Indian Tacos

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IndianTaco-main_FullWhen I think of state fairs past and present, I think of Monday’s off from school with a free ticket in hand compliments of  the local public school system — and then — all those sensory sights and sounds of the midway.

The carnival barkers, the crowds, the food, the rides, the pings of coins hitting the stacked plates and glasses from tosses thrown by hopeful midway gamers.  I can still recall one classmate proudly struting and parting the crowd with his hard won prize — a stuffed animal half  his size — that was surely bound to decorate the bed of some girl wearing racoon thick Maybelline eye liner.

If I listen hard enough, I can hear the words of an old familiar tune that will forever  mark my coming of age in the early seventies:  “in the summertime when the weather is high you can stretch right up and touch the sky….”. Even now, the sounds of those first notes of Mungo Jerry’s summertime anthem transport me back against my will to a particular thrill ride that continuoulsy played this song while whirling its passengers in a backwards circle.  I recall feeling so old and worldly listening to the music, standing next to my girlfirend Mary Sue as we waited our turn to ride.  Not quite fifteen, my friend and I were enjoying the first fruits of being all-grown-up, having been dropped off at the front gate to explore the state fair on our own terms.  No more being dragged through the boring and endless exhibition buildings and picking up freebies if we didn’t want to.

And oh my how times have changed.  Today, those exhibition halls are exactly where I’d head to first.  Then, of course, there’s all the food!  No fair experience is complete without sampling the fare.  Maybe it’s the plate-size cinnamon rolls that I track down by following the scent of freshly baked bread and crashing head long into the longest line in the park.  Or maybe its the taste of a sweet hot corndog burning my tongue.  Or a caramel apple with nuts that for me, just like falling leaves, always defines the arrival of autumn.

But for many fair-goers in Oklahoma, its the year-long wait for the first bite of an Indian Taco.  It was for me too until I ran across my cousin Judy’s recipe. And while there are plenty of sources for the fry bread, Judy’s recipe for the meat is beyond fair compare.  Pick a fry bread recipe from the internet and mix your own with a little flour, salt, baking powder and water.  Or you can do what Judy and I do — purchase it pre-mixed – Woodenknife sells their version on line as does Red Corn Native Foods, marketed under ha-pah-shu-tse.  Both pre-mixed  dough offerings require about a 45 minute rest period before the dough is rolled, cut and fried.

But whichever way you go for dough, use Judy’s recipe for the filling.  From my life to yours.

Indian Tacos

Prepare your favorite fry dough mixture (refer to above sources) and set aside.  Follow the directions to shape and fry when meat filling is almost ready to serve.

Meat Filling

Serves four — allow thirty minutes to prepare

1 lb ground beef, extra lean
1/2 cup chopped onion
1 tsp garlic powder
2 tsp cumin
1 Tbsp chili powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 can chili beans (or pinto)
1 cup picante (we use Pace)
water for thinning (1/2 cup?)
Brown hamburger and onions.  Add spices and brown and simmer for 10 mins for flavors to blend.  Thin with water or more picante to consistency of chili.  Can be made a day in advance and reheated.  To serve, top a piece of fry bread with meat mixture and your favorite toppings:

Toppings:

Shredded lettuce
Chopped tomato
Chopped onion or green onion
Grated Cheddar Cheese
Sour cream
Picante or Taco sauce
Black Olives

Sanity Prayer

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I’ve been upset most of the day about a family matter.  I can’t talk details; some things in life are not fodder for the blog.  But still —  thoughts churn away and wear me down.

Always, always the matters that matter most are completely out of my control.  How I wish I could protect those people closest to my heart from all the hurts that life inflicts; the hurts that grow out of a shortfall of love.  And the people I most want to protect are those who depend on others to make wise choices on their behalf. 

And what are wise choices one might ask?  Well, that depends on who is asked.  It depends on who gets to cast their vote at the ballot box.   On today’s upset, I had no vote.   Maybe the decision makers considered it to be none of my business.  Obviously, I beg to differ.  Shouldn’t my love count for something? 

At one point in my life — not so very long ago —  I would have picked up the phone and put in my two cents after the fact — said my piece  — given those in charge a piece of my fine mind.  And then regret would sit in.  Almost immediately.  And I would again pick up the phone, no longer fueled by anger, to apologize before hearts grew hard.

But no longer.  These days I go outside and take action on what I can control.  I rip off the English Ivy growing up our home’s bricks.  And then afterwards, I read to keep my mind occupied with a lovely journal of May Sarton.  And then I write so the thoughts will no longer churn around in my mind.  And once delivered, my mind is empty and almost at peace.  Enough so that I can sit and pray.      

Here’s my shortened version of the Serenity Prayer, which today I’ve renamed the Sanity Prayer —  Lord help those who are not so wise.  Even if those is me. 

And as I write this I think I now have a better sense of how God must feel all those times when I make some unwise choice without giving Him a vote. 

Peek-A-Boo

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Mystery Guest under the Roses

A few weeks ago I ran across a mystery plant hiding beneath an antique rose bush.  This pretty little plant bearing purple tinged foilage was growing where I’d sown no seed.  What was it?  And where did it come from?  

Days later, in another part of my garden, I found my answer.  Through a quick match of garden gin rummy, I learned it was the Peek-A-Boo plant.  Living up to its name —  with its small ‘eyeball’ blooms peeking out from  some sweet potato vines  —  the Peek-A-Boo wore the same purple tinged leaves as my mystery plant. 

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PEEK-A-BOOS - Spilanthes, Acmelia oleracea

Once named, other answers soon fell into place.  I recalled that it was growing there because I had planted the Peek-A-Boos in both garden locations.  In April under the rose bush;  and then in May, when the plants appeared to languish, I transplanted them elsewhere in the garden.  Or so I thought.  Now, almost four months later, I see  my late spring transplanting left behind roots — and once the environment became friendly, up grew more Peek-A-Boos. 

Outside the garden gate, playing peek-a-boo and rummy match games are not just for babies and toddlers.  I am learning just how often I hide my own real feelings, by either ignoring them outright (hoping or pretending them away) or by not calling them by their proper name.

I do this without even noticing.  Just recently I’ve talked to friends about how my father is no longer interested in my visits.  But rather than talk about the hurt from rejection, I pretend it’s not there and instead focus on this fallout from Dad’s dementia.  It’s easier to face reasons that feelings, even with myself.  Quick.  Cover it up.  Don’t speak about the hurt.  After all,  Daddy can’t help it because Daddy isn’t Daddy anymore. 

Most of my friends or family give me a free pass on such inconsistencies — on those times when my emotions don’t quite match or fit the circumstances.  But not my trusty spiritual director.  Instead he said something like, wow, that must have hurt.  And in response, my eyes uncontrollably teared up.  The feeling, with its deep roots hiding just beneath the surface of life leaked into reality.  Once the feelings found a friendly environment to live, no longer could they stay under wraps beneath their big beautiful bow of understanding forgiveness.   

Why do I play these games?  Am I afraid people will laugh?  Or worse, not care?