Road Trip #22 On the Road Back to Reality---Almost

James Collins and Neil McMullen prepare breakfast on a nice spring day at the AntHill.

     I spent the night alternating between freezing outside and sweating inside the thirty-below sleeping bag, with little moments of sleep sandwiched between the extremes. I had to get up and pee a lot more than I did when I was sixty.  Altogether, during the night I slept almost six minutes, but I was very grateful I didn’t die.  I figured I could catch up on my sleep while Wayne drove to Muleshoe later in the day.  In the meantime, I was delighted to be alive.

     At 4:30 AM, James Collins stoked the fire and made coffee.  I was wide awake, so I joined him.  James quoted John Wayne, who said nothing good came from “burning daylight.”  I wondered, what daylight?  It was dark as pitch out there.  In two more hours we saw the first hint of light in the east.  We drank coffee and visited, two old friends in the dark, remembering a long and happy life, a lot of good people, and two or three regular horses' asses.

     Around 5:30, Wayne and Neil joined us, and we cooked breakfast.   Collins fried a pound of bacon and scrambled a dozen eggs.  Neil baked scratch biscuits, did hash brown potatoes with onions and made cream gravy.  Wayne and I fed the fire and set the table.  We had coffee, milk, and orange juice to drink.   Butter and jelly for the biscuits, and Tabasco and ketchup for the hash browns--it was another feast fit for the Queen of England.

    By the time we finished breakfast, it was light enough for the guys to go fishing.  I stayed in camp to strike my unused tent, deflate the unused air mattress and pack the unused gear.  I hoped to get in a little nap, but no such luck.  When I finished my chores, the guys were back, not a single fish among them.  The wind was frightful.  We decided to load up and move down into the valley, where Neil and James had a fishing lease at a nearby ranch.  We picked up Wayne’s truck as we moved down the mountain past the submariner’s place.

     Eighteen miles down the valley, we turned into a private gate and entered the “fishing lease.”  The same creek that flows past the Anthill meanders through the valley and the guys enthusiastically started working the banks on either side.  I stayed behind to watch the trucks and maybe catch a little shut-eye.  I was tired and sleepy.

     A deserted barn stood near the gate where we parked. I strolled over to look at several sets of elk antlers attached to the gable end of the primitive, unpainted structure.  I was not sure if the horns were trophies of past hunts, or simply picked up after they’d been shed.  Either way, I realized this valley was a special place.  Beavers built dams, bears roamed the woods and elk shed their horns here.  I saw a few live elk once, in Canada, but I have never seen a live bear in the wild.  During the seventies, beavers were talked about incessantly by truck drivers with C/B radios.  I understand they were desirable fuzzy little creatures, highly valued as trophies, but they certainly didn’t fell trees or build dams.

     Before I managed to get settled for a nap, the guys trekked back in from the stream, once again without any fish.  So far today the scoresheet read:  Fish 6; Boys 0.  Wayne and I said our goodbyes and prepared to load up for the 600 mile trip to Muleshoe.  We had enjoyed ourselves, but were both eager to get back to Texas.  Neil and James had been more than perfect hosts.  They had several hours work ahead of them, cleaning up and stowing gear when they got back to Gunnison.  We had left everything in disarray. Even the dirty dishes were piled in a box in the back of James’s vehicle.  One Dutch oven had the remnants of a pretty good cherry cobbler clinging to its sides.

     As we started back toward the truck, Wayne pitched me the keys and said, “Do you want to drive a while?”

     I wasn’t sure I could make the twelve miles back to pavement without falling asleep.  I hadn’t slept at all the night before.  It was nine hours to Buck’s place in Muleshoe and my plan was to sleep at least six of those hours.  Wayne was obviously very tired.  He had been afraid to allow me near the driver’s seat for the last 4,000 miles, but he had been wading, sloshing around and desperately fishing since daylight after a night with little sleep.  I knew he must be exhausted to even consider letting me take over the wheel.

     I grinned.  “Sure, I’ll drive.  I’m fresh as a daisy.”

     I managed to keep the truck on the road until we got to the pavement at Hwy 114, then turned right and headed southeast to Saguache.  Wayne was trying to stay awake and watch my driving, but it was a losing battle.  I was fighting to keep at least my good eye open.  At Monte Vista, we turned due east and paralleled the New Mexico border to Walsenburg, then turned right and took I-25 into New Mexico.  We turned off the freeway at Wagon Mound and headed toward Roy, in the high, rolling plains country that had once been the exclusive domain of the Comanche.

Wagon Mound.  A lonesome reminder of the Santa Fe Trail.

     This country is full of history.  I-25 roughly follows the route of the Santa Fe Trail, and Wagon Mound was a landmark on the old trail. Kit Carson led wagon trains up and down this trail, and lonely soldiers protected traders and travelers as they moved from the civilized areas east of St Louis to the Spanish colonial center at Santa Fe.  Trade was brisk and the trail was relatively safe.  But it wasn’t safe away from the trail.  Wayne and I were headed into the heart of Comancheria.

     The terrain here is vacant grassland, with undulating plains as far as the eye can see.  No trees, no cactus, no mesquite, nothing but endless dry grassland, as plain and limitless as the sea.  The road was straight, with a slight turn one way or the other every twenty miles or so.  Wayne was sound asleep.  I was hallucinating.

