The Mexican Fiesta Part II

I am going to digress for a few moments to discuss the method of preparation that I have observed used, and some other stuff.

It is a fairly common practice in all cultures that eat pork to withhold food for a day before the hog is to be slaughtered. The following day, usually early in the morning, a pan of food is used to lure the hog to the designated spot, whereupon it was shot in the head and immediately hung up and bled out. This is my preferred method also. But I have noticed that both Cuban and Mexican slaughtering methods are a bit different. They tend to prefer the stab to the heart method, preferably with a sharp butcher's knife. Unfortunately this, more often than not, results in either someone catching a butchers knife in the leg or in a seriously wounded animal which is stressed. It is my opinion that this degrades the quality of the meat due to the stress, and the adrenaline hormone flowing through the tissue. Peter H. Capstick has remarked that spine shot cape buffalo which die immediately, taste much better than those that are shot any other way. I don't have any scientific evidence to prove this with hogs , but there is quite a bit of empirical evidence (dinner table) to suggest that this is the case.

Be that as it may, once the animal is down, the real work begins. Putting it up on the dressing table can be a real chore once the hogs start to get past 300lbs and a heavy duty block and rope or cable is sometimes neccesary. A good hot fire needs to be lit earlier and a cauldron of water set to simmer. The cauldron of scalding hot water is then set near the work area. Using ladles, the water is poured over a section of the hog, and the hide scraped clean of all hair, and I mean all of it, right down to the feet. Holding a large butchers knife at a right angle to the hide, you scrape and pull the hair right out of the follicle. If it is too difficult, ladle some more water on it. Every couple of minutes the boys bring a hunk of cast iron, (mostly old disc brakes) that has been setting in the fire, on a long hook fashioned out of rebar and drop it into the cauldron. The water stays at scalding temp throughout the operation in this way.

The cauldrons I have seen range in design from the exquisite pure copper kettles polished with salt and lemon juice, holding 70 gallons and more, to rough serviceable cast iron ones. You can make one from a beer keg that has had its top sawn off, the loop handles are already there. If not you have to bolt or weld round handles to it. Made of heavy gauge stainless steel they seem to take the heat well and clean easily with a scouring pad and elbow grease. the problem is one of capacity, kegs are 30 gallons (I think) and are rather narrow, the width of a 50 gallon drum being preferable.

Gutting the hog by standard methods, great care is taken not to damage any of the entrails or organs. A half barrel of brine awaits all the viscera except the lungs and bladder, which are disposed of. While the guys work on the carcass, the women prepare the entrails. In short, the intestines are turned inside out and scrubbed clean. Likewise the stomach. The heart, kidneys and liver are rinsed in brine then put in clean ice and brine to chill. The skull is carefully split and the brain removed, it too goes into an ice and brine solution.

The now hairless hide is removed, care being taken to leave an even, inch thick layer of fat attached to it. The hide is placed fat side up a slatted surface in the shade and out of the sun. Personally, I sprinkle a light dusting of black pepper on it to discourage flies from landing and setting up household.

Back at the carcass the lard is trimmed off and thrown in the cauldron which is now back at the fire pit. The fire pit is nothing more than a hole dug out of the soil with two parallel pipes crossing over it to hold the cauldron. Fancy is good too. Mine is a raised brick lined fire pit with a sloped feeding hole for the wood. A wooden deck surrounds it, and the cover is a slotted manhole cover I bought at a flea market. One of these days I'll put a wood fence around it to keep children from inadvertently burning themselves, at the fiestas I've been to there are always a couple of dozen of the urchins running around and I always worry.

As the sizzling lard renders, the water is driven off. By the way, this is the quintessential pot of boiling oil. Be careful. During this time the hog is dismembered, the cuts kept in large pieces. Season in any way you like. Down here in sunny Florida, the use of citrus marinades is very common. Reserve any parts that you may wish to prepare differently, but the custom is to cook the whole pig as it is supposed to be a communal affair.

