Hatch, New Mexico (37 miles north of Las Cruces) is likely world famous for the Mesilla Valley chile peppers raised on the west banks of the Rio Grande River.
The ranch hand first experienced the heavenly lure of chile peppers when introduced to Tijeras Pancho's "green chile stew". Flavorful to an extreme, the sweet aroma of this pepper is only surpassed by the potential heat it can generate.
Today's Austin paper included an article which eulogized stuffed sopaipilla filled with tender pork, pinto beans, and green chile stew (thus promptly starting the ole fat boy's mouth to uncontrollably salivate). As the scribe went on to croon about chile laced sopaipillas experienced in Chama, Espaniola, Clovis, Santa Rosa, and Las Vegas, yours truly slowly began to melt into quivering hunger pains for the oleoresin capsicum laden delicacy.
The WC boy and bride even have fond memories of green chile egg sandwiches in Moriarity and green chile cheeseburgers in the Owl Bar and Grill between Albuquerque and Ruidoso.
Lest one think we are faint of heart, there was also the experience of purchasing Hatch green chiles in the local farmer's market, roasting same, and peeling the inedible skin to package the succulent meat. OK, not "faint of heart", but damn near fainted when figgered out the folly of handling the peppers without gloves and then touching (places that shouldn't be touched with a burning stick or any other unearthly hot substance)???
Anywho, there are special places with special groceries, and New Mexico has its share of the wealth.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
GIGGLES
"T" sent me an oil field story from Dr. Bud that concerned puttin' an antique oil field unit into a gear other than "low" and causin' some consternation.
Reminded the ole ranch hand of the day Kelsey (the "tool pusher") came to Dad's well site and watched the work occurring to try to dislodge a "stuck" pump on the end of the sucker rod string.
Kelsey (who Dad called "Giggles") razed Dad about not pulling hard enough on the "string".
Now my loyal reader needs to know that Dad and I were in an East Texas pasture working under a "standard" derrick. This means the edifice above our heads included 80 feet of galvanized steel angle iron bolted together to form a fulcrum by which one could pull a mile of pipe out of the ground using the "draw works" of the "pulling unit" operated by Dad. No simple feat considering the antiquity of the equipment Dad was assigned to operate.
Dad "beat" on the pump for a period of time to dislodge it. At long last Giggles stated that he did not think Dad was really "pulling".
Well sports fans, you just had to know my Dad to know what a grin that put on his face. Dad knew all there was to know about motors, machinery, and the oil field. He could gently work machinery to make it "last", make it perform to its maximum, and to "bust" it if he had a mind.
Gene just casually said, "OK, lets pull on it then". And he let out the manual box clutch on that puppy and watched as all four derrick corners buckled under the strain.
Giggles ran like a scalded dawg to his truck yelling, "You are crazy!!!!", and Dad had a laugh and a good story that he retold for many years.
Reminded the ole ranch hand of the day Kelsey (the "tool pusher") came to Dad's well site and watched the work occurring to try to dislodge a "stuck" pump on the end of the sucker rod string.
Kelsey (who Dad called "Giggles") razed Dad about not pulling hard enough on the "string".
Now my loyal reader needs to know that Dad and I were in an East Texas pasture working under a "standard" derrick. This means the edifice above our heads included 80 feet of galvanized steel angle iron bolted together to form a fulcrum by which one could pull a mile of pipe out of the ground using the "draw works" of the "pulling unit" operated by Dad. No simple feat considering the antiquity of the equipment Dad was assigned to operate.
Dad "beat" on the pump for a period of time to dislodge it. At long last Giggles stated that he did not think Dad was really "pulling".
Well sports fans, you just had to know my Dad to know what a grin that put on his face. Dad knew all there was to know about motors, machinery, and the oil field. He could gently work machinery to make it "last", make it perform to its maximum, and to "bust" it if he had a mind.
Gene just casually said, "OK, lets pull on it then". And he let out the manual box clutch on that puppy and watched as all four derrick corners buckled under the strain.
Giggles ran like a scalded dawg to his truck yelling, "You are crazy!!!!", and Dad had a laugh and a good story that he retold for many years.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Resurrection
Bout 1963, the ole ranch hand paid Papuh $15 for a Harrington and Richards Topper.
That old single shot 12 gauge shotgun didn't look like much to the casual observer. It had electrical tape holding the forearm to the barrel and a metal screw for a front sight. The shell ejector didn't work so the erudite shootist needed to carry a Barlow knife to pry loose spent hulls. Add a bit of rust, the scratches of long years of hard use, and you have a picture of a 13 year old boy's dream.
Lester Sala's Drug Store was "walking" distance down the road in Turnertown. Mr. Sala would sell ammunition by the round. Never mind cabbagin' together enough moolah for a whole box. Just show how much "change" you had left from hauling hay, and you could buy that number of individual bullets.
