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.
On other fronts, I’m concerned about Emma. I went out around sunset to go to Smith’s for sundry supplies, including frozen hot green chile (no, it’s not an oxymoron) for the soup. I wasn’t gone more than a half an hour if that.
Usually when I leave the house for any length of time Emma gets very excited on my return, and demands that I greet her, make much of her, and reaffirm her status as member in good standing of the Milán Pack. This time she wouldn’t get off the couch. Instead she just sat there looking, literally, hangdog.
I worried then, and somewhat now, that she might be sick or in pain. But really, she acted more as if she were depressed. Or even more, ashamed – as if she’d accidentally pooped on the floor or injured one of the cats or something.
But the cats were both sleeping placidly in the bedroom. TJ on the foot of the bed, Squeak in the clean laundry I’ve yet to sort and put away (guess which one’s the black one.) And if there was any unsanctified evacuation I still haven’t found any evidence. Which renders that unlikely.
I gave Emma some Dog Brownie treat that my friend Gail Gerstner-Miller made, with part of a coated aspirin inside, in case she was in pain for some reason. The treat crumbled as she bit into it. The aspirin part fell out. As she always does when I give her a pill (usually heartworm med) she carefully licked it up too, before rooting around for the last fragment of goody. She’s a good dog.
She retired shortly thereafter to her pen, which she often uses as her sanctuary when she’s afraid or doesn’t feel good. She didn’t petition as usual to go outside and get her dinner; I had to invite her outside. At which point she got up readily enough and went out, and she ate with her usual appetite.
But when I brought her in early, figuring she wouldn’t want to stay out too late tonight since she was feeling punk, she went right back and climbed up on her fleece pad on the couch. Which is her usual hangout. When I went to pet her, she got all hangdog again. She even ducked her head from my touch.
I wonder if her head is feeling sensitive? I know better than to go in straight over her eyes. But actually, she acted as if she were afraid of me somehow.
I don’t do a lot that would make her afraid of me, I think. I seldom so much as raise my voice to her. Don’t need to: she’s awfully good. She’s smart, and eager to please. And why she’d act afraid of me after I’d merely gone away for half an hour mystifies me completely.
I also wondered if something traumatic had happened, somehow, during my brief excursion. But that would almost certainly have freaked out the cats, especially the noble and excellent but timid TJ.
So we’ll see. I hope she’s feeling better in the morning.
I’ll keep you posted.
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