The Food of a Younger Land (43 page)

A
mong California’s “unusuals” is the Grunion Fry, an annual fishing festival peculiar to the beaches of the Golden State—a hilarious sport and picnic in which no tackle of any kind is used, and each inning lasts less than thirty seconds. Nevertheless, the “hunt” is a strenuous one during this fleeting interval.

The grunion itself, 3 to 6 inches in length, is a succulent relative of the smelt, but differing from the species and other fish in the manner of its spawning—a natural phenomenon which prompts thousands of men, women, and children to congregate at California’s beaches on certain specified nights of each year to feast upon these clever, but luckless little fellows. That they make a tasty morsel goes without saying. Even the epicureans agree that there are few sea foods equal to them when fried in deep fat on the ocean beach soon after they are caught.

It is a motley gathering of determined souls who find their way to the scene of these grunion hunts, and they arrive in various stages of dress and dishabille—for grunion wait for no man!—some in beach pajamas or shorts, many in gay swimsuits, while others, drawn by idle curiosity, incongruously appear in their spotless evening clothes. Seen in the half-light of moon and stars—gathered around their driftwood fires, or parading the shadowy sands like sentinels on watch against an invading host—here is a strange carnival of sport!

One can’t be sure about these silvery little fellows—there is no exact science available to save the fisherman time and patience; and even though the grunion run is prognosticated by experts in coast newspapers, or over the radio, or sometimes even by the technically thorough weatherman—their scheduled appearance often is a matter of uncertainty.

The grunion—as learned from observation covering a long period of years—do their courting out at sea on the first night of the maximum high tide which occurs between March and August. Then, on the second, third, and fourth nights, literally millions of these tiny fish mount the highest comber and ride gaily landward. The same instinct which leads them to select the highest wave for a safe landing, also guides them from the threatening reefs and dangerous shores to the more pacific beaches of democratic Santa Monica, Redondo, Long Beach, or exclusive Malibu. As each great grunion-laden wave booms upon the sand, the males—peculiarly upright in the water—come “dancing in on their tails” a half second ahead of their consorts. Then, at the proper instant, the brides arrive and immediately wriggle into the sand where they deposit their eggs. The grooms immediately squirm over the deposits, fertilizing the eggs, whereupon each couple, with surprising agility, begins wriggling back into the ebbing backwash—the whole procedure consummating less than half a minute.

During this half minute, the long stretch of beach becomes a scene of feverish activity. This is the moment for which everyone has been waiting, and the word spreads quickly. “Grunion! The grunion are running!” The question that has been uppermost in the minds of everyone now has been answered. As each wave deposits numberless thousands of the wriggling, silvery creatures upon the sand, the waiting hosts of excited fishermen, not to be denied, swoop upon them, filling pails, pockets, hats, shirt-fronts—in fact, any available receptacle which might serve as a container while their nimble fingers do their work. The State Fish and Game Commission does not permit the use of gunny-sacks, shovels, box-nets, or other contrivances as was formerly the case; all grunion, the law now reads, must be caught with the bare hands. Therefore the “catch” calls for a certain amount of nimbleness and skill, for the tiny fish are slippery; although thousands of the grunion are caught, many more thousands escape to find their way back into the briny deep.

When the run is over, weary but exultant fishermen carry their catch further back upon the beach where the cooks and fire-watchers take charge. Having set things in order during this foray on the grunion—tending kettles of deep fat, preparing accompanying side-dishes and watching over refreshing beverages—they now quickly prepare the fish and drop them into the sizzling fat. Soon the zestful aroma of golden-crisp grunion fills the air. Afterwards, if there are any grunion left, they will probably constitute tomorrow’s appetizing breakfast for the fishermen, or for those who did not attend the gala catch.

What is the scientific explanation of the grunion run? No one seems to know, much less care, and authorities on marine life—outside their knowledge of the times and conditions of these mating and spawning periods—are rather vague on the subject. However, it is no secret that back at the water’s edge, a vast number of eggs are left buried in the sand despite the fate which overtakes so many of the parent grunion, and that in a short time the progeny comes to life, rides out to sea on an ebbing tide, and so lives to repeat the performance of its forebears the following year.