After rendering the lard, a second container is prepared in order to filter the lard. A large towel is held by two individuals while two more lift the cauldron with a stout stick through the handles. Another fellow tilts the cauldron and gently pours the lard through the cloth which acts as a filter and removes any foreign objects. The cauldron is cleaned and the now filtered lard is put back in it. Back onto the re-stoked fire it goes and is brought back up to temperature.

The first pieces that go in are the meats, be sure to cook them until they are done. You will learn by trial and error how long you must cook it for, start out with smaller pieces and work your way up to the large ones. I have never been responsible for the cooking so I can't advise as to the specific times. But I am going to find out next time I'm invited to a fiesta.

Then the viscera and feet are cooked the same way. Once again the lard is filtered and the cauldron cleaned quickly. The cleaned intestines are cut into three to six inch sections and tossed into the heated lard. Once they are cooked, which in this case doesn't take long, they are sliced into thin ribbons and eaten with tortillas and lemon or lime and salt. To be honest I don't remember how the liver and kidneys were done. They might actually be done inside, I have never noticed...

Now comes my favorite part, the hide. The hide is cooked, not once, but twice. First cooking makes what is called "salcochado" which means sautéed. Then after the second cooking they are pork rinds, like the ones in the bags, but fresh and tasty. The hide is cut into six to ten inch squares, and placed individually into the clean, hot lard in the cauldron. They are cooked until the fat has almost completely rendered and the hide becomes translucent. I warn you these are addictive and will raise your cholesterol beyond any machines ability to measure. You have been warned! Pulled burning hot from the oil, they are put on a clean absorbent towel, covered and pressed. The oil is still hot enough to burn the hide off your hand so use enough towel. Immediately it is transferred to a cutting board where it is cut in half and then cut into strips. A little lemon or lime juice, a sprinkle of salt and you have the most delectable treat known to mankind. After everyone has clogged their arteries, the hide is once again put into the cauldron in order to cook it into rinds.

And finally the brains which require the most preparation and taste scrumptious. The men do not do this. I guess it takes a woman's delicate touch to cook this. The brain is sliced into thin slivers, which are seasoned with salt and lemon, wrapped in tortillas, and skewered with a toothpick. After they are all made, and the lard filtered and reheated, the little roll ups are put in to cook. Again, I'm not sure of the time, but I will find out. When they are done the tortilla is crisp, and the brain slices have a decidedly different taste to them, sort of like egg but not quite. I like them too.

Well, let's get back to the fiesta.

Father Ramon had finished his benediction and everyone headed towards the serving tables. I stayed back waiting until everyone had been served. I don't like to be made the center of attention, I prefer to do it myself. And if I headed to the tables I would be made to be served first and I would then have to endure thank you after thank you from each of the guests, and my food would get cold anyway. Putting my glass down, I busied myself with the fire throwing in a few more quarters of oak. Pushing at a misplaced piece of wood with a rebar poker, I felt a firm hand squeeze my shoulder. I turned my head, and I saw it was Father Ramon. I flashed back to a misspent youth in New York City where I attended St. Bartholomew's. Run by Franciscan Friars, whom I believe wholeheartedly are the storm troopers of His Holiness the Pope, and their sidekicks the full habit wearing Nuns, (Which Order they were part of I was never able to ascertain it was a "State Secret" I think.), St Barts was to Catholic schools what Riker's Island is to prisons. Discipline was maintained with an iron fist sheathed in a velvet glove, and justice was swift, efficient and merciless. (No fooling around in those days, and we didn't have school shootings, disturbances or attention deficit disorder either.) It was all I could do not to run, screaming "It wasn't me! It wasn't me!" But realizing that this wasn't Brother Thomas I relaxed, smiled and slowly rose to my feet.

"Father Ramon," I said, "que tal, como esta usted?" It never hurts to be polite and formal with the clergy. A smiling Padre responded, "Well my son , well." He's only a couple of years older than me, so I find it odd being called son. "This is a wonderful thing that you do. It is good for everyone." He paused, and I braced for what I knew was coming. "Tell me Alberto, why haven't I seen you at church?” Its real simple: I don’t go! “When was the last time you went to confession?" 1974. And I was almost caught by Sister "Knuckle Buster T" Theresa with Patty the 8th grade redheaded Irish bombshell. So you can imagine my aversion to confessionals. Avoiding the whole confessional thing I told him I would try to make it tomorrow. He wasn't fooled by me, not one bit. But he let it slide.

