"The life" from my ongoing online novel "Willie"

With a quick poke, the needle pierces the big, pulsing vein on Willie’s right arm just below a three and a half inch line of tracks that follow the vein to his current injection site, revealing several years of intravenous drug use. He pushes a small amount of the dark brown liquid into his arm. It is still warm from cooking it up in the spoon, with the burned bottom, that is laying on the table next him. He pops loose the rubber surgical hose, tying his arm off, and starts to feel the warm rush. Drawing blood back into the syringe it mixes with the sweet brown nectar, a swirling cloud of narcotic heaven that Willie is now shooting three or four times a day. He slowly pushes the plunger down. As the syringe empties he feels the opiates ooze into every pore in his body; like warm honey. Fading into a tranquil dream and then nodding out, he is floating in the arms of his one true love… Heroin.

After about twenty minutes, Willie slowly opens one lazy eye; with a sleepy smile he thinks to himself, “well… time to earn.”

He unbuttons his fly and picks up a second syringe, filled with smack that is lying on the table next to the burnt spoon. Checking to make sure the plastic cap covering the needle is secure he then tapes the syringe, point down, to the inside of his thigh, just below his crotch, with a wide strip of surgical tape, and then pulls his pants back up.

Driving over to the job, Hank Williams is on the crackling old radio in his 1965, piece of shit, Plymouth Valiant.

Even though it’s the middle of the night and snowing outside, he’s warm and toasty, partially from the heater but mostly from the heroin. With a dreamy smile on his face he follows along, “Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly…”

His mind wonders over to thinking about her… hotter then doughnut grease, that one. It’s not his fault, if her old man doesn’t know what she really needs. Most straight johns have no idea how to treat women. He snickers to himself, ”It’s okay honey we can try again next month.” She couldn’t get enough of him, then he turned her on to the shit and that was the end of her Betty Crocker days. By now he’s singing at the top of his lungs with the old car radio, “And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry!”

“Man oh man is this some great shit,” he thinks s to himself.

She told Willie about her boss, the middle-aged lawyer, with thinning hair and a huge paunch. He was always standing too close, with his perpetual bad breath and those eyes that were always peaking down her blouse. Then one afternoon, as Willie was leaving her house, before her husband got home, she mentioned the safe in his office.

“Does he keep cash in it?” Willie asked.

“Not usually, but he’s been meeting with a client that owns topless bars all over town and he always pays in cash. My boss keeps bitching about it,”

She tells Willie “I’m pretty sure he’s holding the cash in the safe, so he won’t have to claim it.”

Twenty minutes later, Willie drives into the parking space in back of the law office. He wonders around to the trunk of his car to get his tool bag. Checking his pocket to make sure he brought the key, he heads into the empty office. Once inside he waits a few minutes with his eyes closed, to adjust to the darkness. While he waits he hums the Hank William’s tune he had been singing earlier enjoying the warm narcotic haze.

Opening his eyes, there is enough light to proceed with out a flashlight. First he throws furniture and the contents of desk drawers around the room knowing full well that the safe is upstairs. If he goes directly to the safe the cops will know it was an inside job. He then goes upstairs and ransacks the other offices, saving her bosses office for last.

Once at the safe, he points a small flashlight at the dial and puts on the stethoscope. Three full turns to the left to clear the tumblers.

Hank starts singing in his head “I’ve never seen a night so low.”

Concentrate, he firmly tells himself.

“When tears get in your eyes”

The dial starts to look a little fuzzy.

Willie quickly realizes, he’s way to high to open the safe. Plan b… He’ll have to take it back home and crack it after he comes down. A quick nudge and he can tell it’s been bolted to the concrete floor… no problem.

Willie gets out his pocketknife and walks over to a beautiful dark brown leather couch in the center of the office. He cuts out a 20-inch square of the leather from the seat cushion. Looking through his tools he takes out a splitting wedge and a 12-pound sledgehammer. He wraps the wedge in the soft leather and tucks the edge under the front of the safe. He adjusts the light to shine on the wedge and stands up. Holding the sledgehammer like a golf club, he pretends to look down a fairway and quietly says, “four” to himself and takes a full swing at the splitting wedge. The leather muffles the sound, but the safe doesn’t budge. For the next 10 minutes, Willie constantly beats on the wedge, occasionally taking out his frustrations by smashing the expensive walnut furniture, lamps and assorted decorations that are scattered about the room.

The safe finally gives; a few more whacks and it breaks free. He lifts the safe, checking the weight. It’s heavy, maybe 125 pounds. Lifting it all the way up he thinks, “I’ll need a shortcut.” Willie drops the safe on a coffee table just for fun, and looks around the room. He walks on over to the huge picture window that has the words Law Office painted backwards in black and gold old English letters. Looking up and down the street, the coast is clear. Willie walks back, picks up the safe and runs at the window, raising it up as high as he can, as he gets closer. One last heft and the safe sails through the second story window. As it breaks through the glass the silence is shattered with the screaming clang of an alarm.

“Shit” he says out loud…”Time to go!”

Not wanting to waste second Willie steps out through the broken window on to the ledge. The safe is lying down on the sidewalk surrounded by the shattered glass, about 12 feet below. He leaps down, but what he doesn’t see is the ice covering the sidewalk. When he hits the ground his feet fly out from underneath him and the back his head smashes into the corner of the safe. Lying in broken glass he feels the warm blood dripping down his neck and back. The police cars sirens are now drowning out the clang of the alarm. Several squad cars screech to a stop a few feet away. The cops jump out and surround Willie, guns drawn.

