Exception to the Rule

Los Angeles, California


While life has been kinda sorta difficult of late, I do take heart in what I see around me. Fall has arrived, and there are pumpkins about, including a perfectly-shaped one, about the size of a cantaloupe, which is sitting on my front porch. If you've been following along (and really, why are you doing this, I ask you?) you might know that I love this season. My birthday falls smack in the middle of it, which kicks off a progression of celebrations I love, including Halloween and Christmas. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.


I know I've let everyone know that I've been a bit blue, so I'm going to cheer things right up by getting on to the topic at hand which is . . . my funeral. Now don't be alarmed. I don't think it's right around the corner, though frankly, one never knows. I've written and said to a lot of people lately that I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel; the tunnel being all the work that we have been doing on our rental property and in the care of my mom. On the other hand, I like to add, it could be a train coming right at me at full speed. But seriously, the issue at hand isn't when my funeral will be, but rather, what will be served, because, really, as with all things in life, it's all about the party. Billy and I once tried to have the cremation vs. burial discussion, but I just couldn't choose an option that felt, well, comforting,. Finally I told him that if I went first, he should make the decision and just . . . surprise me. One thing I do feel quite strongly about, however, is the food served to my mourners (the two or three of them). I once wrote a wake into a novel I finally finished, and it was exactly what I envisioned for myself. Well-dressed people milling about holding cocktails and/or champagne (yes, both, always) with lots of good finger food. OK, I know I'm describing a scene in The Big Chill, only I had eliminated those '80s hairstyles. Truthfully, it's not so much about what is served, so much as what is NOT served. I don't want casseroles at my funeral, but I don't really trust Billy to block them at the door. He's just too easy about these things. And, frankly, his family hails from Minnesota which is the center of the tuna hot dish universe, as anyone who knows their Garrison Keillor could tell you. So, not trusting Billy on this, I have placed some of my fristers on alert. What kind of food do you want? one of them asked. Real food. I've got the hate on for casseroles because I grew up eating them. Not a fond memory . . . mostly. However, I do want to make one exception (not to the no-casseroles-at-my-funeral rule, but to the above statement that I don't have pleasant memories of any casseroles).


That exception is Tamale Pie. And the truth be told, it is a guilty pleasure, as it isn't made with very good ingredients. A lot of it comes from cans. And then there is the ground beef. I suppose it could be modded up somehow, but why? It's Tamale Pie. It was what my mom used to make for Halloween. And I still make it occasionally. I know I'm dancing around here on a filament of rationalization, but the truth is, that's the funny thing about food. Sometimes we like things that don't make sense with our food philosophy. And, this is one of those times (Big Chill again).


Tamale Pie


2    tablespoons canola oil
1    onion, chopped
1    lb. lean ground beef
1/2 teaspoon salt
1    15 oz. can of fire-roasted tomatoes, chopped
1     tablespoons chili powder*
1     teaspoon ground cumin
1/4  teaspoon oregano
dash of Tabasco
1      clove of garlic, minced
1      15-oz. can corn
1      15-oz can pitted, ripe olives
2      cups yellow cornmeal
2      eggs, lightly beaten
1      cup whole milk


In large skillet, saute onion in oil until soft. Add beef, and salt, allow to brown up a bit. Add tomatoes, chili powder, cumin, oregano (crushed up by rubbing between your palms), and Tabasco. Simmer 20 minutes. Add garlic, corn, and olives. Let cool.


Combine cornmeal with eggs and milk. Add to cooled meat mixture. Pour into casserole (I use a square baking dish which is about 10x10, but don't dare hold me to that measurement).


Bake at 350 degrees, 30-40 minutes. Serve with Tamale Pie Sauce (see below).




Tamale Pie Sauce


1   15-oz. can tomato sauce
1    cup water
1/2 teaspoon salt
2    tablespoons canola oil
2    tablespoons chili powder*
1    tablespoon cornstarch
2    tablespoons water


Combine first six ingredients in saucepan and blend with a whisk. Heat over medium low heat. Combine cornstarch and water. Blend into hot sauce. Cook until it bubbles and thickens to consistency of enchilada sauce (mas o menos).


*Note: I use Gebhardt chili powder, which dates back to my earliest apartment shared with girlfriends. There are fancier chili powders on the market and you should feel free to experiment here. A chipotle-based one would add some smokiness to the recipe, which would be a particularly nice addition to the sauce.


All you need with this is a salad; greens tossed with pumpkin seeds, slivered dry, aged Monterey jack cheese, and a sprinkle of pomegranate seeds would be nice. The casserole is, well, a bit stodgy as Nigella Lawson might say. So serve it with something less so. We always had mini Snickers bars for dessert on Halloween. The Halloween house treat of choice.


