See that blue stuff streaked with a wisp of white? That, Paris people, is what the sky looks like.

In Santa Fe, New Mexico, at least.

Somehow the temperature doesn’t seem as chilly when the sun’s out with a sky like this. Or when it’s coming up or going down against a mountain backdrop, looking like an over-saturated photograph…or painting by an artist with a too-heavy hand with the pinks and oranges. It’s just beauty, beauty, beauty, everywhere. Green chile on everything. Burgers. Breakfast burritos. Pizzas. Then there’s the posole. Blue corn. Piñon-laced air. La la la la la.

Now, I did not take this train — the cute Roadrunner that connects Albuquerque and Santa Fe —  but managed to catch this photograph as it was chugging by.  I snapped this as was standing there, sipping a très tasty coffee from the Station at the Railyards, where the barista (who greeted me with “I hope you’re having a groovy day!”) swirled a heaping big spoonful of HABANERO FUDGE SAUCE into my coffee, and I took one sip and thought to myself, JEEEEEZ, this just might be the best thing. Ever.

Or maybe the best thing was the 120-minute (!!) “Mountain Spirit Purification” treatment that I got upon arrival at Encantado Resort (after our 10-hour road trip from Texas), which started with a brisk sage smudging, then moved onto a cocoon-like  adobe clay body mask/wrap thingy, and ended with a juniper and hot stone massage…far too soon.

See this photo below? This is the view from the balcony of my suite at Encantado, and these are the Jemez mountains. I know you’re jealous.

And this is the view from the other side of my room. I was still in my jammies so I didn’t walk up the hill to get a better shot, but I think you get the idea.

Gorgeousness. All around, every damn where you look. This may be the best thing, now that I think about it.

Or these words, which I found on the side of the New Mexico historical records building. Talk about a sign.

It was an easy, lazy trip, with no real itinerary, lots of late mornings, even later lunches, a great afternoon hike one afternoon, and a long overdue visit with my pal Nathalie Kent, who owns the Frenchy-Cowgirl boutique Nathalie on Canyon Road.

After five days, we set the alarm for 5:30 am and drove back to Texas, and watched the landscape flatten as we ticked off the miles, canyons transforming into cotton fields…and cattle feed lots closer to home.

À bientôt, Santa Fe.

This is Rose Trujillo and she’s one of the founders of the Santa Fe Farmer’s Market, considered one of the top farmer’s markets in the U.S. See that sack in her right hand? That’s a package of her buffalo tamales, handmade the night before, she told me. Rose and her daughter also make the anise seed bizcochitos (below), now New Mexico’s state cookie. (Yes, that’s right – a state cookie — any state with the good sense to have its own cookie is my kind of place.)

I realize that visiting a farmer’s market in January probably isn’t the best time of year, but what makes this market special is the abundance of homemade goodies baked by the people that are selling them, like Ruth, along with the farmers selling their produce, or cheese, or yak jerky, or whatever. At the markets in Paris, these people have signs that say “producteurs” above their stands. Here, everyone is a producer.

In other words, there are no stacks of boxes of fruits and vegetables in the back marked with “Mexico.” Not one single one. What’s sold here is grown here. Simple as that.

Of course we don’t have piñon fudge in Paris, but we do have pains au chocolat; there’s also homemade lavender soap at lots of Paris markets, and I’ve seen lots made from honey, but I’ve not seen any made from goat milk – aren’t these sweet?

You say empanadas, but in France, these would be called chaussons, because they look like house slippers…well, sort of.

I love the idea of these mini quiches, and of course, if green chile’s involved, I’m already sold. The bright yellow eggyness of these also tells me that these eggs are super-fresh. Speaking of, when you order an egg anything in Santa Fe, it’s likely that your server will ask “And would you like your eggs to be organic?”

Oh yes, please. Organic, local, free range…and served on a plate that’s been either recycled or upcycled.

Naturally, there’s lots of red chile for sale, too, along with the green. And this being Santa Fe, there’s also a good selection of smudge sticks to scare off evil spirits and hangover nonsense from previous trouble-making souls…something that Paris, a city that’s been around since 500ish B.C. or so, could definitely use.

