Archive for June, 2008


Making Mole

 

The mid-June afternoon is the warmest we have had in a week or two, and I find myself standing next to the stove stirring the lava-like mass at the bottom of the big kettle. It spits and pops and sends small jets of dark red grease upward to catch the unwary forearm. A simmering pot of broth steams on the left burner, making the small hairs around my face curl from the humidity. This is not the type of cooking where one can leave the room and pursue other tasks, no matter how urgent. We will serve this chocolate-laced savory concoction of ground nuts, seeds and both fresh and dried chiles over rice at the annual Taste of Wine, Chocolate and Ale to benefit the Mendocino Music Festival.

The recipe for this complex and labor-intensive stew comes from the state of Puebla in Mexico. It has been lovingly and awkwardly translated from its original Spanish, and modified to reflect the types of chiles available at my local Mexican market. As most of the Mexican immigrants here on the coast hail from either Oaxaca or the Yucatan, substitutions from the original are mandatory. The actual types and proportions are a guarded secret, but the process itself is the real story.
 
One begins by charring the fresh vegetables, tomatillos still in their husks, white onions, and fresh Poblano chiles. Traditionally, this is done on a comal, a cast iron griddle the size of a garbage can lid. To hasten the process while still preserving the flavor, I roast each of the items in a very hot convection oven until the skins are blackened and the juices ooze and caramelize on the pan. Fresh corn tortillas and a torn-up stale bolillo (soft roll) are fried in pork lard and set aside to cool. The dried chiles are soaked in boiling water to soften them for handling. Blanched almonds and pumpkin seeds are also fried until toasty brown and fragrant, and whole cinnamon sticks, fennel seeds, cloves and allspice are toasted in a dry pan.
 
The first ingredients to be pureed are the onions and the tomatillos, husks and skins removed. Next the tortillas and fried bread are ground to fine crumbs and stirred into the vegetable mixture. The nuts and spices are combined and processed to a powder, taking care not to process so long that almond-pumpkin butter results. When combined with the other ingredients, the mixture looks like some type of dough. The roasted Poblanos are stemmed, pureed and added as well, darkening the mixture with their almost black-green hue. The soaked dried chiles are also stemmed and carefully seeded so the finished stew is not fiery hot. Plastic gloves are required for this procedure, as it is too easy to inadvertently touch lips or eyes with fingers infused with the potent oils. A handful of the seeds are toasted and added back to the chiles for just a bit of heat. The mixture is drained and then fried in more lard until the dark red chiles turn almost black and their pungent oils fill the air. The thick paste is scooped into the food processor with water to thin, and pureed until it resembles brick colored paint. When everything is combined, the raw mole is faintly reddish and flecked with darker specks of chiles and spices.
 
Though this process takes over an hour, it is not the most time consuming part of preparing mole. The woman that gave me the recipe told me that the most important part is when the love is added to the stew. Heating more pork lard in my biggest kettle until it froths; I prepare to finish the mole. When I add the raw paste to the fat, everything boils and bubbles frantically. I must stir almost constantly at this point, so that the paste browns but does not burn. Soon I add large ladles of hot chicken broth, alternately thinning and thickening the mixture as it cooks over a period of hours. Halfway through, I add several rounds of chopped up Mexican chocolate, allowing it to melt into the paste. Now stirring is non-negotiable as the chocolate will burn if left sitting on the bottom of the kettle. This is where the love comes in, as the mole must be nursed along, stirring constantly, as it darkens and continues to thicken. I imagine Mexican women, mothers, daughters, sisters, and grandmothers, taking turns stirring the mole through the afternoon as they laugh and talk and share the joys of the kitchen. Unfortunately, my only companions this day are my dogs, sitting patiently at my feet hoping for a small taste of what is to come. The final ingredient added is a glass of white vinegar, the acid providing a necessary counterpoint to the richness.
 
Dishes like this take much too long for most of us to prepare in our modern, hurried world. Even the Mexican grocery store sells mole in a small glass jar, to be seasoned with the cook’s own variations on spices, often reminiscent of her mother’s recipe. There is something elemental about preparing a dish that takes most of a day to cook. There is an intimate connection between the cook and the kitchen, and the love and attention that is required to transform the mundane ingredients of an everyday salsa into a complex and heartening Mole Poblano. Spicy, savory, bitter, sweet, and sour; the flavors that punctuate every region’s culinary traditions meld together in a dish that warms the hearts of all of those who partake of its magic.
Post by Julia Conway on June 13th, 2008

Fried Green (Heirloom) Tomatoes

 

A small hint of summer to come topped the horizon today; the first heirloom tomatoes from Comanche Creek Farms arrived at Harvest Market.  There was a veritable rainbow of reds, yellows, oranges and greens cascading from a tall basket in the organic produce section, the aroma of the season beckoning.  Suspicious of the ripeness of the large warm-toned slicers, I reached for the bright green multi-lobed ones with white shoulders.  Their firm heaviness told me all I needed to know, that they were perfect for that childhood favorite, fried green tomatoes. 

Memories of this dish go deep, and I cannot honestly tell you which one of my grandmothers loved it more.  I suspect that the roots of this family tradition came from the branch of my father’s mother’s family that hailed from somewhere in Virginia.  In our recipe, the greenest, hardest tomatoes you can find are sliced thickly, and coated with cornmeal (grits) on both sides.  Traditionally, bacon drippings were heated in a cast iron pan until the aroma filled the kitchen, then the tomatoes were added and browned on both sides.  Today, as a nod to our cholesterol, I use peanut oil with a couple of tablespoons of bacon drippings for flavor.  After draining on newspapers, the tomatoes wait in a warm oven, allowing the centers to soften and finish cooking through.  The tangy tartness edged with a hint of fruitiness balances well with the smokiness of the bacon and the crunch of the cornmeal crust.  I often eat the small end slices right off the spatula, burning the tip of my tongue in the process.

Searching though old Tuscan recipes in an Italian language food magazine, I once came across a recipe for fried green tomatoes sauced with a reduction of saba, the sour, unfermented green grape juice, sometimes called verjus here in California.  Perhaps the quintessential dish of the American south awakened some buried taste memory for my mother’s mother?  Whatever the reason, this was a dish she enjoyed when she came to stay with us at the summer cabin we rented in the eastern Sierra Nevada.  The roots of these dishes cross borders and boundaries, and seem to be born of the concept of scarcity.  I enjoy this dish in early summer, too impatient to wait for the tomatoes to achieve their full sunny glory; and in the early fall, when the remaining hard, green globes on the vines in my garden give up the idea of ripening at all.  This way, nothing is wasted, and every bit of the oh-s0-seasonal fresh tomato can be cherished.

Post by Julia Conway on June 11th, 2008