Notes from Maine - 2022/05/01
My father asked for “Mexican” food the other day. He meant “enchiladas,” “Spanish rice,” and chili. I didn’t take the request seriously. Dad wasn’t eating very much from day to day. A little fruit or a cookie was about all he could stomach. If food was put in front of him, he would wave a hand and frown. Still, I bought all the ingredients. I put all these names in quotes because I have reason to suspect the authenticity and accuracy of the names.
In 1947, my father, his brother, and their mother shipped off to Greenland. My grandfather was stationed on a base called BW-1. They referred to it as Bluey One or Narsarsuaq (the Danish name). Living on the base in Greenland, my grandmother met another USAF wife who taught her how to make “Mexican” food. I think Laura Line was from Texas, but I can’t remember for sure.
Laura’s recipe for enchiladas involved taking corn tortillas, dipping them into warm enchilada sauce, and then layering them in a casserole dish with onions and cheese between the layers. At the end, the remainder of the sauce was poured over the top and the casserole was baked at 325°F for an hour. At one point, I asked my grandmother why she didn’t roll the enchiladas.
“Oh. We don’t do that,” she said.
I never met Laura Line, so I can’t be sure that my grandmother’s recipe came unaltered from her. Now that I think of it, my grandmother had a tendency to layer things with cheese and onions and then call the resulting casserole by the wrong name, so who knows? It doesn’t matter what you call it—I like it just as much.
After my parents divorced, my father rented a room from Craig Zugschwartz for a few months before he found a house. We didn’t see him much then. When he bought another house, that first weekend I spent with him was like camping in an abandoned building. Dad went to a couple of yard sales and bought a deep fryer (no lid), a handful of mismatched silverware, a pot (with a lid that could fit the deep fryer), random plates and bowls, and some chairs.
That weekend he taught me how to cook chili on the stovetop with no pan. Make sure to peel the label off the can first so it doesn’t ignite. If you don’t have an oven mitt (we didn’t), you’re going to have to grab the lip of the can with a pair of pliers. These days, I always put the can of chili into a saucepan before I heat it, but that’s the only improvement I’ve made to Dad’s recipe. Canned chili is good enough when you’re having “Mexican” food.
I made the family recipe (handed down from Laura Line to my grandmother) yesterday and invited friends over in Dad’s honor.
The “Spanish” rice is interesting. I’ve never looked up rice recipes, so I don’t know what this is akin to. Laura Line heated a few tablespoons of oil in a thick-bottomed pot. I use my pressure cooker pot because that’s what my grandmother did. When it’s almost smoking, you dump in 3/4 C of Ben’s Converted Rice. I’ve made it with other types of rice, but there’s something about the parboiled rice in a box that holds together better. You stir the rice in the hot oil nonstop until it’s just about toasted. Then, you quench the heat with a big can of whole, peeled tomatoes. To that, we add chili powder, garlic, salt, onions, and bell pepper. The whole thing cooks for forty-five minutes on the lowest heat, stirring every ten minutes so it doesn’t crust on the bottom.
My friends enjoyed the “Mexican” food and then toasted my father. Over the years, I think they’ve developed a fondness for his acerbic wit. Dad passed away at home, in his sleep, the morning of Friday, April 29. He will be missed.