Jugglers instead of mimes, though really, it’s been ages since I’ve seen a mime in Paris (thank god).

I stopped and chatted with the hydroponic tomato farmers, who supply tomatoes to Chef Charles Dale at Encantado Resort’s restaurant, Terra, and I would’ve bought the organic chicken at Pollo Real if I could’ve taken some home. I saw beets as big as Texas Ruby Reds at one stand, and at $1.50 a pound, I thought about filling up a sack, but the truth is I didn’t have my own sack, and this isn’t the sort of place where people would overlook that sort of thing.

So I stuffed my sage smudge stick into my purse and walked a few blocks west to the Tune-Up Cafe, and ordered my usual breakfast burrito with green chile inside and red chile out, and made a note to bring my own sacks next time. For beets, smudge sticks, and some really cute bars of soap.

My new favorite place in Santa Fe turns out to not be in Santa Fe at all.

Just north of the city, off of Highway 84/285, where you’ll find the famous opera (and flea market), is also the small village of Tesuque. Small as in less than 1,000 people. Beautiful, because the homes here are so neatly tucked into the mountain’s folds that they visibly disappear. And much to my dismay, already discovered by the likes of Robert Redford, Gene Hackman, Ali McGraw, and Shirley Maclaine. (For the record, I only ran into Ali McGraw, and not any of the others, and that was at Encantado Resort where I was staying, and not the Tesuque Village Market…or Tesuque Very Market, which I like to call it, because it is so very cool).

A locals-only sort of place, Tesuque Village Market is where neighborhood folks both famous and non go for a quick coffee for the road, a late-night cocktail, or a jar of natural peanut butter should they be down to the last spoonful. Or, in my case, one of the best thin crust pizzas I’ve ever eaten anywhere (and with my favorite combo of sundried tomatoes, fresh roasted Hatch green chile, and goat cheese), some damn fine blue corn pancakes at breakfast, and chocolate beignets offered up for free by the chef.

I ended up here twice. Or it may have been three times now that I think about it.

If you didn’t know about TVM, you’d drive right on past, as I did last year a few times, thinking, hmmm, there sure are a lot of cars at that run-down looking place. But it’s actually not run-down at all. It’s plain, yes; rustic, absolutely. And just the sort of spot that feels immediately so comfy that you want to come back again and again.

There are long, communal tables in the front room (next to the pizza oven), and lots of smaller ones inside, where people can sit in twos and fours, plus a smallish bar right behind the counter with the candy bars and gum. The year-round Day of the Dead vibe works for me, and as much as I wanted the skull tee with sequined rosebuds for hair, I didn’t want to pay the $40ish pricetag. Besides, there were scones and green chile bread to try.

After we’d finished our breakfast blue corn pancakes on Sunday, outside the snow was falling like powdered sugar…which made the afternoon hike even sweeter. The Sangre de Cristo mountains were prettier than ever, and my new hiking boots felt like I’d worn them a thousand times before. We drove around in the snow for about a half-hour and never found the trail that we were looking for, but came across another one instead…that cut right across the top of the foothills and offered up a gorgeous panoramic view.

Sometimes things just work out just like they should. Very.

I am not a muffin person.

In fact, the last thing that I ever want, even if I’m 10-seconds-from-passing-out, is a fluffy, soft muffin, with its cartoony dome top — dotted with nuts, fruit, or perhaps both — and promise to deliver some sort of satisfaction.

Yet here I am, pushing this – a muffin — on you today. But it is not like other muffins.

Wait just a minute. Let me go get one right now so I can eat one as I type the rest of this post.

OK, I’m back.

This muffin has a little story, so bear with me. Now, as many of y’all know, I was recently in Texas, and also in Santa Fe, which speaks to the cowgirl in me like no other place in the world. I went to New Mexico with my best friend Melanie, who kindly decided to drive  - it’s only 9 hours, which is nothing when you’ve got months of catching up to do. We drove straight through to Amarillo, stopped for green chile cheeseburgers at the Golden Light Cafe, and pulled in on a Monday night. We spent the next couple of days discovering new places, revisiting some old favorites, and uncovering some not-so-new spots that I’d not known about (which you can read about in the story that I wrote for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram here).