     I saw a troop of U.S. Calvary, headed by Col. Ranald Mackenzie, called “Bad Hand” by the Comanche.  A couple of hundred soldiers on horseback were strung out parallel with the highway, about four hundred yards away, followed by pack mules and two wagons.  The troops seemed to be moving slowly, but they stayed beside me over a hundred miles, just moseying along on the rolling grassland, searching for Indians and water, not necessarily in that order.  It was 1873, and I was watching Bad Hand and his troops as they moved across the trackless plains.

     The troops halted and set up camp.   Mackenzie called his chief scout, and two junior officers to his tent.  “How far to fresh water, Mr. Bent?”  He asked the scout.

     “Well, Colonel, I don’t rightly know.  This is the first time I ever come this far east of the trail.  It ain't safe out here.  The horses and mules don’t act like they smell no water.  I been out ten miles ahead and they ain’t no water up there.  I think we better backtrack while we can.”

     “Captain Johnson, how are our supplies holding out?”

     “Sir, we have plenty of everything except water.  We’re ten days out now.   If we go on half rations, the water might last ten more days.  If everyone keeps drinking a full canteen every day, we’ll be dry in five days.  We better head back.”

     “Very good.  Cut the water ration to one canteen every three days.  Same ratio for the horses and mules. We’ll dry camp here tonight and continue east tomorrow morning.  I will not return to Fort Union without Comanche scalps. That will be all, gentlemen.”  Mackenzie listened to his men, but made decisions on his own.  He was a strict disciplinarian, considered cruel by many of his troops.  He was arguably the greatest Indian fighter who ever lived.

     A few miles east of Mackenzie’s camp, I was shocked out of my reverie by a triangular road sign.  It was bright yellow and the most unusual thing I had seen all day.  Except for grassland, a few antelope, and dejected soldiers, I had been all alone on this sea of grass, operating on auto pilot. I could not remember any detail of the road for the last hundred miles.  I was glad Wayne was still asleep.  He would have been bent out of shape if he waked up and caught me napping.

     The road sign had no words, just a silhouette of a truck on a steep downhill grade.  Another sign showed a sharp curve to the left.   I slowed some and had no trouble negotiating the curve as Wayne came awake.  We were on a long slope, down into a deep, steep-walled canyon.  A mile later, at the bottom of the canyon, the road did a sharp right turn and we crossed the bridge over the Canadian River.  On the flat banks near the river, cottonwood trees and deep green grasses grew, while sheer rocky cliffs rose up 2000 feet on either side.  The setting was absolutely beautiful and completely unexpected.  The Indians must have loved this place.  It was invisible from a half mile on either side of the canyon rim.

     As we climbed up the east slope, I caught a glimpse of smoke rising from several teepees scattered along the west bank of the river.  Cook fires in the Comanche camp.  By the time Mackenzie and his troops get here, the camp will be gone, faded into the high plains without a trace.  Comanche scouts have been watching the soldier’s progress since they left Fort Union. I blinked and shook off the images.  No reason to mention any of that to Wayne.  He'd think I'd been drinking or something.

Ruins of Fort Union.  Mackenzie passed thru here in 1881, when he was commander of the district of New Mexico for the US Army.

Meet Gus Gaunt of Santa Monica/Texas

Gus, with his game face on, and his boots.

    

      I was finished with the “How Come Texans Are So Dad-Blamed Proud” series, when a young friend of mine, Rachel Chamberlain Gaunt, published a Facebook picture of her four-month-old boy, Gus.  It reinforces my point about how we raise our children to grow up and be proper Texans, and I felt I must share it. I contacted Rachel and she added some details.  Gus was born as the sound of George Strait singing “Amarillo by Morning” wafted thru the delivery room.  I want you to read it in Rachel’s words:

     “Amarillo by Morning was one of those happy accidents that, after the fact, seem meant to be.  The anesthesiologist asked what kind or music I’d like to listen to during my C-section.  (I had no idea we could choose our music, but the surgery room was equipped with Pandora so I could choose any artist and it creates a playlist of the same genre)  So, of course, I said Willie Nelson.  All the nurses and the doctor did a double take—this is Santa Monica, California—and said they hadn’t had that request before.  I explained that I was from Texas and this baby would recognize the country music from his time in the womb.  He selected Willie on Pandora and the first song to play was Good-Hearted Woman, followed by Willie, Waylon and Me, and Blue Skies, then Amarillo By Morning, and a loud cry from Gus.  It was a magical experience made even more special by the music I’d grown up with and I’ll never forget it!  While the doctor sewed me up to Folsom Prison Blues and Georgia, he said he really liked the music so my husband, Kevin,    made him a CD of all the songs.  We gave it to him at the post-surgery checkup and he was tickled!!  We Texans leave our mark!!  I have a copy of the CD too, of course, and I cry every time I listen to it—Gus’ anthem is a rodeo song!!  Lucky boy!”   Rachel

     Rachel’s parents are naturalized Texans—they were not born here, but got here as quickly as they could.  Many of us have those little closet secrets, but we don’t talk about them.  One of my grandsons was born in Boston, of all places, and we sure don’t advertise it.  Charlotte carried a plastic baggie full of Texas dirt up there, and rubbed it on his feet while the nurses weren’t looking.  We think it worked, but time will tell—that boy does march to a different set of drums.

