black-skinned avocados, trimmed and sliced into paper-thin rounds but not peeled. Scatter 5 radishes, trimmed, and sliced into paper-thin rounds over all.
• Serve with warmed small corn or flour tortillas, (optional, but not for me; I love these little salpicon burritos).
Recipe will feed 12 as a main course or 20 or more as an hors d’oeuvre.
Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Wheeling Star-Tribune.
14
Home Sweet Trailer Park
Carolyn
“ W ould you like a cup of coffee, more flan, or perhaps some ice cream?” I asked since they were eyeing their empty flan dishes wistfully.
“Yes, please,” said Irina eagerly.
Evidently they wanted both, so I ordered, with coffee for myself. Both girls dove into their ice cream with enthusiasm, and I thought of Pancho Villa, who had come to El Paso when his revolutions were going badly and consoled himself by eating ice cream at the Elite Confectionary. There is a delightful 1912 photo of Villa and several other mustachioed revolutionaries eating ice cream, seemingly from paper cups that fit into cone-shaped holders. When I saw the picture, I wondered whether the ice cream was Mrs. Price’s. She was the widow of an Ohio man who came to El Paso in 1905 to make his fortune growing fruit. His trees were killed by a freeze, and he died shortly thereafter. The widow, left with four sons, rented a house in town, bought a cow, and went into the dairy business. Her sons milked and delivered the milk to neighbors in a little red wagon. However, their business grew rapidly, and they were soon providing milk and ice cream from a farm outside the city and a creamery in town.
“It’s a terrible thing—Vladik being murdered,” I said in introduction to my questions. “Being fellow country-women, did you know the names of his friends or, perhaps more important, the names of his enemies?”
“Murdered?” cried Polya.
“He is getting sick and dying,” Irina chimed in. “Who would be murdering Vladik?”
“Someone who didn’t like him, I suppose,” I replied, astonished that they didn’t know what had happened to their mentor, or at least what Lieutenant Vallejo thought had happened to him. Didn’t they read the newspaper? Perhaps it was something else that wasn’t part of their lives since they had moved to this country. “Considering how he treated you girls, he doesn’t seem to have been a very nice person. Probably lots of people hated him.”
“No one hate Vladik,” said Polya solemnly. “For us, he is our only friend in U.S. Is being wonderful opera producer. He is writing the trio for us. Maybe Verdi could writing that, and Vladik, but nobody else. Who would be not liking Vladik?” She was astonished. “Maybe we should now going to trailer. Having homework before go to work, and must finding boy to push car so can be driving to trailer. Many thanks for wonderful lunch and so pretty gifts. Can you taking us back to university? We are not having money for bus.”
“Of course,” I replied. “And I’ll give you a push. Obviously your battery needs to be recharged or replaced.” I know about such things because when Jason and I got married, we had a car like that. Our first apartment, when Jason became an assistant professor, had to be on a hill so that he could push the car while I sat inside and popped the clutch, a responsibility that made me very nervous, especially with a baby in the back seat. Then I’d drop Jason off and pray that the car would make it home. A colleague drove him home, so I never knew when he’d be arriving. After I became pregnant with Gwen, Jason ran to school and got a ride home. Adventuresome days.
I did manage to get the girls, in their dreadful, rusted-out car, started. Obviously it had begun life somewhere other than El Paso, where nothing rusts, because rust requires moisture. And thinking about how frightened I’d been, driving home with the baby as a young woman, I offered to follow them to be sure they actually
• Serve with warmed small corn or flour tortillas, (optional, but not for me; I love these little salpicon burritos).
Recipe will feed 12 as a main course or 20 or more as an hors d’oeuvre.
Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Wheeling Star-Tribune.
14
Home Sweet Trailer Park
Carolyn
“ W ould you like a cup of coffee, more flan, or perhaps some ice cream?” I asked since they were eyeing their empty flan dishes wistfully.
“Yes, please,” said Irina eagerly.
Evidently they wanted both, so I ordered, with coffee for myself. Both girls dove into their ice cream with enthusiasm, and I thought of Pancho Villa, who had come to El Paso when his revolutions were going badly and consoled himself by eating ice cream at the Elite Confectionary. There is a delightful 1912 photo of Villa and several other mustachioed revolutionaries eating ice cream, seemingly from paper cups that fit into cone-shaped holders. When I saw the picture, I wondered whether the ice cream was Mrs. Price’s. She was the widow of an Ohio man who came to El Paso in 1905 to make his fortune growing fruit. His trees were killed by a freeze, and he died shortly thereafter. The widow, left with four sons, rented a house in town, bought a cow, and went into the dairy business. Her sons milked and delivered the milk to neighbors in a little red wagon. However, their business grew rapidly, and they were soon providing milk and ice cream from a farm outside the city and a creamery in town.
“It’s a terrible thing—Vladik being murdered,” I said in introduction to my questions. “Being fellow country-women, did you know the names of his friends or, perhaps more important, the names of his enemies?”
“Murdered?” cried Polya.
“He is getting sick and dying,” Irina chimed in. “Who would be murdering Vladik?”
“Someone who didn’t like him, I suppose,” I replied, astonished that they didn’t know what had happened to their mentor, or at least what Lieutenant Vallejo thought had happened to him. Didn’t they read the newspaper? Perhaps it was something else that wasn’t part of their lives since they had moved to this country. “Considering how he treated you girls, he doesn’t seem to have been a very nice person. Probably lots of people hated him.”
“No one hate Vladik,” said Polya solemnly. “For us, he is our only friend in U.S. Is being wonderful opera producer. He is writing the trio for us. Maybe Verdi could writing that, and Vladik, but nobody else. Who would be not liking Vladik?” She was astonished. “Maybe we should now going to trailer. Having homework before go to work, and must finding boy to push car so can be driving to trailer. Many thanks for wonderful lunch and so pretty gifts. Can you taking us back to university? We are not having money for bus.”
“Of course,” I replied. “And I’ll give you a push. Obviously your battery needs to be recharged or replaced.” I know about such things because when Jason and I got married, we had a car like that. Our first apartment, when Jason became an assistant professor, had to be on a hill so that he could push the car while I sat inside and popped the clutch, a responsibility that made me very nervous, especially with a baby in the back seat. Then I’d drop Jason off and pray that the car would make it home. A colleague drove him home, so I never knew when he’d be arriving. After I became pregnant with Gwen, Jason ran to school and got a ride home. Adventuresome days.
I did manage to get the girls, in their dreadful, rusted-out car, started. Obviously it had begun life somewhere other than El Paso, where nothing rusts, because rust requires moisture. And thinking about how frightened I’d been, driving home with the baby as a young woman, I offered to follow them to be sure they actually
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