Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Vladik shrugged. “More Hispanic names on ticket list for Macbeth than last spring Abduction from Seraglio. I look.”

  Dr. Brockman cleared his throat and introduced “our own opera-loving Father Rigoberto Flannery, who will lead us in prayer.”

  Father Flannery, who had done a fine job singing Banquo but was now wearing his usual clerical collar and black suit instead of his rival drug-dealer costume (tight pants, alligator boots, unbuttoned silk shirt, and gold chain nestling on a hairy chest), took the microphone and beamed at the crowd. They in turn stopped eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking margaritas in order to join in prayer. I’d heard that Father Flannery is the son of a devout Hispanic mother from San Antonio and an alcoholic Irish father, who was killed while trying to escape family responsibilities by hopping a freight train to Houston. The Church had provided Father Flannery with schooling from boyhood on.

  Well loved by his congregation at San Isidro and by opera enthusiasts, he has an excellent bass singing voice and has been known to tie his homilies during mass to operas and urge his flock to attend opera performances. Last year I heard a rumor that the bishop reprimanded him for comparing Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana and the high rate of teen pregnancies in El Paso during a sermon on sexual morality. Funny, I never thought of Santuzza as a teenager; she’s the unwed, pregnant heroine, whose lover, Turridu, is killed in a duel at the end of the opera—divine retribution, according to Father Flannery, and an object lesson for boys who seduce innocent girls.

  “Blessed Holy Father, we thank you for granting the joy of opera to humankind,” he began in a booming voice, “for surely opera is as close to the singing of the heavenly angels as we can hope to experience before you accept, as we pray, our souls into your blessed company. We ask you to look favorably upon this gathering of opera-loving El Pasoans, and upon our city, which is peopled by so many faithful Roman Catholics.

  “Lastly, Holy Father, we ask your blessing on the fine food and drink provided for this occasion by our ladies.”

  At that moment Adela Mariscal, a music graduate student at the university who had sung one of the three witches that night, approached a table loaded with food, bottles of champagne, and punch bowls filled with margaritas. She was carrying a large cut-glass bowl of guacamole, which looked delicious enough to make me consider asking her for the recipe. Of course, I’d have to try it first.

  The priest spotted her too and added to his prayer a presumably extemporaneous blessing. “Particularly, Lord, bless our Juarez songbird, Adela Mariscal, whose guacamole is treasured on both sides of the border, a guacamole so ambrosial that even the Holy Mother could hardly make it better.”

  Adela blushed and looked alarmed as she clutched her bowl, forgetting to place it on the table.

  “That’s sacrilege,” gasped Frank Escobar’s besequined wife loudly enough to be heard by the priest.

  He looked up from his prayer and said to the banker’s lady, “Hyperbole, my dear Barbara. I’m sure we all realize that the Holy Mother is much too busy for cooking these days. After all, she has to intercede with her Son for the forgiveness of our sins and the granting of our prayers.” Father Flannery is a Marian Society supporter. He then bowed his head again and finished, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless this food, this drink, and this company. Amen.”

  The crowd murmured, “Amen,” and Vladik Gubenko hustled straight for the guacamole. “Priest is right about delicious Adela’s guacamole. Is very tasty. As artistic director, I eat it all,” and he snatched the bowl from Adela with a charming smile.

  “You can’t,” she cried.

  “Sure, I can.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and reached behind her for a large handful of tostados, which he scattered over the pale green surface of the avocado dip. “You make for me, no?”

  “No! I—I made it for everyone!”

  “In opera I am most important of everyone in El Paso. I get guacamole.” And he walked off holding the bowl, dipping a tostado into the guacamole, and savoring his prize.

  Of all the nerve, I thought. Poor Adela looked as if she might cry. And no wonder. It was a lot of guacamole. She must have spent hours chopping and squishing and stirring to produce that much dip. And when she was singing that night, too. She probably chopped all the ingredients before the performance and mashed the avocados in a blender or food processor after changing out of her costume.

  “Don’t be upset, Adela,” I said to her as I helped myself to a margarita. “It’s not your fault that Vladik decided to make a fool of himself. You should take it as a compliment to your recipe.”