He blurts out, “Man, am I glad to see you guys! I was walking down the street, minding my own business when that safe came flying out the window and hit me right here on the back of my head. I’m lucky to be alive. Just wait tell my lawyer gets a hold of these guys.”

The cops, less than convinced, spend the next five minutes cuffing and kicking the shit out of Willie, followed by a quick search. They empty his pockets and overlook the dope hidden in his pants. At the jail, Willie gives a call to his lawyer and they toss him in a cell with a few drunks and assorted Nair-do-wells. The guard leaves, Willie reaches inside his pants and pulls out the syringe.

“Anybody want to party?” he asks the other men. They all decline. Willie tears off a piece of his shirtsleeve and ties off his arm. He shoots the dope as the other men look on in horror. His eyes roll back in his head and the world is once again right. After about 10 minutes he comes to and bums a smoke off of one of the other men. Leaning back with a big smile, he takes a slow drag off the cigarette, blows a few rings and starts singing, “And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry!”

By Mad Coyote Joe

Meanwhile back at the Bread 7-19-11

As I’ve said over the years, “The trick in becoming a great cook is learning the nature of what ever you’re learning to make!”

Nothing could be more true than in the case of becoming a baker. With each batch I learn more about how bread acts and feels. My hands are learning the proper way to handle the dough. When I started baking the dough would stick to my hands; now I understand how to keep the dough moving at a rate that prevents sticking.

I can now tell if I need to rework my dough at the bench rest in order to build structure. Each loaf is now standing up and more like a slightly deflated ball; where-as they used to look like a flat ball. And the flavor is now more uniform along with the sponge. This is real bread that stands up and can make a meal by it’s self; add a little herb butter or good cheese and a bottle of wine and it’s hard to beat!

My Three Kates

Seeing this picture of my beautiful wife, our lovely daughter and our recently lost Kathryn Zalem; Kathy’s mother, I can’t help but think of the poem I wrote the morning she passed. I thought I’d share it with my readers again for those that missed it

For Zalem

A Poem by Daigneault

Forged in the dark earth of Kansas by a preacher and his wife

She was an educated woman in a time when such was rare

Never much for foolishness she worked hard and watched the money

Then one day when the kids had grown he said he was leaving

For a while the tears and questions kept her down

But she did her own time and found her own way

So through thirty years of solitude, hers was a life of books and antiques

Watercolors and brushes and time with the children, but she lived alone

She watched movies every Christmas with Ila and loved “Frosties”

Reading everything, she had knowledge where others had only opinion

As her twilight approached she quietly cut the lines that moored us together

And started on her way, leaving us grateful in the bedrock of her example

Like a glacier, quietly, gracefully, moving to the sea of her memories

We watched as she finally wondered back home to a Kansas of an earlier day

In the end she was as light as air, giving all, even her body

Leaving behind only a few precious strands of her beautiful white hair

Thank you Kathryn

Tequila and Magic In a Mexican Garden

Tequila and Magic

In a Mexican Garden

By Mad Coyote Joe

Looking over at the kitchen window, making sure that his wife Norma isn’t watching, Santiago reaches into the big burlap bag and produces a half empty bottle of tequila. He slowly takes a generous gulp of the golden brown liquid. Smacking his lips together, he utters, “Madre de dios, I needed that.”

We are in the garden collecting hibiscus flowers for Norma. After they dry she will use them to make Jamaica tea. I am thirteen years old and spending the summer in Guadalajara, Mexico with Santiago and Norma. Years ago they worked on my grandfather’s avocado farm in Escondido, California. They are both in their late seventies.

“ Now you want to be careful to pinch the stem just below the base, like this,” Santiago said, carefully removing the flower from the bush. “Turn the flower facing up and gently slide your fingers inside without crushing the flesh of the flower or disturbing the delicate core.” The old vaquero gets a little smile on his sun darkened face and continues, “Trust me mijo, one day, when you have a senorita, she will be very happy that you know how to do this.” He reaches over messing up my hair, while patting me on the head and then goes on. “Pinch this part, called the pestle, at the base and carefully remove it. Then take off the green cup that surrounds the flower, make sure there are no little bugs and then drop the flower into this burlap bag.”

As he drops the deep red blossom into the bag, he gestures with his calloused hand, suggesting that I start picking. “Be gentle, and do me a favor, hurry up every chance you get. I don’t pay you nothing for nothing.” He says with a grin. “Every time you pick one of these flowers a new one will grow back the next day.”

Checking over and then dropping one of the flowers in the bag, I look up and ask “Why?”

The lines around the old man’s face tighten a little, as his smile grows and I can almost see the story coming into focus behind his eyes, “Well… a long time ago, a beautiful woman lived in a little Casita, that eventually was added onto and finally became our big house that you see before you. Her husband got hurt and could no longer work.

“How did he get hurt?” I ask.

“How the fuck do I know? Maybe he worked in the circus washing the elephant’s balls and the elephant sat on him. Whatever happened he couldn’t work.” The old man pauses, taking another slow sip of the tequila, “Ahh! Que bueno… Soon the couple had no money, not even for food. The woman was very worried and would cry every night right here, on this very spot. One night a little fairy was out collecting moonlight and he heard her and asked why she was crying. She said that she needed work, anything to feed her family. The fairy, feeling sorry for her, said he would try to help. He touched the earth and said something in a secret language that only fairies know, and then he disappeared.

I break in, going along with the story, “A fairy… really abuelito, did you ever see a fairy?”

