Kat Drennan – Page 5 – Kat Drennan Author

Gringa Mex

December 19, 2013 by Kat Drennan Leave a Comment

I had the fortune to befriend a lovely Latina nurse early in December while Freddie was in the hospital for neck surgery. (He’s doing great, thank you and fast on the mend.) One of the things I and the nurse had in common, other than familiarity with my husbands privates (poor baby had to have a catheter) was our love of Christmas Tamales.

I admitted to totally trashing my kitchen the last time I attempted these. I don’t admit to a lot of things, but one of them is I’m a blond-haired, blue eyed, Native Californian Gringa Mex devotee. I never miss the chance to learn from a master when it comes to Mexican cooking. Few visitors to my Ojai kitchen dispute the fact that my Gringa Mex fish tacos the best anywhere. If you know me then you know my philosophy of cooking is that there is no food on earth that can’t be improved by the addition of a little heat (of the chili variety). Puts endorphins in your brain and a smile on your face. I’m definitely going to add these tamale birds to Pilar’s catering menu in Borrego Moon. (Yes, still working on it.)

But home made tamales–the masa, the lard, the corn husks, the pasting, the filling the folding, the steaming…the pure hands-on time consuming task of making tamales and the fact that my family and all their little helping hands live far, far away, making tamales is more of a fantasy dream of mine than the reality. Even my part Latina sister-in-law gets her Christmas tamales from someone else’s kitchen.

So while waiting for my husband to make a last valiant effort to go on his own before the insertion of the dreaded pee pee tube, Nurse Catheter shared with me her Christmas Tamale secret: Forget the lard, the corn husks and the steaming and just bake the darn things in muffin cups.

Hello? Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Fresh, delicious, plentiful, hot, mouthwatering Christmas Tamales without the huge, time-gobbling mess? I’m so there. I’m Livin’ La Vida Loca. Did I make them? Damn skippin’ I did, and here’s the result:

Okay, yes. I added the corn husk back in (along with a bit more hands on), but hey, that’s me, and it made it easy to lift the golden treasures out of the muffin cups intact. Add a dollop of Martha Stewart’s fresh tomatillo salsa (you can’t get any more Gringa than that) and you’ve got a plate full of what I call “Vanishing Christmas Tamale Birds.”

You can use any masa and filling you love. Mine were made with Fresh and Dried Corn Tamale* masa dough and carnitas filling (I used a slow cooker to prepare the meat the day before assembly).
These take about ten minutes to assemble each muffin tray of 18 and 20 minutes in the oven.

WARNING: It is a good idea to double the recipe! I took two dozen of these to a party and when they disappeared almost instantly, the mob came after me.

The method and recipes follow. Enjoy and Feliz Navidad!

Ingredients:
1 package dried corn husks, soaked in water for about a hour
3 lbs pork tri tip or other fatty cut
1 7-oz. can of Herdez (or other brand) salsa verde.
1 small white onion, chopped.
1-1/2 cups masa harina (you can get Masa Seca at most grocery stores)
3/4 tsp salt
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened
1/4 cup vegetable shortening
Cooking spray
1/8 cup vegetable or olive oil (for pressure cooker method only)
1 cup warm water
1/4 cup water (for pressure cooker method only)
1 cup fresh corn kernels, including corn germ and milk (You can substitute canned corn and a bit of the juice)
Fresh Tomatillo Salsa**

Carnitas Meat Filling:
Make it up the day before in a slow cooker, or use a pressure cooker for same day assembly. There is no need to add water as the juices and fat in the meat are all you need.
Slow Cooker
Place the meat in the slow cooker, add the can of Salsa Verde and onions, heat on High for the first couple of hours, then turn to low for the remainder. Cook until tender and easily shredded (about 6 hours).
Pressure Cooker
Heat cooker, add a tbs oil. Brown meat on all sides, mix salsa verde and 1/8 cup water and pour over meat. Sprinkle onions on top. Seal on lid. Heat until steam escapes lid, then place the rocker on the vent pipe and cook at a gentle rock for 45 minutes. Turn of heat and let steamer indicator return to down position before opening.

Fresh Corn and Dried Corn Masa Dough*:
Place the masa harina, salt, sugar and baking power in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Add the melted butter and shortening and beat for about 3 minutes until the batter breaks up into fine pieces. Add the water and beat for about 2 more minutes. Be sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl a few times to make sure it’s all mixed in. Add the corn and beat another minute until the masa sticks to the paddle more than to the sides. Turn the dough out onto plastic wrap and wrap. Let it stand about 30 minutes or longer to fully absorb the wet ingredients.

Assembly:
This is the fun part. Pre heat oven to 400 deg. Tear corn husks into thin strips and tear the wide ends into strips. Make enough for the size batch you need. They should still be a little wet prior to baking to keep them from burning.

