Frito pie!

As this is evidently the Texas state (or national, depending on where you stand with respect to the secession issue) dish, I felt it my solemn duty as a newly minted Texican to concoct it—as inauthentically as possible, of course, on account that I am now one of those folks who gets all up at arms about the food chain (you might know them as vegetarians). This of course means that I used kidney beans instead of real Texas chili (which is all about the meat and contains no beans whatsoever). I lifted the recipe from this site. I omitted the sour cream, but otherwise remained true.

It should be noted that I made the official Texas state/national dish in my excellent new Texas decorative cake pan, replete with a giant Texas mold in the middle and, as the pan literature noted, "Blue bonnet accents". More statist/nationalist points!

The verdict? It was all right. I should have used a better cheese and maybe baked it for less time, as I think I would have preferred a soupier consistency. Also, I probably would have halved the tomato sauce, but then I'm not much of a fan. I'm frankly not necessarily thrilled that I have as many leftovers to get through as I do. But, hey, it was relatively cheap to make, is relatively healthy to eat (if you disregard that it consists of a whole bag of Fritos), and boy do I feel (semi)authentically Texan now.

And look! I took pictures!

The indomitable aura of Frito pie fixins', plus Don Pedrito, the purported (by the candle holder) patron saint of Vida y Salud.

A slightly more somber rendering of Frito pie fixins'.

Everything is redder in Texas.

It's beginning to look a lot like Texas!

All finished. Mournfully masticate whilst contemplating the futility of existence.

Allison in brief.

Let's see: a jaunt downtown, a visit to the Writer's League of Texas office (where I found plenty of writers' business cards, but alas no markets or job prospects, I guess there's a reason not many people make a living at this), a "Monster" burrito, a corresponding outburst of monster sound effects on my part and subsequent "Coolest Customer of the Day" accolade, a threat to make the news, quiet despair, noisy futility, et al., et al.

Attempts thus far at responsible adulthood (i.e. employment) are yielding no returns. If this trend continues unabated I will most likely say "flip it" (this is, after all, a family blog) and hit the road (cat-free this time!) for some other stateside adventures this fall. After all, you can beg and plead with the albatross to wrap itself around your neck, but if the albatross says "Uh, sorry, it's not you, it's me," what is there to do but run, run, run, even if this feels like digging your own financial grave? Of course, at the moment it's arguable that the credit for this belongs to ye olde economy. Which is to say, there may be some other adventures in the works soon, especially now that I have a home base where I can safely stow the kitties. We shall see....

Meanwhile, remember when I went to this really cool place??? The photo-documentation NEVER ENDS!!!

MORE El Santuario--this chapel (that's what they're called, right?) was devoted to children...

Serendipitized!

I forced myself to leave the house yesterday, on account that I didn't up and move to a whole new (to me) city in a whole new (to me) region of the country just to remain entrenched in my hermetic ways. It was an uphill battle: "disgusting" is the mildest adjective that can be applied to the stretch of weather we're having here. But! I am so, SO glad I did, because who should I run into in Guero's Taco Bar, where I was being a Conspicuous Solo Diner, but my friend Courtney of San Francisco Fame, and her friend Christopher (who is now my friend Christopher too)? Talk about serendipity! If I were the sort of person who used phrases like "meant to be," I would use one here, but I'm not, so I won't. Man, having friends makes all the difference. Much revelry ensued, including visits to Uncommon Objects, a sno-cone truck, a St. Vincent de Paul thrift store, a too-hip-to-breathe vintage store (wherein Chris was recognized and photo-documented as a Fashion Icon for their blog!), Stag (Sartorial Provisions for Gentlemen, or something to that effect, where when Courtney asked where we should get a drink, the three of us were handed tall cans of Dos Equis—I swear, the alcohol pours itself down my throat), the Hotel San Jose, where I simply must reside when I am a wealthy eccentric (because what other hotel has typewriters available for your use, should you get the urge to write the Great American Novel, AND a Secret Garden, replete with Zen swimming pool, on the grounds? Plus their website is amazing.), and the Continental Club, whose red walls, bluesy/jazzy performing band, and dancing (like, actual dancing, with steps and stuff—the kind that requires actual skill) couples evoked a strong David Lynchian vibe whilst being utterly charming.