“Gordito hush!” Santiago says, as he sharpens his focus on me raising his index finger, in an attempt to look serious. “Pay attention. The next morning the very first one these bushes, popped up right here where her tears hit the ground, and the bush had one perfect red flower. It was so beautiful that the woman thought it must be a sign of good luck. She put it in her hair and went to town to look for work. Times were hard and there was no work to be had, but richest man in the town was having café’ on his terrace. The wonderful scent of the flower intoxicated him. Looking up he saw the beautiful woman with the flower in her hair, and had to have her. He offered her money to spend the night with him. She was so desperate that she agreed.

The next day, when she left the rich man’s home, she was overwhelmed with guilt, and went to the church to pray for forgiveness. As she looked into the font of holy water, in her reflection, the shame of what she had done was as clear on her face as the perfection of the flower that was still in her hair. And then it happened, as she touched the surface of the holy water, the flower shriveled and died… her shame left. She could feel her sins disappear. Then the dried up flower fell from her hair, into the holy water, which instantly turned dark red, like the blood of Christo.”

“Was it blood?” I asked.

“No, the holy water just turned the color of blood. The woman went to the confessional and told the Padre about the rich man and the magic flower and the blood red holy water. He thought it must be a sign from god, so he absolved her of her sins. She went home with food and told her husband that she had paid all the bills. She was free of guilt and her husband had no suspicions.

After she left the Padre went to look at the holy water that looked like blood. He worried it would scare away his flock, coming to confession. He had a big problem… he couldn’t just throw it out, so he blessed himself and drank it.”

“What did it taste like?” I ask?

“I don’t know, but it looked like blood and that padre had the cajones to drink it! Well the next morning when the woman went outside, the bush had grown a new flower, just as beautiful. The woman, thinking that it might be a good idea to make a little more money to put aside in case of hard times, put the flower in her hair and went to town. Another rich man fell under the flower’s spell and this time they went to a hotel. Again she felt the guilt and again she went to church and again the flower shriveled and died along with her sin, but this time, not wanting the Padre to know what she had been doing, she caught the flower before it fell into the holy font. She went home and tossed the dried flower into a big empty vase. This went on for a while; every day a new flower, everyday more money and her husband never suspected a thing. And their little shack soon turned into this big beautiful hacienda.”

Santiago takes the flower I am working on out of my hand and inspects it, “Good, make sure the center is all gone, it can make the tea bitter.” He drops my flower into the bag and pulls out the bottle taking another sip. As he savors the tequila he thinks about the story, then he continues. “I tell you Mijo, living a lie is a funny thing, it eats away at you. Finally the woman could take it no longer. She went and told the Padre what she was doing. The Padre made her promise to quit. Then he told her about drinking the holy water.”

“Did she keep her promise?” I asked.

“Yes, she did, but every morning the bush kept making the flowers. She would pick them, but she was afraid to just throw them out so she put them in the vase, which was filling up very fast. She decided to get rid of the flowers before they caused any more trouble. Remembering the Padre’s story, she made a tea with them and served it to her husband… and this is the same Jamaica tea we drink today.

Now maybe it was the holy water and maybe it was the miracle of her forgiven sin… the tea she made at home was delicious and it truly quenched her husband’s thirst; but not like the Padre who after the first drink of the magic tea, was never thirsty again, and the people around here say that he never took a drink of anything except the wine at communion, as long as he lived.”

Katie’s Taco Meat

My daughter Katie learned Spanish at the age of 8 from the little Mexican girls next door. She spent many an afternoon at their house, playing, talking, and cooking. She brought this recipe home and made it for us when she was 11 or 12. It’s a family favorite. And it makes the best taco salad you’ve ever eaten.

1/2 white onion, minced

2 cloves garlic

4 tomatoes, diced

1 large bunch cilantro

2 pounds ground beef

1 pound breakfast steaks (round steak thinly sliced), sliced into little strips

Salt to taste

Corn tortillas, warmed

Garnish:

Shredded green cabbage, finely chopped white onion, avocado slices, crumbled queso ranchero, key lime wedges, and chile tepins

Place the onion, garlic, and tomatoes in a skillet and start sautéing. As soon as the tomatoes give off their liquid, add all other ingredients. Cook until the meat is done. Serve with warm corn tortillas and garnishes.

Serves 4

Meanwhile back at the Bread 7-14-11

When last we baked the summer monsoons were in full tilt! I was standing outside in a dust storm that made national news for being 3 miles high and 50 miles wide along with a raging summer rain. It was like working in a wet, muddy, blanket that a group of pit bulls had been sleeping in. The bread refused to rise. This made me think long and hard about my choice to bake in an oven that was outside in our yard.

On our current bake I, once again, made a few changes. In an attempt to lower the moister content of the loaves, I reduced the hydration percentage by 37 grams per 600-gram loaf or about 21%.

This is huge and can only be achieved after learning how to handle wet, sticky dough! In past bakes when the rise was weak I think it was from not working the structure enough. In my bench rest I would not pay enough attention to the sag of the individual loaves. This is key, if the loaves are sagging after the bench rest re-stretch and rebuild the tension and allow an extra bench rest.

The loaves should have a smooth but tight feel after the stretch. I’m also starting my fire earlier and burning less wood, in an attempt to get more even oven heat. I sweep the oven very well after the fire has been removed and only use a damp mop not a wet mop… just enough to remove the ash and coals. And last no additional pot of water. Just a few moist towels on the door and a few sprays of water as most of the humidity comes from the loaves. The result is beautiful loaves that have complete oven spring and full caramel color. The sponge is just right. So… I’m off to deliver bread!

See you on the net.