Spray muffin pans with cooking spray. Place one corn husk strip into a cup, leaving about an inch of the husk sticking out on one side and the rest on the other. Pat about 2 tbs of dough into cup, spreading up sides.

Once all cups are filled, squeeze out excess juice from a dollop of carnitas (about a tbs), and place in each cup.

Top each cup with a layer of dough, making sure to seal with the dough already in the cup.

Bake at 400 deg for 20 minutes. Lift out using the “head and tail” of the birds and place on cooling rack. You can make these ahead and reheat before serving.

Fresh tomatillo salsa is a wonderful counterpoint to these tamales, adding sweet crunch and heat, but you can use any you love. I used **Martha Stewart’s Fresh Tomatillo Salsa which can be found on her website at www.marthastewart.com/316989/fresh–tomatillo–salsa .

Pareidolia?

August 19, 2013 by Kat Drennan Leave a Comment

Before today, I thought I was just crazy. I see out-of-context things in ordinary patterns.

Here’s how it works. I see a contraption on the beach. I can’t see the base of it because it’s behind the dunes. It’s at least a half mile away, and for a moment, I think–no, I’m positive–there’s a huge crane sticking its erector-set neck up out of the middle of what I know is a lagoon where no crane that big would ever go. There is a cameraman perched on the top of it wearing an Indiana Jones hat, hiding in a makeshift blind, waiting for just the right moment to catch that line of pelican’s swooping across the waves on the other side of the dunes. I walk at little further and the object morphs like a Salvador Dali painting into a crooked driftwood tree trunk someone has hung their hat on, not more than twenty yards away.

Really?

Last year they put up a new billboard along the highway on my way home from my local beach. It’s a dog face, with floppy, dachshund-like ears, a cute black nose, and his pink tongue peeking out. He’s sporting a sad smile, his eyes half-mast. When I get closer, I see that it’s an advertisement for bank loans with two people shaking hands.

Huh?

Every time I drive by, it’s the same: first the dog, then the people. It freaks the heck out of me because this isn’t an uncommon experience. It happens to me all the time. I was at my daughter’s last month, and magnetized to her refrigerator door is a picture of a horse with a Mona Lisa smile. He’s looking right at me, and reminds me that I could be…what? A little off? Delusional? It’s so disconcerting that I confess:

“Now, I don’t want you to worry, but…I see freaky stuff that turns out to be ordinary. I see ordinary stuff that turns out to be freaky.”

I tell her about the horse. Trooper that she is, and a mother now herself, she humors me. (Come to think of it, we used to see things together in the random patterns of our shower tile–lions, tigers, and bears.) “Oh, yeah…I see it,” she says. With an arm around my shoulder, she walks me up to the fridge to show me the portrait. A family portrait of some friends. No horse, no smile. Just ordinary people.

But today, I’m vindicated. And relieved. And I can thank a random post on my social media page for my relief. There’s a name for this–I’ll call it a gift. It’s called pareidolia. No, it’s not a matching set of those lacy crocheted things your great grandmother pin all over the furniture.

Pareidolia is, according to Wikepedia, a “vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant. Like the man in the moon and those little lion faces on the shower tile? Yep. Pareidolia. Honest to Pete, I didn’t make this up. You can read and see some wonderful examples here: Pareidolia

I, my darlings, will stick this away in my writer’s toolbox and return to my WIP: A novel based on a woman who sees freaky things in the wallpaper. And keeps it to herself.

Camp NaNoWriMo

June 2, 2012 by Kat Drennan Leave a Comment

Write a book in a month? What am I thinking? All over the country, writers participate in a month-long NanoWriMo, usually in November. I wanted to do it then, but was hard in final draft of Mint Condition, so I took advantage of that excuse.

Camp NaNoWriMo is for the month of June. Eeek! It’s already the second and my word count is a whopping ZERO. It’s all about goal setting and working to achieve word count. Here’s my camper badge.

I’ve never done this before so we’ll see what happens. I plan to do marathons from 6 to 8:30, then either run or swim (depending on the day) then get in two more hours–every day.

If you want to visit me at Camp NaNoWriMo, follow this link: http://campnanowrimo.org/campers/kat-drennan

Mothering Day

April 26, 2012 by Kat Drennan Leave a Comment

As Mother’s Day looms like a spectre for those who are mothering challenged, I offer this encouragement…

It pops up once a year, just when you’re planning your Memorial Day bash: Mother’s Day. It’s joyful for many, inconvenient for others, but let’s admit, it’s downright awkward for those of us who squirm in front of the Hallmark racks, searching for the one card that will serve the purpose without compromising our souls, not to mention our wallets. According to the National Retail Federation, consumers will spend $15.8 billion on Mother’s Day this year, with an average expenditure of $138.63.

