Recipe Contest: Sloppy Jose!

The flavors of Cali-Mex run through my body with the same strength and loyalty that the Rio Grand River flows between Texas and Mexico. I was born in Lubbock, Texas. I live in Los Angeles now, however my appetite thrives on the Latin flavors from my Texas roots.

The dish I’ve created for Deal Real foods starts with a solid foundation -- a Sope. Like any culture, we build and grow. We savor the flavors we bring and add new touches. 

Please click here and vote for my recipe once a day till September 5th. Let's win!


1 Cup
Refried Beans
2 Cups

Olive Oil (for frying)

*queso fresco, cilantro, purple onion optional

Serves 4 and takes about 10 minutes to prepare. 

1.  Toast 4 Del Real Sopes to create the bases of the sandwiches.

2.  Heat beans and spread a thick, creamy layer of the refried beans (1/4 cup) on each Sope.

One year, my mother won the pinto bean contest at the State Fair of Texas, probably due to her spicing it up with cumin and onion.

3.  In the saucepan, steam the Pork Carnitas. When hot, heap a generous amount (1/2 cup) on each.

The aroma laced with garlic rises up, tempting me to stop there and devour. But patience…

4.  Heat olive oil in the skillet. Crack open egg and carefully place egg in very hot oil. Fry till edges are crispy and white is solid.

*Optional, add and melt gooey, Queso Fresco cheese.

Inspired by the great tradition of frying things at State Fairs, I place the egg on top.

5.  Greet each egg with 2 tablespoons of brash, bold Southwestern spice – Salsa de Molcajete Verde -- a layer of jalapenos woven into onions with the heat of a thick Navajo blanket.

6.  Toast the remaining 4 Sopes. Close one on top of each sandwich.

Now get a good hold, take a hearty bite. One taste of the beans, the carnitas, the egg, the salsa -- and your tongue will want to rope in that Sloppy Jose like a prized bull at a rodeo.

If it gets messy, you’ve won the prize.

Feel free to celebrate this dish -- Toss chopped purple onion and cilantro on top.

My grandfather taught me that you have to dance with the one that brung you – and my Sloppy Jose has innovation, while honoring the Southwestern flavor that guarantees Del Real foods a spot on the international culinary map.

And always, always reminding us of home.

Fifty Shades of Penises

Are you a man? Let's hope the first penis you saw was your own. Are you a woman? I bet you remember your first.

That becomes your watermark -- your point of reference for every other penis you see.  You can read ancient philosopher's theories on envy. You can become a hooker under the guise of field research.

Or... I can enlist in the Marine Corps and see dozens.

I write about this in my memoir, The Pink Marine. I'd seen a few, I'd had a few -- but I learned that every one is different.

Here's an excerpt:
"A whole new world was opening up to me: I’d never seen an uncircumcised penis or a black penis, and here I was, presented with the combination.
I paused underneath a showerhead to rub the water all over me, then ran the bar of soap over my chest and face.
“Keep moving! Calgon isn’t taking you the fuck away, recruits!”
Left with only a vacant stare for protection, I saw pecs firming under chest hair as the other boys reached up to scrub the velvet of their freshly buzzed heads. I looked down at my flat, hairless chest as I rinsed the leftover clippings from the back of my own sweaty neck. I glimpsed the thick, curly pubic hair of the boys standing next to me. I looked down at the thin wisps plastered limply to my own unimpressive penis. The other boys soaped under their balls and down their butt crack. They bent over as they picked up each foot and washed between their toes.
I marched to the next showerhead, willing whatever soap rinsed down from my chest to take care of my lower body. Not looking directly at the other recruits—but not not looking at them—I thought to myself, Sure, I routinely shower with seventy other men. In fact, I insist on it.
The recruit in front of me was black. I’d never seen a black man naked. I didn’t even realize that he would be black all over, void of a tan line like the one that I’d burned into my body with year after year of swimming and sunning. He rotated under the water, and a quick glimpse took in his crotch. His pubic hair, even wet, was a small mass of tight curls, so different from mine.
Despite my discomfort at being naked in front of so many men, other thoughts started to occupy my mind. The penises. Seeing a lot of penises is probably on every gay man’s bucket list, and even heterosexual men like to check out the competition. I’m sure that a group shower is the birthplace of both athlete’s foot and penis envy.
Our neat loop through the showers was interrupted as several more recruits shoved into the room. A good-looking white boy scurried past me and settled on the shower in front of me. I recognized him as Jhimchek.
I hadn’t planned on ending up next to Jhimchek’s muscled farm-boy body in the shower, but sometimes that’s just how these things go. He confidently grabbed his cock and soaped it up. Perhaps this was his idea of getting it clean, but it was my idea of public masturbation. I prayed I wasn’t getting hard, but didn’t look down in case I made a mental and physical connection. I saw his long, soft penis with the head completely covered by foreskin, and recalled seeing an uncircumcised penis once before—and then, only in a few vintage pornographic photos. I wanted to reach out and touch it; it looked like it was wrapped up like a to-go sandwich. All I had to do was extend my hand for a quick grab, just to feel the difference between his and mine.
However, the resulting scream would be like a siren, and I’d be beaten to a bloody mess. I’d have to leave the military ashamed, and on the first day. These easily predictable results kept my hands busy washing my own body. I wasn’t a bold gay teenager prior to coming into the Marines; I wasn’t about to start a predatory gay career here. Or ever.
Although I had been looking at other penises before, now I was completely focused on my own penis—and not because I was comparing size or shape, but because I feared arousal. 
I can get hard thinking about other penises—hence the gay thing—but one sure way to bring an on erection is to touch my penis, especially with any kind of lubricant, such as soap. Trust me, this experiment had been done repeatedly, and always with the same fantastic result. The last thing I wanted to do was pop a boner while in the shower.
I emerged from my shower—or sexuality test—and looked for my towel. I snagged it and wrapped it around my waist. I wished for huge Mickey Mouse hands for extra cover as I began walking back to the squad bay. 
I watched the boys walk in front of me, using the towels to dry themselves off, not missing a step as they deftly reached down to dry an ankle or confidently run the thin, cheap towel up their legs and across their balls. I could see penises and testicles dangling between legs; I grabbed my towel a little tighter, letting my hand rest just in front of my penis, as if to tell it to stay out of this for our own good."
If anyone fears this is exactly why gays shouldn't serve in the military -- chill. I can speak for every swinging dick out there. All men look. Only 10% act out on the impulse to reach out and grab one like a to go sandwich.  Unless you're a televangelist. Then it's about 100%.

