Three pounds of tomatillos from the sad, ravaged garden. One of the only vegetables that the chickens did not trample, maim, or eat. The tomatillos are telling me that the next cuisine I tackle should be Mexican. My children, spouse, and sister are telling me that the next cuisine I tackle should be Mexican. I sat for 30 minutes this morning reading Rick Bayless cookbooks for inspiration and failed to become inspired. All I can see, stretching deep into the fall, are long drives to special grocery stores. Wrapping tamales all by myself. Shaping masa boats. Making elaborate moles that no one really likes. Hassles. Weight gain. The passage of time. . .
I find Bayless's cookbooks forbidding. Not as forbidding as Diana Kennedy's books, but definitely intimidating. Who else writes good Mexican cookbooks? Research required.
I suppose I just need to start and all will be well.