The morning that we were going to drive back to Texas, Melanie and I stopped at Aztec Café, naturally, for a couple of XL lattes for the road, then pulled into Sage Bakehouse down the street for a little breakfasty snack to go along with.

Melanie bought a cream cheese-filled pastry (which she did not share, by the way), and I lingered over the selections, which were mostly of the croissant and pain au chocolat variety, two things that I have plenty of back here. Then a man walked up to the counter and ordered the ugliest, dark browniest muffin that I’d ever seen. He said that he came in to buy these all the time. That they weren’t too sweet.

I was sold.

I got my peanut butter and jelly muffin, hopped in the car, and we began our drive east. It wasn’t puffy on top. It wasn’t fluffy, either; rather, it was kind of dense. It was even a bit overcooked and crunchy around the edges – a mistake, I imagine, but it gave the muffin top a bit of a peanut butter cookie texture — which I really liked. It was also not too sweet, as he promised. I thought about this muffin all the way back to Texas, and when I returned to Paris, I kept thinking about it.

I remembered that the woman in the bakery told me that the owner was Andrée Falls, who opened the restaurant Parigi in Dallas decades before. I met Andrée Falls in 1990, when I wrote my first food story for The Dallas Morning News. It was about how chefs are influenced by their mothers, and she and I sat down and talked for a long while. Afterwards, she gave me a thin, hand-bound cookbook, “Parigi.”

I still had the book, its pages stained from years of use, on my bookshelf here in Paris.

On page 80, there it was. Peanut Butter and Jelly Muffins. How did I miss these before?

I made these late the other afternoon, knowing very well that muffins are usually not an afternoon thing. But when they came out of the oven, I couldn’t resist. Then I had dinner. And another muffin. For dessert.

Because I am not a muffin person.

Peanut Butter and Jelly Muffins

Adapted from “Parigi” by Andrée Falls

Makes 9 regular-size muffins

INGREDIENTS

1-2 tablespoons butter (for greasing pan)
1 large egg
2 oz./1/4 cup butter, melted and cooled
½ cup brown sugar
½ cup peanut butter*
1 cup All-Bran cereal
1 cup whole milk
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon sea salt
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon jam (I used Bonne Maman’s raspberry, but you may use the jam of your choice)

1. Preheat oven to 375. Generously grease a muffin tin with butter (1-2 tablespoons should do it).

2.Pour the milk and All-Bran cereal in a bowl and let rest for a few minutes.

3. In a stand mixer, mix together the egg, melted butter, brown sugar and peanut butter. Now add the milk and cereal to this.

4. Whisk the flour with the baking powder, baking soda and salt. Add this all at once to the rest of the ingredients and stir only until combined. Don’t overmix.

5. Fill the muffin tins with 1/4 cup of the batter, spoon 1 tablespoon of jam on top, and fill with another 1/4 cup of the batter. Bake for 30 minutes or until the top feels firm and is slightly brown and crunchy around the edges.

*I used creamy Peter Pan peanut butter because that’s all I had. The original recipe calls for crunchy, which I think would be best. Crunchy peanut butter is impossible to find in France, and I plan to add 1/4 cup of crushed salted peanuts to the batter the next time I make these, which will be soon.

Sage Bakehouse
535 Cerrillos Rd.
Santa Fe, NM
505-820-SAGE

I had  the most incredible chicken fried steak a couple of months ago in Houston, at Lankford Grocery, which I read about in Jane and Michael Stern’s book, “500 Things to Eat Before It’s Too Late.” The H-town legend is known for its burgers, and I nearly ordered up one, but I simply couldn’t resist the urge to try the CFS since it was the special on the day that I visited.

Oh what a good idea! And it went so well with the Dr. Pepper that I’d ordered.

Eydie Lankford Prior told me that she made her CFS with an egg-buttermilk batter, some salt and pepper, and “Tony’s” (Tony Cachere’s Creole seasoning, it turns out), but I decided to leave out the egg and go for a slightly lighter crust. Not that I’m counting calories, as y’all know. (Do calculators even go that high?)