There wasn't a chance in hell I'd make a pass at anyone in boot camp. And land in some gross and badly decorated jail? News flash -- living in the closet, repressing one's true nature is already a prison.

At least I had a nice one.  A nice closet. 

Did You Just Eat a Frog?

I learned that the Marine Corps packs thrills. I didn't join expecting great food. However, after you force-march 15-miles, carrying a 70-pound pack on your 115-pound body, you want food. Any food. I'd tear into the tough, plastic Meal Ready To Eat pouch. I sucked out the compressed tuna using the sense memory of freshly shucked Louisiana oysters.

I didn't even pause to release my boot's death grip. My cracker broke as I dug it into stale peanut butter. Chomping sounded like marching. I looked up and scanned the area to see my brothers-in-arms frantically trading chocolate pudding for spaghettios. Affix neckties instead of bayonets and you'd have the trading floor of Wall Street.

"Bradley": A Play In Three Acts

My grandmother said I was born to entertain. When I took the stage, there was another actor already in place.

Curtain rises... A bare West Texas backyard. A curly haired toddler, Bradley, stands near the back door. He blinks into the sun.

My brother Brad has a strong mind. He can still picture his POV from the crib.  He recalls not understanding the words being spoken to him. Perhaps my parents had thick Southern drawls.

He remembers our father more clearly than I do. What if feels like to be a family. He witnesses two people he loves fall out of love. Understanding their decisions lurches him out of childhood. He is aware of what we have versus what we lose. He will always miss it.

A Gnocchi for Nicole

I love to celebrate an entire day preparing food. Some days I'm an old woman rocking on a porch, knitting dinner. I can be the pitcher of tea steeping in the sun for hours. Other times I'm an octopus -- reaching, chopping, grabbing, opening, rushing and plating in a blur.

When time is tight, I reach for prepared and fresh ingredients. In under an hour my Gnocchi with Cherry Tomatoes is ready to shake onto your plate -- with one hand tied behind your back.

Tie The Love Knot

man in fur hat
How do you know when you find the perfect mate?

My other half is so perfect that it seems, to those who haven't met him, that I've made him up. The fact that he lives in "Canada" makes him conveniently, possibly a legend in my own mind.

But like Teri Hatcher's rack, he's real and he's spectacular. Once we experienced the thrill of love at first sight, we settled down to get to know each other.

"Where do you see yourself living in five years?" He wanted to know. I was honest, "I'm in spring chicken's waning shadow sliding into tough old bird -- so, I'm hoping to just be living."

"What's your favorite vacation spot?" All of them. The world's an oyster, right?

"What's your favorite food?" he wondered. "There's not one food I don't like, that I've tried. Except fennel."

On our next date, he handed me a little cellophane bag of what looked like dried tortellini. I hoped he didn't expect me to cook on the spot, I was saving that for marriage.
"Love knots. Laced with fennel."

I cocked my head toward the sun, hoping to intensify my eye's blueness. I needed to distract him from the lunacy of offering me fennel.

"Wouldn't it be great to say you liked every food?" he slyly smiled.

And that's how I knew.

We constantly cross borders to see each other. We didn't anticipate our governments limiting our time in each other's countries. Mine spent a lot of money training me to be a Marine. They effectively taught me to conquer an objective, strategically, and emerge victorious.

I hate to fly, but it's easier for me to get into Montreal. America isn't as welcoming to Canadians as they are us. Our customs agents haul him away from the immigration line and interrogate him for hours, fearful he's coming into the US to take a job. If they'd let me go back with him I'd set them straight, "Don't worry, he doesn't want a job in Canada, much less here. He's only after a tan."

The Marines made me tireless but I get impatient. Canada and the US need to call a truce to their hundreds year old feud and merge. Invite Mexico and we create a super-continent that can defeat China.

Canada's freezing, but it's embraceable. I don't mind the cold. Because it gets warmer.

It gets better.

And I case you didn't know, love knots laced with fennel are delicious.

Camouflage Is The New Black

It's good to be alive.

Recently, as I boarded the bus to compete in the Spartan Race in Malibu, memories of arriving at Parris Island to join the Marine Corps popped into my head like mean drill instructors storming a bus. Bus transport held no appeal then and holds less now. They're great --  I'd much rather leave the driving to someone else -- but once you've been screamed off a bus, the gentility of being chauffeured is over. The Spartan Race is as challenging as any USMC event. There are some differences...