A hill of beans – Pinto, v1

I’ve never been a big fan of Mexican food in general, and ever since a trip to Austin a few years back I haven’t been able to stomach anything called “Mexican” in St. Louis.

Anyway, someone I went to High School with, Jason, opened a Mexican Restaurant named Milagro

not more than a couple of miles from my house.  The place got a glowing review in the newspaper and Jason who is a “Facebook friend” would occasionally post pictures of the nightly specials and they always looked yummy.

I finally gave in, went, and had the fish tacos.  There were grilled Tilapia.  Good meal, comfortable seats, and reasonable portions (one of my pet peeves about eating out is too much food). However the real star of the plate to me was the side of Pinto Beans.

It was this wonderful smelling perfectly spiced concoction of Pinto Beans, Bacon, and Chorizo.

I have a weakness for one pot cooking, and I thought this would be a perfect candidate to a “do it myself at home project”.

I took four slices of thick cut bacon and using the kitchen shears sliced it into ribbons and dumped them in a pot.  Once the fat had started to come out I added two fresh de-cased crumbled Chorizos (each about the size of a Johnsonville Bratwurst).  Once that was all cooked I added a diced shallot, couple cloves diced garlic, and a diced thumb sized Jalapeño.  Once those softened in when 16oz of dried pinto beans, 6 cups chicken stock, and a bay leaf.  I covered and simmered for about 4 hours.

It wasn’t bad for a first try.  Even after I mashed up some of the beans to thicken it I still had to cheat and add corn starch.  The beans were tender, but not creamy and I wanted a redder color.

I’ll be back

This is the guy that cuts my hair.  We shall call him Kevin, because that’s his name. 

That’s Jacob getting his hair cut.  He’s seven, and in second grade.  Do you know when Kevin first cut my hair?  I was in second grade.  How do I remember that?  Well, my mom took me to a place, now long gone, called Mane Country in Old Orchard.  There I got to see my second grade teacher, Mrs. Archibald, getting her hair dyed.  Dyed was the word you used in the ‘70s. I don’t know when it was changed to “colored or highlighted” as no one saw fit to notify me.  The reason I remember so clearly is that my mom threatened to do me physical harm if I told everyone at school that I saw our teacher getting her hair dyed.

That means the first time Kevin cut my hair would have been 1978.  32 years and counting.  Kevin is on his third shop, has open and closed several bars and restaurants, been through a couple of marriages, the birth of his little girl and watching her grow up and have her own kids.

He always looks forward to our time together.  I’m usually only in 3, maybe 4 times a year.  When he is done he feels like he has accomplished something, and I feel fresh and new!

I know someday he is going to retire and I’ll be sad.  I guess I’ll have to let the woman at the station next to him cut my hair.  After all I like the way Kevin cuts my hair, and I don’t see why he couldn’t show his little girl to cut my hair the same way.

Hello

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step – Laozi

I had intended to talk about the difficulty of taking the first step, the fear of the journey, and not ending up in the place where you though you were going.  This was to be about how hard picking a name was and setting up the template and color scheme.  I had intended to talk about fear, and how fear effects our actions.  I even had the beginnings a cute anecdote about how all of Steve Spielberg’s movies, at their core, are about fear.

But like Laozi I was focused in the journey.  I was thinking of this as a story with a beginning, middle, and end.  Just like the five paragraph papers I used to write in school.  You know; tell them what your going to tell them, have three supporting arguments (the strongest last, the weakest in the middle), and then a final paragraph where you tell them what you told them.  Simple. Neat. Efficient.  Utterly boring.

I realized the real reason I want to write a blog.  It isn’t about my journey or its eventual end.  It’s about the minutia and detail that provide the setting of the story of the journey.  I want to focus on the ultimately unimportant details of the instantaneous moments that give the story of the journey depth and texture. 

One step and already I don’t know where I’m going, but it doesn’t really matter as long as I enjoy the scenery.