Thankfully.

I've thought of inviting him to join me on a hunt. I am almost certain that he would. I know he enjoys a good wine and he has no problem with hunting. I'll have to give it some more thought though.

We chatted about the kids, briefly touched on the war in Afghanistan, and he asked me if I could help an elderly parishioner with a small matter. I agreed and he motioned to the serving table which by now had thinned considerably. “He's sharper than I thought.”, went through my mind. I excused myself and started to turn. He grabbed my arm. "Manana, (Tommorrow)" he said, looking me straight in the eye. "OK Padre, tomorrow 9:30 sharp." I smiled and figured there were worse ways to spend a Sunday morning, like maybe a British penal colony. I hadn't counted on the conga group in my head, but that wouldn't be for another fourteen hours or so.

My plate was ready by the time I had walked the twenty steps or so. As it was I was thanked by a half dozen people for providing the main course. After as many "You're welcomes" I managed to get back to my tottering seat and my drink, which had suffered my inattention for quite a while.

The band had started to play again, having taken a break. This was the first serving in what would prove to be many. The pork was cooked to perfection, the rice was seasoned with spices, and the "Pico de Gallo", had a bite to it. I put down my plate and topped off my drink. I was in figurative heaven. Father Ramon not withstanding.

The rest of the evening was punctuated by conversations and congratulations. One of the younger couples decided to announce their impending nuptials. After that the libations poured twice as freely. As the Patron I was required to make the obligatory toasts, and boy, did I have to make them. It seemed that at every turn a request came for another toast.

It was late in the evening when my wife came to get me, I was satiated and had single handedly insured Bacardi's January profit margins. I can't remember a more memorable fiesta.

Hope you all enjoy!

Albert
The Hunt Continues...

The Mexican Fiesta Part I

Mexican Fiesta

Part I

Fellows, I don't exactly remember everything that transpired Saturday night. And by Sunday morning it felt like a conga group had taken residence in my head and were using my hollow skull as a timpani. But, fiestas are like that. Some of it is still hazy, but I emphatically and categorically deny making absolutely any untoward advances at Miguel's horse.

Damned thing is too ugly...

By the time my lovely wife came to rescue me, (more for her sake than mine; she has steadfastly maintained that she wants me alive rather than the life insurance bounty that she steadily increases every year), I was in danger of drowning in Puerto Rico's finest: Bacardi Anejo. 151 proof of the Caribbean's best medicine. A tumbler glass in one hand, plate of roasted pork, tortillas, rice and beans, precariously balanced on one knee, I held court in the center of an admiring crowd, punctuating every sentence with the free hand. Hey Honey! How much am I worth now?

The morning's hunt had been a rousing success, the she hog I had brought to my friends' home had been enthusiastically received, the multitude of happy children capering about while the adults admired the animal. A little fellow named Jesus tugged at my gun belt. I tussled his jet black hair and scooped him up in my left arm so he could better see the sow’s snout and ivory. As I leaned towards the hog, grunting in his ear, and snorting in his neck, he let out a squeal of delight and I gently let him back down to run off with the other children. There was the promise of another Fiesta looming large, and the excitement was contagious; Don Alberto was here and there was sure to be a lot of fun. Already the commotion had attracted the neighbors who were now making their way up the driveway.

Chilled from a low crawl stalk through wet grass, during the early morning's hunt, I was forced to imbibe Bacardi's aforementioned magical elixir; for medicinal purposes of course. It works great on cuts, cactus scratches, blisters, dog bites, and anything else that ails you. Begging off after the second dose was administered and had completely seared the back of my throat to numbness, I asked a couple of the young "Muchachos" to take the sow off the horse's back. Grunting from the weight and trying to avoid the horses hooves, they managed to haul it off to the wooden dressing table. Telling them I would be back later, I remounted Chester the trusty horse, and rode home to a hot shower and dry clothes.

