Mexican Food Mambo; God Imparts Sage Wisdom


So. We’re a full week into the Squirt’s recovery from ass surgery and she’s finally back to near her normal self. She was still cranky and bitchy all day Saturday but then awoke Sunday morning with a big smile and a new attitude.

“Buenos dias, Bwanna Mooner,” the little puppy almost purred at me. “Let’s crack some eggs!”

One of the diminutive dog’s favorite Sunday breakfasts is Huevos Rancheros—the northern Mexico dish of a grilled corn tortilla topped with runny-yolked eggs and your best salsa—and I’m an especially good cooker of Mexican ranch eggs. I grill the tortillas outside on the BBQ pit over mesquite, the salsa Gram makes is likely world class, and I fry the eggies in hot pork fat. The egg whites will get all crisp and crunchy and leave the yolks soft and bursting with flavor.

And don’t start on me with any of that “you need to cook the shit out of your eggs for the sake of food safety” bullshit. If you’re worried about the food safety of your eggies, you, dear friend, need a new fucking supplier of eggs. Or get a chicken and grow your own. Nothing is easier than raising chickens. Cluckers are the simplest-raised food resource there is.

They’re dumber than the back side of a hoe but loyal if you feed and water them routinely. And in this case, the chicken comes before the eggs.

Which reminds me. My buddy Katy over to the Lesbians in my soup site has gotten herself into quite a pickle. I’m thinking she has put a major league fuck job on her marriage and caused Dana to take the kids and leave Katy to suck the dirty, fetid Hoover air that can only be found in the carpets of a broken home.

While her most recent writings left me wishing she’d posted a pic of her mentioned rug carving, the power of her prose likewise broke my heart for her and her family and left me wishing I could help her. I feel a kindredness of crazy spirits with Katy and wish I could provide her with some soothing salve.

Should that be “kindredlikeness” of crazy spirits?

Speaking of crazy spirits, I had another visit from God over the weekend. I’d not been visited for over a month and had actually started to think that I was imagining the visits. Should that be the “Visits” with a big V?

It had also been over a month since I had sat out to our fishing dock with my menagerie of animals, a cooler of icy Carta Blanca beers and a can of worms. I had eaten an after-breakfast dessert of medicinal cannabis-infused chocolate—an herbal remedy I’m not yet accustomed to dosing—and I was sporting a pretty spiffy buzz. I think this particular Rx was prescribed to help a person suffering from stress and I must say I was feeling stress free.

The Squirt was sitting at my side with her head trapped in the big plastic cone that prevents her from chewing at the stitches on her ass. “Take this fucking megaphone off my head and I’ll tell you a secret.”

Her voice had the tinny, desperate edge of an Alabama Civil Rights protest organizer of the 1960’s as spoken through a rolled-up newspaper. “I promise I won’t mess with my stitches.”

“Sorry, kiddo, you’ve already broken that promise and I’m not chancing having to go through a second surgery recovery with you. These last seven days have been rough on me.”

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the somewhat cool air and the sounds of my animals as they farted around on the wooden dock. I heard the sound of hard plastic battering tin and knew that Rick Perry had attacked the can of fishing worms. Like chickens, ostriches love them some earthworms.

“You’ll miss this when you’re in Santa Fe, Mooner. There’s other things you’ll miss as well,” a familiar voice advised me.

It was God. When I opened my eyes to look, I saw She had fashioned Herself into the perfect visage of a young Kate Hepburn. I love Katherine Hepburn, but God’s voice wasn’t the gunmetal gravel and sex of Katie H.

“That’s my best version of Moses, kid. Not that idiot Charlie Heston, the actual one from way back on the Way Back machine.”

I was thinking that Moses had a weak and sort of silly-sounding voice, something akin to Arnold Horschak from Kotter on TV.

“He was short as well. Almost all men were short when compared to today,” God said.

Then I started thinking what lesson this Godly visit could have for me. Each time they happen I get some insight from God.

“Have you ever wondered about Moses and the Egyptians and all of that wandering in the desert, Mooner?”

Without much thought I could answer that question. “Like most of the incredible stories from the Bible and other history books, I always wonder what recreational drugs folks used when they wrote their version of events. Old Moses? I’d bet the farm that he chewed Peyote buttons. Now if you want to talk about Joan of Ark…”

“Don’t say it, Mooner, don’t even think it. Joanie wasn’t a batshit crazy bitch, sonny boy, she was a true believer,” God informed me.

Huh? How does a sane person distinguish between the two?

Reading my thoughts as only God can, She replied, “You can’t tell the difference. And that, dear sweet man, is the problem with histories. You can’t distinguish the liars from the prophets or the loonies from the sage reporters.”

Isn’t that the Truth—from God’s lips to my ears. “It’s no different today as we write our history from current events, is it?” I asked. “Every word is at best tinted with personal perspectives, and outright lies at the worst. How will our history ever be accurately recorded?”

As I looked at God for the answer, She morphed into Richard Nixon. “It won’t, silly. Half of all histories were written untrue, and the other half have been re-and-misinterpreted so many times even I have trouble with them. In a hundred years from now, Tricky Dick Nixon could be one of your greatest Presidents and Mitt Romney an honest man. As long as school textbooks are being written under the guidance of the Texas School Board…”

“… Then man played with dinosaurs and You started this entire mess because you were bored,” I told Him.

I added, “Sometimes I think You are an asshole, Sir. Some of the shit you pull is just plain rotten.”

“You shouldn’t blame me, buster, no more than you should praise me. All I did was give you humans a brain, a heart and a conscience. This dealio is yours to make or break.”

And with that, God was gone.

God said “dealio”, and I guess I will miss this dock when I’m in Santa Fe.

Manana, y’all.


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5 Responses to “Mexican Food Mambo; God Imparts Sage Wisdom”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, anyone who cooks the shit out of fried eggs might as well eat the container they came in. A wise man once told me the difference between a good fried egg and a great fried egg was about twenty seconds.

  2. Mooner In Austin says:

    Squat. Actually it might be eight seconds, and I’m embarassed to say that there’s a photo over to Katy’s place that reminds me of well-fried eggs. Sorry Katy, but I am after all, a man.

  3. Katy Anders says:

    It’s been a helluva couple weeks over in my neck of the woods, and I have a few choice words to say to God.

    If I knew where to serve God papers, I’d sue her ass under product liability law… This here is an inferior product and has blown up ni my face more times than I care to mention.

    In a free market, I would be allowed to seek accommodations on another plane or in another order of being.

    Damn monopolies!

  4. Mooner In Austin says:

    Katy. Why don’t I act as your mediator with God as I seem to have at least somewhat limited access. And while I find Her/His explanations vague at times I gain insights even through the confusions.

    BTW. I knew it was a bad idea for Dana to attempt reentry into the Catholic Church. Guilt’s grip is firm on little girls raised in the stiff-backed chairs of Nun schools and hard to shake even as adult women.

    “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

    (Vision of Mooner with hands on crotch) “Forgive this!”

  5. bj says:

    GOO-uh-OOOD-NESS! from Rancheros Huevos to medicinal cannabis-infused chocolate (of which I’ve never even HEARD! Yum Yum!) to Moses as Katherine Hepburn, and evathang in between! You shore has one more POWERFUL Imagination! Kudos, my friend! You ever thought about writin’ a book?

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