I made my CFS back in France, with a cut that’s similar to the American cube steak, which is what Eydie uses for hers, and it worked just fine. More than fine, in fact. That’s my CFS pictured above.

And PS. I know that I try to post stuff that’s both quick and easy, but this takes a bit of time – mainly the stirring of the gravy, and the complete hose-down of the kitchen when you’re finished. CFS isn’t for kitchen wimps. Just roll up your sleeves, get in there, and fry fry fry. And maybe we all need to post this, the Lankford Grocery’s Mission Statement, on our fridge when it’s CFS night: “We have nothing small, nothing healthy, and nothing fast.  We never give you a check, but that does not mean it’s free.  You pay at the register as you leave.  If you do not have 30 minutes to spend, you should try us another day.”

I love that. Enjoy the show.

Chicken Fried Steak with Peppery Cream Gravy
Serves 2

INGREDIENTS

2-8 oz. cube steaks, pounded a bit so they’re the same width
2 cups buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon Tony Cachere’s Creole seasoning
1 teaspoon pepper
4 cups whole milk
1-2 cups vegetable oil

WHAT YOU DO
1. Pour the buttermilk into a medium bowl and submerge the steaks. I usually let them rest in the buttermilk for a half-hour or so, while I get everything else ready.

2. Now, coat the buttermilk-soaked steaks in the flour mixture, put it back in the buttermilk, and in the flour once more. Set aside.

3. In a large, heavy-bottomed skillet, pour enough vegetable oil to measure about 1/2-inch deep. Turn the heat on medium-high, and using a candy thermometer, watch for the oil to reach 365 degrees. (Note: You’ll want the temperature to stay here, and not dip below, or you’ll get greasy, soggy chicken fried steak.)

4. Fry the steaks, flipping them to the other side when the bottom looks cooked and crispy. (You’ll have to eyeball this; it all depends on the thickness of the steaks, but a 1-inch steak shouldn’t take more than 10-13 minutes total.)

5. With tongs, remove the steaks from the oil and place them on a plate lined with paper towels.

6. Make the gravy. Pour almost all of of the oil out of the skillet, leaving the brown bits (this will give your gravy lots of great flavor). Now, with the skillet turned on medium, sprinkle the leftover flour mixture into the pan and stir until all of the brown bits have lifted off of the surface, and the flour begins to brown. Add the milk and keep stirring briskly, so you don’t get lumps. Lower heat and stir constantly. It’ll take 10-15 to thicken up. Be sure taste before serving. It may need a bit more salt or pepper.

It’s no secret that I’ve got a big love for the Pays Basque — the Southwest corner of France that touches Spain, just north of the Pyrenees mountains. I’m smitten with the rugged landscape, the chaotic, unpredictable weather (it can be warm in December, as it was a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve had to layer on sweaters in June), and the roar of the Atlantic, wooing surfers here from all over the world. But more than any of that,  it’s the food that I love most — here, the cuisine is as honest and straightforward as the geography — and the people, too, all fiercely independent and still speaking their own pre-Roman language, Euskera (and still fighting for an independent state, but all that pesky Basque separatist activity aside, it’s a pretty peaceful area).

There’s the Basque cheese, Brebis, made from sheep’s milk, and often eaten with coing, or quince, for dessert; jambon de Bayonne, the area’s Serrano-like ham; Gateau Basque, a double-crusted “cake” that’s filled with vanilla or cherry cream; piperade, a pepper-onion mixture that reminds me of what we serve with fajitas. Food is cooked simply, and often quickly and without a lot of fuss. Northern France is all about creamy and buttery; here, the tastes of the ingredients are allowed to shine. When I found out that some of Paris’ most well-known chefs are from this area- uber-chef Alain Ducasse, Yves Camdeborde at Le Comptoir, Inaki Aizpitarte at Le Chateaubriand, L’Ami Jean’s Stephane Jago — I wasn’t surprised.

The first thing that Xavier and I do when we arrive in Biarritz, an 8 or 9 hour drive from Paris, is drop our luggage, walk out onto the westward-facing terrace overlooking the Atlantic, and breathe in the fresh air.

