Menu: Pork and Red Chile Tamales, Homemade Guacamole, Margaritas

Growing up in Kent, Washington, in the 1980s, there wasn’t a great deal of choice when it came to Mexican food. Our family never strayed farther than Mexico Lindo, where my dad impressed me by ordering his meal exercising his command of seventh-grade Spanish. Except for an ill-fated trip to the neighboring Viva Zapata I always chose tacos, the kind stuffed with ground beef in a crispy yellow shell. My grandfather, in a misguided attempt to expand my eight-year-old palate, refused to let me eat tacos at Viva Zapata, insisting I order chiles rellenos. My grandmother had just died and it was the first time the two of us had ever shared a meal in her absence. I swallowed back tears, knowing, had my grandmother been there, that she would have gently brought him around to my way of thinking. Not wanting to make him sadder than he already was I complied, but I still remember the indignation I felt at having to carefully pick my way around the chunky bracelets of green bell peppers to get at the only edible part of the dish: the pool of molten cheese at the center. I made a silent vow to myself to never return to Viva Zapata, and to always stick with tacos.

For half my life this is where my knowledge of Mexican food began and ended. We never ate it at home – my mother claimed she didn’t like it, although years later I would discover she was enamored with “real” Mexican cuisine – and the concept of eating Mexican food outside of a Mexican restaurant seemed preposterous. Then, I married into a Mexican-American family. (Coincidentally, I discovered that my mother-in-law, Cecilia, was a waitress at Mexico Lindo during the years my family frequented the restaurant.) I’ll never forget the first time I visited their house at Christmas and spied a giant pot of posole simmering on the stove; it might as well have been Martian food. But it was a revelation to discover that Mexican dishes could come in the form of stew and did not unilaterally involve globs of bright-colored cheese.

When I was in high school my friend, Angi, was in love with potatoes. As theater geeks we ate lunch every day in the drama classroom, slumped over those tiny L-shaped desks attached to melamine chairs. I always brought my lunch from home, which my mother packed for me until the day I graduated high school (lest you think I’m a total lazy bones, I did wash my own laundry from the tender age of 12). My lunch usually consisted of a turkey sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a trio of Ho-Hos or a 100 Grand bar. Needless to say, my metabolism was a bit more efficient back then. Angi, on the other hand, religiously ate a baked potato from the school lunchroom. When we went out to dinner at Trotter’s, a local restaurant and ice cream parlor oddly outfitted in horse-themed paraphernalia, which we did nearly every Friday night after play rehearsal, Angi would choose the baked potato side. Or sometimes the French fries. Or, if potato soup was the special, she might order that. When I found myself traveling in Peru, the home of the potato, a few years ago, I thought to myself, “Angi would love this place.” To this day I can’t think about a potato without thinking of her.

Last week Angi flew into Albuquerque from Seattle so that we could road trip to Sedona, Arizona, and meet up with our friend, Heidi, who lives in Las Vegas, for a long weekend. I spent the week trying to figure out what to cook for Angi during her one-night stay in the Land of Enchantment. I wasn’t sure if her love affair with tubers persisted but I found myself combing through every potato recipe in my arsenal. Shepherd’s Pie, scalloped potatoes, gnocchi: it all felt a little heavy for a springtime supper. Finally, I sent her an email and asked if anything special appealed to her, and she responded that she wanted something typically New Mexican. “Can you handle some heat?” I wrote back to her. Although I had already prepared a pot of green chile stew for my visiting mother-in-law earlier that week I couldn’t think of anything more New Mexican. Plus, it has potatoes.

For centuries, Native peoples have relied on a diet containing corn, beans, and squash. Called the Three Sisters by the Iroquois Nations of the Northeastern United States, these three plants emerged from the first garden as sisters to help and support each other. The Iroquois believe that the well being of every crop is protected by the Sisters, spirits collectively referred to as Do-o-ha-ko (“those who support us” or “our sustainers”). The term also refers to the practice of planting these three Sister plants together in garden mounds. This tradition is good not only for the body, but for the planet as well.

The Indigenous understanding of sustainability is based on the philosophy that all things are integrally connected. Traditional Ecological Knowledge or TEK is a highly empirical indigenous science earned over thousands of years of careful observation, passed down by Native elders and therefore an ancient paradigm of sustainability. This TEK can play a pivotal role in how humans can more effectively and spiritually interact with their ecosystems and offer shared traditional knowledge of how to restore eco-cultural heritage and landscapes by revitalizing a connection between people and place. Cara Romero (Chemehuevi), the program director of the Indigeneity program at Bioneers in Santa Fe, New Mexico, states, “TEK is a viewpoint that has been critically undervalued until now, and that it provides a crucial compliment to the tools of Western science as we work to restore social and ecological balance to Mother Earth. Native Peoples are truly holding a sacred role for the planet.”

