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My father was a man of few words test. On an hour-long drive, he wouldn't say much of anything. Every now and then, however, while lost in thought, a rare story would leave his lips.
These were stories of his childhood, of growing up poor in Mexico, of his challenges coming to the United States.
Although my "ol' man" endured countless trials in his younger days, he always told these stories with a glint of nostalgia in his eyes. He always highlighted the good, despite the tribulations of being dirt-poor.
I always enjoyed the rare stories about him growing up "en el rancho," or on the ranch. One he especially liked to tell was about a kid who ate too many prickly pears…you can imagine the result.
When he was a kid growing up in Mexico, hunting was not something that people did for leisure. Where he lived, you hunted for food.
He and his brother, my tio, would use an old smooth-bore rifle, loaded with bearings, nails, and even rocks. They would wait for "blackbirds" to land in the cornfields and blast away.
Other times, they would head into "la sierra" for small game. Their success would supplement and provide a welcomed change from the monotonous meals at home, which mainly consisted of salsa de molcajete, tortillas, and sometimes beans. Meat of any kind was scarce but always welcomed — even if it was a crow or an occasional rabbit.
When my father arrived in the United States, the notion of hunting for recreation was somewhat strange, but he welcomed the new freedoms he had.
I was 6 when my dad first took me deer hunting with him. He had already been hunting for a few years and had taken a few bucks in California by the time I was allowed to venture into the woods with him. I remember how hard it was to keep up and stay quiet.
Years went by, and it eventually got easier to keep up with the ol' man. But one thing stayed the same: He didn't talk much. He almost never gave me direction or taught skills with words. He taught by showing, and I was expected to learn quickly.
Once, after an unsuccessful deer hunt when I was around 15 years old, we headed back to the truck for lunch. That day, he told no stories. We got to camp, dropped off our gear, and I got the stove going. I popped the cooler open and grabbed a couple of burritos wrapped in aluminum foil and threw them on the hot griddle.
As the smell of toasted tortilla filled my nostrils, I turned to the ol' man, who was sitting on a large rock. I watched him and wondered. Was he thinking back to those days in the cornfield with his muzzleloader? Or was he just reveling in the now?
I flipped the burritos a couple of times to warm them through before handing one to him. I grabbed the other and tried to cool it off by juggling it between my hands. Then I peeled the corner of the foil to reveal its encased treasure. Nothing tasted better after a hard day of hunting than a machaca con huevo burrito — Mexican dried beef and eggs wrapped in a flour tortilla.
View the Recipe: The Hunter's Table // Quail, Machaca, and Egg Burritos
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