The second thing: we walk 10 minutes into town, past the whitewashed houses with the traditional Basque brick red trim and terra cotta-tiled rooftops and head to our favorite Basque tapas bar (or pintxos bar, as it’s called in Euskera), Bar Jean.

Filled with locals sipping sangria or vino tinto, a hearty Spanish red, Bar Jean is known for fresh, locally caught seafood, which the restaurant buys at the daily fish market just across the street. Posters of bullfights and paintings of bullfighters adorn the low-ceilinged, beamed rooms, joined together in a rather helter-skelter, add-on sort of way. It’s cozy, crowded, and the food is always good – and cheap.

Sometimes we start with the tiny sandwiches on the bar, but this time, I opted to go straight for the specials – mussels cooked a la plancha, or on a flat-top grill, the traditional way to cook fish (and just about everything else) in the Southwest, and couteaux, or knife-shaped shellfish, cooked with lots of parsley, garlic, and piment d’Espelette, the area’s best-known chile, a red, mild chile that’s available dried, and found in just about anything you can imagine, from mustard to chocolate.

I always order tortilla, too.

And Bar Jean’s fried calamari, served here with lemon along with a side of super-garlicky aioli. I first tasted the calamari here more than five years ago, and fell in love with it – until then, I’d only tasted the rubbery rings with a side of (gasp) marinara sauce, and not surprisingly, didn’t like it at all. These are so fresh, they melt in your mouth.

For dessert, we had Mamia, sheep’s yogurt (remember, the Basque sheepherders gave us the famous French beret), served with a side of honey. It’s lovely and lighter than any other yogurt that I’ve tasted here, and it’s difficult to find in Paris, so we eat as much of it as we can when we’re in the area. So does Rose.

Oh yeah. We love the Spanish wine, too.

Bar Jean
5 rue des Halles
Biarritz
05-59-24-80-38

Or “Joyeuses Fetes,” as we say here in France. I’m celebrating Christmas this year in the Pays Basque, in the southwest corner of the country, in Biarritz, right on the Atlantic. Can’t say that I’ve ever spent a Christmas holiday waking up to the roar of crashing waves, but it’s something that I could definitely get used to.

Hope that y’all are having a wonderful holiday, too, wherever you are.

Ho ho ho!

Red or green? Why choose when both (aka “Christmas”) is an option. So I always red and green it up when in New Mexico, on everything and anything.

On my recent trip to Taos and Santa Fe, we stopped at JoAnn’s Rancho O Cascados in Espanola, which has the vibe of a diner, New Mexican style — a long counter with bolted-down swirly stools at the front, deep booths against windowed walls, and Formica tables scattered about, filled with locals, not tourists.

Except for us.

I’d been to JoAnn’s before, years ago, at the recommendation of a friend of mine who lives in Albuquerque, and whenever I’m on the road to Taos, I always try to stop in.

Since it was lunchtime, I ordered up a bean-stuffed sopapilla, with the ubiquitous red and green, rice and posole.

To start, more sopapillas, which I know you can’t tell here, but they’re big as half of a dinner plate. I ate three.

Of course, along with the meal, blue corn tortillas.

I don’t know if it’s the drive, the altitude, or the fact that if I don’t get (more) coffee in my system by 4 pm each day, I start to growl, but I always find the coffee at World Cup Cafe in Taos just what I need to get through the next few hours, until dinnertime.

Normally, when I’m in Santa Fe, breakfast is a toss-up between Cafe Pasqual’s and Tecolote, another diner sort of place that has lovely blue corn pancakes. But this time, I decided to try out a new spot, just open a year, called Tune-Up Cafe.

Whoo-boy, I’m glad I did. Look at this signature breakfast, a chile relleno with roasted tomato sauce, served with a couple of eggs, some beans and tortillas.

It was the perfect last day meal.

Next stop, as always: Aztec Cafe in Santa Fe, for a coffee for the road. The coffee here is some of the best I’ve tasted outside of Italy (and an exboyfriend from Milan agrees) — robust, strong, and complex.