Here in New Mexico, it is often said by Native communities that a healthy environment means a healthy culture, which means a healthy people. Likewise corn, beans, and squash are also considered to be sacred gifts from the Great Spirit. The way these vegetables grow in the garden exemplifies this notion of interconnectedness, as do the complementary nutrients they provide.

I'm so excited, I finally succeeded in growing broccoli in my garden! The trick to growing broccoli is consistently cool weather, which doesn't happen often in Albuquerque – it's either hot or cold. The seed packets always say to wait until after frost to plant, but that's not quite right for our climate. Cole crops are quite frost-hardy, so I planted some healthy starts in February, and the main heads are ready to eat now. They are not very tightly packed, which is what happens in warm weather, so I thought I'd better pick them before they bolt. And they are delicious!

1 pound broccoli, or broccoli raab

2 T. tahini, or 2 T. finely ground black sesame seeds

1 t. toasted sesame oil

1 t. miso

1 t. cider vinegar

1 t. honey

1 t. soy sauce

2 T. mirin

Cut broccoli into large chunks; steam until tender. Whisk all other ingredients together. Toss warm broccoli with dressing. Serves 2 to 4.

Blogger Amy White is totally obsessed with vegetables and fruits. Amy can be found every Friday right here, and on her blog, www.veggieobsession.com.

Menu: Fresh Tagliarini with Local Cabbage, Escarole Salad with Fresh Parmesan and Local Olive Oil Vinaigrette

Lilia stood at the edge of the garden, knitting her arms across her chest to guard against the early spring chill that settled in around us. We had just arrived at Il Laghello di Amina, an agriturismo, or farmstay, in the tiny hamlet of Framura, snuggled in a corner of Liguria, Italy. Perched on a verdant slope, the Mediterranean Sea twinkling blue below, I had come here to eat locally and seasonally.

Our cozy studio apartment, nestled under the eaves of a guesthouse that Lilia and her husband, Guido, built last year, offered modest cooking implements: a two-burner gas stove whose back burner whooshed frighteningly to life, its blue flame licking at the handles of the aluminum stockpot. A small refrigerator, a few pans, no measuring spoons. I knew that anything I cooked would need to be simple, without much effort or embellishment, and perhaps that was just the point. After all, Lilia had moved to this lush tract of land nine years ago, leaving behind the harried existence of a shopkeeper in nearby Portofino in an effort to reconnect to nature and life's simple pleasures.

When I asked what was available from the garden, Lilia squinted toward a plot of rich earth that tumbled down the hill from her pink house, its chimney puffing violet smoke into the cool afternoon. “Right now we have cabbage, porro – porro?” “— Leeks,” I interjected, recognizing the word from Spanish. “Yes, leeks!” she said, suddenly pulling the word out of the mire of memory, “the long onions,” pantomiming for effect. “And greens. The bitter kind, for salad.” My mind sifted through possibilities. Without my usual arsenal of cookbooks at my disposal I quickly invented a recipe in my head and composed a grocery list to fill in the gaps.

On Easter Sunday, with most restaurants and stores closed, I decided to assemble a simple dinner. Lilia brought a shopping bag filled with lacy heads of Napa-like cabbage and the prettiest head of escarole I had ever laid eyes on. I fingered the vibrant green leaves that bloomed from the base like a lotus, frilly and soft as silk, and marveled at the contrast to their distant American cousins that I have seen in grocery stores, waxy and tough. I ran a dull knife through the cabbage, slicing it into thin ribbons, and placed it in a flimsy sauté pan with a thinly sliced onion, a generous spoonful of butter, and a sprinkling of salt. I slipped a package of fresh tagliarini, a spaghetti-like pasta, into a pot of boiling water.

Written by Amelia White

Blogger Amy White is totally obsessed with vegetables and fruits. Amy can be found every Friday right here, and on her blog, www.veggieobsession.com.

Lamb and turnips are a classic combination. Both are available year-round, but we associate them especially with spring. Braising them in apple cider adds a tangy sweetness. I used a dry hard cider; you could use a non-alcoholic cider, but it would be a much sweeter dish. I like to use the cheapest, toughest cuts of lamb on the bone for stews, because they are very flavorful and become perfectly tender after a long braise.

Large fall turnips, such as the purple-topped variety usually found in grocery stores, are some of the longest-keeping vegetables that would have sustained our ancestors well into spring. They can be bitter, but blanching them for a few minutes helps. Spring turnips are delicate and sweet, and can be used whole in this recipe. It would be great to use the turnip greens as well, but the turnips I had on hand this week came without greens.