Mad Coyote Joe

New Dog photo

Another great way to drink Tequila

I made this wonderful drink for my TV show about 12years ago and used it in my first book “The Sonoran Grill” We make these for dinner parties and they are always a big hit, but there seems to be an issue… they affect your wrist. I notice that every time they get close to my mouth my wrist seems to turn further than I wanted and the whole drink magically disappears down my throat. So just to make sure I try another and viola gone again. In short these are way too easy to drink.

Stevie Ray

I made this excellent drink in honor of the great American Blues legend Stevie Ray Vaughn. They are both hard and smooth at the same time!

2 OZ Silver Tequila

1/2 OZ Blue Curacao

1/2 OZ Mandarin Napoleon or Grand Mariner

Juice of 1 Key lime

Give your car keys to someone else. Shake all ingredients with ice, strain and serve in a martini glass. Repeat as needed!

Shrimp Etouffée

Ask a Frenchman what “Etouffée means and they will say “to choke” ask a Cajun and they will say “To Smother” and that’s exactly what this wonderful Cajun dish is, Shrimp smothered in an amazing, spicy, complex flavored sauce. I can only say one thing more about Etouffée, make some… tonight.

½ green bell pepper, chopped fine

½ red bell pepper, chopped fine

½ white onion, chopped fine

2 stalks celery, chopped, fine

½ cup canola oil

½ cup all purpose flour

3 cups, in all chicken, or seafood stock,

½ cup green onions, chopped very fine

1 ½ pounds peeled shrimp

½ stick unsalted butter

4 cups cooked rice

Etouffée Spice mix: mix together and set aside

2 tsp. salt

1 tsp. cayenne pepper or more!

1 tsp. dried basil

1 tsp. black pepper

1 tsp. white pepper

1/2 tsp. dried thyme

In a large heavy iron skillet, heat the oil over medium high heat until hot. Carefully whisk in the flour a little at a time until smooth, with a long handled whisk. Keep whisking constantly, until roux is dark red-brown, about 8-10 minutes. Do not let burn. Remove from heat. Immediately stir in bell pepper, onion, and celery. Continue to stir until skillet cools down, about 4-5 minutes. Then allow to fully cool.

In a medium sauce pan, over medium heat, bring the stock to a boil. Add the roux mixture and whisk constantly until roux is totally dissolved and nice and thick. Remove from heat, set aside.

In a large saucepan, over medium heat, sauté the green onions, Etouffée spice and shrimp in the butter for about 2 minute. Add roux mixture. Stir gently until well blended. Serve 3/4 cups Etouffée over 1/2 cup rice.

Note, if sauce separates a little, add 1 or 2 tablespoons water or stock and shake pan until it binds.

Serves 8

Pomodoro Cruda made with Orange Vine-ripened Tomatoes on Angel Hair Pasta

Pomodoro Cruda made with Orange Vine-ripened Tomatoes on Angel Hair Pasta

My friend Kathryn Elswick gave me a bunch of her fresh cherry and grape tomatoes along with a little fresh basil. I had to make this easy dish. Serve it with fresh bread and a good red zinfandel and hold on to your tastebuds! This is about as good as summer eating gets.

3 C Vine-ripened, orange tomatoes (any vine ripened tomato will also work well)

1/2 C Extra virgin olive oil

2 CLOVES Garlic, pressed

1 TSP Crushed red pepper

20 Fresh basil leaves with buds, torn, not chopped

2 TSP Fresh ground Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

Salt and fresh ground pepper, to taste

1 LB Angel hair pasta

1. Cut tomatoes in half (If using red tomatoes, scrape out seeds). Remove core and chop into about 1/2" chunks.

2. Toss all ingredients except the pasta. Cover, refrigerate and let stand for 30 minutes for flavors to blend.

3. Cook the pasta, drain, add a little olive oil and toss.

4. While pasta is still warm, divide between 4-6 plates (depending on appetite) and top with the cold pomodoro sauce. Offer more Parmigiano Reggiano at table.

Back Online

First of all I’d like to point out why once again I love Apple and their many products. A few weeks back I was baking and spilled a glass of very good Zinfandel on my Macbook pro. This was sad on a few levels. A week ago I was answering my E-mail and the screen started shaking and there was a loud clicking sound coming from my laptop. I pressed on the area where the sound came from (this is the twenty first century version of whacking it with a hammer!) The sound quit, so I did a back-up and called the Apple store to set up a appointment. The next day I dropped by the store and a very nice young man told me that the laptop had obvious evidence of liquid damage. He said that they’d try to keep the repair cost down and I told him that a few hundred dollars would break us right now. So he said that he would send it back to the factory for a level 4 repair. It would be free of charge unless it was totaled, in which case they would refuse to fix it… ever! It took a week but they replaced the mother board several cables the inner face and keyboard and I think the hard drive. It was about $800 worth of parts. They called today and I’m writing you on my laptop right now. The best part… no charge. They said that things happen and I’ve been a good customer. Like I said, I love Apple and their many products.

So I’m back online and the bread is going well. There has been a development on the Connex box, the twine I was using to hold the foam in place is not UV resistant, so it’s falling off the box and I’m replacing it with galvanized wire.

See you soon!

Joe

Broke Mac

My computer is broken and being fixed so I'll see ypou in a few days...

