the pork until it is tender. By this time the cooking water should have evaporated. If not, remove the broth and continue cooking the pork over medium heat until the fat renders out and lightly browns the meat. Leave 3 tablespoons fat in the pot.
Meanwhile, toast the chiles lightly on both sides in a dry skillet over medium-high heat, taking care not to burn the flesh, or the sauce will be bitter. Rinse and soak in 2 cups (500 milliliters) of the reserved broth for about 15 minutes.
Toast the chile seeds until they change to a pale brown color. Grind them in a spice grinder or blender.
Heat the lard in a skillet and gently fry the pumpkin seeds until they begin to swell up and pop around. Add them, along with the whole spices and peeled garlic, to the blender jar with the ground seeds. Add 1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) of the reserved broth and blend the ingredients together to a slightly textured puree. Add this to the meat frying in the casserole.
Blend the soaked chiles with the broth in which they were soaked and add to the pan. Continue cooking for about 5 minutes. Add any remaining broth and salt to taste and continue cooking over low heat for 5 more minutes.
The sauce should be fairly thick—coating the back of a wooden spoon—but you may need to add more liquid for the required consistency.
Sra. Elvira used to be in charge of the large parking lot where I park my truck on the days that I go into town. She was a plump, pretty little woman, the widow of a laconic, pessimistic little man who died of a sudden heart attack at a relatively early age, leaving her with two of the children still to educate and bring up. She lived in a compact and immaculately clean little house at the back of the lot and made the most delicious hand-patted tortillas on an improvised wood-burning stove next to the cars.
One day she saw me return to the car with a basket full of large and fragrant squash flowers and asked how I was going to prepare them. A long conversation ensued with an exchange of recipes. Almost daily she prepares the main meal of the day for herself and the family, her brother, and his two children—eight or sometimes nine in all. When the budget is tight, the meal consists of tacos sudados or quesadillas of squash flowers, shredded meat with chiles, or just potatoes and chiles. They all sounded, although simple, most delicious. I went back to the market to buy the extra ingredients, went home, and made them. The recipes follow.
FLOR DE CALABAZA GUISADO CON JITOMATE
SQUASH FLOWERS COOKED WITH TOMATOES
SRA. ELVIRA FRUTIS RIVAS†, ZITÁCUARO
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 2 CUPS (500 MILLILITERS)]
Because this filling is rather moist, she prefers to use it for quesadillas of corn masa that are then fried crisp; she serves them sprinkled with finely grated queso añejo and some cream.
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
1 cup (250 milliliters) finely chopped tomatoes
2 chilacas or poblano chiles, charred, peeled, seeds and veins removed, and torn or cut into narrow strips
Salt to taste
8 ounces (225 g) cleaned squash flowers (stalks and stringy green sepals removed), roughly chopped, about 3 cups (750 milliliters) tightly packed (see The Art of Mexican Cooking).
Heat the oil in a heavy skillet, add the onion and garlic, and cook for a few seconds without browning. Add the tomatoes, chiles, and salt and cook over medium heat for about 5 minutes or until the juice has been reduced. Add the flowers and continue cooking, stirring the mixture from time to time, for about 10 minutes, until moist but not too juicy. Adjust the seasoning.
TACOS SUDADOS
STEAMED TACOS
I am very partial to the soft texture of these tacos, like those of tacos de canasta that are often sold in the market places. Freshly made tortillas are rolled around fillings of various types (see the following recipes) and placed in a basket lined with a heavy cloth. Thickly covered on top, they arrive warm and steaming at their destination.
Tacos sudados are best made with smaller corn tortillas—4 inches (10 centimeters) in diameter is ideal.
Prepare the steamer or an improvised one with a rack set into a fairly shallow pan with hot water up to the level of the rack or just below. Line the space above with a tea towel or cloth with sufficient overlap at the top to cover the surface of the tacos.
Put one large spoonful of the mixture into each tortilla, double over, and secure with a toothpick. You may, if you wish, pass each tortilla quickly through hot oil and then fill it. This is a matter of choice. Sra. Elvira prefers to do it that way.
Place the tacos in overlapping layers in the top of the steamer, cover with the cloth and a lid, and steam until they are all piping hot—about 5 minutes. Yes, I am afraid the bottom layer—and sometimes in between, depending on the quality of the tortillas—sticks, but my neighbors say, “Well, yes” and shrug their shoulders.
CARNE DESHEBRADA PARA TACOS SUDADOS
SHREDDED MEAT FILLING FOR STEAMED TACOS
SRA. ELVIRA FRUTIS RIVAS†, ZITÁCUARO
[MAKES 2 CUPS (500 MILLILITERS)]
Although pork and chicken breast could be used for this recipe, I think beef works better with the pasilla chile. You will need 1 pound (450 g) of boneless meat or two small chicken breasts for 2 cups (500 milliliters) of shredded meat, and the cooking time will vary according to the cut. Although it’s not traditional, I like to serve this taco with a tomate verde sauce.