A
delightful custom that prevails in rural sections of New Mexico is a lunch eaten in the middle of the afternoon at the scene of whatever task is being performed. For the most part, the lunch consists of the same dishes that made up the noon meal; but under the open sky everyday dishes take on added interest, especially when eaten with coffee brewed on the spot.

It is a welcome interlude, when the slanting sun rides in the west, to lay down sickle or hoe for the grateful shade of a tree or the bank of an arroyo. The younger members of the family seem to know when
la merienda
is due, and as the hour approaches cast anxious eyes in the direction from which the mother and the sisters and younger brothers will come. When they are seen, the young workers are first to slacken hold on hoe or whatever implement they are wielding and hasten to meet the mother who comes with a dishpan filled with jars and dishes deftly balanced on her head. Her erect figure is heightened by the burden she holds securely with one hand and the snow-white cloth that tops it and protects it from the summer dust.

A plume of smoke guides her to where the husband has selected a spot for
la merienda
, and soon water is placed in a pot and put over raked out coals to boil. The reclining husband and father watches his wife as she brings forth the various bowls and jars which contain the lunch. The cloth that covered them now serves as spread on which the meal is laid.

The beans served at noon have undergone a slight change and are now
frijoles refritos
(fried beans), which makes them carried more easily and in no way detracts from their delectable flavor; instead, it adds. Cold tortillas and oven-baked bread are served with roast ribs of
cabrito
(kid) as well as other portions of this savory meat. Perhaps a cheese is added, with a jar of homemade jelly or jam to eat with it. Cold, boiled goat’s milk, with a little salt added for flavor, has been brought for the children; and for dessert there is pumpkin pie, still warm—not the pumpkin pie that is known elsewhere in America, but a flat pastry with a line of sweet pumpkin showing between two contrastingly thick crusts and known as
pastel de raymta
(line pie). This is in humorous allusion to the thin strip of filling showing between the crusts.

No sooner is the meal ready than all fall to with appetites sharpened by work in the open air. The man eats more slowly while his eyes wander over the work done and notes what remains to be done. His wife follows with hers, but says nothing until he directs her attention with his pointing finger, then dutifully praises what has been accomplished. Then she says: “Gabriel died an hour before we set out. Did you not hear the bell tolling?” “
Sí
,” he answers; “God rest his soul. I knew it must have been Gabriel; no one else was ill.”

She pours another cup of coffee as he rolls cigarettes for both of them. The children have rushed away to seize a few minutes’ play, each with a piece of jam-spread cheese clutched in his hand. The oldest boy remains with his parents, joining in the talk about tomorrow’s work. He is getting to be a man now and is conscious of his approaching responsibilities. His father will be going away in the fall to work in the sheep camps in Wyoming—adding thus to the family income—and the boy will be entrusted with the work of gathering in the crops.

The conversation comes to a halt as the father stands and calls to the children playing by the little stream. Work must be resumed.
La merienda
is over. The oldest girl returns with the younger ones in tow, then helps her mother put away the empty dishes, after which they return to the house.

PETER J. HUDSON, CHOCTAW

T
he process of preparing corn for
Tash-labona
and
Ta-fula
is about T the same.

For
Tash-labona
, soak the corn for a short time or until the hull is loosened, and then beat it in a mortar until the hull has slipped off, leaving the grain of corn as whole as possible. Then take the corn out and fan it in a basket (
ufko
) to separate the hulls from the grain of corn. This basket, or
ufko
, is made of stripped cane. It is about 3 feet long and 18 inches wide. One half of this basket is flat, having no sides, but starting from the center of the length, sides gradually rise from a fraction of an inch to five inches, one end being five inches in height. The corn is fanned and the grains all go to the end with the sides while the hulls are blown off the flat end. After the hulls are all disposed of, put the corn in a kettle with lots of water, salt and pieces of fresh pork and boil it down until it is thick. When it is done you have
Tash-labona
, which is very rich. Don’t eat too much
Tash-labona
, as it will make you sick.