After the full itinerary aforementioned, we parted ways and I went up the street with the intention of seeing a local chanteuse of whom I am quite fond, but alas, it turned out her show was not for several hours yet, so I headed in the other direction to the Congress Avenue bridge to watch the bats ascend into the darkening sky. I'm glad I did, because it was quite a sight (and this is the largest bat colony in North America!), and because watching people watch the bats was as much fun as watching the bats themselves: one of those experiences in the thrall of which it is almost impossible not to be more favorably disposed toward one's own species, the human capacity for wonder, our curiosity, our fascination with the world around us.

It was a very good day.

Chris, Courtney, and their auras, as documented by Shutter Island

Deep Symbolic Meaning.

Last night I dreamt (oh nooo, not someone blathering incessantly about a dream she had) that I needed to buy brown sugar but could only acquire it in circular disks with a lone star emblazoned in the middle. While very pretty, this was vexing, as I'm sure you are aware, dear reader, that brown sugar can be user-hostile when it clumps. I then made the acquaintance of a gaggle of kind, matronly ladies who explained that these brown sugar discs were actually an overpriced tourist gimmick and that it was in fact possible to purchase brown sugar in its traditional form.

I'm sure my subconscious is sending me a message here, even if I can't quite put my finger on it.

My car is now a Texan!

And I have the license plates to prove it. After the most relaxing experience I have ever had with respect to tending to anything bureaucratic related to a motor vehicle, and being lent a slotted—and then a Phillips-head!—screwdriver by the county tax office with which to attach my new plates, I ventured into the punishing sunlight with my resolve steeled to be Brave and Independent, which lasted until A REAL LIVE TEXAN WITH AN ACCENT AND EVERYTHING asked me if I needed help, ma'am, to which I readily assented (feminism, sheminism).

I then moseyed about town for a bit. Antiques aren't my thing, but if they're yours, Georgetown is a good place to be. I poked my head into some used bookstores and galleries, then happened upon a shop where I bought an ox-blood-colored bar stool (so much for my to-hell-with-furniture resolution, but in my defense, it was twenty dollars, and the purchase was influenced by the fact that they were so darn NICE to me there, because, darn it, Georgetown is somewhere you should go when you need people to be NICE to you), and walked out with that, plus commendations on my bravery for starting from scratch in a place where I don't know anybody, and a cold bottle of water, and a recommendation that I visit the office of the local paper to see about a job, AND some copies of a local magazine so that I can look into freelancing for it. Plus, the lady who works there is praying for me. Did I mention that people are NICE here?

By way of further illustration, one lady, after proceeding through an intersection in her vehicle, honked her horn at me to make sure she had my attention when she APOLOGIZED for not letting me go first!

The moral of this post: people are NICE in Georgetown!

In truth, I was a little sad to leave.

I have re-joined civilization!

Which is to say, I now have home internet.

In other news, H.E.B. sells prickly pears and yucca roots in the produce aisle (more local flavor!), and I am going to Georgetown tomorrow to attempt to register my vehicle, because I am a responsible grown-up, all right. I hope to make a bit of a day trip of it, since I probably won't have much occasion to find myself there very often. And it's a genuine small Texas town!

My seeing-Dale-Watson rematch will have to be a pleasure deferred, as I had to be a responsible grown-up and stay in on Monday, on account of a job interview Tuesday morning. We will see if not rendering myself a zombie paid off next week...

Meanwhile:

Meep enjoying (in her understated way) domestic bliss.

It is Monday and I live in Texas.