This was not exactly what Anna Jarvis of West Virginia had in mind back in 1914, when she won her campaign to make observation of Mother’s Day a National holiday. By the 1920s, Anna had grown weary of the blatant commercialization that had hijacked her idea, when all she really wanted was to honor her own mother and remind us all to show our mothers appreciation for their “truth, purity and broad charity of mother love.” What she intended to be a holy day honoring mothers and all they do and sacrifice for their children was quickly seized as a ripe opportunity for retailers, florists, and candy makers to cash in on a glorious windfall.

Alas, poor Anna did not thoroughly research her project, or she might have foreseen the impending calamity. This was not the first time in history an attempt to honor motherhood has been hijacked.

Festivals celebrating motherhood have been popular throughout the centuries. The Ancient Romans celebrated for several days at the vernal equinox, in honor of the mother goddess Cybele. After a day of fasting and a day of sacrifice, Sanguis, the day of blood (scourging, whipping and castration) was followed by Hilaira, the day of joy. After that came a much-needed day of rest, followed by a day to clean up the blood, beer bottles and empty pizza boxes. I’m not sure how any of this honors our mothers, except by cleaning up our own mess afterward, but as a mother, I might just as well have enjoyed the card and a box of Godivas.

By the sixteenth century, Christianity was the order of the day, and the Roman Empire gave up its bloody mother’s day celebration for a more useful day of worship. The Church swapped the celebration of the vernal equinox in the middle of March for honoring the Virgin Mary on fourth Sunday of Lent. Believers made reverent trips back to their church of origin, their Mother church. This practice came to be known as going “a-mothering.” Non-believers must have gone “a-fishing,” although it wasn’t popular at the time to be a non-believer. (If you were, you didn’t spread that information around.)

It wasn’t until the 19th century that “Mothering Day,” celebrated more or less regularly the second week of May, morphed into what we know today as “Mother’s Day,” a retail bonanza only surpassed by Halloween and Christmas. Which brings me back to my original position in front of the Hallmark rack. If I were tasked to buy each of my various mothers a card, I would be in the proverbial deep doo-doo.

My parents divorced when I was around two years old. My mother traded up from a swab jockey, my father returned from the Pacific, to a slick-dressing purchasing agent where she worked. I was dropped into the fifties when parents slept in twin beds and no one — no one — got divorced unless they were movie stars, misfits, or madmen. Fortunately for me, my grandmother was there with a wide lap, loving arms, and an Irish woman’s ire to set me on the path and the strength of character to keep me there. We kept up appearances, but everyone knew, shhhh, she lives with her grandma because…her parents are… divorced.

At the time, I was oblivious to the scandal. In fact, I felt kind of special going to visit my mother on the third Sunday of the month. During those times, she gave me what wisdom she could muster, like “never squint into the sun, it makes wrinkles” and “put your bouffant to bed on a silk pillow case.” As well as, “never drink martinis on an empty stomach.”

I could compare my mother to Anna Karenina, driven by desire to leave her young husband and child for another man, except that she’d made a very good choice that lasted her a lifetime. I dutifully purchased the mom card every year, though we did little in the way of bonding. (A big, well deserved “I told you so” coming from Ms. Jarvis.)

My grandmother taught me the important things, the enduring things, the card-worthy things. That God is Love with a capitol ell, and that God was my father and my mother, so I wasn’t missing out on anything. She sent me through years of Sunday school, where I was drilled on the Ten Commandments, The Sermon on the Mount, and the Be-attitudes. For my liberal education I learned useful dittys like “whistling girls and crowing hens always come to some bad ends,” and “we don’t smoke and we don’t chew, and we don’t go with boys who do.”

Her mother’s day card was usually hand drawn or pasted up as an exercise in grammar school, the words I Love You becoming more legible as the years passed. Having raised seven children of her own, my grandmother was Jane Austen’s classic mother, worthy of the highest Hallmark praise. Imagine her shock when, after a string of wild affairs with brunettes and redheads and air heads, my father finally married an “appropriate” mother, a person I refer to as Honky-Tonk Ruth. I spent my next eight years in California’s South Bay, a wannabe Gidget, pushing back hard against her St. Charles, Louisiana influences–a very different kind of South.

Ruth’s hair was too frizzy, her skirts were too long, she smoked and drank, and sang loud and bawdy at country bars before karaoke was a sparkle in the inventor’s eye. I could never understand why she pushed so hard. The worst thing I did was cut the pushups out of her black strapless bra and stuff them in my bathing suit. I would love to have been a fly on the wall when she discovered the surgery, but she never did—at least not on my watch. (Would be step mothers of twelve-year-old daughters beware: you don’t stand a chance.) By the time I reached junior high, having divorced parents was only mildly embarrassing compared to having a country-singing step mom serving beer at the local bowling alley in a little black and red chambermaid outfit.