Until next time, New Mexico. See ya soon.

JoAnn’s Rancho O Cascados
938 Riverside Dr.
Espanola
505-753-1335

World Cup Cafe
102 Cam Del Paseo Pueblo Norte
Taos
575-737-5299

Tune-Up Cafe
1115 Hickox St.
Santa Fe
505-983-7060

Aztec Cafe
317 Aztec St.
Santa Fe
505-820-0025

It’s not the sort of place that you just come across; unless, that is, you’re ambling down Old Las Vegas Highway east of Santa Fe, and happen to look over and see the cars, and the crowd of people standing around in the parking lot here, waiting patiently for their names to be called.

For what, you ask? A burger. Not just any burger, mind you — a big ‘ol juicy fresh ground whole boneless chuck burger that puts nearly all others to shame.

I first heard about Bobcat Bite awhile back from Katharine Kagel at Cafe Pasqual’s in Santa Fe, and felt silly for not knowing about it sooner. It’s a New Mexico — and national — institution. Bon Appetit named the 10 oz. chile cheeseburger here the best in the U.S., and GQ listed Bobcat Bite #12 on its “20 Burgers you must eat before you die” list.

So I put my name on the list and waited, too.

Here I am, sitting at the bar in the tiny space with the beams on the ceilings. Bobcat Bite’s been around since 1953, and has been family-owned throughout its history, though not the same family. Bobcats used to come down to this little adobe, once a trading post and gun shop, where the owners would feed them treats. Not sure if “treats” means burgers, but I didn’t see any  bobcats on the day that I was there. Except for this one.

While I was waiting for my burger, I had a little bowl of green chile stew, which immediately went to the top of my own personal “green chile stew you must eat before you die” list. See the Hatch green chiles floating in this broth? Still vibrant and fresh, and just spicy enough to warm the simple soup, with tomatoes and juicy chunks of pork.

Then — drum roll, please — it was burger time. Oh my my.

I took one look, and said, “I’ll never be able to eat all of this.”

Then guess what I did? Yup. All gone.

Bobcat Bite (420 Old Las Vegas Highway, Santa Fe, NM) is open in the winter Wednesday – Saturday, 11 a.m. – 7:50 p.m., so plan your trip — and eating schedule — accordingly.

Don’t forget to wear your cowgirl boots.

Here I am, washing vegetables on Day 1 of culinary school in Mexico City.

This was before things got weird. When I tried to take a photograph of the place from the outside, I was scolded by a “security guard,” and told that photos were not allowed. I won’t even try to describe it, either, because I don’t want to get into trouble.

I’ve seen “Weeds.”

Our teacher is telling us all about chiles, but as you can see, we’re kind of getting lost already. I’m having fun, though.

I want to understand what our  Spanish-only speaking teacher is saying, so I ask lots of questions — in some awful combo platter of Italian mixed with French — so, to fill in the mucho grande communication gaps, I use my hands to try to make myself understood.

It really doesn’t work at all.
It’s not strange that a cooking school in Mexico would hold classes in Spanish, but I was told that all of the classes would be in English. Our Day 1 recipes are in Spanish, too, with no instructions on how to make stuff. Just lists of ingredients.

Lists and lists.

Sigh.

This morning, we’re going to make salsas. Wait, scratch that.  Chiles rellenos. Fried in corn oil, boiled in milk, and toasted on the comal. Mole? Adobo, too? Seriously?

I’m not the only one who’s lost. We all are.

So we smell chiles. I can do that.

We slice chiles.

We stuff chiles.

We taste stuff that goes into the chiles.

We all get into trouble for laughing too much.

Here I am washing my hands. What’s missing, though? Soap. Towels. None of the prep area sinks had soap or towels,  which I thought was odd. Especially since you can’t go anywhere in this town and not see a bottle of some sort of Purell-ish antibacterial goo on the counter, free for the taking.

Did they forget that we were coming, I wondered?

It’s a good thing that I brought my handy pocket-size CVS brand aloe-infused antibacterial spray — it didn’t save me from getting horribly sick about five days into the trip, though, which sent me home early. To be fair, there was a sink in the middle of the space where we ate our lunch – with soap, and paper towels on the second day — and gosh, I hate to sound like a germphobe, but shouldn’t soap and towels be at every sink?

