the other kind of tortilla

Spain has not quite abandoned its resentment for that road game loss with England in 1588.


That, at least, is my theory why Protestant vegetarians are often confronted in Spain with sneak meat attacks. Ham appears everywhere -- in vegetables, in potatoes, in salads. Trying to find a ham-free dish in Spain is almost as foolhardy as Diogenes hoping to put a successful end to his search in Congress.


There is always one safe choice: tortilla española. Almost everyone has tried it. As a snack. In a tapas bar. For breakfast. It is Spain's answer to the all-purpose quick food: a potato-egg concoction that proves that quiche can have machismo -- and still meet vegetarian needs.


But I cannot leave well-enough alone. So, I have managed to tart up this crustless tart. I offer my very hammy version of tortilla española.


1/4 cup high quality olive oil

1-1/2 pounds of new potatoes, thinly sliced

1 onion, thinly sliced
1/2 pound sliced ham, sliced in thin strips
1 red sweet pepper, thinly sliced
1 yellow sweet pepper, thinly sliced
1 jalapeño pepper, diced
dozen eggs, beaten
sea salt
freshly-ground pepper


1. Heat the oil in a very large cast iron skillet. It should be very hot. Add the potatoes and season with salt and pepper. Reduce the heat to medium, stirring occasionally. Do not brown the potatoes. After 10 minutes, add the onion. Continue the same process for an additional 5 minutes, until the vegetables are beginning to soften.


2. Add the peppers and ham to the skillet. Cook an additional 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.


3. Pour the vegetables and ham into the bowl with the eggs. Then return the mixture evenly to the skillet. Let the mixture cook for about 2 minutes to set the bottom of the mixture. Cook at medium for about 20 minutes -- until the mixture is almost set. Flip the tortilla over and cook for an additional 5 minutes until the mixture is set.


4. Flip on to a warm plate. Allow to rest for 5 minutes.


5. Cut the tortilla into wedges. Serve with a spicy salsa and warm tortillas.


My addition, of course, is the ham and the peppers -- with a tip of my sombrero to Mexico.


Purists will quail. But this is how we develop new dishes -- some good, some not so much.


After all, without a bit of experimenting quiche lorraine would never have evolved into the gastronomic treasure that we have today: canadian bacon and pineapple quiche.


Who says that Canadians and Americans do not know good food when we see it?

meals to go before I sleep

My family is still here as I write this brief entry for today.


My brother, his wife, and their daughter arrived yesterday afternoon and helped me clean up the house. My vacuum cleaner had died just before they arrived. And, if you have ever lived in a house with a dog, that is the equivalent of losing your rudder in the middle of a storm. But, troupers that they are, my family came to the rescue with brooms and mops. As a group, they were far better than Merry Maids.


This morning, we made the tactical error of trying out a new recipe for tortilla española for breakfast. Hint number 1: Never try out new eats on the morning of a major dinner. The tortilla turned out great, but we ended up losing about two hours of serious cooking time.


The menu turned out to be a success. I dropped the creamed onions because we had enough food already. And everything came out of the kitchen right on time. Compliments were universal.


But here is hint number 2: when having family over for the holidays, consider doing something other than a grand meal. After plowing our way through the piles of meat, starch, and carbohydrates, there was no time to sit and chat while opening our presents.


If I had the whole thing to do over, I would allow my American utilitarian gene to have full sway: pizza would have been just about right while we spent the time chatting, opening gifts, and playing games.


For now, I am off to walk the dog. When I return, Balderdash will beckon.

we gather together

Hubris is not worn well by the old. I know that, but I don it regularly.


Last week I was cheerfully noting in giving thanks by the forkful that I would not have to worry about cooking a Thanksgiving dinner this yeat. My mother was going to be at my brother's house, and I would eat with my aunt's family. No need for me to worry about what to prepare for dinner.


Well, I barely set down that mug of smugness when my family informed me that everyone (my mother, my brother, his wife, their daughter, my nephew, his wife, their 1-year old son) would be showing up at my house this Saturday for Thanksgiving-Christmas-birthdays for everyone dinner. As far as I know, we will slip in Independence Day and Memorial Day for good measure. We are a people thrifty with time.


And being thrifty with time, I am now happy I posted my menu last week. I said that was what we would be having, and by jingo, that is what we are going to have.


So, here it is, the menu for The Cotton Omnibus Holiday Dinner:

Prime rib roast with cabernet au jus
Roasted new potatoes with stone ground mustard and horseradish
Broccolini/sweet pepper/ginger stir fry
Creamed onions
Peas with mint
Spring greens with balsamic


And, following dinner, we will will sit down with a cheese, fruit, and pepperoni board to play a few rounds of Balderdash -- and work on a jig saw puzzle.