     Rachel finished college and went to California in search of adventure and gainful employment.  She met and fell in love with a handsome young man named Kevin Gaunt.  They went to Houston for their formal engagement party.  Charlotte and I made the trek back for the party, showing how much we love Rachel and her parents. (If I ever forget why I left Houston, my memory comes back at about I-10 and Mason Road.  The traffic is awful, and people live there because they have jobs there.  It is a great and exciting city and I love it, but the time comes to move on.)

Gus, with his Austin City Limits shirt, provided by family members in Austin.

     At the engagement party, it was decided that we could not have sweet Rachel living with a foreigner, so we had to make young Kevin an Honorary Texan.  It was a simple, but solemn ceremony.  Kevin had to down a shot of tequila, kiss an armadillo on the lips, and sing the “Eyes of Texas” a cappella, from memory.  He passed with flying colors.

     I know there are more stringent conditions for some applicants for Texas Citizenship, but Kevin was a decent sort and we respected Rachel’s judgment.  We used a stuffed armadillo and waived the provision for kissing the other end of a live armadillo.  No one could find a quart of warm Lone Star beer for him to chug-a-lug, so that provision was slightly altered also.

     Kevin and Rachel are at home now, in the Santa Monica area, living their life and rearing their son, Gus.  Look carefully at the picture and you can see they are doing a fine job.  At four months, Gus has his first pair of cowboy boots and his first UT outfit.  He has been listening to country songs since before he was born.

     Observe the position of his brawny arms, set up in exactly perfect form for an all-everything linebacker about to plug a hole in the defensive line.  I expect, however, he will play in the backfield and get the girls.  Just think what that great Southwest Conference announcer, Kern Tipps, could have done with that name.  “Gus Gaunt Gains Gobs of Ground ‘Ginst the Ganders!”

     I’ve said this before in other ways, but one of the nice things about growing old is watching people you knew as children grow into adults.   Seeing them on a whole new level, hearing about their achievements, watching them contribute to society, and knowing, deep inside, that as good as you were, they may be better.

    As Rachel said, “We Texans leave out mark!”  Watch out, Yankees.  Gus is coming.

Gus, preparing to sneak up on a deer.  Camos provided by family members in Dallas.

Road Trip #21 Twilight Zone at the Ant Hill

Collins and Ratisseau, following the time-honored tradition of dressing for battle.



       We talked around the campfire until late that night, maybe 8:00 or 8:30.  Collins went to bed first, as usual.  The front seats of his Land Cruiser recline to an almost horizontal position and he chose to zip up in a sleeping bag there.  Neil and Wayne chose to sleep outside, on foam pads made for that purpose.  With their sleeping bags zipped tight, a pillow and the special pad, they were comfortable and toasty warm.  Even though it was early in the month of June, by 10:00 PM the temperature was well below freezing.  The wind remained brisk.

     While the others were fishing that afternoon, I prepared my little nest.  Fighting the unrelenting wind, I erected a small tent borrowed from Ian, my Boy Scout grandson.  Inside, I inflated an air mattress borrowed from my friend, Hugh.  I put my new mummy-shaped sleeping bag on top of the mattress and arranged my other belongings in nooks and crannies between the over-sized bed and the walls of the under-sized tent.  My sleeping bag was rated for use to thirty degrees below zero.  Two years ago, my nights here were uncomfortable and I am better prepared this time.  I will be as cozy as a bug in a rug.

McMullen, doing battle.

     I opened the flap of the tent and sat on the air mattress to remove my shoes and trousers.  I had decided to sleep in my shirt, because it was getting downright cold.  The air mattress was bouncy and impossible to stabilize, but I managed to slip off my things and climb into the tent.  I bounced around as I tried to unzip the new sleeping bag.  I thought, Good to thirty below zero.  Ha!  I’ll be nice and warm.

     By the time I got the thing unzipped, I was hyperventilating. Our campsite was near 10,000 feet elevation and the air was thin.  My heart was racing and I just could not get enough oxygen. I got both feet inside the bag, and tried to roll over so I could zip it up to cover my body.   I stopped to rest and tried to get enough air, but it was not possible.  I lay there, heart racing, gasping for air and trying to decide upon a plan.  This damn air mattress was too bouncy to allow movement without reaction and the sleeping bag too slippery to get inside.  Maybe one of the guys would help me.  No, I didn’t want to ask for help.  Besides, they were already asleep.  I was on my own.

     My heart rate settled down to about a hundred and I was able to get some of the sleeping bag under my legs.  I decided to start zipping from there and work my way up.  After ten minutes of bouncy, exhausting struggle, I got the zipper stuck just above my knees.  It wouldn’t budge in either direction.  I was freezing.  I decided to hell with the zipper and just pulled the bag over me and lay still.   Another fifteen minutes of hyperventilation, and my heart slowed enough that I put the idea of coronary thrombosis out of my mind.  Actually, I only pushed it toward the back of my mind—at seventy-five, the idea is always there.  I managed to get my trousers rolled up for use as a pillow and re-arranged the sleeping bag like a blanket to cover the cold air leaks.  This wasn’t so bad.  I was going to be fine.