Now here's the thing about this recipe: It's really not very good. I mean, it's ok. But it may very well fall into what Billy calls Spaghetti-O's Territory. One of those tastes of childhood, which when revisited, isn't at all what you remember. This can also happen with movies, but that's a whole 'nother post. On the other hand, I didn't make this for years, and when I wanted to make it again, I got the recipe from a sibling -- a sibling who is notorious for fussing around with recipes, adding way too many disharmonious seasonings, often to the detriment of the dish. I want to say that the original recipe may have come from Joy of Cooking, and I do have a copy of that cookbook around here somewhere. But I am faithfully recreating the recipe as I last made it in late October. It's not bad, just not as good as I remembered. So, here is my challenge to you. Try it. And please leave me a comment if you do. Let me know what you think, and, if you like, throw me some suggestions for improvement. If I hear nothing, I'll assume it's a dud. This happens in Spaghetti-O's Territory. Sometimes you're better off with the Proustian experience of just remembering when, while enjoying a couple of Mallomars. After all, it's Mallomar season. And, you can always count on them not to disappoint. So, thank you for reading my blog. It's November already! Can you believe it?

Octoberfest?

Los Angeles, California


Life ain't been easy. There has been no salsa dancing in my life for several weeks. Cooking has been a last-minute affair at best. And, well, you can see how writing is going. This is my first blog post this month. So much for the big three (if you don't know what I'm talking about you can find out by reading previous posts, available here, for free!).


For those of you following along (and, for the love of heaven, why would you be?), life at Casa Healy is currently about caring for my mother, who has just been discharged from a skilled nursing facility after seven weeks, and trying to put our rental property right, after a deranged tenant (ok, I exaggerate, he was only a degenerate slob) destroyed it. Frankly, one could say there is very little life at Casa Healy.


But, in spite of all of this, I had to, HAD TO, get in at least one post in this month of October. It is, after all, my very favorite month. And, my birthday month. But what to write about? A recipe is due, but forget about it. You won't find that here, not now. Interesting anecdotes? Not so many. What to write about . . . what to write about?


And then. And then I went to Trader Joe's. Now, I had just been to Trader Joe's, say, maybe last week. But, they had thrown the Fearless Flyer into one of my shopping bags, and I read it, cover-to-cover, when I got home. I realized I'd missed a couple of things: like Halloween Joe-Joe's (knock-off Oreos shaped like Jack O'Lanterns with orange-colored filling); frozen Vietnamese Pho (I know, I know, we're not about frozen food, except right now we are). And Mango-Chile Popsicles, a new addiction of Billy's. And Buttermilk Biscuits in a tube (seriously, have I no shame for revealing this?). And Crispy Spicy Chicken Wings. I resisted the frozen onion rings, which really are pretty good. But was unable to resist my own renewed addiction to Red Tail Ale.


I couldn't fit the Red Tail Ale six-pack into the shopping cart (I also had flowers and a potted rose for my mom taking up a lot of room), so I was carrying it in one hand, while trying to maneuver my cart, backwards, down a narrow aisle in the wine section of the store. Did I mention the aisle was narrow? I ran my cart, a mere glancing blow, into a display of Oktoberfest Authentic Bavarian Festival Lager. Big bottles. Stacked high. Top-heavy. Am I making my point? They started to sway, then they started to pitch over. I only had one hand free (Red Tail Ale) which didn't help in rectifying a swaying city of beer. In retrospect, I thought it was kinda like bowling pins. Except they weren't on the floor. Yet. Crash and splash. Yes, I broke at least two of them, in a loud explosion of beer. But you know Trader Joe's. Someone was right there, no problem, happens all the time, don't worry about it. I was mortified. I apologized over and over (still holding my six-pack of Red). Then I scurried away like that rat in the Harry Potter books.


In the checkout line, the checker inquired whether I had found everything I was looking for. I responded that yes I had and I had also knocked over a display of beer and was so sorry for that . . . etc. (there's no stopping me). The bagger and the checker assured me that this was no problem, happens all the time, don't worry about it. Jeez. They're so nice, it's like they welcome you to go and have another whack at it. Feel free. I paid for my stuff, slunk out of the store  and wheeled it all out to my car.


Then, as I was loading three bags of Trader Joe's good stuff into my trunk, I noticed something that I hadn't recalled putting into my cart. Yep. It was a bottle of Oktoberfest Lager. Evidently, in addition to the ones that toppled over, and the ones that broke on the floor, one bottle had made a run for it . . . right into my cart. Nice, soft flowers had cushioned it's fall. So, there by the trunk of my car, I had an LOL moment, which is rare and welcomed these days. 


When I unloaded the bags at home, I smiled at the hitchhiking bottle before I stowed it in the fridge. Lager happens, I thought. Or, more accurately, into each life a little lager must fall. Not bad for a cosmic message. So, to all of you, celebrate October, have a Happy Halloween and thank you for reading my blog. Back on track in November, so help me!