Trailer Park Karma

More Multicultural Eats, Dave-Style: Cold Corn Salad

[Editor's note: While we're rollin with the back-to-school-punches, please allow me to toss up here the ditties that come my way from beyond The Park.]

(from the emails of David G. Morris, with permission)

Thought I'd pitch you a simple little recipe I picked up from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant (more like a small cafe, I reckon) that just opened up a few months ago.  It's called Kelly's and he had another small  place in Mission Bend that went kaput -- no customers, so he folded up his tent, untethered his camel and moved down the road about six or seven miles. Now he's doing better, is on Hwy 6 about two miles south of Spec's (my cheapo liquor and wine store), maybe a 15-minute trip, or less, from here.

Anyhoo, the owner/cook/clean-up guy/waiter and one-who-stokes-the-cafe-fires is Lebanese and I've dined in his establishment a couple of times. I must be partial to the Lebanese folks, a likeable bunch, and you might recall that the Italian Restaurant we like is owned by two Lebanese guys, Wally and Mike. Been going there for 25 years. Any way, as it turns out, Kelly's owner is called Kelly -- aha, aheh, aha, ha, ha! Gettin' carried away here, so here 'tis:

Cold Corn Salad

1-10oz. pkg frozen corn, thawed
1/4 cup chopped yellow bell pepper
1/4 cup chopped orange bell pepper 
1/4 cup chopped red pepper
1/4 cup chopped cucumber
1/4 cup chopped red onion
1 chopped small tomato
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Black pepper to taste
 
Mix all together, chill before serving, then you may eat. (Gonna try it out one of these days, too!)
 
PS:  He does have some help at the joint as his wife, also a growed-up daughter, help out as needed.
 
Zorro Grise

Never Too Late: Happy Fourth! Break An Egg!

(from the emails of David G. Morris, with permission)

Here it comes! The "Fourth" will appear tomorrow at day's start.  Gonna take JDIT's advice and fly me a flag again from the front porch and if it gets stolen again, just fly another one. (What a sorry bunch of bananas around here.) Had given up displaying a flag on appropriate days because I have, in the past, had two flags stolen from my home in broad daylight, so none have gone up from my house in the past three to four years. We gonna see what happens this time. Will duct tape the flag to it's holder this time -- at least it will be harder to steal, huh?
 
Speaking of the "Fourth," it reminds me of the "Fourth" at Ellington Air Base just outside Houston where I was stationed from November 1953 thru November 1954. Spent 362 days at that base and drew the well known "KP" duty about every 10 days (something unheard of -- only had it twice in 10 weeks in basic training at Lackland AFB in San Antone!) That would be about 35 times a year. Not only did the lowly airmen draw it but even Staff Sgts had the duty -- talk about pissed!! 

That July in 1954, on the "Fourth," I came up with KP again. Jeeeez, and me being the Airman of the Month, so often!  In past days I'd tried to have enough cash on hand to buy my way out of the "duty." An amount of $10.00 would be enough to have someone take your place at the old "pots & pans" job, or other lovely jobs such as scouring garbage cans. Even $5.00 would buy a half day -- guys needed money, ya see, and I had a little extra as I was drawing separate rations, lived with my parents, and paid no rent. Also, I worked the "graveyard" shift and as a result could, at times, rent my car out to guys needing transportation on many nights. What a racket I had! 

That time (the "Fourth" of 1954) I was a little short, and it being a holiday, no one was willing to even work a half day. So guess who pulled KP on the 4th. Howsomever, I learned on that day, from an old seargent, how to break eggs, two at a time, one in each hand over two small bowls, at breakfast time in the mess hall. A lot of eggs were broken at breakfast back then as airmen came by in the line at a good clip, one after the other, and no one really wanted to eat SOS (chipped beef on toast.)  It's an art!  Can still do it, but no need now. (I do fry a mean egg!)
  
Will let'cha know how the flag flyin' goes, JDIT!  (These dang "ratzafratzs" 'round here!)
 
