Squash Casserole Con Doritos

"I’d take her to the border
And teach her to order
Margaritas and fajitas
Senoritas would bring"
If I Could teach my Chihuahua to Sing – Joe Ely

So far it’s been a giddy week for me. I am, of course, elated at the resignation of Alberto “Fredo” Gonzales, (he didn’t say who he wanted to spend more time with, did he?), erstwhile Attorney General and perennial scum sucking toad. (Don’t ask me how I really feel).

And honestly, didn’t you ever wonder why Dubya chose to nickname him after Don Vito Corleone’s hopelessly inept middle son, the one who was dispatched to sleep with the fishes in Lake Tahoe by little brother Al Pacino in “The Godfather, Part II?” Not that there aren’t some similarities. Godfather Fredo was likewise a dim witted habitual liar. He was dominated by women and quite possibly a closeted homosexual too, and by the way, he also ran a brothel. (I’m just saying.)

One of my favorite writers, Nora Ephron, suggests in explanation that when Bush 43 first met Gonzales, he probably thought his first name was Alfredo, and Alberto was just too much of a toady to ever tell him otherwise. I feel comfortable with that.

But I’m not one to hold a grudge. In fact, I’d like to invite Fredo to have lunch with me, when he’s next in California, at a real-deal Mexican restaurant I just learned about, Lilly’s Taqueria in Santa Barbara. No namby-pamby Tex-Mex joint, their little known specialty is Taco de Ojo al Vapor, steamed eyeball tacos, (I hear they taste sort of like egg yolks), and what better dish to enjoy with somebody who wanted all eyes on all Americans all the time. And hey, Turd Blossom and Senator “I’m not gay. I’ve never been gay” Craig from Idaho can join us too.

Really, just how much better could it get? (Of course, there is the “i” word, impeachment, but I don’t want to get greedy or seem ungrateful.) Well, I’ll tell you. When I checked in with my blog and found that two people had read it and made comments (thanks Vashi and mslindac), it was like Christmas, my birthday and chicken mole all rolled into one.

I’m feeling so downright euphoric I want a party, a fiesta, margaritas, mojitos, Dos Equis with thin little slices of lime and tequila sunrises. Hang a piñata, fill it with my civil liberties and pass me a baseball bat. I’m there.

I wish I could share a recipe for guacamole or frijoles or something appropriate, but I don’t do Mexican. And Lilly’s Taqueria won’t give out their recipe for eyeball tacos except to say they steam the entire cow head, remove the eyes, and then sauté them on the grill with a “special” mélange of chilies and spices.

So instead, I’ve been inspired to add a south-of-the-border twist to one of my family’s treasured staples. I call it Squash Casserole con Doritos. It’s an instant classic and will be as at home on the plate next to your burrito as refried beans. This one’s for you, mslindac.


Squash Casserole con Doritos

2 pounds yellow crookneck squash, sliced
1/2 cup chopped onion
4 tablespoons butter or margarine (1/2 stick)
1/2 cup milk
1 egg
1 cup grated cheddar cheese (preferably sharp)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
Salt and pepper to taste
1 cup crushed original Doritos (or other plain tortilla chip)

Saute squash and onion in non-stick skillet in 2 tablespoons of the butter, covered, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes or until tender. (Alternately you can steam them for about 8 minutes and add all the butter in the next step.)

Mash squash mixture and mix with milk, egg, 1/2 cup of the cheese, salt, pepper and sugar. Pour into a buttered 2-quart casserole dish.

Melt remaining 2 tablespoons butter and toss with crushed taco chips and remaining 1/2 cup cheese. Sprinkle on top of casserole.

Bake at 350 F for 30 minutes or until topping is nicely browned. Eat and enjoy.

Note: My family topped the casserole with crushed saltines or Ritz Crackers. Good, but they're not Doritos.

If it's Red Beans and Rice, this must be Monday

“Give me a sista, I can't resist her
Red beans and rice didn't miss her”
Baby Got Back – Sir Mix-A-Lot

It’s Monday. It’s also probably the hottest day of the summer so far. Not a day I would choose to spend in the kitchen laboring over a pot of hot steaming beans, although that’s exactly what I’m doing.