Before I could do anything though, I had to take care of the horse. Back at the stables, I put him in his stall, took off the bit and reins and gave him a cup of feed to occupy him while I unsaddled him. I ride a western saddle, but I've been considering an Aussie saddle. It's a cross between a McClellan saddle and a western and is designed for the horse's comfort. Which when you look at the financial cost and the emotional side of the equation of horse ownership, isn't such a bad idea. Flipping the saddle blanket over, I hung it on one of the rails to dry, and then reached for the brush and towel. I took the towel, wet it, and washed his rump where blood had seeped into his hair. Afterwards, starting at his neck I brushed him thoroughly on one side and then the other until his coat gleamed. By then I was good and warm. Grabbing a double armload of hay and tossing it into the rack, I gave Chester a pat on the withers and walked back down the winding path to the house.

On account of Alexander Graham Bell, good news travels fast; Martin and Emanuel, my boys' buddies, had already called ahead to tell them about the impending Fiesta. I didn't make it through the threshold before being accosted by two very excited young fellows and an exasperated yet ever patient and forgiving woman. "Dad!, dad, DAD!" hollered the youngest while the older did exactly the same except in a different voice. The words fiesta, party, music, dancing was all I could make out. The excited jabber was threatening to overwhelm me and the look of cornered prey must have been evident because Mom finally came to my rescue, steaming mug of hot chocolate in hand. A light kiss and a whispered "How did it go?" was all I was able to get while being guided to my chair. Jordan, the older of the two is a preteen, with all that it implies, and was already considering whether to wear his denim Arizona jeans or the black Wranglers. Something about Consuelo or Juana or Maria. Blake on the other hand was wondering if they would be serving tamales again. He seems to think that everything is a celebration and that the menu should contain whatever he likes.

I finally sorted them out, and looking up caught sight of my wife purposely looking at me. I was beginning to feel like the impala caught between the hyena and the leopard. My wife's eyebrow was up, which is the first of several physical signs that doom is near, so I immediately went into a defensive play number one. Mug on the coffee table, I put on my most innocent look and throwing on a crooked smile that was guaranteed melt the polar ice caps, or so I had been told, I said "Good hog, quite an adventure... Uh, by the way, there's going to be a party tonight and we're the guests of honor."

Silence. I could feel my smile slip a little. Cold sweat beaded my forehead. Don't sweat, I thought, don't let her see you sweat.

"I would have never guessed.", was the deadpanned response, eyebrow going up another fraction of an inch. “And have you been drinking? Already?“ Never having been called a coward, I decided that discretion is the better part of valor after all. Thinking quickly, I threw myself at her feet and told her about the harrowing escape from near death, the snake infested swamp and I even threw Idi Amin, the former cannibal dictator of Uganda, in for good measure.

I wasn't sure if I would pull this one off.

But, she finally relented, and said we could all go. The kids hurrahed and I figured I'd done it again, sly old dog that I am. You see, the problem is that she doesn't approve of, what is in her opinion, the over-inflated esteem that I am held in by my Mexican friends. She says she knows better; whatever that means. But that, as you might imagine, is yet another story.

Everyone ran to get ready. Within moments hair was slicked, boots shined, buckles polished, and hats brushed. We men were ready in a flash. As the second hand of the clock ticked, the boys got antsier. Jordan had settled on his black Wranglers, and must have combed his hair twenty times. Blake was whining about how hungry he was, even as he wolfed down another serving of synthetically buttered popcorn. I love these parties and just wanted to get there and take my seat at the cooking pit. But the wife, as all wives do I'm told, had to get prepared. The shower was still running. As the afternoon wore on the men's patience was wearing thin. Not that we’d do anything about it, mind you, we’re not fools you know. But the sighs spoke volumes.

