For the first time ever, I'm responsible for feeding myself on a daily basis. I find therapy in preparing a meal, and victory when the first bite reveals itself to be exactly what I wanted it to be. It's like in Julie & Julia, when Julie is making a chocolate pie and says, "I love that after a day when nothing is sure-- and when I say 'nothing' I mean nothing-- you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate, and sugar to milk, it will get thick. It's such a comfort."
And in the fall, few things are more comforting than soup. One of our family's signature dishes is a Mexican stew called posole. After I left for college, cold weather always brought a hankering for Dad's posole, and I always requested it on visits home. I always assumed it was a complicated recipe, because we're the only family I've ever met who a) knows what it is b) eats it.
But this last weekend my right-hand man was coming to visit, and I wanted to cook to impress, so I asked my dad for his recipe. He said he'd never used a recipe, so he made a batch and wrote everything down for me. Turns out, it's pretty much a foolproof meal. And now, I'm going to share it with you. Make this the next time you feel like you'll never be warm again. It'll warm you up, fill you up, and clear your sinuses out. All measurements are estimates, so tailor them to your needs and wants.
The Cast of Characters
-Boneless pork chops (I bought 1.3 pounds)
-2-3 cups of vegetable stock or chicken broth
-2 16 oz. cans of red chili or enchilada sauce
-1 big can of white hominy (mine was some weird size like 29 oz)
-One large onion
-Spices: cumin, oregano, salt
-Minced garlic (not pictured)
Step one: chop the onion.
Fun fact: I only cry while chopping onions when I'm not wearing contacts. I like to think they act as little plastic shields.
Step two: cut pork into bite-sized pieces.
Raw meat always makes me feel weird. I could never be a cannibal.
Step three: drizzle some oil into a large soup pot. Cook onions with a heaping tablespoon of minced garlic. Giggle with satisfaction when your creation starts smelling magical.
Step four: add pork chop chunks (say that five times) and cook thoroughly.
Step five: pour in can of hominy, with juices.
If I had a British twin sister, her name would be Hominy.
Step six: pour in enough broth to cover the contents of the pot by about half an inch.
It should be this color.
Step seven: add spices to taste. I used a full teaspoon of cumin and about a teaspoon
and a half of oregano.
Look closely and you can see my awesome apron.
DON'T DO THIS. Leaving the lid on prevents extra water from evaporating. You want it not-too-runny and not-too-thick. If the latter happens, add boiling water a cup at a time.
Step eight: bring to a boil and then immediately turn it down to a simmer. It can simmer while you finish make guac or shredding cheese or pulling some rolls out of the oven, but don't let it go much longer than 45 minutes, or the hominy will fall apart. I can't imagine hominy crumbles to be that appetizing.
Serve it up. I'd guess my pot could have served 4-6 people. That hunk in my bowl is part of a roll. I like sopping my soup. Sue me.
Typically, I also like grated cheese in mine. It gets all melty and stringy and happy.
I also made these Buttery Cloverleaf Rolls from How Sweet Eats, my favorite food blog. Mine weren't as pretty, but they were just as delicious.
Leftovers keep really well. I know because I just had some for dinner, and tomorrow I'll have some for lunch. And my heart and my lips will tingle with joy once more.