“Menudo Moment”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-19)

St. Patrick’s Day.

Most Americans celebrate this point on the calendar with green attire, snacks, or beer. Some consume Guinness or corned beef and cabbage. Others watch the ‘Leprechaun’ movies in a marathon session. Those holding a loner’s disposition may react with odd indifference to regular celebrations of any kind. But no one, no one, no sane individual, celebrates with leftover Latin tripe stew, commonly referred to by the curious designation of ‘menudo.’

Except for this writer, of course.

During a recent shopping trip to my local grocery emporium in Geneva, I discovered a stash of honeycomb beef tripe among their ‘Deals & Steals.’ The sight of that pale, tough meat wrapped carefully and displayed in a refrigerated case made me pause. It was not a common encounter. Though distracted by turkey drumsticks, bacon, sausages and frozen shrimp, my attention remained on the cow. I could visualize only one dish, bubbling away in my small Crock Pot.

Menudo!

I had first encountered the dish as a teenager, in New York State. When a recipe appeared in one of the motorcycle magazines that passed through our household, my father became inspired. He filled our largest kettle with particulars that included not only bovine stomach, but also lemon wedges, pigs feet, coriander seed, hominy, and stewed tomatoes. The cauldron simmered until our entire first floor was permeated with this pungent aroma. No one else ventured near the kitchen. It became a father-and-son rite of passage. The two of us feasted on leftovers for at least a week.

Now, I made the concoction alone, beginning at 8:00 in the morning. A tribute of sorts to my late father. The recipe varied somewhat from his primal concoction, but paid homage in spirit. I used what was on hand. My own preference for the tangy taste of banana peppers had become central to this interpretation. By the dinner hour, it was ready to receive a splash of cayenne sauce, and be savored with fresh Italian bread.

My Black Lab seemed to be puzzled by the beggar’s bouquet that filled our kitchen.

Icehouse Menudo (Latest Version)

Ingredients:

¾ lb. beef tripe

1 can (15 oz.) pinto beans

1 can (15 oz.) garbanzos

1 can (15 oz.) diced tomatoes

1 cube, chicken bouillon

1 jar (12 oz.) banana peppers

1 package of dry taco seasoning

2 potatoes, sliced

Dried onion

Garlic

Cumin

Directions:

Precook tripe after cleaning and cutting into strips, in slow cooker for four hours on high. Rinse and place back into cooker with the other ingredients. Add water as needed, and spices. Cook another four hours. Menudo is best after sitting in the refrigerator for at least one day.

I finished the meal with a toast of beer. Then, relaxed with my iPhone and the Facebook app. But the mellow mood went awkward when reading posts about our coming weekend. It was almost St. Patrick’s Day!

Somehow, I had confused the cultural vibes. My personal timeline was shattered. Tomorrow, I would be thinking of Guinness, corned beef & cabbage, or festive anthems and blessings from the Emerald Isle. But in the fridge was something wholly disconnected from that tradition. A Mexican staple not tuned to the vibe of high-stepping dancers and verdant green.

A friend from Ashtabula County fractured my focus once again, by posting her regimen for easy chicken tacos. The prospective meal sent my culinary view careening into yet another inappropriate direction.

Shredded Chicken Ranch Tacos

Ingredients:

1 ¾ lb. Boneless chicken breasts

1 packet taco seasoning

1 packet ranch dressing mix

1 can (15 oz.) diced tomatoes

12 hard taco shells

1 cup grated cheddar

¼ cup diced cilantro

¼ cup hot sauce

Directions:

Place chicken, tomatoes, taco seasoning and ranch mix into a slow cooker. Cover and cook on high for 3-4 hours or on low for 5-8 hours, until meat is easily shredded with a fork. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Arrange taco shells in a 9x13 baking dish. (Use two dishes if necessary.) Spoon meat into shells and top with cheese. Bake for 10 minutes. Top with cilantro and hot sauce.

I reckoned on making my own version with western-style, soft shells. A Colorado habit learned from my first wife. Fresh, instead of baked. But the imaginary taste was already in control. Causing my mouth to salivate. A damned tasty taste. Or perhaps, a testy taste in view of my desire to stick with some semblance of Irish grub. Appealing and inviting. Unavoidable. Not a proper compliment for my pint of seasonal stout.

As they might curse in Dublin, “Feck!”

Eventually, I made coffee around 4:00 in the morning and pondered a meal at Mary’s Diner with my friend Janis. Would she be wearing green? I guessed her rainbow, hippie garb was more likely. But it did not matter. We would dine and celebrate and chatter away with our friends in Geneva. And I would be secretly pondering the vittles left in my home icebox. Still waiting in their cooled crock.

Sopa de tripa. Menudo. Demented and delicious. Like the offering of a drunken reveler, no longer fixed on the holiday. Hangover cure and traditional center of a wedding feast. Reputed restorer of sexual stamina. A friendly filler-of-bellies.

Damned menudo.

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