  “Everyone ees supposed to eat some, not just Vladik.”

  “Yes, I want some myself,” I agreed. “It looks wonderful, and the priest certainly thinks it’s spectacular.”

  “He should not say ees better than Virgin Mary’s. Ees bad luck.”

  “Well, I know they grow avocados in the Holy Land now, but that’s a new thing. I’m quite sure the Virgin never made guacamole in her day, so you really shouldn’t feel that you’ve been thrown into some sort of sacrilegious competition. Personally, I’m going to get my own tostados and share Vladik’s bowl. In fact, I’ll urge others to do the same. No reason he should make a pig of himself while the rest of us are left out.”

  “Gracias. I hope you can get others to take from him. He is peeg,” Adela added angrily. “Probably no one want to eat from same bowl with him.”

  I had to laugh. “A pig, maybe, but talented, certainly. He did a beautiful job of turning that witches’ chorus into a trio, and I have to tell you, Adela, that you sounded wonderful, the other two girls, as well. It’s hard to believe anything so beautiful could also seem so ominous. I think you have a promising future in opera.”

  “Gracias, Senora Blue. You make me feel happier.” Tears actually rose in her eyes.

  “Now, cheer up,” I urged, smiling. “If Vladik actually eats all that guacamole himself, he’s going to have one killer stomach ache.”

  The poor girl looked horrified, although I’d been trying to make her feel better.

  Adela’s Guacamole

  Aztecs and Mayans were very fond of avocados, not only with chile and spices as guacamole, but as food for dogs, which were fattened on avocados before being eaten as a special treat at feasts. Does that seem slightly disgusting? Just remember that pate, that expensive favorite of gourmets, is made by stuffing grain down the throat of a goose and then harvesting the liver. Why not a tasty, avocado-stuffed dog?

  Although Spanish conquistadors brought back avocados from Central America as early as 1527, they were little known in Europe until after the Second World War. Now we grow them in California and Florida and have since the early part of the twentieth century; they are popular all over Europe, Israel makes money exporting them, and Mexicans eat fifteen kilos a year per person. The Aztecs made avocado bread, modern cosmetics manufacturers use avocado oil, and in Zaire they make beer from avocado leaves.

  But the best use for an avocado is a delicious guacamole. The main ingredient is extremely healthy because it contains linoleic acid, which breaks down cholesterol and fat globs in the arteries and prevents our blood cells from clumping together in the first place. You might get fat eating avocados, but you’re less likely to have a stroke or heart attack.

  Note that this recipe calls for Miracle Whip as a preservative—not lime juice, which makes the guacamole slightly acidic; not avocado seeds stuck back into the mixture, which some gourmets say is an old wives’ tale; and definitely not the mystery herb provided by Adela’s Tia Julietta.

  • In a blender or small food processor, puree together until smooth 1 cup roughly chopped cilantro; 2 fresh jalapeno chiles, stemmed and chopped; and 1 teaspoon salt. (If your blender isn’t doing a good job pureeing the ingredients, add the Miracle Whip and turn the machine on again.)

  • In a medium bowl, roughly mash 4 large buttery-ripe, black-skinned avocados (about 2 pounds), pitted and peeled.

>   • Stir in cilantro puree; 1 pound (5 or 6) ripe plum tomatoes, halved, seeded, and diced; ½ cup peeled, diced red onion; and ¼ cup Kraft Miracle Whip Salad Dressing (unless it was added to the cilantro puree).

  • Adjust seasoning.

  • Cover with plastic wrap, pressing the film onto the surface of the guacamole.

  • Store at room temperature for up to 30 minutes, or refrigerate for up to 3 hours.

  Makes 3 cups.

  Permission to reprint given by W. Park Kerr and Norma Kerr from their El Paso Chile Company’s Texas Border Cookbook.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,” Seattle Times.