In retrospect, Honky-Tonk was not all that bad. She taught me my love of Creole cooking–red beans and rice, shrimp etouffee, and hush puppies—and the finer points of growing your nails really, really long without the use of acrylics. There are certainly worse examples of ruthless mothers in literature. The villainous Madame Thenardier of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables comes to mind. Without my grandmother’s teaching, I might have resented Honky-Tonk’s habit of sending my not-quite-ready‑for- hand-me-down clothing, furniture and toys to her nieces back in St. Charles. Can’t you just see the tab divider among all the cheerful choices in the card rack:

New Mother, Humorous, Grandma, Religious, Honky-Tonk, M. Thenardier.

Ruth got a gig with country band in Inglewood and eventually ran away to Calamesa with a red-headed drummer.

Just before I entered my senior year in high school, my dad—probably in reaction to being left by two age-appropriate wives—decided to go young. Sweet lady Jane, four years my senior, moved into our house in Anaheim. A year later they were married. It was like getting a new big sister instead of a mother. We had a blast. She taught me to propagate dieffenbachias, smoke pot, broil filet mignon, and eat it voraciously with baked potato smothered in sour cream and chives followed by pints of Baskin Robbins. We studied Psycho-Cybernetics and Christian Science. She got a Porsche for her 22nd birthday; I didn’t, so I left home and got married.

My mother and I grew closer after I was married, and had children. She held them at arm’s length, like they were puppies about to pee. When life in Orange County became intolerable, my husband and I moved the family up north, and mother and I seldom saw each other. But, on her 70th birthday, her life fell apart. My step father, Vern, suffered from Korsikov’s Syndrome, a debilitating form of dementia, and it was clear, she wasn’t much better off. I stepped in, put Vern into Alzheimer’s care, and took her into my home without reservation. It was a bittersweet reunion. Friends and family wondered: how could I devote myself to her when she was never there for me? The thought never crossed my mind. All I knew was that I had her back, even if our roles were reversed. I believe I gave her the mothering she never had as a child and it was healing for both of us.

Should I get the blue ribbon Hallmark card? Lace and roses and lines of rhyming praise? I honestly don’t know, given my history, how could I? Nature or nurture? I think Buckminster Fuller had it right: The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. I learned a little something and took a little something from each of them, for good or ill, then added my own triumphs and mistakes to the mix.

I signed that petition to legalize pot in California. I have recently acquired a tolerance for country music. I am an avowed Secular Humanist. My grandmother still sits on my shoulder, reminding me we are all One. My mother was there for my first breath and I was there for her last.

In 2008 and 2013, my daughter gave me rosy pink granddaughters, wide eyed and ready to take their places in our bloodline. I have very big shoes to fill. How on Earth will I change myself in order to be good enough for them? My first clue is a secret I’ve learned about grandmothers: They have the advantage of hindsight. Things that seem so important in the brains of a teenager tend to get put into perspective.

Many years after I had children of my own, I had the opportunity to visit with Honky-Tonk Ruth. Suffering from emphysema, she had been contacted by her own daughter, one she had given up for adoption at birth. The daughter was my age. They had re-established their relationship and she had been welcomed as a grandmother into her birth daughter’s family. She told me she was sorry she was so hard on me; that she only wanted to protect me from a world that could be cruel to a young girl. I believe she simply treated me exactly the way her mother treated her and never saw the obvious. And after raising my own teenage daughter, I had some sympathy for her.

Sweet lady Jane left my father to chase another dream and found calamity and regret. The death of my father brought us back to a friendly place and we keep a thread of connection. My mother is gone ten years and I still call to her in my dreams, look for her in the shadows of a late afternoon, and wear her jewelry when I feel lonely. My grandmother still sits on my shoulder, the voice of reason in an unreasonable world. There are no cards sitting in any rack that will bring these women closer to me. Anna Jarvis spent her whole life fighting to call back what she set upon the world, wasting her inheritance and her life. She never married and never had any children. That was her undoing. What I take with me on my journey these days is the weight and the joy of being a grandmother. My baby granddaughter will face challenges, but she has one thing I never had: a loving, wise, and very present mother, deserving of all the praise a mother can receive. No card can express my gratitude for my daughter and her devotion to her child.

Carlos Castaneda tells us in the Teachings of Don Juan, that we are not whole as women until our child has given birth. Once that happens, we are mother and daughter still, but we are also part of a sisterhood of mothers. No card can put that into words.

So go ahead. Enjoy the sappy card and chocolates if they come your way, it can’t hurt. But remember, on Mother’s Day, it is it is the strength of motherhood itself that binds us, runs in our veins, and carries us on…and on… and on.

My novel, The Goddess of Undo, is a mother/daughter tour de force about forgiveness and the conditions of unconditional love.

NOTE: This article originally appeared in The Whole Person Calendar, May, 2010.

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