     I worked the rolled-up trousers under my head, moved the sleeping bag around to stop the cold, and allowed my heart rate to slow to near normal. My breathing continued to sound like Darth Vader in heat.  I removed my glasses and placed them in a little depression in the mattress, well away from the center and toward the back wall of the tent.  They’ll be safe there. 

     All my preparation was starting to pay off.  As George Peppard said in the A-Team, “I love it when a plan comes together.”   I stretched a bit and listened to the sounds of the night.  The soothing sound of moving water wafted up through the trees. There was no moon, but the stars were very close and bright.  Visibility was no problem. No wonder people like to camp out, close to nature.  This was really nice.

     I was just about to doze off when I became aware of a familiar, but unwelcome, sensation.   I needed to pee.  I decided to ignore it and maybe it would go away.  I tried to think of something else.  The water down below continued to trickle over the rocks.  I turned over heavily and heard my glasses bounce off the mattress into who knows where. 

     I wondered, If I just lie here and wet the bed, will I freeze to death? How many more times will I have to pee tonight? Will pee freeze? Will it permanently stain Hugh’s mattress?  Can I just air out my new sleeping bag tomorrow?  Will the down feathers clump together? Wonder what Hugh paid for this mattress?  More to the point, what will he charge me for it?  Can't be worth much if it's been peed on.  How long does it take to freeze to death?  Is it painful, or do I just peacefully go to sleep? No matter---I probably won't freeze.  I'll have a heart attack.

    I decided I had to get up and do it.  I felt around for my glasses, but they were gone.  I found one shoe, but decided to put my pants on first.  Damn, it was cold.  I unrolled the trousers and my change, wallet, and keys fell out and scattered in the dark.  Without my glasses, I could not see enough to find anything.   My heart raced and I was hyperventilating again.  I got my pants up to my knees before I realized they were on backwards.  I lay back on the mattress and tried to relax—my feet were freezing and I was about to wet my pants.  I knew I was going to die out here in the cold, astraddle the Continental Divide, forty miles from pavement.

     With what I decided would be my last valiant effort, I sat up.   The mattress unceremoniously bounced me outside.  I found myself in the cold grass, perched on all fours, gasping for air, pants down around my ankles.  I stood up, faced downwind, and took care of the immediate problem.  I think it froze before it hit the ground.

     I decided that if I was going to die anyway, I might as well do so in comfort.  I pulled my new sleeping bag out of the tent and staggered over to Neil’s Land Cruiser and got into the front passenger seat.  The recline button was easy to find and worked perfectly, even without the ignition switch.  My teeth were chattering, my feet were freezing, and there wasn’t any oxygen up here.  I was surely going to die.

     I can just see it in the morning.  Collins will get up at his usual four a.m. and make coffee.  Neil and Ratisseau will join him about five.  They’ll fix breakfast.  Around six they’ll decide to wake me and discover the empty tent.  Eventually, one of them will discover my cold, lifeless body, frozen in the shape of one half a set of parentheses, lying here in Neil’s truck.  They’ll wonder what to do.  They can’t call 911 from here, no cell service.  They know I won’t swell up and start reeking, not in this cold. Before they do anything, I hope they have the presence of mind to go fishing.  It's downright un-thoughty of me to drop off on them and I’ll keep.  It’s not everyday they get an opportunity to fish up here. 

     I know what I'll do.   I’ll wake Ratisseau and make him promise not to leave me here in this frigid country.  He won’t mind.  He knows I’d do it for him.  He can make it back to Texas a lot quicker than Woodrow Call did in Lonesome Dove.   If he hurries, I won’t thaw out until he’s past Clovis.  If I get to smelling too bad, he can straighten me out and put me in the back with the luggage and those plants in the plastic whiskey bottle from that woman with the dot in Marina.  I’ll make him promise to bury me in that cotton field south of Lubbock---the one where Kandi and I used to park when we were in high school.  Wayne knows she made me happier right there than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

     With hammered breathing and pounding heart, I managed to zip my thirty-below zero sleeping bag.  My glasses were lost, so I couldn’t tell what time I was dying.  My wallet was lost, so the EMS people won’t be able to identify my body.  My shoes were lost, so rigor mortis will probably start with my feet.  I felt myself drifting into a sort of fitful slumber.  Maybe this dying won’t be all that hard.

     Twenty minutes later I came wide awake.  I was soaked.  Sweating.  Damn! It must not be anywhere near thirty below.    

    

Had this turned out to be my last sunset, I suppose it could have been worse.

     

    

    

Guacamole, Plain and Simple

This looks about right--maybe needs one more serrano.