With
Ta-fula
, the same process is followed as with
Tash-labona
, only the corn is beaten until the grains of corn are broken into three or four pieces, then take it out into the basket and separate the hulls from the grains. It can then be cooked with beans, with wood ashes or in any other way you wish. Meat is not cooked with
Ta-fula
. Use plenty of water and boil it down until there is a lot of juice. You can eat all the
Ta-fula
you want as it contains no grease.

For Bread or
Banaha
or, in English, Shuck Bread, soak the corn a long time, maybe all night, then beat it in a mortar until the hulls are off and then put in the basket and separate the hulls from the grains, after which put it back in the mortar and beat it into meal. Then sift it. That meal is as fine as wheat flour. Of course there will be some grits left that cannot go through the sieve.

In making Sour Bread, the grits are mixed with the dough. The dough is made the night before and allowed to sour and then it is cooked.

In making
Banaha
the meal is made into dough and then rolled out into lengths of Hot Tamales but about four or five times bigger around than Hot Tamales, and each one covered with corn shucks and tied in the middle with a corn shuck string. The middle is smaller than the ends when tied up. It is then boiled in water until done and the shucks taken off when ready to eat. When
Banaha
is to be carried on a trip the shucks should be left on.

Another bread is made with this meal by wrapping the dough in green fodder and boiling. It is very fine. Sometimes the hulls of peas are burned and the ashes put in this dough, which makes it a brownish color.

Walakshi
is another Choctaw dish made on special occasions. Wild grapes are gathered in the fall and put away on stem to dry to be used when wanted. To cook, the grapes are boiled and then strained through a sack, only the juice being used. Then dumplings are made of the corn flour described above and dropped in the grape juice and cooked until done. Of course more or less grape juice is absorbed by the dumpling and the remainder of the juice is thickened.
Walakshi
was always furnished by the bride’s relatives at weddings, while the bridegroom’s relatives furnished the venison.

Bota-Kapvasa
is a cold meal made of parched corn. The grains of corn are poured into a kettle; a fire is built under it and hot ashes are poured in the kettle with the corn. The corn is stirred continually until it is parched brown and then it is taken out and put in the basket described above to be fanned, the ashes being separated from the corn. Then the parched corn is put into the mortar and the hulls loosened from the grain of corn and then it is put back in the basket again to be fanned, separating the hulls from the grain of corn. Then it is again put in the mortar and pounded until it becomes a fine meal. This is
Bota-Kapvasa
and is very nourishing. The Indian hunters and warriors used to take a small sack of it on their journeys and when they became hungry or thirsty, a small amount was put in a cup of water and upon drinking it, the thirst as well as the hunger was satisfied.

At roasting ear time, roasting ears were gathered, a fire in a long string was built and a pole laid over the fire, then the roasting ears were laid against the pole in front of the fire and the ears turned every few minutes so that they will cook evenly and also to keep them from burning. When they are all cooked, the corn is shelled from the ear and dried in the sun, and then sacked and put away for winter use. It is cooked in water and because it swells a great deal, a little corn will make a big meal. It is good for invalids.

In making Choctaw dishes, flint corn is preferable, but if flint corn cannot be obtained any corn can be used. Horses will not eat flint corn. Flint corn is called by the Choctaws
Tanchi Hlimimpa
. It is the only kind of corn the Choctaw Indians in Mississippi had when the white people found them.

In making Hickory
Ta-fulla
, the hickory nuts are gathered and put in a sack over the fire place to dry for a month at least. Then when ready to make Hickory
Ta-fulla
, the nuts are cracked real fine, shells and kernels together, then put in a sack and water poured over the nuts to drain. After this water is drained, it looks like milk. This hickory nut water is then poured into the
Ta-fulla
and cooked. This makes a very rich dish.