How the New World Conquered Cortes

The Cast Iron Man

"Mole", he said.

Not the little lawn critter. The National Sauce of Mexico. "Mo-lay."

He kept reciting the story of the first time Methuselah, or the Pope, or Cortes, or whoever it was had been served mole, just before he stole the recipe and Mexico. "I can do this!", Stan said. I have a week with nothing to do but to make a mole.

When he was not doing that, he built a fire in the outdoor fireplace, and admired the flax oil on the cast iron pots, and prepared a feast.

The Cast Iron Collection; a Partial View

The weather was as beautiful as the food, and the family that had blended itself as a consequence of the marriage of Becky and Stan lubricated itself with Oregon wine and good humor, and a promise to do this every year, so long as the sun rose in the east and Stan could collect firewood and stolen recipes.

"Hear! Hear!" we said. "Next year why don't we have a goose dinner, and Stan, why don't you bring the goose, and the wine, and endless good humor?"

Oh, yes! We all did our share! We belched, and said, "Pass that mole one more time, please!", and "Why don't we do this more often?", and "Is there more of that Pinot Noir?"

"Splendid idea! Just splendid!"

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