     Perhaps I skipped over the guacamole too quickly in the Enchilada article.  The method I outlined, just avocado, salt and pepper, was called “Butter of the Poor” in my favorite Mexican cookbook—one called, “The El Paso Chile Company’s Texas Border Cookbook,” by W. Park Kerr and his mom, Norma.  A friend, Carlos Vacquero, gave it to me many years ago and I have used it almost religiously since.  I do not, however, prefer their guacamole recipe, which contains, yuck, Miracle Whip.  I evolved my own recipe, using theirs as a base.  I do it this way:

    Peel and seed three or four ripe avocados and cube them into ½” cubes, and put them in the bottom of a mixing/serving bowl.  Peel three cloves of garlic and squeeze them into the bowl with a garlic press.  Throw in a third of a cup of finely chopped onion, 2 tablespoons chopped cilantro, and salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.  Stem, seed, and finely chop two Serrano peppers and throw them in.  Squeeze in the juice of one lime and mix everything with a fork until it is uniform.  Mash some of the avocado with the fork as you stir.  If you like tomato in your guacamole, and most people do, peel, seed and finely chop a small ripe tomato and add it last, so it doesn’t break up too much with the mixing process.  Taste and adjust seasonings—you might want to add a third Serrano chile, perhaps some lime zest, or more salt.  Check the texture also.  Some people like to mash the guacamole into a smooth paste.  I like mine chunky.

      Take a generous piece of Saran wrap and push and smooth it down on top of the Guacamole and up the sides of the bowl, carefully sealing the dip from any chance of exposure to air.  Throw the pit away, or put toothpicks in it, suspend it in a glass of water, and grow an avocado tree.  Do not plop it down in the middle of the guacamole, because it will not keep the mixture from turning brown, no matter what your mother said.  Chill the dip for no more that a few hours, stir to freshen and serve with drinks and tortilla chips, or as a side salad with enchiladas.

     I know old habits are hard to break, so put a pit in the middle of some left-over guacamole and put it into the fridge overnight.  By morning, the only green part left will be under the seed, where the air didn’t get to it.  As my friend,  Ken Black says, “Stick with me, kid.  I’ll put you under the Big Top.”

Lubbock classmates from Class Of 1955 at Buddy Holly Show last summer.  From left, back row:  Paul Sikes, Jim McLaughlin, Tom Stoner (American School of Mexico City, sometime early in this century).  Seated, from left: Bev Sikes,(Odessa High school, class of '87) Ann Humphries Ratisseau, Pat Stanley Stoner, Wayne Ratisseau.  Note: We all have on a pair of Buddy Holly glasses, the style he copied from me during our junior year.  This picture has nothing to do with the story, except to show that we have a lot of fun--at our age, we better.  In the background, from the far left, I see Tommy Davis, Frank Williamson, Chuck Key, and Roy Turner.  There are two lovely unidentified ladies there also, but they appear much too young to be in our class.

The Whole Enchilada

These enchiladas are rolled, not stacked.  Do NOT nibble that little red chile.

       My friend, Norman Hanks, and I spent months pounding the pavement in Houston in search of the perfect Chile Relleno.  We established criteria for judgment, chose a frame of reference, grid coordinated the city, and set out to find the perfect Chile Relleno.   It took eight months for us to reach a split decision.  We still sample rellenos at various places, twenty years later.  The journey turned out to be the destination.

      Regardless of what other opinion you may hold, Norm and I are smart.  We picked Chile Rellenos.  We knew better than go stomping around looking for the perfect enchilada.   Enchiladas are Mexican Soul Food, and as such are as varied and unusual as the terrain of Mexico and the several lands she has subdued by occupation, such as Texas, New Mexico, and Ohio.  Every enchilada is different and all of them are good.  Some are infinitely complex and others are disarmingly simple.  I never met an enchilada I didn’t like.

      My “Macco-Encho-Lados” are not the perfect enchilada.  They are good enchiladas and deserve respect for that, but the very best enchilada is ever-changing.  The most nearly perfect enchilada on a Thursday night may be chicken with tomatillo sauce and queso fresco, served with martinis at Harry’s Bar in San Miguel de Allente; on Friday night, Enchiladas del Norte with margaritas at Forti’s in El Paso; Saturday night, Lone Star beer and a Tex-Mex Special with picadillo, fried eggs and cheddar cheese at the Last Concert in Houston; then Sunday morning, the breakfast enchilada with poached eggs, chipotle hollandaise, lacey tortilla crepes and Champagne at the Pink Adobe in Santa Fe.

     The Nite Owl Café in Lubbock buried spicy hamburger meat and melted cheddar cheese enchiladas under a layer of steaming Wolf Brand Chili, covered the whole thing with cold, crisp tossed green salad and two little round sweet Italian peppers.  Years later I discovered they were casabel chiles.  In the fifties, at three am, those were the best enchiladas in the world.

      Enough—here’s what you need:

                                    Macco-Encho-Lados

One icy cold margarita on the rocks as you cook—recipe below.

6 fresh corn tortillas                 2 cups of cubed skinless, boneless chicken breasts

¼ cup raisins                             1 cup chopped sweet onions

¼ cup pecan pieces                  1 can mild, green enchilada sauce

1 cup shredded Monterrey Jack Cheese---or more

    This recipe will make a generous serving for two, but it will easily feed three, or even four with side dishes.

         Preheat oven to 350.