Finally the door opened and she came out, resplendent in jeans and silk western blouse, sparkling jewels on hands and neck. Blake is still mesmerized by his mother's beauty and me, let's just say I'm as lucky as a man can be. Jordan's looking in the mirror trying to decide which is his best side.
Anyway, we loaded up and headed on over to the shin-dig, everyone looking forward to it.

When I pull up in our Ford F250, it looks that half the neighborhood has shown up. Cars were parked on the dirt road, along the drive, and in the front yard; I headed up the driveway to my usual reserved spot. No sooner had I driven up the driveway, when a mob of kids came pelting around the corner of the house, scattering chickens and puppies under their churning feet. Seeing us, they hit the brakes, their shoes kicking crumbled shell about. After a pause too short to even call momentary, they wheeled in unison and rushed the truck. Pulling the truck up into my space they swarmed it like locusts. The doors flung open, my boys bailed out and were quickly and irretrievably swallowed into the writhing mass of children. Like a tornado leaving destruction and disarray in its wake, the mass boiled away into the distance.

Two of the "muchachos" swaggered up, the gold medallions of the Virgin Mary that hung around their necks reflecting light, their Stetsons pulled low over the foreheads. I had already popped my door open and was halfway out, but the Wife knew to wait for one of the boys to open the door for her. "Don Alberto, que tal?" asked Martin as he manfully stuck out his hand, his crocodile hide boots giving him an extra couple of inches of height, "My father asked to be told of your arrival."

I gave him a firm shake of the hand and a squeeze on the shoulder. "Tell him on my way.", I said. He gave me a half salute and took off with purposeful strides to his father. In the meantime, Emmanuel had opened the Wife's door, held her hand and helped her down out of the jacked-up truck. Offering his arm he asked her if he could escort her to where his parents were. To see a couple of 12 year olds with better manners than most adults is a real pleasure, and a treat. With great seriousness, and yet lightly, my wife accepted and was escorted to the grand fete. Me, I was left behind to fend for myself, as usual, but at least I knew were the bar was.

Ambling over to the bar and pouring myself a long one over ice, I took a sip and let the liquid fire run down my throat until it hit my belly burning. The Fiesta was wound up by now and the revelers were happily carrying on. Mariachi music was playing and I could see some of the younger couples dancing. Martin was talking to his father and pointing back towards the truck, Guadalberto looked up from his labor and scanned the crowd. As he looked in my direction, I raised my glass, and caught his attention. A broad grin split his face, and handing the long oak wood spoon he had in his hand to Martin, came in my direction, side stepping around children and seated people. Turning back to the bar and reaching behind, I grabbed another tumbler and dropped some ice into it. I was putting it down when a work hardened and callused hand grabbed me by the bicep and spun me around. "Don Alberto!" I get that a lot when I'm there. "You must come to the fire! Everyone is there waiting, Come, come!" His hand had grabbed mine and pumped it in greeting, at the same time he was pulling me that way. I reached back, grabbed the two glasses and just managed to hook the bottle with the little finger of my free hand.

A circle of mismatched seats circled the fire pit. All of them filled by the equivalent of the village elders. A seat remained empty for me. How I rank up there with the elders is beyond me.

(Actually the reason I do is because I am educated, seemingly successful, and Castilian speaking. To their way of thinking I am the equivalent of a Spanish Don or in its English counterpart a member of the titled gentry. The other title I hear often is "Patron" which is the same in English, patron. Tonight I was "El Patron", I was the patron of the party. I supplied the main course, in this case a "marrano", very much like the land owners of yore might possibly have dropped off game or even cattle at the mission for the peasants. There is a subtle caste system at work here, and as my father has told me, it is best not to rock the boat. In this social structure, everyone knows his place, but if it is upset, nothing works right. So I play my part, and encourage the youngsters to strive at school and be the best that they can.)

Anyway, the fire was going, the seasoned live oak and hickory wood throwing up the occasional spark, my belly was warm, and the antojitos were being passed around by the pretty young ladies of the families in attendance, their dresses colorful and festive. Spearing a chunk of fried chicken breast with the proffered bamboo skewer, I squeezed a bit of lime on it, dipped it into the salt, and popped it into my watering mouth. There were triangles of warm flour and corn tortillas, crisp avocado chunks bathed in lemon juice, salsa verde and salsa roja, rounds of corn cobs with butter and salt, and assorted other goodies. Taking another sip of my drink, I watched as my friend, Guadalberto, pulled out a sizzling chunk of pork from the cauldron, and put it on a waiting wooden platter.