As I said earlier. Nothing exotic. Just family enjoying good food and creating new memories.


After all, if we are going to get together for only one celebration a year -- it better be good.

shirt off his back

Wayne often tantalizes us with a random piece of clothing he finds displayed in the most fantastic places on his Mexican island.


Well, Mr Minnesota. Before you start thinking your island has a monopoly on odd clothing displays, I offer you this:




OK. It's only a shirt. But what is it doing hanging there above the creek?


And, Wayne, I can hear your Midwestern response from here --


Drying?

write myself a letter

I noticed in last week's edition of The Economist that an ancient profession is dying in Mexico -- or, at least, Mexico City. Not lawyers. Not prostitutes. Not drug lords.


If you walk a few blocks north of the Zócalo, you will find the small plaza of Santo Domingo. The district is the home to stationery stores and printing shops. But the progenitor of those businesses will be found in the stalls of the plaza: professional scribes.


They carry on a profession that seems to be from another century. Need a business letter written? Need a love letter? Want a duplicate of your deed? Receipts produced? A section of a text book copied?


These are the living descendants of cowled monks dutifully copying scripture. But like most copies, they have started to lose the allure of the original.


Technology is one reason. Why pay someone to copy pages when you can get an exact photocopy?


Why buy a love letter when you can twitter your sweetheart directly?


Why have a stranger draft a letter of complaint when it can be ignored just as quickly with an email to the government agency?


I have never seen the plaza. But I would like to. It is another example of an area ebbing away -- what some sentimental gringos call "authentic."


But the mobile telephone, the copier, and the internet that have displaced the scribblers are every bit as authentically Mexican. And, they too will be replaced by some other cousin of the scribes.

sunday in the park with jiggs

Fall mushrooms in bloom

Birds. I love shooting them -- with a camera. I have been sharing my passion for birds on the Melaque message board.


Too often for a blogger, I forget to take my camera with me on my outings. Fortunately, this Saturday I took it along -- because it was one of the most pleasant Thanksgivings I can recall. Usually, our rivers are flooding and families somewhere in Oregon are evacuating from the holiday table.


Jiggs and I were making our rounds through his favorite park. He was marking far more landscaping, but I was taking more photographs.


I happened to glance up just in time to see a large hawk land in a tall oak tree. A moment later, a smaller version of the hawk alit in an adjoining tree. That, in itself, was unusual. Hawks are not known for hanging out with one another.


I did not give the reason much thought because I was trying to zoom in on the smaller hawk to identify it. I managed to snap off two quick photographs before I heard the reason for the rare hawk camaraderie. Crows were beginning to circle the trees.

I have long wanted to photograph the interaction between raptors and crows. And I thought this would be my opportunity.


But the hawks were far wiser. They had no intention of being extras in Friday the 13th vs. The Birds. They surreptitiously glided away -- using the oak branches as cover. Lollygagging is not a good survival technique when crows are mobbing.


The crows were befuddled. And I was left with no shot.


But it is a beautiful young red-tailed hawk. My zoom takes away most of the detail on its head. And, all things considered, I would prefer the head to be mysterious rather than pecked by the crows.

el malentendido mi español

Yesterday Theresa posted a very interesting piece about growing up bilingual. Even though she grew up speaking Spanish, she still encounters communication problems in Mexico.


I have been practicing my Spanish lessons on my Mexican friends at church. The usual look is one of bewilderment. (I am merely happy to be past the look of horror stage.) Last week, Juan and Irma went off on a tangent about some word I had used. They disagreed about what the correct word should be. As far as I know, they never came to an agreement.


Anyone who has acted as an editor can appreciate that problem. Spanish, just like English, is a very complex language. Vocabulary, accent, caste, and dialect can vary greatly.


That was brought home to me a couple of years ago. I was on a cruise to what the Ministry of Tourism calls the Mexican Riviera. Two entertainers, who I have known since 1999, were the house act on the ship. Juan is from Argentina. His wife, Eileen, is from Brooklyn.


We decided to have dinner at a sidewalk restaurant in Ensenada. The Mexican waiter approached our table and started talking with Juan, who ordered in Spanish. The waiter almost immediately looked distressed -- the type of distress that comes from adding just one too many peppers to a dish. Juan and the waiter exchanged a few words -- apparently explaining something. Now Juan looked distressed.


They both looked at Eileen. Juan spoke. Then the Mexican waiter. It turned out that the waiter could not understand Juan's Argentine Spanish. Eileen ended up ordering.


The number of taxi drivers and street vendors who have been distressed by my Spanish could easily form a line from here to the horizon. But, whenever I see that quizzical response, I remember that even native Spanish speakers can elicit the look, and I press on through.


I know that I will never know Spanish the way I know English, but I am going to continue to mind the gap.