1 pound (450 g) skirt steak, cut into 1-inch (2.5-centimeter) cubes
1/4 medium white onion
Salt to taste
2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1/4 white onion, roughly chopped
4 pasilla chiles, veins and seeds removed, soaked in hot water for 10 minutes
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
Barely cover the meat with water, add the onion and salt, and bring to a simmer. Cook until the meat is tender but not too soft, about 35 minutes. Set aside to cool off in the broth. Strain, reserving the broth, and shred to a medium texture—if the meat is too finely shredded, it will lose some of its flavor.
Put 1/4 cup (63 milliliters) of the reserved broth into a blender, add the garlic and chopped onion, and blend for a few seconds. Add the drained chiles with 3/4 cup (188 milliliters) reserved broth and blend until smooth, adding more broth if necessary to loosen the blades of the blender.
Heat the oil in a skillet, add the sauce, and fry, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan from time to time to prevent sticking, until it is well seasoned and reduced a little, about 5 minutes. Add the shredded meat and salt if needed and continue cooking for about 5 more minutes. The mixture should be almost dry.
SALSA VERDE (CRUDA)
RAW GREEN TOMATO SAUCE
[MAKES 2 CUPS (500 MILLILITERS)]
1 pound (450 grams) tomates verdes, about 22 medium, husks removed and rinsed (note that tomates verdes are Mexican green tomatoes, different from both American tomatillos and unripe tomatoes)
4 serrano chiles or to taste, roughly chopped
1 cup loosely packed roughly chopped cilantro
1 large garlic clove, roughly chopped
Salt to taste
THE TOPPING FOR THE TACOS (OPTIONAL)
Finely chopped white onion
Roughly chopped cilantro
Put the tomates verdes into a small pan, barely cover with water, bring to a simmer, and simmer until soft but not falling apart—they will become a washed-out green color—about 10 minutes. Drain and reserve a little of the cooking water.
Put 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the cooking water into a blender with the chiles, cilantro, and garlic and blend until almost smooth. Gradually add the cooked tomates verdes and blend briefly after each addition. The sauce should have a slightly rough-textured appearance. Add salt. The sauce will thicken as it stands and may need to be diluted with a little more water.
PAPAS GUISADAS PARA TACOS SUDADOS
POTATO FILLING FOR STEAMED TACOS
[MAKES 1-1/2 CUPS (375 MILLILITERS)]
1 pound (450 g) waxy potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch (13-millimeter) cubes
Salt to taste
Approximately 3 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons finely chopped white onion
3 chilacas or poblano chiles, charred, peeled, veins and seeds removed, and torn or cut into narrow strips
About 6 ounces (180 g) tomatoes, finely chopped, about 1 cup (250 milliliters)
Barely cover the potatoes with water, add salt, and cook over medium heat for about 10 minutes—they should be half cooked. Drain and set aside.
Heat the oil in a heavy skillet, add the drained potatoes, and fry, turning them over so that they brown evenly. Add the onion and chiles and continue frying for 1 minute more. Add the tomatoes and continue cooking until the mixture is well seasoned and fairly dry—about 5 minutes.
CARNE DE PUERCO EN PIPIÁN
PORK IN A PUMPKIN SEED SAUCE
SRA. HORTENSIA FAGOAGA
[SERVES 6 TO 8]
This is a very simple but delicious dish with a coarse, nutty texture to the sauce. The pork is usually combined with chilacayote, a large cucurbit (page 47), when it is small and tender and the skin has not hardened into a rind.
Any one of the many varieties of wild mushrooms are often used in this pipián instead of, or as well as, the chilacayote. Of course, any green or zucchini squash could be substituted but cooked for a shorter time.
When you are cleaning the larger dried chiles for any other recipe, save the seeds. You will need extra for this sauce (or for the Oaxacan pipián in The Art of Mexican Cooking, for instance).
This dish is served, like a mole, with a lot of the sauce—which in this case is of a thinner consistency—and corn tortillas.
2 pounds (900 grams) small pork ribs, cut into 2-inch (5-centimeter) pieces, or country-style spareribs
1/2 medium white onion
Salt to taste
1-1/2 pounds (675 grams) chilacayote or zucchini, cut into 1-inch (2.5-centimeter) cubes, about 7 cups (1.75 liters)
6 ancho chiles, veins and seeds removed
2 chipotle mora chiles or to taste or 3 canned chipotles en adobo
2/3 cup (164 milliliters) chile seeds
2/3 cup (164 milliliters) hulled raw pumpkin seeds
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) sesame seeds
3 large sprigs epazote
Cover the pork well with water, add the onion and salt, cover, and cook over medium heat for about 20 minutes. Add the chilacayote and cook until both are tender—about 20 minutes more. Drain and reserve the broth.
Toast the chiles lightly on both sides, cover with hot water, and leave to soak for about 15 minutes.
Put 1 cup (250 milliliters) of the reserved meat broth into a blender. In a dry skillet, toast first the chile seeds until they turn a deep golden color, then the pumpkin seeds until they swell and begin to pop about, and last the sesame seeds until they turn a pale golden color. Transfer to the blender and blend to a textured puree, adding a little more of the broth if necessary.
Strain the chiles and transfer to the blender jar with 1 more cup (250 milliliters) of the broth and blend all together to a thick-textured consistency. Pour the mixture into the pan with the meat and chilacayote and the rest of the broth and continue cooking over low heat for about 10 minutes. Adjust salt, add the epazote, and cook for 5 more minutes.