Sigh.

I wiped my hands on my apron like everyone else.

Day 2 was lots better. We had a teacher named Margarita, and really, how can you go wrong with someone named after the best cocktail ever? I loved Margarita and she showed us how to make moles in the morning and tamales in the afternoon. It was a perfect day.

This is what the Hazelnut-Pistachio mole looked like at school. This, along with a mole made with ginger (!), among other secret ingredients (I’ll tell you later, don’t worry), was my favorite. It looks daunting – heck, just saying mole sounds scary, doesn’t it? – but it’s really not. This is what’s known as an “everyday”  mole, since it only takes a couple of hours to make, which is like a 30-minute meal in Mexico-time.

First, you roast all of your ingredients, which takes about an hour.

Then, you puree everything in a blender, and stir and stir and stir, until the mole gets super-concentrated, like this.

Here’s the recipe, which I think y’all are just gonna love. Last week, I served this over some roasted chicken and rolled it up in a tortilla, which was really fantastic. I’m so grateful to Chef Margarita for sharing her stories and recipes with us, and for her adept (and multi-lingual) instruction. The school have been a bit strange, but she was a complete pro. (Clink! A margarita toast to Chef Margarita. Muchas gracias.)

Hazelnut-Pistachio Mole

Based on a recipe by Margarita Carillo.

INGREDIENTS

½ medium white onion, sliced

3 cloves garlic, unpeeled

¼ cup corn oil

4 ancho chiles (dried)

2 medium Roma tomatoes

1 cup pistachios (unsalted), shelled

1 cup hazelnuts , shelled

1 corn tortilla

½ teaspoon coriander seed

½ teaspoon cumin seed

½ teaspoon black peppercorns

3-4 cups chicken broth

sea salt

WHAT YOU DO

1. In a medium skillet, drizzle the corn oil and add the sliced onion and garlic, and cook over medium heat until toasted. Remove from heat, and put into a bowl.

2. Put 2 cups of water on to boil.

3. Split the ancho chiles and remove the seeds and veins. On an ungreased comal or cast iron skillet, over medium heat (not hotter, because the chiles will burn), press down the chiles with a wooden spoon or spatula and cook for 30 seconds to 1 minute, or until they begin to change color. (Note: You’ll also smell the chiles cooking, and when you do, they’re ready.) Put chiles in a bowl of hot water for 10-15 minutes.

4. In the same comal or cast iron skillet, over medium-high heat, roast the tomatoes until the skin begins to burn. Remove, and put into the bowl with the onion and garlic.

5. Roast the tortilla in the comal or cast iron skillet, too, over medium-high heat. Put into bowl with other roasted ingredients.

6. Put the pistachios in the comal or cast iron skillet and roast over medium-high heat until toasted. Put into bowl.

7. Put the hazlenuts in the comal or cast iron skillet and roast until skins begin to loosen from the nut. Remove from heat, and with a dry dish towel, rub the nuts until the skins come off. (Note: This is the most labor-intensive part of the whole process. Be patient.The skins will eventually come off.) Add to the bowl with the other toasted ingredients.

8. Put the coriander seed, the cumin seed, and black peppercorns in the comal or cast iron skillet, and toast over medium-high heat. (Note: This won’t take long. When they begin to pop, they’re ready.) Remove and put in bowl with other ingredients.

9. Put everything that’s been toasted, including the now-soft chiles, into a blender and puree for 5-10 minutes, or until the mixture is very smooth. Here, you’ll add chicken stock, little by little, to liquify the mixture enough to blend.

10. Now, the fun part. Add the blended, pureed mixture to a heavy, deep saucepan (because the mole will bubble and splatter), and turn the heat on low. You’ll need to stir constantly — usually 45 minutes to one hour — until the mixture reduces and the flavors intensify.

Note: Do NOT add salt until the very end, after all of the other flavors have intensified.

This mole works well with chicken or seafood, and will keep in the fridge for a couple of weeks or in the freezer for up to 6 months.