art of navajo tacos

After I missed the Navajo taco party, IA and I fry up another batch of tacos.

I think the concept of fried bread has been around since Adam and Eve, or maybe since bread, and it seems like every culture has some sort of fried bread, hence, many people mistook the taco party for a ‘scone’ party. Basically the same.

But these masterpieces of fried bread—these were made from a recipe passed from Navajo woman to Navajo woman on the Arizona Rez…to Navajo son, and to IA.

“White people make it too thick,” says IA as he furiously rolls out the dough. “And they fry it too long in the pan.” He is the coordinator for our taco re-party. “Anyone who tried to help me make this has failed,” he continues.

Comforting. Still I’d like to try my hand at it, so to speak. “Where’s the recipe?” I ask. “Do you think I could do it if I’m enough Cherokee to register at a reservation?”

“Yes, I think that will help, actually,” he says positively, hopefully. I have my doubts. I had been kidding. Do Cherokees even make fried bread? Has anyone heard of Cherokee tacos?

But I’m game to try. I mix as precisely as I can (which is against my personal cooking religion); I sift flour and baking soda, add the wet ingredients at the appropriate times.

Insert hands.

“IA,” I call eventually. “This is very, very dry.”

“It will be okay,” he says, not looking, “just have faith in your inner Indian.”

I keep at it. Soon I add some warm water. Sticky. He finally inspects it. “Hmm, “ he hums, disappointed. “Well, that’s okay, I guess.”

It’s not okay. I have enough inner Indian to tell that. His dough was squishy; mine tough. His was almost delicate, mine could be handled by toddler’s hands and molded into shapes. He left the failed dough with me, distancing himself from the mess.

What can I do with this? I muse. Inspiration hits.

I roll the dough out for Cherokee cinnamon rolls, and I wonder, if Cherokees didn't bake before, they do now.

art of craftiness

K hailed me from her porch and bequeathed me a pale, cream and green magnolia hair clip, which magically transformed my outfit into that of a tropical goddess. In fact, there were many tropical goddesses around our apartment complex that day wearing gardens full of poppies, roses, daisies and orchids; I don’t think that she understood how inspiring the clips were until we blackmailed her into teaching us to make our own.

Force a man to teach another man to fish, and all that.

So we settled ourselves at her kitchen table and learned the ancient hair-clip craft.

“It’s really very easy,” she said repeatedly as I burned my fingers on the glue gun.

And, under a little direction, a little ribbon, a little clip, a little flower, and a little glue, it was easy. Suddenly, I had a red-orange poppy that, though clashing badly with my outfit, reminded me of springtime and my brother-in-law’s poppy field behind his house.

Unfortunately, all the craftiness invaded my brain—I noticed that S had a great red-orange-poppy-appropriate shirt on, so I wrestled my clip into her hair. I decided it was better for it to be of good use—plus I could see it better in her hair than mine. After all, what’s the use of learning how to fish if you can’t enjoy the view?

art of bein’ suthun’

I guess hospitality is a southerner’s coat of arms—their honor and their battle cry. It is my personal belief that to “host” means to “not let the guest do anything,” a sentiment of which I approved of wholeheartedly as the guest.

So, when I went down to Carolina territory I learned extensively how to “make myself at home”—which meant in the car ride from the airport (chocolate chip cookies), the Piggly-Wiggly (southern ginger ale), at a fast food restaurant (real pork barbecue), at L’s house (homemade pizza). My job: take what is offered and prettily say “thank you.”

L’s husband B made my bed up for me, I was adequately supplied with all the napkins and towels I could use, we had waiters come to our table to bring us more water (and more napkins) at the fast food restaurants. By the end of the trip, I just started stealing things, figuring they were going to let me have it anyway, and I would just avoid bothering people by asking.

The best position in the whole state of North Carolina would be the short term guest. I started considering how to hop from household to household to be waited upon. My hostess, L, informed me excitedly that she was going to make me real “suthun” biscuits and gravy for breakfast; she was going to wake up at 6 a. m. to start them.

“Do I have to wake up at 6 a. m. too?” I asked, horrified. I appreciated the sentiment, but that seemed a little early for biscuits. I played the guest card. “Maybe I’ll get up at 7, then…”

I blissfully and peacefully slept the sleep of a guest with no cares and no worries, until the fire alarm went off because L and B over-browned the biscuits.

She was horrified to say the least; I just thought it was funny—and it was good gravy.

art of bank-teller flirting

A friend told me recently that he went out with a waitress who left her phone number on a napkin for him. I had always thought that this was a brassy move. Bold, but relatively harmless, I suppose, and it came briefly to mind yesterday as I drove to get a cashier’s check.

I decided to learn from my friend's example and try it.

I was contemplating how to get my bank teller to ask me out since traditional methods of flirting are nonexistent in a bank. First of all, money isn’t very funny; I can’t laugh at stupid jokes if there is nothing to joke about, and other bank patrons are annoyed with me holding up the line by being chatty. (Plus, it’s chancy for the teller, who is handling money and doesn’t need distractions.)