Dave the M  (Fox) 

Never Too Late: And Now, It's Dave with The Weather

[Editor's note: When I was a kid, we lived in a townhouse with a carport. No garage (aka a Gulf Coast basement), just a carport over half the driveway. One of my fondest memories is of my dad, sporting a glorious tan that belied his Swedish heritage, smoking plastic-tipped cigars and drinkin Pearl, sitting in an aluminum folding chair, in his bathing suit, under the carport and watching the weather come in from the north.

Weather-watching is a highly favored sport in these parts. 
Now, the old man observes the weather from his livingroom via cable TV.

This just in...]

(from the emails of David G. Morris, with permission):

They're at it again, it seems. That, of course, would be the local television weather folks around the Houston area and wherever their signal reaches. 

There is this reported tropical storm now named Alex and not yet in the Gulf of Mexico. (Got a grandson named Alex.) The weather folks are beginning to worry that if this storm turns out to be a hurricane (and if it does we're told it will be just minimal, barely over 70mph) it won't even reach the Texas coast -- maybe, if we're lucky, at least it will reach the southern tip of Texas, down around Brownsville. If that were to happen, then all those weather types would be headed to the Rio Grande Valley area in the old reliable news vans, concocting various stories as they roll on down the road for reporting when they get on the scene.  

We do have some really good actors in the weather bunch in the Houston stations who can brace themselves convincingly against the slightest breeze. 'Course, if it goes in around the northeastern area of Mexico, then what will all the forecasters do for ridiculous talk and weather speculation? Just think, no standing outdoors fighting off the wind and rain while yelling into a mic, "golly bum," "gee whiz," and mentioning in every other breath, "It's just terrible and horrific, folks!"  Also, think of the wasted funds on yellow rain slickers, boots and such if no winds show up.  I'm here to tell you that these local weather guys are all chompin' at the bit, almost praying for some winds at least close to 70 miles per hour. Now, ain't they somethin??
 
Gotta go now and see to it that we have supplies. That, of course, would be foods, water, emergency lighting, first aid kit and -- two or three boxes of Chardonnay.  If I had a dog, it'd be my luck that I'd have to teach the mutt how to dog-paddle. May request some monetary donations from y'all later on to replace my house and car.  I should'a moved to Tombstone, Arizona a while back and walked the streets with the ghosts of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday. 'Course the Tombstone area has some pretty good monsoons, I unnerstan. Also, Paula said it was too hot there and it would be a long trip back to Houston to see our doctors.
 
Aye Chihuahua,
 
Dave the M  (Fox)

Never Too Late: Remember the Jitterbug?

My old man did some time in Germany, back during the Korean War. For a boy who was born in Louise, Texas and raised a little bit there, a little bit in Cajun country, and a little bit in the big city, the Germany experience wound up making a lifelong impact. A lot of what I get from him for this blog is by way of my being accidentally added to his Air Force buddy-list.

Since I'm currently still in the throes of rattler battlin' and drivin around swollen river branches (not really, Daddy! I'm okay!), I thought y'all might like a little weekend morning entertainment from Dave Morris. This video and note are from an email he sent around more than a year ago (and Daddy, I can just see you dancin like this...):

Man, I'm formulated now.  Take a look at this beautiful piece of entertainment of the dance.  If you be a little down, this should up your drooping mind to the Nth.  Mein Gott Im Hemmill! Tremendous!

It's Never Too Late: Pock An Egg

(From the emails of David G. Morris, with permission:)

Awakened (woke up, if you prefer) this AM, prepared (made, if you prefer) a pot of coffee, had a couple of cups, prepared (made, if you prefer) breakfast for Paula and I, and did then consume a goodly amount of same.

 
Strolled out the front door, a little later, to observe Easter Sunday happenings in the neighborhood on and around South Alley Court.  Saw only a few kids and they all had baskets and colored eggs in hand.  What I did not see was any "pocking", at all, going on between the kids. 

As a matter of fact, I have never seen pocking of eggs in this part of Texas, none now, or in the past. 

I have in past years asked others here about this non-phenomenon and no upright, walking-straight, person has been able to identify the word -- "pock" -- or pocking, or the phrase, egg pocking (that a phrase?) 

Are any of you folks familiar with pocking, or egg pocking? 

