THE PROBLEM WITH BLOGGING: I SOMETIMES FORGET TO BLOG (PLUS A RATHER LONG STORY IN WHICH I ANTHROPOMORPHIZE CORN)

Here's the interesting thing about blogging: you need to remember to actually write things, otherwise you're less a blogger and more a lazy person who happens to have a blog.  And laziness will not net me a book deal, nor will it bring me fame and wealth and UNSPEAKABLE POWER.  So, I need to get kraken.  I mean, cracking.

cracker?

All right, so I don't have any recipes per se, because I am not-so-good with remembering those sorts of details when I'm in the midst of cooking.   I also don't have any photos, because (a) I am too impatient to dig out my camera and waste precious moments between the food being ready and the food being in my stomach, and (b) my camera (or our lighting) gives everything a yellowish tint, and I don't want you thinking that all of our food is afflicted with jaundice.  (Given these qualifications, I am clearly well on my way to food blogging success.)

BUT, I do have a story.  A story of meat, and corn, and one woman's attempt to learn from the mistakes of others and make a damn fine meal for herself.

The Husband had decided to skitter off and feign interest in professional sports, so I was left to my own devices for dinner.  Since I would be dining alone (so, so alone), it seemed like as good a time as any to tackle the pork ribs that had been sitting in the freezer.  (NOTE: Yes, I am usually a vegetarian.  It was one of the three or four times a year when my bloodlust rises up and can only be satiated by hunks of sweet, tender flesh.  Stop judging me.)  I had also just received a shipment of mole powder, so the choice was obvious: braised pork mole.  In addition to the spices and chiles, I decided to add some Roman beans (because we have too many beans - seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS) and – this is where it gets interesting – some posole.

My friend Soups has written about her adventures with posole, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.  I bought pre-treated corn (it said CORN FOR POSOLE right on the bag), I soaked it overnight, and I planned on an extended cooking time.  After making up a sauce with garlic, onions, roasted chiles, Mano y Metate's Pipian Rojo mole powder, tomatoes, tomatillos, and vegetable broth, I quickly seared the ribs, threw everything (pre-soaked beans and posole included) into a pot, and boshed it into the oven at 300 degrees.  After four hours, I removed the pork to a cutting board to cool, then moved the entire operation to the stove, where it simmered for an hour.  I de-boned and cut the pork (more like pulled apart the pork, since it was so tender and fall-off-the-bone and buttery and it all sort of made me question this whole vegetarian thing).  I popped the pork chunks back into the mix, salted and peppered, and let the whole shebang cook for another hour.

Now, at this point, it was 7pm.   I was starving.  I took a taste.

The pork was still fantastic.
The beans retained a bit of their meaty texture, but still melted in your mouth.
The mole sauce had just the right amount of bite and sweetness, with some smokiness from the roasted chiles.
The posole...?

The posole was crunchy.

SIX HOURS.  That's how long it had been cooking.  Six hours of roasting and simmering and filling the apartment with delicious aromas, and still the posole taunted me.

Now, under normal circumstances I would have left the posole to simmer all night if I had to, all the while muttering dire threats and suggesting that, if the food didn't cooperate, I could not be held responsible for what might happen.  But I had bar trivia obligations in two hours, still hadn't showered, and needed to eat something, as English pubs are not known for their vegetarian-friendly fare. 

So, I gave in.  I ate the crunchy posole.

Overall, it wasn't terrible.  Apart from the chewy bits, the whole thing was quite tasty; I originally ate it over rice, but it was even better the next day with a hunk of crusty sourdough bread.

The score so far: posole 1, Heather 0.  But I still have a lot of posole left, as well as three other mole powders and a hill of beans.  And a pressure cooker. 

There will come a time when our paths will cross, posole, and I assure you: I do not intend on being defeated again.