Method:

1.      Put about ½ inch of cooking oil in an 8 or10 inch black iron skillet over medium high heat. Drop in a tortilla, allow it to fry for about 15 seconds, and, using tongs, turn it over for about 15 more seconds, remove it before it becomes crisp and place it on a paper towel.  Cover it with a second paper towel.  Repeat the process with all the tortillas.  Properly done, this makes the tortillas soft and pliable.  Leave them stacked on a plate sandwiched between paper towels and set aside.  Keep warm. (Do not be tempted to use flour tortillas.)

2.      The chicken breasts should be cooked and diced into ½ inch cubes, or shredded.   It makes no difference how you cook them.  Sometimes, I boil them with onions, celery, carrots, garlic, a bay leaf, oregano, salt and pepper, then strain and freeze the broth for future use. You may fry the breasts with Cajun seasonings, use left-over rotisserie chicken, or grille it on the barbeque pit.  Each of these methods makes a subtle difference in the final product, but all are good.  Choose your favorite.  There is no necessity that it be all white meat, only that it be fresh, cooked, and diced or shredded.  I usually do these enchiladas when I discover left-over chicken in the fridge and wonder what to do with it.

3.      Empty the oil from of the iron skillet, wipe it out with a paper towel, and pour in the can of enchilada sauce.  I use HEB mild green canned enchilada sauce.  Old El Paso makes a good one also.  A red sauce works very well with these enchiladas, if you prefer.  Keep in mind that much flavor is lost with canned sauces. No store-bought sauce is as good as a homemade enchilada sauce, but the canned ones are undeniably convenient.  We are not trying to be Diana Kennedy here, we're just fixing supper.   Heat the sauce to boiling, and reduce to a low simmer.

4.      Arrange the ingredients in separate bowls on a work space adjacent to the cooktop.

5.      For stacked enchiladas:  Place a 13” x 9” Pyrex cooking dish adjacent to the heated sauce.  Put  1/4 cup of sauce in the bottom of the dish and spread it around to make a spot for the first two tortillas.  Using tongs, dip a tortilla into the sauce, flip it to cover both sides and put it into the Pyrex dish.  Do this quickly, lest the tortillas become too soft and tear.  Do the same with the next tortilla. (If you’d rather, simply place the tortilla in the dish and spread a large spoonful of sauce over it.)  Stop here and look, so we know we are on the same page.  There should be a 13” x 9”  Pyrex dish on the counter with two tortillas smothered in sauce equally spaced on the bottom.  The oven is preheated and other ingredients are waiting nearby.

6.      Cover each tortilla with a few onions, some chicken, a few raisins, some of the pecans, and top with a generous amount of shredded cheese.  Vary the amounts of each ingredient according to your taste.  Dip two more tortillas in sauce, place them on top of the original two and repeat the process.  Add the third tortilla, dipped in sauce, to the top of each stack, and pour the remaining sauce over all. Scatter the remaining chicken, onions, raisins, etc., over the top.  Finish with , again, a generous amount of cheese.

7.      Place the Pyrex dish in the oven and cook for twenty minutes or so, until everything is heated through and bubbling,  and the cheese is melted and starting to brown.

8.      While the enchiladas cook, peel and seed two ripe Hass Avocados and put them in a bowl.  Add a bit of garlic salt and pepper and mash them with a potato masher.  Place a mound of shredded iceberg lettuce on a plate, leaving room for a stack of enchiladas, and top with ½ of the avocado mixture.  Repeat with a second plate.

9.      Remove the enchiladas from the oven when they’re ready and use a spatula to put them on the prepared plate, next to the avocado/lettuce.  Add a dollop of sour cream and sprinkle some chopped cilantro over, if you like. Serve immediately with iced tea, margaritas, cold beer, red or white wine, or even a cold glass of milk.

     If you prefer rolled enchiladas, use a smaller Pyrex dish.  Put a sauced tortilla in the dish, add the fillings, and roll the first enchilada.  Push it, seam side down, to one end of the dish.  Repeat the process with the others, fitting them tightly into the dish.  Scatter the remaining ingredients on top and bake as above.  This recipe will easily make eight rolled enchiladas.  Simply prepare a few extra tortillas.

     Refried beans, Spanish rice, or other sides work well with these enchiladas, but we usually eat them as I described, sometimes with a fresh jalapeno and/or sliced onion on the side.  The guacamole is an art form of its own.  Use the basic recipe, or add chopped onions, lemon or lime juice or zest, Serrano or jalapeño peppers, chopped tomatoes, Tabasco sauce, or anything else you like.  Do not be afraid to experiment.

     I also make these with a red chile sauce.  You can buy it in a can, as with the green sauce, but I much prefer my own which is complicated, but absolutely worth it.  Basically, I buy assorted dried chiles, seed them, reconstitute them, pulverize them, and simmer with spices over a low heat.  The resulting sauce is wonderfully complex and makes great Enchiladas del Norte, a simple and delicious dish with three ingredients---tortillas, sauce, and queso fresco.  

     I picked Monterrey Jack cheese for this dish, but any cheese you like may be substituted.  All of them are good.   If you want, add corn or other veggies to the filling.  Chopped hard-boiled eggs add a nice twist.  Kick up the heat by adding chopped jalapenas, either fresh or pickled.  Imagination is very helpful when making enchiladas.