The Broken Spoke? Never happened—I couldn’t find it! I did inadvertently stumble on Flipnotics, though, where I drank my first Lone Star beer (after all, I live in Texas now!) and caught the end of a set by a guitarist-accordion duo. Not really my thing, this cutesy indie rock stuff, and not exactly what I had hoped for my night out, but driving down Lamar and drinking in the neon signage, and passing a restaurant at which a fire dancer was performing, made it an interesting jaunt nonetheless. I plan to have a seeing-Dale Watson rematch tonight at the Continental Club. I’ve never even heard his music, but at this point it’s the principle of the thing. I know I said one nightlifey-type activity per week, but hey, it’s a new week, and hey, I’m unemployed and have money in the bank, so I might as well live it up now.

Speaking of principles (and irrelevant segues), I have discovered WinCo’s benevolent inverse: H.E.B! At H.E.B. (or at least the one near my house on this Saturday afternoon; I have in all truth visited more anarchic permutations), everything is cheap and pristine and people BEHAVE themselves. Items spotted that made me think, wow, I live in a new region of the United States:

Corn nuggets (in the frozen food aisle)

Fresh tomatillos (in the produce aisle)

Various dried chiles (also in the produce aisle)

Red velvet cake (in the bakery aisle)

Also, also, yesterday I made use of my farmer’s market acquisitions to produce the following, from How to Cook Everything Vegetarian by Mark Bittman. But first, a detour: as a fairly enthusiastic follower of various food blogs, I have noticed, along with the interesting ideas and expertly tantalizing photography, a certain breathless, winsome, whimsical, dare I say borderline-precious tone that seems rather common among (at the risk of sounding like a misogynist rather than a misanthropist) lady food bloggers, and I’m sorry to say, this is not speaking my language, people. So, in that spirit, RAWR!  I am lonely and angry and made this recipe! RAWR! I frequently rail against life and The Fates with an apoplexy that would make [insert someone really unbalanced here] look centered! RAWR, I cook like the damned! And without further ado:

Linguine (or in my case, fettuccine) with Raw Tomato Sauce:

Salt

2 C. cored and roughly chopped ripe tomato (I just used what I had, have no idea how much it amounted to)

2 T. extra virgin olive oil (I bet I used more, because I am all about the fat)

2 cloves garlic, lightly smashed (I used all of the miniscule cloves from one farmer’s market bulb, and in truth, I smashed the ever-living daylights out of them)

¼ to ½ C. roughly minced fresh basil leaves (I used a lot more, since I have a ton, and what else will I accomplish with it in a timely manner?)

Freshly ground black pepper (please—what’s wrong with letting McCormick handle that for me?)

1 lb. linguine or other long pasta (okay!)

Freshly grated Parmesan cheese (optional) (well, since it was optional, I exercised my option to skip it)

*

Bring a large pot of water to a boil and salt it. (I salted it before bringing to a boil—nothing bad happened.)

Put the tomato, oil, garlic, and half the basil (I dumped it in all at once) in a broad-brimmed bowl (take a moment to admire the alliteration). Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Mash together well, using a fork or potato masher, but do not puree (no danger there!). (According to the recipe, you can make the sauce an hour or two beforehand and let it rest at room temperature.)

Cook the pasta in the boiling water until tender but not mushy (with fresh pasta, I find that six to eight minutes seems to be sufficient). Ladle some of the cooking water into the sauce to thin it out a bit and warm it up (a technique of which I was always unfoundedly skeptical, until this and other experiments this summer convinced me that it’s like magic!). Remove the garlic (I just picked around it, but then I’m firmly entrenched in the Stinking Rose camp). Toss the pasta with the sauce and top with the remaining basil (if rationing basil throughout the recipe is your thing); pass the (optional, remember!) grated Parmesan at the table. (Or if you’re like me and have no furniture, eat it off a paper plate whilst sitting cross-legged on the floor and your cat inspects it and determines that it is of no interest to him—stupid humans! They’ll eat anything!).

Look! I am a domestic goddess!