Anticipation was on everyone's face. The aroma wafted towards me, filling my nose with the wonderful bouquet of well prepared food. Spearing another hunk with a trident fit for the Roman coliseum, he lifted that one, spitting and popping to yet another waiting platter. The ladies had their hands full tonight. The pork was taken to a table where it was to be cut, served and distributed to everyone.

The good Padre was there, Father Ramon of "Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe" Catholic Church. Able to speak Latin and English in an impeccable manner, he is a strong , wiry man, seemingly fit enough to wrestle cattle, drunks or sinners with ease. He is one of those old fashioned priests that still makes house calls to tend to his scattered flock. At his signal everyone rose from their seats, the children quieted down, and one and all, (Including this godless heathen!) bowed their heads for the benediction. When he finished, everyone headed for the serving tables to be fed!

End Part I

News Flash!

Fellows,

Sorry for the delay in responding and posting. I've just got back from a miserable three weeks on Nassau, in the Bahamas. Damned near coagulated the grey matter with the broiling heat. Lost ten pounds too. The only time I saw the beach was flying in and flying back out.

Overall, it was a miserable experience, right on up there with having my leg almost torn off back in the day, as the kids like to say.

I'll be reporting in full soon enough, but in the mean time I'll post the "Fiesta" for you all to enjoy!

Regards,
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues...

On Shooting Iguanas by Todd Hill

On Shooting Iguanas

During rainy season the rivers rose many feet to flood the surrounding jungle. The center main part of the rivers flow swiftly and dangerously with the added volume of water. Fishing was not good and the rivers were hard to navigate in heavy dugout canoes. Many of the vines and trees bordering the rivers produced fruit during this time, and large iguanas were to be found in great numbers feeding in the fruit-laden trees along the rivers.

Some of the Indians made their fields by the river and had to travel by canoe to get to them. I was along with Pooto and his family for a trip to their field. After gathering some fruit and manioc we got in the canoe to paddle back. We paddled hard and hugged the bank. When going upriver it is best to stay as close to shore as possible as there is less current there.

Suddenly Pooto started talking excitedly. He had spotted some iguanas up in a tree. We steadied the canoe as much as possible as he stood up, drew, aimed and let fly an arrow. The iguana came thrashing down from the tree, its neck transfixed by an arrow. It’s hard enough to shoot from a tipsy dugout canoe, but you also have to hit the iguanas in the head or neck or they will not fall down. Wiripi, Pooto’s son, shot another one in the same tree and then we crossed the river to continue on the other side.

We soon stopped at another iguana filled tree. The Indians have incredible eyes to be able to spot these camouflaged reptiles in the trees. This tree was high and the shots would be much more challenging. I watched completely amazed as they shot several more iguanas.

Todd Hill
Primitive Point

The Perfect Shot by Todd Hill

The Perfect Shot

We threaded our way silently through the jungle, following the way of least resistance, around vines and tree trunks, pushing softly through bushes. Every so often Parara (our Amazonian guide) would stop to listen. We stopped too, listening for the sounds of potential game.

As we walked my senses drank in my surroundings. Each plant was familiar, each sound, even the earthy, loamy smells. I felt alive there in the jungle.

Suddenly we sensed activity up ahead. Parara grew very alert. We stepped forward quietly and then froze. In a blur of motion, Parara raised his bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly into the jungle ahead of us.

We followed our friend forward about 25 yards where we saw his heavy metal-pointed arrow pinning an agouti to the ground at the very entrance to its hole. One half second later and it would have been safe. The arrow had cut an inch wide hole through its lungs, killing the animal almost instantly.

My brother and I exchanged admiring looks, marveling at the incredible performance we had just witnessed.

Todd Hill

Primitive Point