This is the breakfast I’d eat every day if I could. Oh chilaquiles, how much do I love you?
Apparently quite a bit, as I’ve been on the Chilaquiles Train ever since getting back from Mexico earlier this month. While I’ve always enjoyed them, I’ve renewed my love by eating them a few times a week already and I suppose I’m making up for lost time.
While I won’t go into the variety of regional differences, chilaquiles are basically stale corn tortillas cooked in a sauce and topped with ingredients as a way to use up any leftovers or stale chips. It’s a concept I love even if I can’t quite understand the thought of having left over chips, let alone stale. Aren’t they always eaten until they’re gone? Maybe that’s just me.
Chilaquiles are miraculously adaptable; you can use almost anything you have on hand. I love recipes that are difficult to mess up and these fit the bill. They’ll forgive you if you add too much sauce, they’ll still taste great if you use too much cheese. I’m guilty on both accounts.
Growing up, summer time meant spending time on Balboa Island. Some summers, we would rent a house. Sometimes with another family, yet most summer’s we just rented our own home. We participated in many daily activities; fishing in the bay, riding around the island in a small motor boat, and riding our bikes until the moon was our only light source.
The morning began with a three hour power outage....a transformer exploded down the street. I had just started to heat up soup for school lunches. With an electric stove, that was no longer going to happen. Since Oregon mornings, especially this one, can be very dark and dreary.
I'm calling this a pie. Yes, it resembles a quiche, but I prefer to call it a pie. It seems more manly that way. Plus I wanted a more rustic looking version that does not require rolling anything out or having to make actual dough.
I resisted Facebook for years, but the ease with which I could share and view pictures of a high-school reunion compelled me. So like most
people my age, I found myself using the site to
reconnect with a past I had previously ignored or forgotten. Then, when
my husband passed
away suddenly a little more than a year ago, Facebook became a strange
lifeline during my first
year of grief. Frankly, being on Facebook makes me think about what it
must be like to be dead,
floating like a ghost into and out of people’s lives, into and out of
all the worlds we’ve inhabited. The compression and conflation of time
that Facebook provides makes way for the beguiling draw of nostalgia.