They’re having a ‘bye-bye you took another job that pays better and we hate you, rather, we hate to see you go’ potluck luncheon at the hubby’s office today. And my dear, sweet, clueless as to how much trouble it’s going to be, partner, volunteered to bring Red Beans and Rice. (Being from New Orleans I guess he wanted his contribution to reflect his heritage, although since the guy leaving is Chinese, I don’t see the point.) Said he’d make them himself, and probably meant it too. But as it happens I’d MUCH rather do it myself than walk him through every step of the way. Probably better to preserve our marriage too, if you follow.

Coincidentally, or not, Red Beans and Rice was long the traditional Creole Monday meal. It was a dish that could stand to simmer unattended while the womenfolk did the Monday chore of washing the clothes, (sort of a pure, early example of multi-tasking, which women have done all along), and there was also usually a hambone left over from Sunday dinner to throw in the pot.

Customarily no other meat was added, but rather sausage links or pork chops would be served on the side. However, most contemporary versions of the dish include andouille, or some other (inevitably inferior) spicy sausage. In my opinion, if you don’t use andouille, don’t bother. We get ours freshly made from a local sausage kitchen, but Savorie’s makes a very good packaged andouille that can be found almost nationwide, or, that failing, ordered over the internet.

Some purists insist that only homemade chicken stock and slow cooking, extra long grain, white rice will do. I say phooey on them. It’s work enough to chop all those veggies. Do yourself a favor and go with canned chicken broth (low sodium preferred) and Success Boil-in-Bag white rice, cooked in more canned broth. I promise you, nobody will know the difference. Not even you.

As for the hot sauce, I’m a traditionalist here and stick with the original Tabasco brand. How much to use depends on how spicy your sausage is and how ‘hot’ the crowd you’re cooking for likes their food. If you want to just leave it out and let everyone add their own at the table, that’s fine too.

It’s starting to smell really good in here. It’s also getting really hot. At least I’m not having to do the laundry at the same time.


Red Beans and Rice (for a crowd)

4 cups dried red kidney beans
1 cup chopped bacon
4 cups sliced andouille sausage
1 jumbo Vidalia (or other sweet) onion, chopped
1 cup diced celery
1 cup diced green bell pepper
5 cloves garlic, minced
3 bay leaves
3 sprigs fresh thyme
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce (more or less to taste)
12 cups canned reduced-sodium chicken broth

6 to 8 packets Success rice
6 cups canned reduced-sodium chicken broth

Soak beans overnight in cold fresh water.

In a large stockpot or sauté pan (I use an 8 quart sauté pan), sauté chopped bacon over medium heat until slightly brown and grease is released. Add sausage. Sauté for 6 to 8 minutes until sausage is lightly browned.

Add the onion, celery and bell pepper, (the so called Holy Trinity of Creole cuisine), along with the garlic, bay leaves, thyme, salt, pepper, oregano and hot pepper sauce. Sauté over medium heat for 8 to 10 minutes or until vegetables are soft, stirring occasionally.

Drain beans. Add beans and chicken broth to pot and bring to a simmer.

Cook, uncovered, over medium low heat until beans are tender and mixture reaches a creamy consistency (at least 1 hour), skimming surface occasionally to remove any excess grease or foam.

Prepare rice according to package directions, substituting canned chicken broth for water.

Serve beans over rice with a bottle of hot sauce on the side.

Serves 12 to 15.

NOTE: The recipe for the beans can easily be downsized to serve 6 by halving all ingredients.

Why Do I Feel Cheated?

"Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their Daddy or their dog just died"
Everybody Knows - The Duhks

Obviously I’m delighted to learn of the imminent departure of Karl Rove from the White House so that he can “spend more time with his family.” (Don't you just once want to hear one of those guys say they're retiring to spend more time with their mistress or so they can devote more energy to their hobbies of internet pornography and high stakes gambling?) However, it would’ve been so much more satisfying to hear that he had been indicted for one of his many unspeakable crimes against my country, or at least caught in flagrante delicto in a seedy DC hotel room with a teenage boy. Maybe it’s just me, but I feel so cheated.

The only thing that gets me through times like these is chocolate. So I'm going to share one of my never fail antidotes for political angst. This recipe comes from Kraft foods and contains all my favorite church lady ingredients, cake mix, Jello pudding, and Cool Whip. So easy, so good, so Democratic!