Sorry

Mad Coyote Joe

Meanwhile back at the Bread 6-26-11

On Thursday night I made the leaven and went to work Friday about 10am. The dough mixed well and easy… no lumps very soft. I had been noticing the strength of the dough in previous batches and thought that I might try working the dough a little less to see if it would give me a lighter sponge. Ooops! The bread was almost flat so by doing the requisite turns and folds one builds tension and rise. Next my crust has been a little too thick. I thought this might be from a lack in the oven spring or rise… Ooops! I increased the time of steam injected baking from 25 minutes to 30, the result was the thickest crust to date… so thick that it could break teeth. And last I have been baking at a lower temperature thinking that I would give the loaf more time to rise before forming the crust… Ooops! Just the opposite the loaf is more moist and heavier.

So where do I go from here? Next baking will be back up around 550°f and I will be working the dough more fully and I will bake in the steam for 20 minutes.

Stay Tuned!

Beer-Battered Shrimp with Asian Dipping Sauce

Today I feel like Deep Fried Shrimp and as it’s getting hot I want a light batter. So I'm using a fruited beer. I know this may sound a little odd but it's delicious!

The use of a fruited beer like Apricot or Cherry Stout will add a nice background fruit taste that really adds a nice, fresh, twist to the shrimp. The dipping sauce ties it all together!

Fruit Beer-battered Shrimp

Beer Batter:

1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour

2 egg yolks

1 tablespoon cooking oil

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Pinch cayenne

3/4 cup any fruited beer

Asian Dipping sauce on the side

Mix all batter ingredients except the beer together. Gradually whisk in the beer. Refrigerate for approximately 3 hours before using. Dip the shrimp in the batter. Deep-fry in 375° oil until golden brown. Place on a paper towel to drain, and then immediately salt. Serve with Asian dipping sauce on the side.

Asian Dipping Sauce:

1/3 cup rice vinegar

3 Tbl. sugar

1 ½ Tbl. sambal or other Asian chile sauce

Asian Dipping Sauce: Bring the vinegar and sugar to a boil for 2 minutes, remove from heat and stir in the Sambal. Set aside to cool.

Bandera Mexicana the authentic way to drink Tequila!

The other day I was sitting on the patio of The Cave Creek Coffee Company, as I do most mornings, drinking my coffee. I was chatting with a few old friends, and as the weather was starting to turn hot, we were discussing tequila. I reminded them that in Mexico Margaritas are for touristas. Mexicans drink either Tequila con Sangrita or Bandera Mexicana (The Mexican Flag). Tequila is served in a block of ice wrapped in a towel. The Tequila is thick and sweet and really gives off a true Agave flavor. This authentic drink is great for those hot lazy days when you want to eat light and sit around the pool taking it easy. Once you’ve tried this you’ll say goodbye to Margaritas forever!

Bandera Mexicana

Mexican Flag

Forget the Margaritas. This is the way to drink tequila.

1 shot tequila reposado

1 shot sangrita, recipe below

1 shot key lime juice (or one part lime juice and one part Squirt Grapefruit Soda)

Serve in three separate little, baby brandy snifters. Sip a little, talk a little, smile a little. Ahhh . . . Mexico.

Serves 1

Sangrita Mexicana

Because this drink is so popular in Mexico, there are many different recipes. I put this one together by talking to several different bartenders in Guadalajara over a four-day visit. Sure, I got a headache, but that's just me, working hard for you!

Sangrita:

1 1/2 cups tomato juice

1/2 cup clamato juice (very popular in Mexico)

3/4 cup orange juice

Juice of 4 key limes

2 teaspoons grenadine

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

Dash Worcestershire sauce

Dash A-1 steak sauce (yes, A-1; they love the stuff)

Dash Tabasco

Premium quality tequila reposado

16 key lime wedges

Stir together all sangrita ingredients. You will need two 3-inch tall brandy snifters per serving. Fill one half full of sangrita and the other half full of tequila (about 1 shot in each) and top each with a wedge of lime. Sip a little tequila, sip a little sangrita, and now and then, take a little bite of the lime wedge. Oh, and one more thing, slow down a little: Life is good.

Serves 6 to 8

Meanwhile Back at the Bread 6/19/11

Last week my old friend, Bill Payne made a new door for the bread oven. It is made out of plate steel with a hole centered at about 3 inches up from the bottom. The hole is round and about 3 ½ inches across. It is just large enough for the nozzle of a roofing torch to fit through and has two vents on the bottom at the outer sides. These work, both as exhaust vents and they create legs of a sort, that will help the door to stand by itself. I made the door to allow me to do a second baking as the oven was lousing heat after the first bake.

From that time I have figured out a few things. I believe that I could simply seal the door and the one-ton plus mass would have a thermal shift that would raise the oven temp back up the 50°f or so lost in the first bake. However the new door can reheat the surface of the hearth back up to baking temp in about 5 minutes. So all is well on that front.

Next I have several customers that are questioning the hardness of the crust. This is tough… er… so to speak! In my next baking I’m going to use less wood and start baking at a lower temperature; around 470°f. I have been doing my first bake as soon as the oven temp would drop enough, to not burn the cornmeal that I toss on the hearth floor, which is around 500°f -525°f. What I think is going on is, I’m baking at too high of a temp and the crust is forming fast and very hard. The center of the loaf is then restricted in the initial rise.

These risen cuts are called "ears"

I’m getting beautiful ears on the loaves and a distinct sponge. But the sponge is very tight and I’m not finding the shine on the inside on the sponge bubbles and the loaf has some additional weight and density. At a lower temp I think the bread will rise and then develop, a lighter dough with a slightly thinner crust. Everyone is pleased with the flavor except one person asked for a stronger “sour” flavor.

I think I’m very close to “World Class” bread and I’ willing to listen and try figure out which is best. With each new bake I learn more about this beautiful oven and the art of turning flour, salt and water into bread that makes people very happy. In closing today I’d like to thank those that are buying bread from us the money is enough to keep this project going.