Also, have not seen pocking in other locations that I have visited in the "US of A" -- there is one exception, howsomever, as follows:

On Easter morning the kids appeared outside their homes carrying colored eggs and baskets and began a game of "pocking," all up and down the streets.  To me, this first occurred in the town of Ville Platte, Louisiana where I attended school during the 1st, 2nd and 3rd grades, and I only assume this is some sort of Cajun practice in Ville Platte, maybe the surrounding areas like Opelousas, too, or that general area (Cajun folks tend to run amuck around there.) 
 
The kids all try to pick out their hardest and toughest-shelled Easter egg and then challenge one another: one holds out his hard-shelled egg in his hand and the other will take his hard-shelled egg and knock it against the other one.  (Egg-striking-egg was the "pock.")  The egg that breaks is the loser and the loser has to turn his egg over to the winner, who of course, is trying to collect as many broken eggs as he can and be the champion.  No money is involved, just whomever collects the most broken eggs is judged the winner, until next year. 

So, if you find someone who wants to do some egg pockin', make sure you have a really tough-shelled egg so's you can clean out all comers.  Happy Pockin'! 

Also, hope all youse guys got your Easter trees up and decorated this year.  Boy, I used to love the smell of an "egg pock" in the early morning!

(Now and then some wise-apple would color a raw egg or two, use them as a pocker, then pock with them just to see how much of a yellow and white sticky liquid would be spilled on the other guy.) Aye Chihuahua!
 

Dave the M (Fox)

White Girl Hot Pico De Gallo

I grew up, like a lot of natives down here, eating Mexican food at home. I don't remember ever going to a Mexican food restaurant until I was in my teens. [Editor's note: a Mexican FOOD restaurant? What else are you going to get in a restaurant?] Even then, it felt odd. Going out to eat was a special deal. Why would you willingly pay for food you ate at home?

Yes, sisters Martha Ann and Annie Pearl might remind me that none of the five menu items that rotated on our family dining table had origins from south of the border. Standard fare at our house was pretty much of Northern European extraction, albeit touched by the twang of The Republic. But they might also recall that our Grandmother Grace was good about treating me -- the only one in the family besides my mom with a taste for out-of-the-ordinary -- to homemade chalupas when I spent the night. My favorite stuff, next to fried oysters. I still need to get me some rhinestone-rimmed cat-eye glasses like Grace wore (it's too late for the jeweled cigarette holder.)

Of course, every corner has a taqueria on it now, never mind the full-scale Mexican restaurants that are plentiful as chips and salsa on the table. (Yellowpages.com has nearly 1600 entries for "mexican restaurant" in this city.) Most of them are named after families, have red and black decor, and boast of the "best margaritas in town".

All caucasian braggadocio aside, THIS is the real National Food of The Republic (not this officially claimed concoction, much as I love it.) Being Swedish-Scotch-Irish, I will never have earned the right to declare my attempts at Mexican cooking as authentic.

That said, I give it a go.

Now, you can just as easily buy jars (or gallon jugs, like we do) of picante sauce and salsa, but pico de gallo requires fresh ingredients. Recently, I was in a hurry and found out that I really like my pico hot from the stove. And in my world, there's nothing that a little pico can't make better.

White Girl Hot Pico de Gallo

one large tomato, diced

half large onion

one celery stalk

handful of cilantro, chopped fine

teaspoon veg oil

tsp comino

tsp chili powder

1/4 tsp kosher salt

Chop onion & celery fine. Combine with 1/4 of the cilantro, plus all of the comino & chili powder. Cook 5 minutes in hot oil in small saucepan. Stir in tomato and rest of cilantro plus 1 tablespoon of water. Cook covered on low and simmer for about 15 minutes, stirring often. Makes 2 servings.

Spoon warm on eggs, beans, meat, wherever you'd use pico de gallo. Or try it on things where you'd never dream of spooning it.

One of The Voices In My Head Eats Buttermilk Fritos

Some people like my singing voice. Others have said they appreciate how I write like I talk. That one's kind of funny because I also bamboozle folks hailing from elsewhere who have a very particular idea in mind when they imagine native speakers from this region. In fact, one of my few local clients has always liked my doing her correspondence because I sound like her "on paper" -- and she's from part of the Republic that's awful thick-tongued. Yet if I had a nickel for every time one of the NYC folks said to me during a phone call, "Wow, you don't SOUND like you're from there!"...