Killer Chocolate Fudge Layer Cake

1 package chocolate cake mix
1 package Jello Chocolate Flavor Instant Pudding & Pie Filling
4 eggs
1 cup sour cream
1/2 cup cooking oil
1/2 cup water
1 (8 ounce) package semisweet baking chocolate
1 (8 ounce) tub Cool Whip
Sliced almonds for garnish

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease 2 (9-inch) round cake pans. Beat cake mix, dry pudding mix, eggs, sour cream, oil and water in large bowl with electric mixer until well blended. Stir in 2 squares (2 ounces) of the chocolate, chopped. Pour batter into prepared pans. Bake 30 t0 35 minutes or until toothpick inserted near center comes out clean. Remove from pans and cool completely.

Place remaining 6 squares (6 ounces) of chocolate and Cool Whip in microwaveable bowl and microwave on high for 2 minutes. Stir until blended and shiny. Cool. Place cake layer on serving plate, spread with 1/4 of the chocolate mixture. Place second layer on top. Spread remaining chocolate mixture over top and sides of cake. Garnish with almonds. So you know, I double the frosting recipe. It's unbelievably good so why skimp!

Note: If you want to lighten up the recipe, you can use fat free sour cream, fat free whipped topping, and even sugar free pudding mix. The chocolate, however, must be the real deal.

Just Kill Me Now

"Put on your red shoes and dance the blues..."
Let's Dance - David Bowie

Seriously, there are some things worse than death. And if I’m ever caught doing them, it means I’m ready to go and helping me along would be a mercy.

For starters, I will never, ever dress my cats in cute little pet clothes in either a vain attempt to anthropomorphize them into child substitutes or just because I’m bored. (Hank’s black leatherette walking vest does not count.

It serves a purpose and besides, he looks really hot in it.) With the possible exception of Halloween, (I once saw a French Bulldog dressed as a bumblebee and didn’t gag), there’s no excuse to tart your pets up like little pimps and hos. And trust me, your Lhasa Apso does not look cute in that Burberry raincoat and booties, no matter what they told you at Pour La Pooch. The other dogs laugh at him on those play dates you arrange at the pet park, and one of these nights he’s going to rip your throat out while you sleep. When I dress Hank and Maude as Romeo and Juliet, or even put cute little knit sweaters on their backs, just kill me now, before they do.

And speaking of matching outfits, the husband and I have a pact that we will never, ever, dress in coordinated ‘his/hers’ ensembles.
When the photos came back from a trip we took to New England a few years ago, we realized that, for shame, we had come uncomfortably close. We took a blood oath and swore, never again, not even by accident. If you should see us dressed alike, just kill us both, or better yet, force us to wear matching “I’m With Stupid” t-shirts in public for the rest of our lives.

I will never paint little designs on my fingernails, not itty bitty flowers, not butterflies, and certainly not tiger stripes. Nor will I set my manicured and extended talons with tiny rhinestones, sequins or bits of glitter. If I’m feeling particularly frisky, I may go French, and that's plenty nail art for me. So if you ever see me with a bouquet on my fingertips instead of in them, just kill me now. That goes for my toes too.

Call me a food snob, but if at all possible, with the exception of sushi bars, I try never to eat in restaurants that have color photos of the food on the menu. Sometimes it may be unavoidable, say when eating with a group of less particular tastes, or in a foreign country where otherwise you wouldn’t have any idea what you were ordering. However, if you should happen to see me eating in a Denny’s, actually enjoying the Grand Slam breakfast, or the like, on my own time and my own dime, just kill me now. The food would probably do it pretty soon anyway.

Hey, I’m all for growing old, especially considering the alternative, but I will never, ever, join an organization with advanced age as a prerequisite. The AARP is wasting postage, and possibly precious resources, sending me harassing mailers, likewise the Gray Panthers, Angry Old Farts, and Grandmothers for Peace (although I may agree with their causes). But the most objectionable, by far, is The Red Hat Society. Yeah, yeah, I know, wearing a red hat with a purple outfit is somehow supposed to be empowering, but let’s face it, almost nobody actually looks good in purple, especially white women of a certain age. (Our black red hat sisters fare slightly better, but it's still not a good look.) And unless you’re a Vegas showgirl or a major league baseball player, that goes double for the red hat. These are the kind of women who give menopause a bad name, and they deserve to die.

And the same thing goes for the Bloomer Girls too. You want empowerment? Read a book, take a yoga class, learn to sky dive, get a hormone patch and a shot of Botox and steal your daughter’s boyfriend, but for God’s sake don’t plop a red hat on top of your head and troop en masse to the nearest shopping mall.

I must admit, however, if it were red shoes they were wearing, all bets might be off.