Needless to say, economics caused one to be a judicious shooter. Spraying lead around the landscape was not an option if ya wished to put meat on the family table.
In those days, the ole fat boy carefully planned each shot and often accounted for a "kill" (squirrel, dove, or other game) per shell expended.
Then relative prosperity came along?
September 1 opened this year's dove season. The "mighty hunter" eased down to the ranch pond with enough 20 gauge shells to start a war. His weapon of choice was an ornately engraved twice barrel over/under with expert craftsmanship in the sharply checkered select walnut stock and forearm.
The weapon was tuned, the birds were in fighting condition, but sadly..... the hunter was not.
That's right sports fans, the Wright City Flash blasted holes in the air (and cursed) till hell wouldn't have it as the "miracle" unfolded. Yep, one after another "dead" bird continue to fly to the horizon in spite of my perfectly selected shots.
(I wonder if that old "Topper" needs to come out of the gun safe for a resurrection?)
That old single shot 12 gauge shotgun didn't look like much to the casual observer. It had electrical tape holding the forearm to the barrel and a metal screw for a front sight. The shell ejector didn't work so the erudite shootist needed to carry a Barlow knife to pry loose spent hulls. Add a bit of rust, the scratches of long years of hard use, and you have a picture of a 13 year old boy's dream.
Lester Sala's Drug Store was "walking" distance down the road in Turnertown. Mr. Sala would sell ammunition by the round. Never mind cabbagin' together enough moolah for a whole box. Just show how much "change" you had left from hauling hay, and you could buy that number of individual bullets.
Needless to say, economics caused one to be a judicious shooter. Spraying lead around the landscape was not an option if ya wished to put meat on the family table.
In those days, the ole fat boy carefully planned each shot and often accounted for a "kill" (squirrel, dove, or other game) per shell expended.
Then relative prosperity came along?
September 1 opened this year's dove season. The "mighty hunter" eased down to the ranch pond with enough 20 gauge shells to start a war. His weapon of choice was an ornately engraved twice barrel over/under with expert craftsmanship in the sharply checkered select walnut stock and forearm.
The weapon was tuned, the birds were in fighting condition, but sadly..... the hunter was not.
That's right sports fans, the Wright City Flash blasted holes in the air (and cursed) till hell wouldn't have it as the "miracle" unfolded. Yep, one after another "dead" bird continue to fly to the horizon in spite of my perfectly selected shots.
(I wonder if that old "Topper" needs to come out of the gun safe for a resurrection?)
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Hot Dawgs
In Wright City, the only TV channel available was "7" in Tyler.
Having only one television station viewing choice simplified life in a lot of ways. Ya didn't need a "clicker" to surf the channel selection. There were no family disagreements as to the show of choice. Things had a set, routine, predictable pattern. Dad knew when Bonanza and Gun Smoke was playing on the black/white. The ranch hand knew when Howdy Doody and Rin Tin Tin aired. Mom had her soap operas.
The point of this is that your humble scribe (thru the magic/expense of satellite) now has access to more than 800 TV "channels". The follow-on is that his "clicker" is near worn out from changing from channnel to channel (with nothing interesting?)
Last night proved to be the ultimate extreme. The ole fat boy LOVES University of Texas football. UT played a nothing team yesterday to open the season. Lacking any national interest whatsoever, the TV networks did not broadcast the game (I'm bettin' not even channel seven?).
Succumbing to the siren call of opening day Longhorn madness, yours truly "purchased" a pay-per-view game where a private company broadcast the gridiron debut of the 2009 Horns.... and the rest is history.
Dear Lord, please don't let my Dad know his semi-edumacated dumass son paid $29 to sit in his living room and watch a semi-boring football game (UT won by a bazillion points)(and the netwlork didn't even serve hot dawgs?)
Having only one television station viewing choice simplified life in a lot of ways. Ya didn't need a "clicker" to surf the channel selection. There were no family disagreements as to the show of choice. Things had a set, routine, predictable pattern. Dad knew when Bonanza and Gun Smoke was playing on the black/white. The ranch hand knew when Howdy Doody and Rin Tin Tin aired. Mom had her soap operas.
The point of this is that your humble scribe (thru the magic/expense of satellite) now has access to more than 800 TV "channels". The follow-on is that his "clicker" is near worn out from changing from channnel to channel (with nothing interesting?)
Last night proved to be the ultimate extreme. The ole fat boy LOVES University of Texas football. UT played a nothing team yesterday to open the season. Lacking any national interest whatsoever, the TV networks did not broadcast the game (I'm bettin' not even channel seven?).
Succumbing to the siren call of opening day Longhorn madness, yours truly "purchased" a pay-per-view game where a private company broadcast the gridiron debut of the 2009 Horns.... and the rest is history.
Dear Lord, please don't let my Dad know his semi-edumacated dumass son paid $29 to sit in his living room and watch a semi-boring football game (UT won by a bazillion points)(and the netwlork didn't even serve hot dawgs?)
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