Sense of Adventure

As threatened last time, I made an experimental batch of green chile chicken soup for dinner tonight.

Turned out I had 3 cups of chicken broth left over. Using the proportions from the pumpkin soup, I put in a cup of heavy cream and brought it to a boil. To add a bit of zing I chopped up a celery stalk or two, very fine, and maybe a quarter onion, and crushed a few cloves of garlic. I turned the liquid down to medium heat, added the veggies, and about a third of a container of frozen green chile (defrosted). I then tore up a bunch of the boiled chicken, tossed that in, along with a cup or so of grated Colby Jack. I then simmered and stirred for an indeterminate amount of time, no less than half an hour, I suspect.

I told you this was gonna be pretty ad hoc.

It was a bit thin yet when I stopped cooking it. But it tasted right. Which was enough for me.

And when I really dug in it tasted, frankly, great. Success!

I suspect it’ll taste even better when I reheat the leftovers in a day or two. Things made with chile, in my experience, taste better for a bit of aging.

While I went and spoiled the effect by eating a buttered flour tortilla - better than bread, anyway - this recipe, like the pumpkin soup, is very low-GL. Probably lower, since unlike the pumpkin soup I used no sweetener in it at all.

There was a restaurant here in Albuquerque called the Steaksmith - long closed now - which along with good steaks (go figure) did killer green chile chicken soup. I’ve lusted for it ever since the restaurant died. Over the years I’ve tried other people’s versions. Some were good, none measured up. This - this at least approached the Steaksmith recipe. Damn good.

ASFS is having another cookoff this year for its December meeting. Last year, when the theme ingredient (à la Iron Chef) was pumpkin, my red chile pumpkin soup won a prize. This year’s special ingredient is chile. While it’s been suggested I enter the RCPS again, I may just trot this out on them.

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“So, there are shoes in the floor,” the pretty, very skinny, very young Latina cashier was explaining as I walked up with my groceries to checkout. I hadn’t seen her before.

“You mean they’re under the floor?” asked the sacker, a Latino kid who looked a couple years older. I got the impression, why I’m unsure now, that they were talking about a mall here in town.

“No. I mean there are shoes in the floor.”

“You mean like they’re built in, like some kind of foundation?” asked the pale-eyed Anglo security guard, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties.

This was maybe forty-five minutes before closing. Outside it was overcast and threatening to snow. We were the only people in the store as far as I knew.

I was hooked.

“No,” she said as she checked my stuff, “I mean, there are shoes in the floor.”

“You mean, like, under glass?” the sacker asked as the cashier gave me my change. I wasn’t by-God going anywhere until at least some of this mystery was resolved.

“No,” she said, “they’re in the floor.”

And turning away she walked along the aisle between the door and the checkout stands with exaggerated, spraddle-legged steps. “They’re set in the floor. Like this.”

“Oh,” the sacker said. He and the guard and I exchanged Looks.

I thanked them and went out. I figured it could only be anticlimactic from there.

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By which I mean, “does it all himself.”

There’s an irony here. Back years ago I had a terrible, failing roof. It shed shingles. Sometimes right under my feet.

On that bad roof I had a bad evaporative cooling unit (“swamp coolers,” we call ’em hereabouts.) Bad as in, I always had to fight with it for hours every Spring to get it to run. Bad as in each year I had to improvise repairs, eventually finding it necessary to fabricate new mounts for the main fan axle out of PVC plumbing parts.

And I was fine working on it, up on the roof. Crappy as it was.

Then, three years ago I got a deal offered to me on a new metal roof, at a time when I actually had the money-cushion to pay for it. I wanted a metal roof for a long time. What I actually wanted was a blue metal roof, intending to repaint the trim to match. What came available was red metal, which oddly enough matched the existing trim color. I decided my overriding priority was to get a new roof, and that red being what I could get, red it would be.  And while I was at it I junked my awful old swamp cooler and put up a nifty new high-tech one.

And in truth I love my fine new red roof. It looks snappy. It keeps things from falling on my head. It’s durable. It’s wonderful.

Except I’m afraid of the damned thing.

Simply put, the son of a bitch is slick. I’ve tried wearing different shoes. I’ve tried going barefoot. Nothing gives me any sense of purchase when I try to go up on my wonderful red roof to service my splendid new air conditioner.

It terrifies me.

By contrast my friend Larry is the Home Repair God. While he respects the slippery red metal roof, he capers over it blithely as a movie chimney-sweep. And, bless him, he is actually willing to come and tend to the swamp cooler while I stand on the ground, occasionally fetch and carry, and mostly offer helpful commentary.

I’m sure it helps keep up his morale.

So yesterday he actually called to ask if I wanted his help. I said, hell, yes. And so over he trotted this afternoon. And up on the Roof o’ Terror he went.

He really is a pal.

It’s not all one way, though. If he survives, I buy him dinner.

Nor will I. You didn’t ask, but here’s why.

I detest politics. On the personal level I’ve never seen them have any but destructive influence on a person’s life, including my own. They eat up our precious life time and productive energy. They fill us with anger, hatred, fear, and the feeling of helplessness (which I believe is the real root of all evil.) On the national level they constitute monstrous and continuous crime.

Still, I’m weak enough that I still occasionally write about them. So here’s a rare political post in this blog, which I usually strive to keep free of such contamination.

Why don’t I vote - and why won’t I, ever?

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Okay, “mug” is probably not the right verb.  Actual mugging would be notably unwise, given Emma Dog’s size and disposition. Call it raconteur’s license (a concept I just made up, having no shame.)

(Crap!  Was that just a sonic boom?  A big blustery puffing boom just came from out back somewhere. Emma barked but doesn’t seem frightened enough to want in.  I went back to check and heard a jet, making me wonder if some flyboy’s getting a little fly with the law. Also there seems to be a near-subliminal rumble continuing … dwindling now.)

Okay, back to our tale. A few minutes ago I sat at the dining room table eating what I guess is brunch, and drinking an enormous mug of coffee to prepare me for the horrors of the writing life. (Okay, they’re not all that horrid. Who’s telling this?) It’s a warm NM autumn day and I had the back door open partway for ventilation. Something, possibly the clacking of greedy little beaks on plastic, drew my attention to the brick back porch.

Where I saw at least three mourning doves around and even in Emma’s food bowl, scarfing her chow. Outraged, I yelled at them, “Hey, you dang symbols of peace! Get out of there!” (I really did. I talk that way. If you’ve met me, you know. Because I’m in a creative field, I get to be called eccentric. As opposed to, you know, nuts.)

They ignored me. Apparently icons tend to feel entitled in the animal kingdom too.  But then from the left came an avenging black streak as Emma raced to defend her food.

You can bet the doves took off pretty briskly then.

All apparently escaped unscathed. Emma isn’t really bloodthirsty so much as she is protective. Very, very protective.

On other fronts … hope you had a fine Halloween and Day of the Dead. Mine went fine, especially Halloween, which I spent watching old horror movies at John and Gail Miller’s. Been a bit busy to log on the last few days, what with the new Annja, Wild Cards rewrites, and forging happily ahead on The Dinosaur Lords.

Expect great news on the writing front soon.  I do!