  2

  In Search of Guacamole

  Carolyn

  The other two witches, both Russians if I was any judge of accents, came over to talk to Adela. After being introduced and congratulating them on their performances, I filled a plate with tostados and went off in search of my husband. Jason was chatting with a professor from the English Department, Howard Montgomery. Being the resident Shakespeare scholar, he was delighted with the change from a witches’ chorus to a trio.

  “The first time I heard Verdi’s Macbeth—of course, I’ve seen Shakespeare’s play more times that I can count—I was appalled at the witches’ chorus,” said Professor Montgomery, a round, middle-aged cherub of a man, who was devouring my canapés with gusto. “All those women squalling oompah music. ‘What was the composer thinking? ’ I asked myself. ‘It’s an abomination.’ It was a Met broadcast, and I turned it off. Didn’t actually see the opera until twenty years later, and I must say that, aside from the peculiar notion of casting the Scottish nobility as drug dealers, I highly approve of this version. Three witches. That’s what Shakespeare had, and it worked just beautifully in the opera. Gubenko is to be congratulated.”

  “That’s an excellent idea!” I agreed. “Let’s go do it. I happen to have picked up some tostados, so we can sample the guacamole while we’re supporting our artistic director.”

  “My dear, I’m perfectly happy with these delicious canapés, which your husband tells me you provided. I hope to convince you to give Dolly the recipe.” He looked around vaguely. “I wonder where she is. Wasn’t she with us just a minute ago, Jason?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Jason. “I haven’t seen her yet this evening.”

  “Oh well. She is here. I distinctly remember that we came in the same car. She was complaining that the orthopedic boot, which she’s wearing because she broke her ankle, looks bad with her dress. The boot is black—a sort of suitcase fabric with Velcro straps—and her dress—um—I’ve forgotten what color it is, but I asked why she didn’t wear a black dress. She has one, and it’s long. It would have covered the boot, but she said her black dress—”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that Dolly broke her ankle,” I interrupted, afraid that he’d meander on about his wife’s dress forever when I wanted to get us over to the guacamole. I linked my arm with his and urged him in that direction, nodding to Jason to follow. “I’d be delighted to give Dolly the recipe, but it’s so simple you can just tell her.”

  My husband was trying to stifle laughter at my manipulation of the kindly Shakespearean scholar.

  “That’s very good of you, Carolyn, but I’d be sure to forget,” Howard replied apologetically. “All those measurements and whatnot. It’s amazing that I remember long passages from the plays, but if Dolly sends me to the grocery store, I always come back with the wrong thing. Still, I’m sure the English faculty would love some of those delicious canapés at the annual Christmas party. Would you consider them festive enough for the holiday season? I know you’re an expert on food, so I’d value your opinion on the suitability of—”

  “Very festive,” I assured him, “and easy to make. You just go down to the El Paso Chile Company—it’s on Texas Street, has trees in front of it, and is painted in bright colors. There you buy some of the hot pepper-fruit preserves. I used the peach and the raspberry tonight, but you could probably use jalapeno jelly as well. Then you’d have red and green.” We were threading our way through the mob, which was all the jollier for the infusion of margaritas. “Then you buy some Philadelphia cream cheese and crackers at the supermarket, spread the cream cheese on the crackers, and dab on the preserves. Nothing to it.” I pulled Howard into the circle around Vladik Gubenko and held up my plate of tostados.

  The artistic director was hugging the guacamole bowl in one arm and eating with a spoon, having evidently finished off the chips he’d snatched from the refreshment table. There were still a few tostado crumbs in his thin, blonde goatee, but no more tostados on the surface of the dip, and evidently the crowd of adoring ladies around him didn’t want to cause him any discomfort by asking to share. I had no such qualms.

  “You clever Russian,” I said, kissing him on the cheek and then flicking a few crumbs from his beard. “We’ve come to congratulate you on your production of Macbeth.”

  He beamed at me.

  “And to share the guacamole.” I dipped the largest tostado I could find into the bowl and scooped up a big glob of dip. Then I offered the plate to Jason and Howard.

  “No share,” protested Vladik. “Was made for me by one of my pretty sopranos, no?”