I sound like I do (and that includes how I write) strategically. Every smart woman knows the importance of voice modulation. Now, how you sound isn't necessarily a make-or-break deal. Case in point, The Bloggess -- that's one powerful bloggin' mama but she squeaks like a field mouse. But for most of us with only fair-to-middlin talents in any arena, how that voice sounds coming out of our mouth can make a difference in whether we get hired, fired, or laid.

This here is a shout out to one of the women behind The Voice you're now hearing.

Janice Bourdon, wherever you are, this blogpost's for you.

Janice, wife to Rod, mother to Jimmy and Rhonda, grandmother to a bunch of others, was my godmother.

No, I'm not Catholic, nor am I even Christian anymore (well, sort of...), but christening babies and giving them godparents was actually done by most WASP's a few decades ago almost regardless of the family's religion. I think it was a way of protecting the kid's future in the event of sudden catastrophic death of both parents, like could happen to pioneers in the Westward Ho wagon train era. 

Anyway, I was assigned to Janice and Rod Bourdon. Suited me and everybody else fine because they were my parents' best friends from high school and they had two kids who were eerily close in age to me and my oldest sister, Martha Ann. To top off the close, other-worldly connection to mis padrinos, Janice didn't work and she lived smack in the middle between our elementary school and our house, so that's where we spent our afternoons until Mama got home.

Janice reigned from her kitchen, usually while sitting at the formica and aluminum table, drinking coffee, chatting on the phone, while we kids created havoc. Back then, of course, we were usually outside. Barefoot. Sometimes on the roof. When we'd come running inside for water or the bathroom, there was a really good chance that one of Janice's two kids would get a hollerin' and a swat as they ran through the kitchen. On the other hand, Janice never touched me and my sisters, and if there was any speakin-to to be done in our direction, she did so with an unusual sweetness. It was kind of creepy how she could turn on a dime like that, but we were glad.

When I had my own child some 35 years after those afternoons with Janice, I was aghast to hear myself channeling her, right around the time my little hellion became a toddler.

From Janice, I got "ACK!"
 
Now, "ACK" became famous later on the Internet, though I'm not exactly sure how other folks say or hear it. When I write "ACK", it sounds so close to "AT" that it's easy to think that's what I'm saying, unless you're the poor kid who's just been caught doing something.

"ACK!" is how you stop a kid in their tracks, like from running out in the driveway behind a truck in reverse, or from eating the cat's food. When you don't have time to think of anything more meaningful to say, a good sharp "ACK!" suffices. For double emphasis, say it twice, really fast: "ACK-ACK!!"

I got a lot of other vocal stylings from Janice, and you'll hear them come up now and then (even if you're not my kid), and you'll know Janice by the tone. Janice had one of the sharpest Gulf Coast tongues I've ever heard. I hear her echoed sometimes in places like Wal-Mart (no, I don't go to Wal-Mart) or some of the smaller towns that lie outside the reach of our city's urbanity urbaneness urbane acuity city limits. And she had a great laugh, too, a sort of half-tinkle-half-cackle that was really sincere. Sometimes I think I hear Janice when I laugh.

The bottom line to Janice, though, was that were a lot of bottom lines. She was Where The Buck Stopped. Her and all her sisters, in fact, were friendly and tough. You had the impression they could and would do anything necessary for any occasion. Nothing passive about how these women presented themselves. Sort of terrifying and reassuring all in the same package. Their frequent conversations were a resonant background music to my childhood.

I may have no aunts, uncles, or cousins, but I had godparents, and from Janice, I learned the power of a well-aimed twang. Plus, she taught me that this is what kids from the Depression Era ate after school:

JANICE'S AFTERNOON BUTTERMILK FRITO SNACK

1 Tall glass of buttermilk

1 Bag of Fritos

Black pepper

Dump half the bag of Fritos into the glass of buttermilk, sprinkle with black pepper. Eat with a long-handled teaspoon.