Willie, Time to go.

From my ogoing on-line novel "Willie".

For me it’s just another long, hot, summer day, working with my big buddy Willie. We’re fabricating iron on a pneumatic steel bender, in the brutal Arizona sun, in the gritty industrial district of old south Phoenix and will do so for the rest of the day… or so we think.

Willie Benson is 34 years old. An Anglo, that stands six foot-two inches tall, 240 pounds, without a drop of fat. He’s a big, friendly looking man, with penetrating steel grey eyes and a Paul Newmanesq grin that never leaves his face. Willie’s the kind of man that other men find likeable and a little scary, both at the same time. With a sandy blond, full head of curly hair, a classic bad boy, women find him irresistible. He’s also a self described “Rounder” or career criminal.

I’m fifteen years old and big for my age. He works with me in the steel yard my family owns. This is my third summer working with Willie, who needs a straight job to meet his parole requirements. Every Friday, he has to stop by and show his caseworker at the Department of Corrections his pay stub, and it better say 40 hours. The funny thing is, he never cashes the checks. He considers it a matter of honor that he earn his living through his chosen vocation… crime. He is quite proud of his vocation and discusses with me often. This morning he’s telling me how to steal TVs.

“I tell you kid, televisions are a great way to pick up a little quick cash. I mean who doesn’t want a better TV. On a good day I can unload eight or ten of em.”

I’m a little confused. “Just how do you get a hold of eight or ten TVs?”

At heart Willie is a big kid. He smiles with a twinkle in his eye, like a he’s stealing candy.

“Shit…grabbing TVs is easy. You wander into the Monkey Wards or any big store. All you need is a receipt. If you can’t find one in the trash or on the ground, just buy something that cost a few bucks. Walk on back to the TVs and fold the receipt so the store name is in plain sight. Tuck the receipt in your mouth, pick up a set and head for the door. You can’t talk and nobody is going to ask a guy with a receipt in his mouth if he paid for the TV. Shit… the manager will usually get the door for you. And if he gets wise and starts asking questions, you can always throw the TV on him. The problem with them getting the door is they may want to help you to your car. You really want to avoid that. It gets a little sticky when you’re trying to explain the six or seven TVs in the back of your station wagon.”

To me Willie is a great big guy with a lot of funny stories, who also happens to be a criminal. He’s not a threat. Like a big uncle, I always feel safe around him. But today, I will see first hand, just how afraid others are of my big friend.

Years later when talking with my father about Willie, he tells me he has seen his Criminal record, which states: When apprehending use extreme caution, he is to be considered, usually armed but always dangerous.

The bender we are working at is situated between two driveways that sit about twenty five feet off of the oily dirt road that runs in front of the steel yard. Trucks come and go all day, in and out loaded with steel reinforcing bars. The neighborhood is a combination of dirty, run down motels, shacks, old two room adobe houses and Industrial plants. It’s also the home of the poorest of the poor, numerous gangs, street people, junkies and drunks. So, it doesn’t seem odd when the two drunks start arguing just outside the gate on the other side of the bender.

They look like street people, unkempt, dirty long hair, several days of stubbly beard. Both in dirty work pants, one wears a sleeveless Levi jacket and the other an old, faded, sweat stained, tee shirt that say’s, “American Graffiti.”

The guy wearing the sleeveless jacket starts in, in a very loud, drunken voice.

“Jimmie, You didn’t even like that chick. I don’t need you shit!”

They’re so loud that most of the men working in the yard sort of stop what their doing to see the show.

The shaggy man in the “American Graffiti” tee shirt looks over and starts talking to Willie and me with an intoxicated slur, while his friend stumbles on seemingly unaware.

Approaching us from the front, he blirts out, “Like her… Can you believe him? She was my cousin! I’ve known her all my life!”

We’re starting to laugh at the developing scene when the other man notices that his friend has wandered through the first gate into the yard. He is now standing at the second gate, just behind us, so he wanders on over.

Extending a friendly hand, he appears to be the classic happy drunk.

He mumbles to Willie, “Hey man, that’s Jimmie, I’m Sam, how you doin?”

Willie smiles and turns to shake his hand. We are both snickering.

As Willie turns I noticed the man standing across from us reaching behind his back, as if to tuck his shirt in.

Suddenly, time slows to a crawl and all sound seems to disappear. I see the next few seconds like an instant replay in some sort of twisted, slow motion movie. I watch the look on the man’s face change from a lazy smile, to deadly serious. In a seemingly choreographed move, he pulls out a big stainless steel revolver. Grasping it with both hands. He is now pointing it directly at Willie’s head.

This movement causes Willie to turn back to the man. The barrel of the pistol looks huge and hollow and is about eight inches from center of Willie’s forehead. Meanwhile, the second man produced his own gun. Grabbing Willie by the shoulder, I watch as the barrel is firmly pressed just under my friend’s right ear at a slightly upward angle, causing him to carefully tilt his head to the side. Willie’s hands instinctively, slowly, rise, signaling surrender. The man on the other side of the bender say’s in very low, but deliberate, staccato voice“ don’t-even-breathe you big, dumb, motherfucker… F-B-I.”

It seems so surreal. In the same instant that the men are grabbing Willie, several Police cars and unmarked white sedans descend on the yard with lights flashing. Agents wearing blue blazers with F.B.I. in big yellow letters printed on both the front and back appear out of nowhere, all of them pointing shotguns or pistols directly at Willie. He is cuffed and shoved to the ground in seconds.

One of them say’s, to me, in a clear voice “Son… get over hear now!”