  “No,” I said, savoring the guacamole. It was, as Father Flannery had said, heavenly, and I had to get the recipe. “I’ve brought Professor Montgomery over to meet you. He’s our Shakespearean scholar, and he loves what you did with the witches.” I helped myself to another chip full. Adela should patent it. But not before I got it into a column. Mexican food is popular all over the country now. My readers would love it.

  “Shakespeare much loved in Russia,” said Vladik solemnly. He had to put the spoon into the bowl in order to shake Howard’s hand. “Many translation, many read in English. Both plays and opera put on. Russians love Shakespeare.”

  Howard nodded nostalgically. “I remember as a graduate student—what happy days those were. I took my doctorate at University of Virginia. Met my dear Dolly there. She was an undergraduate in the Shakespeare class I graded as a graduate assistant. Lovely girl. Still is. Reminded me of Viola in Twelfth Night. You’ll have to meet her—Dolly, not Viola.”

  As he rambled on and Vladik looked puzzled, I managed to devour three more helpings of guacamole, while Jason dipped two chips and turned to talk to a fellow who was employed by the city to do environmental things. He’d been a student of Jason’s last year.

  “But as I was saying, I was amazed as a graduate student at the numbers of critical papers written in Russian on the bard. Unfortunately, I didn’t read Russian, still don’t, but I knew one fellow who did, and he said many were very good. No doubt, it’s your love of England’s best dramatist that led you to redo the witches’ chorus. I found the singing of just three witches, as called for in the play, quite lovely.”

  Vladik nodded enthusiastically and said, “And my witches very pretty too, no? Two is Russian, one from Juarez. All got very nice titties.” Professor Montgomery looked taken aback. “Have costume lady make dresses to show off. Can’t have big titties hide under baggy black dress. No reason witches can’t be young and pretty.”

  “I was referring to their musical talents,” said Howard, “and your arrangement of the music.”

  “Sure.” Vladik winked. “Verdi envy Vladislav Gubenko for fixing that scene and picking pretty girls, no old uglies. Maybe I take Mexican Macbeth to Broadway, to Met. No?” As pleased as he was with himself, he had now noticed that I was eating his guacamole. “So Carolyn Blue, you meet yet my stars? No? I introduce.” And still clutching his guacamole, he insisted that I follow him to a group that included the Chilean soprano, Maria Ojeda-Solano, aka Lady Macbeth; her murderous opera spouse, baritone Wang Zhijian; and a passel of hapless El Pasoans who were trying to converse with them.

  It’s easy to give a fiesta if you have access to the El Paso Chile Company, which happens to be in my hometown. If you live elsewhere, as most people do, the
company has a website. The owner, W. Park Kerr, has written books of recipes for spicy border dishes and knockout border drinks, and the store has all kinds of lovely and exotic spices and foodstuffs. Favorites of mine are the fruit and hot-pepper preserves, which you can spread over cream cheese on crackers for easy and tasty canapés.

  Preserves have a long and interesting history. Feasts given by Roman and Byzantine emperors featured preserves made of fruit and honey. The Valois kings of France loved their preserves; Francis I favored quince paste and once took some along when he went to visit his mistress. She, unlucky woman, was entertaining another lover, who dove under the bed, but the sophisticated king passed some of the treats to the terrified lover and said, “Here you are Brissac, everyone has to live!” He may have had the fellow killed at a more convenient time; the story doesn’t tell us. Nostradamus, when not foretelling the future, wrote a book on making jellies and preserves, and Louis XIII of France went into the royal kitchen and cooked up his own. Mr. Kerr follows in an elite tradition and is fortunate enough to have sugar for his creations. Sugar did not become available for preserving fruit until the eighteenth century.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Pittsburgh News-Journal.

  3

  Vladik in Trouble

  Carolyn

  “ Carolyn, here is Lady Macbeth, Senora Maria Ojeda-Solano, and Macbeth, Wang Zhijian,” said Vladik, taking away my chips and dumping them on top of his guacamole. “Not need these when have fine jelly crackers,” he added when I looked mutinous. Then to his stars, “And this is lady, Mrs. Carolyn Blue, whose crackers you are enjoy.”