Touching is out, because of protective barriers. And eye contact is brief, as the teller has to concentrate on the computer screen showing your account information. What is a girl to do when a smart, costumer-service savvy, gorgeous, single man works at her local branch? Slip him my number, on some paper scrap…

Truth be told, it was just a quick fantasy; I promptly forgot about it at the bank, when someone new helped me.

But then, eureka!, New Teller needed help from Gorgeous Teller, and then asked for our business contact information to be written on a slip of paper. No one knew my internal struggle. Should I just give the business phone number? That’s all they really need. But how ironic, that on the very day of my daydream, I got the chance to be a little bold, a little brassy, a little flirty in the bank.

And I left my cell number as well. For the art-of-flirting’s sake.

I was pleased. I walked out to the car. Got in pertly, readjusted my mirror.

And noticed my lipstick had smeared all over my chin.

art of yuppies

I became a Young Urban Professional today. We listened to the Talking Heads and drank Ginger Brew that kicked me in the face with every sip. "Is this going to help our health or destroy it?" I wondered out loud yuppyishly.

What is it that is so appealing about ginger? I also wondered, but secretly. I know people who are in love with it. Not so with me. Every time I encounter it, I instantly become suspicious and defensive. It's a reflex.

Now I've had the root itself--plain. And candied ginger, ginger powder in chicken, etc.. Once, some Chinese friends gave me a warm ginger tea which was hard to wrap my heart around, but it worked well to warm me up, which was the point. But I think part of that was the energy and heat generated by my body to process the ginger as I determinedly drank it.

In Ginger Brew's defense, I also have had it in a lemon sherbet number . It ironically cured my upset stomach in an obviously medicinal way that doesn't usually correlate with desserts. But I was grateful, nonetheless.

"I kind of like how it burns your throat," L said reflectively. (Which, by the way, is the very thing that scares me.)

My favorite spice is garlic, which may not even be classified as a spice, but also goes well with chicken, and buttery things, and unlike ginger, will rarely burn throats. Except once, when the lid of the garlic container came off in the casserole before I baked it, successfully dumping in one third of the jar. I believe garlic is now my sister's most loathed spice. But I say: to each his own.

art of fountain felonies

When L and Company were knee-deep in a fountain, in scuba gear, filming a short skit, a policeman swung by to investigate their suspicious behavior. After a brief round of introductions (in which the officer took down names of the fountain offenders), L turned reporter, recorded here:

L: Can I ask you a question I always wanted to ask a cop?
C (for "cop"): Sure, go ahead.

L: What do you do when you are in the middle of nowhere being pulled over by a police car? How can you prevent being pulled over as a scam?
C: Slow down, then call 911. Talk to the dispatcher to confirm that it is a policeman, then tell the dispatcher that you will slow down, so the officer knows. Does anyone else have any questions?

S: How can you tell if a cop ID is a real one?
C: They should have two forms of ID. They should have a badge on their coat. On their badge that they carry, the top part will have picture ID and their name. All officers and federal agents will have a badge like this. The metal badge is optional.

L: Optional?
C: The badge doesn't have to be metal like the ones in the movies, though most people won't believe you if you don't have one.

L: What is the rule with the state line? If someone does something, can they run across the border and get away?
C: We can still go after an offender if we are in pursuit, even across state lines.

L: What about tree climbing? We've been told it's illegal in a college town.
C: Illegal only on campus. You can throw snowballs, too, off campus, if both parties are in a mutual combat.

L: What are your feelings on pepper spray?
C: Murphy's Law. If something could go wrong, it will. What if the wind blows it back in your face?

L: So, would you like to be in our movie? Ironically, it's about why people shouldn't break the honor code on campus.
C: No, thank you. I don't want to be video taped.

L: Is it against the rules?
C: Personal preference.

L: Are we your favorite people you've stopped?
C: Yeah.

L: Thanks for lying.
C: Thanks for not running away. No really, it was fun. And it was nice to meet people who were so cooperative about being cited...

Anytime.

the art of ugly dumplings ( jiao zi)

“Can dumplings be mei li?” I asked testing the chinese word I learned for beautiful.

"No--Flowers!" G laughed at me. "That word is only for flowers--or girls. Not for dumplings." I laughed with him, though secretly I thought dumplings could be beautiful--mine weren't, of course, but those that S made while teaching me were amazingly uniform.

They looked like half-flowers. The transformation from a small thin disk of dough into a folded, stuffed dumpling was practically a miracle. A miracle that wasn't mine to experience apparently.

"You did a good job." S gave me a thumbs-up as G boiled the jiao zi.

"How do you know when it's ready?" I asked curiously, leaning over his wok.

G shrugged, "By experience."

Experience, again.

"How will I know, then?" I asked, laughing a little.

He grinned, "Someday, you will have experience."

I nodded ruefully. That had sounded very wise-man-on-a-mountain.

Basically, there was nothing for me to do but....I didn't finish my thought. I noticed I could easily tell which were the mei li de jiao zi, and which weren't. Luckily beautiful dumpling or ugly dumpling--they both tasted delicious, which is a lesson you learn in the kitchen, sometimes.