     Oops!  Almost forgot the Margarita recipe:  In a cocktail shaker, shake 3 oz. Patron Silver Tequila, 2 oz. Cointreau, the juice of one lime and the juice of one lemon with ice.  Split between two ice-filled, salt-rimmed Margarita glasses and enjoy.  I find that 4 oz. of tequila seems to be required for the second batch.  Strange….

A proper Margarita on the rocks, this one made with gold tequila  instead of the silver, which I prefer.

Boy, Is My Face Red

Typical Doctor's Car

    
     If you look closely at my face, you might notice it is red.  Not a little embarrassed pink, as if I had broken wind in church, but an angry, splotchy scarlet, as if I had a facial with sulfuric acid.   I bragged about what little time I’ve spent with doctors during my lifetime.  Now that I’m old, they are getting even.

     I had a little spot on my cheek, a sort of mole.  It was benign, just a small brown spot that I lived with all my life.  One day, I cut it while shaving and it refused to heal.  I decided perhaps I should “get it looked at.”

     “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” the doctor said.

     “No sir, I have never spent a lot of time in a doctor’s office.   If I’m going to buy a Mercedes, I want to drive it myself.”  “No, Sir” would have been just fine, Jim.  Why keep talking? You’re gonna tick him off.

     “Take off your shirt and let me have a good look.  That thing on your cheek is a Squamous Cell Carcinoma.  I’m going to have to dig it out with a scalpel.  Let me see what else is going on with you.”  He inspected me front and back and told me to lie down on his exam table.  “I counted twenty-eight actinic keratoses lesions on the left side of your forehead.  No sense counting any more.  No sense trying to freeze them off, either.  We’ll treat you with 5% Fluorouracil.”

     I was astounded.  I came in here with a little spot on my face and now I have a Squamous, several lesions, and a whole bunch of little keratoses.   The actinic kind.  I’m sure that’s the worst kind.

     “Level with me, Doc.  How long do you think I have?”  I knew enough about medicine to know what carcinoma meant.

     “Well, I’ll get that Squamous Cell Carcinoma out of there today and the other treatments will take a month, maybe two.  You will not be a pretty sight during treatment.”

     “Hell, I’ve never made my living being pretty.  Heh, heh…   Why should I worry about it now?”   Jim, Jim, Jim.  Just shut up.

     The Fluorouracil 5% Topical Cream treatment consists of applying a face cream twice each day.   First I thoroughly wash with facial soap and blot dry, then wait ten minutes.  The instructions insist that rubber gloves be worn for protection and the hands thoroughly washed after handling the cream.  That should have been my first clue---they’re worried about casual contact with my hands and I’m smearing that stuff on my face.

     I read the directions several times.  “When Fluorouracil 5% Topical Cream is applied to a lesion, a response occurs with the following sequence:  erythema usually followed by vesiculation, desquamation, erosion, and reepithelialization.”  That’s good to know.

     I am in my ninth day of treatment now and you can see how well it is working.  I expect you will read about me in the paper.  They’ll say, “When the medical examiner looked at the body, he said, ‘It is a mystery.  He didn’t leave a note, but it’s the worst case of dermacide I ever saw.’ ”

Typical Patient's Car--unretouched photo

Small Disclaimer:  I do not have a grudge against doctors.  Far from it.  Some of my best friends are doctors, and one is a favorite nephew. I admire them.  Most spent years in school, mortagaged their future to the hilt, and postponed their lives until they completed the necessary education.  Now the government is changing the rules faster that the medical industry can react.  To have any future at all, a young doctor has to take aim at a moving target and hope for the best.  I hope they all get big Mercedes' to drive on their day off.  If they ever get a day off.    JPMC

                                                                                    

    

Road Trip #20--Continuing adventures at the Ant Hill

This is Morher Nature's World.  She just loans it to us.  To fish in.

     This was my second trip to the Ant Hill.  Two years ago, James and Neil invited my grandsons, Ben and Ian, and me up for a fly fishing clinic.  We camped out up here and each boy had his own expert guide to show him how and why to do things with a fly rod.  The boys caught enough trout to feed us and their eyes still get big when they talk about the trip.  They will never forget the experience---it has colored their view of life and given them a glimpse of a world they might never have known otherwise.  I will always be grateful to James and Neil.

     Since I was an “old hand” at the Ant Hill, I took it upon myself to show Ratisseau around, while James and Neil unloaded the Land Cruisers.  Our campsite was in a clearing on a level bluff, about fifty feet above the meandering stream that dominated the valley.  There was a crude fire pit, nothing more than a small depression surrounded by sizeable rocks, with some leftover firewood stacked nearby.  I recognized some of the firewood.  It had been dragged up by my grandsons, two years ago.  This place, as beautiful as it is, does not suffer from a lot of traffic.

     I took Wayne down the hill to the “facilities.”  Thirty yards away from the camp, back in the woods, was the most welcome sight of the morning.  Ingeniously mounted across two fallen logs was an open and inviting commode lid.  No toilet, just the seat and lid.  Our hosts had the foresight to attach the white contraption there, with the lid permanently raised and rested against a healthy pine tree.   All refuse fell safely below, between the logs which supported the seat and into a sloped little depression.  The shape and slope of the depression allowed for flushing to be done by Mother Nature, during the frequent spring showers.  With her infinite wisdom, she also provided a convenient broken limb at just the right place to hold a roll of toilet paper.