Scared to death, my heart pounding and starting to tear up, I immediately walk towards the officer.

As I do, I heard another agent say, “Willard Benson, you are under arrest for interstate trafficking of narcotics, fraudulent schemes and receiving stolen goods. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”

In a way that makes me feel sick to my stomach, it’s just like some crime drama on television.

Another group of police and FBI agents are taking Willie’s car apart, cutting the seats and spare tire with a razor knife. I don’t know what they are looking for but, they don’t seem to find anything.

They immediately take Willie to a waiting car. A tow truck backs up and hooks on to his old station wagon and in an instant they’re both gone. Just a few cops are left behind, talking with Chuck our foreman.

As they drive away, I catch a glimpse of the side of Willie’s face. He’s seated in the back of an unmarked white sedan. Sitting slightly forward, obviously because of the handcuffs behind his back. Although he’s still smiling, trying show he’s not been beaten, all color has left his face. He looks as if he has aged twenty years in just a few minutes, like a caged dog on his way to the pound. This is the last time I will see my friend for just over eight years.

Tex-Mex Tacos

Today I feel like making tacos, these are quick and easy. They only cost a few bucks and feed a small crowd.

This recipe calls for pre-made taco shells. If you want, you can fry your own corn tortillas with the meat mixture inside. Make sure and drain them on a paper towel, before filling them with the toppings. My friend, Western author Bob “Boze” Bell, fries his tacos, holding the tortilla closed with an old pair of pliers! I think the reason we never get poisoned from this practice has something to do with the amount of tequila we consume while cooking!

1 Tbl vegetable oil

1 small white onion, chopped fine

3 cloves garlic

4 Roma tomatoes, diced

2 Lb. Ground beef

1 Lb. Ground pork

1 large bunch cilantro, rinsed and chopped

Salt and pepper to taste

12 taco shells

Toppings:

Shredded lettuce, finely chopped white onion, avocado slices, salsa, tomato, and cheddar cheese,

Sauté the onion, garlic, and tomatoes in a skillet until onions are soft. Then add the beef and pork and continue cooking until the meat is done. Remove from heat. Add the cilantro and season to taste. Assemble the tacos meat first then toppings in the order they are listed. And add Beer… to drink… lots of beer!

Makes 12 tacos

Willie Road Trip

This is from my ongoing on-line novel Willie I was told this story when I was about 17 by Chuck the old foreman that ran our crew when I was an iroworker. Those were hard years, but I look back on them fondly.

Road trip

The hard plastic phone rings on the cluttered, oak desk. A middle-aged cop picks it up.

He clears his throat and then answers with a gruff tone, “Spokane Police Department, Can I help you.”

“Yeah, this is Detective Carl Whitlow, I’m with Rock Springs P-D. We’re located in Southern Wyoming. We got a circular from you on an armed robbery and I’ve got two youth offenders in our lock-up that match your description.”

“Okay, let me transfer you up to the Lieutenant.”

A minute later a different man comes on the line, sounding a little annoyed, he say’s, “Robbery, Did you get any names out of those little bastards.”

Whitlow replies, “I got a Joseph white and a Willard Benson. They can’t be more than 12 years old”

“That’s them… hold on to em, we’ll send a car out. It’ll be a couple of days.

Whitlow, hangs up the phone. Shaking his head he looks across his desk at the two boys, sitting quietly, handcuffed to the heavy bench, with a look of deep concern on their faces. They are both wearing dirty, white tee shirts, worn out jeans and work boots. A couple of scrawny little shits that look like they should be playing baseball or doing yard work, or… anything… anything else. It’s hard to think they’ve robbed a grocery store, and even harder to picture these two using a gun. Maybe it’s this damn depression. Times are hard. The whole country has gone bust.

Chuck, our old foreman, stops with his story for a minute and leans back to light a cigarette. We are a small group of ironworkers, sitting in a dusty, plywood job shack on a construction site, in south Phoenix. The air is thick with the smell of grease and stale cigarettes. It’s over 100 degrees in the shack. Too hot to eat, everyone is drinking as much Gatorade as they can get down in the 15-munite break. Dripping with sweat, at least we are out of the brutal Arizona sun. Chuck is dark and wrinkled from years of the heat’s damage. His hands are badly crippled, from being smashed so many times by the iron, but he can still get over two tons an hour, per man. In short he’s one tough old rodbuster.

He takes a deep drag and slowly blows out the smoke. As it billows across the room, he goes on, “That was back in 1935 or 36. In those days they would send a couple of older beat cops in a car across country to pick up lower level crooks they wanted.”

I break in and ask Chuck, “Did you know Willie back then?”

“He was older. We used to say there were 10 men for every job and there were no jobs. So everyone was always broke. But if Willie was around… well, things were different. I remember one time Willie was at my cousins house. We wanted to drive out to the lake and go swimming with our girlfriends. So we were all pooling our money. It just wasn’t enough to buy gas to get to the lake and back.

Willie said, “Everybody go get your swim suits, I’ll meet you back here in about an hour.”

An hour later Willie shows up. He’s got a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, a ham, some bread and a bunch of other shit for a picnic. Then he takes us to the gas station to fill up my cousin’s gas tank. I think it cost a few bucks. Willie had a twenty and a five. That was a lot of money back then. We all went to the lake and had a great time.

The next day my old man’s reading the newspaper. There is a story about a local store being robbed. It seems the thieves got away with a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, a ham, some bread and twenty-five dollars in cash.” Chuck staring at the floor like he could still see the scene shakes his head as he lets out a little snicker. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “Willie… he simply refused to go with out. He was going to be okay, or he was going to be dead.”

