A Different Pot of Beans

I have to start by apologizing because, when I hear Puerto Vallarta, I think of the Love Boat.  I feel bad about that, because I’m sure that Puerto Vallarta has a lot of great things for which it is better known, and I’m hoping someone visiting my blog can tell me about those things.  For now, however, I am going to confirm my reservation for that special-room-in-hell-for-backward-people by telling you all about my family recipe for chili…which is called Chili Puerto Vallarta.

STOP!  I hear the primal screams of chili aficionados around the country rising in my ears.  As any chili cook well knows, the mere mention of this dish immediately invites a throw-down in just about any part of the nation.  Entire feature articles have been written about the various types of chili that are made (with great success) across the U.S.A.  I’m going to come out right now and say that I have no wish to participate in a throw-down.  In fact, I don’t think I really could.  The fact is, based on my observation, Chili Puerto Vallarta is not even really a chili. Calm yourselves, settle your beans, and read on.

Okay, so here’s the scoop.  As long as I can remember, my Mom has been making this meal, and we never, ever get tired of it.  But it turns out that she actually got it from my Aunt Jane, who lives in Madison, Wisconsin and has been teaching art history at the university there since 1963.

Aunt Jane…prior to Chili Puerto Vallarta

Flex Your Mussels

When my husband and I first met, we lived in Boston and Manhattan, respectively.  So our first real “date” had to be one of those volatile weekend visits that destroy so many fledgling relationships.  He was coming to visit me.  I was racking my brain to think of the best places to take him and the most not-awkward things to do.  First date on steroids.

Of course we talked on the phone a lot, because we were not able to see each other in person.  One night a few days before that first weekend visit, I was listening with only one ear as he told me about his evening.  What I was really thinking about what if I shouldn’t take him to my favorite Belgian restaurant for dinner.  But did he like shellfish?  Polarizing.

Don’t Be Chicken

People.  I want to talk about a delightful European breakfast tradition that appears to horrify Americans — and, no, it’s not blood sausage.

When I was very little, my Mom used to make us soft-boiled eggs, scoop them into custard dishes, and serve them with a spoon.  We loved it.  When I got a little older (about the time we were living in Hamburg, Germany) I had my own special egg cup that was painted like a little viking, and it had a felt cozy with blonde braids for a hat.  I understand it was hard to wash, but very cute.  I’m fairly certain we got it in Denmark.

I was surprised, as an adult, to discover that many Americans appear to have never even heard of a soft-boiled egg, much less tasted one.  And when you explain it to them, their reactions range from suspicious to disgusted.

Here’s what a soft-boiled egg is.