     Mother Nature was upset about something.  The wind was getting stronger.  The three fishermen were anxious to get into their gear and decrease the trout population.  Since I didn’t get the fishing gene, I busied myself setting up camp, making a small fire for coffee, and arranging and staking down the lawn chairs.  I anchored the work table and set up the pantry as I watched my companions practice a time-honored ritual.  Dressing for battle.

A master, outfitted for the battle, at work.  The other masters were downstream.

     Fly fishermen have very specific duties to go through before they ever wet a hook, or, I guess, in this case, flip a fly.  First, they must get dressed.  Blue jeans and tee shirts won’t cut it.  All three of the fishermen stripped down to their long johns and stepped into khaki-colored waders, a sort of waterproof overall with built-in boots hanging from long suspenders.  I watched as each of my friends very carefully and seriously adjusted the length of the suspenders and tested the feel of the boots.

     A specially constructed shirt followed the waders.  It was also khaki-colored, with long sleeves and assorted pockets of many shapes and sizes.  The pockets were scattered around and fitted into various unlikely places, such as on the inside part of the sleeve or outside the shoulder.  Fabric overlays concealed mesh inserts, probably for ventilation.  A long pocket covered the entire lower back of the shirt, with openings on either side.  I could readily see that you wouldn’t be able to pick up one of these shirts off the shelf at the local Dollar Store.

     The boys then layered on a light-weight, sleeveless vest with a dizzying array of additional pockets and compartments; some fabric, some mesh. Secured mostly by Velcro strips, with some old fashioned snaps or buttons, these pockets contained all sorts of necessities for the serious trout fisherman.  Cushioned fabric areas on each vest allowed an assortment of hand-tied flies to be attached so that they could be inventoried and placed into service with a minimum of effort.

     The final accessory, the crowning achievement, was, of course, the hat.  Each hat was unique, individual and fitted to the size and shape of the owner’s head and personality. In the wind today, all would need to be tied in place.  The hats provided additional storage for more inventory of feathered flies, each held in place with its tiny hook.  The number and variety of hand-made flies seemed to be a point of pride for each fisherman, and they were treated with the reverence and respect that a decorated soldier places in his combat ribbons.

     A nine foot, custom-built fly rod, fitted with a state of the art reel, completed each outfit.  The rods, as well as many of the flies, were all carefully hand made by our companion, Neil McMullen.  The rods bore his signature.

     Mother Nature apparently had a serious case of PMS.  The wind only increased as the day wore on.  We heard that this same wind was feeding wildfires on the Arizona/New Mexico border, not far south.   It hampered our cookout at the Hallmarks, and was showing no sign of abatement.  Fly fishing is difficult on a still day.  I could see no hope with the wind as it was, but the boys were not the least bit dismayed.  They couldn’t wait to get into that creek.

     The water was deep and rushing almost violently down stream, fed by a late and unusually heavy snowmelt.  Beavers had complicated matters by constructing two dams which widened the creek and made wading more difficult.  Even so, James caught three brown trout and Neil caught two.  As hard as he tried, Wayne didn’t land any, but all were excited when they came back to camp to wait out the wind.

     I did some exploring while they were fishing.  Down near the “facilities,” I discovered some gouges, actually claw marks, on a tree, about eight feet up.  A bear had evidently discovered the “signs’ left in the latrine and decided to mark his territory.  He was more than welcome to it. I would not contest him for his space---he could have the whole thing, commode lid and all.

     The wind got worse as the day wore on.  The fishermen went back later in the day, but it was impossible.  We retired to camp and cooked a campfire dinner.   Neil cooked fried potatoes with onions and James pan-fried the trout.   It was wonderful---I had forgotten how good campfire food is, especially when McMullen and Collins cook it.



Dutch oven cherry cobbler by the apprentice boy.



     I cooked a cherry cobbler in the Dutch oven.  James brought two cans of cherry pie filling and turned them over to me as we prepared supper.  He remembered a similar cobbler I made two years ago.   I made pie dough with flour and Crisco, mixed some cinnamon into the pie filling, and layered the ingredients in the Dutch oven.  I nestled the oven into the edge of the fire, and put hot, glowing coals on top.  In about thirty minutes, Neil suggested I check the cobbler.  Any longer and I would have burned it, but it was excellent, even if I do say so.

     As we sat around the fire after dinner, I couldn’t help but think about our surroundings and reflect on my lifetime.  The little fire cast a shimmering light into the faces of four old friends, telling stories and remembering a total of three hundred years of life experience.  There were bears in the surrounding woods and beavers had built two dams in the nearby creek.  We were isolated, far from civilization, in a place that has changed little in the last thousand years.

     I feel privileged.  A fifties comedian, Brother Dave Gardner, said, “Everything you ever did in your whole life has brought you to this place at this moment.”  He called that “Hard Sayings,” but I don’t think it’s hard at all.  I grew up in Lubbock, with friends like these.  When I reflect on that, I realize I am the luckiest of men.

The acknowledged masters, Collins, left, and McMullen working on scrambled eggs and bacon.