“So what happened with the cops in Wyoming?” I ask.

Chuck takes us back into the story; “The way they got back to Spokane was, after the cops picked Joe and Willie up, they would drive all day. You need to remember there were no freeways in those days, so it was backcountry roads all the way. At night the cops would put the boys in some little small town jail and then go to a diner and sleep in a motel. In one of the jails, Willie had a few bucks hidden in his sock, that the cops hadn’t found when they searched him. He bought a knife.

The next day Willie and Joe are sitting in the back seat, and the cops are up front. They’re trying to make good time, maybe doing 60, which is quite fast in one of those old cars.

A beautiful spring day, sailing down the road in central Idaho. A ribbon of highway, gently rolling through a carpet of knee high, bright green, potato plants as far as the eye can see. The cops are enjoying the trip. They’re relaxed, foolishly dropping their guard. To them Willie and Joe are no threat… just two scared little kids. Remember no cage between the driver and the back seat. Out of the blue, Willie leans forward. He grabs the driver by the hair and quickly reaches around his neck, pressing the homemade blade to the tough, old cops throat.

Willie says, in his most menacing 12-year old voice, Okay motherfucker, pull the car over or you’re dead.

The two old cops are torn between the seriousness of the knife and the irony of this 80-pound child acting like Al Capone. The driver lets out a little snicker. The other Cop’s belly starts shaking, and then trying to hold back, he breaks into a low whine, which causes the driver to uncontrollably roar with laughter.

Without a second’s hesitation, Willie slices the driver’s throat wide open. A shower of blood sprays all over the driver’s window, the dashboard, and the inside of the windshield. In the same instant the driver instinctively lets go of the wheel and grabs at his throat. The car lurches on to the dirt shoulder and then the front wheels suddenly catch the edge of the asphalt. In seeming slow motion, the car lifts into the air. After silently rolling over a few times, it explodes when the rear end hits the blacktop. Mangled metal and glass are flying everywhere as the smashed up squad car goes flipping down the highway. The car finally skids to a stop upside down, the roof totally crushed in. Everyone inside is drenched in the driver’s blood with multiple broken bones. Stuck in the smoking wreck, fading in and out of conceseness, it was hours before some local cops could cut them out. ”

Chuck stops and thinks for a second. He goes on ”The driver died. They charged them both with the murder. Because they were minors they were released on their 21^st birthday. ”

Chuck with an odd little smile says, “After that… those boys weren’t real popular with the cops around Spokane.

Meanwhile back at the Bread 6-13-11

Okay, I made 22, 600g loaves of country wheat. I heated the oven with Mesquite, burning about 15 logs for 4 hours. When my dough had done it’s final rise for 4 hours I spread the last of the coals across the oven floor. I had been soaking my door in water most of the day and had all my baking tools laid out and ready. After about 20 minutes I had cleaned out the hearth chamber and mopped the hearth. The oven was holding about 575°f and I had laid an old frying pan filled with water inside just to the left of the interior door arch (for steam). I needed to drop the hearth temperature to about 500°f or I would burn the bottoms of the loaves and the crust would form prior to the oven spring and rise. In short I needed to get the center of the loaves cooked before the crust or the loaves would be too moist in the center, smaller and denser. I gave the oven a second mopping and the temp dropped. I tossed in my cornmeal and it stayed a medium brown color so I cut my loaves and loaded the oven, sprayed the oven with a water bottle and draped two wet kitchen towels over the door and sealed the oven. I did 25 minutes soft and 25 minutes hard (without steam) baking. The bread looked good but the ears had not developed fully and the loaves were smaller. I cut into one and I found three things. First the flavor of sourdough was markedly increased from the last batch, next the dough was heavy and moist, last the crust was thicker. Overall this was very nice bread, far better than one can buy in our little town but… I would give it a 95. My last batch was a 100.

Here’s what I learned. My mistake was in trying to force a ton of mass heated up to 575°f to drop in temperature by 75°f in a few minutes. By mopping I had dropped the surface temperature by the 75°f but the masses interior temperature was not changed. As soon as I injected the steam, the oven jumped right back up to 575°f and immediately formed a hard crust that held both moisture and shape. This stopped the bread from rising properly. I have no idea why the bread had a stronger sour flavor except the flavor might reside in the moisture. I bake in two days, wish me luck!

Asian Salad with Thai Chile Dressing and Grill Roasted Beef

Okay you’re grilling in the backyard and have some leftover steak. Save it for the next day and make my “Asian Salad with Thai Chile Dressing and Grill Roasted Beef”

This a great salad topped with grilled beef steak and Thai Chile Dressing. It’s also fantastic with crab, lobster or cold roasted foul.

Thai Chile Dressing:

1 Thai chile, chopped (remove seeds if you don't like HOT!)

1 CLOVE large clove garlic, minced

2 TBL Soy sauce

2 TBL Fresh lime juice

1 TBL Sugar

2 TSP Sesame oil

1. Whisk ingredients together.

Salad:

1/2 C Red onion, julienne

1/4 C Red bell pepper, julienne

1/4 C Fresh cilantro, chopped

4 C Napa cabbage, sliced thin

2 TBL Dry roasted peanuts, coarsely chopped

Lime wedges, for garnish

About 1 lb. of steak for 4 people

1. Whisk dressing together. Toss red onion, bell pepper, and cilantro, add dressing and toss again. Divide Napa cabbage on four chilled salad plates, dress. Sprinkle peanuts over salad top with slices of steak and place lime wedge on side.

2. Serves 4.