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lirlovesfic · 6 years ago

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The Choice

A Doctor Who fanfic

Summary: After GitF, the TARDIS brings the Doctor, Rose, and Mickey back to the estate to solve a problem involving the TARDIS herself. But when they see a familiar face, the face of someone who should not exist, they realize the problem is deeper than they thought and could endanger the Doctor’s very existence. Primary characters: Ninth Doctor, Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith, Jackie Tyler. Genres: Romance, mystery, adventure, drama, character study, HN AU, fobbed!Nine, sick TARDIS. Pairings: Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose Rating: Adult

Warning: None for this chapter

a/n: I am currently working on editing this chapter-by-chapter, with the hopes of completing a chapter a day until I catch up with myself. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’m doing it to try to get back into the swing of writing and to build some momentum in order to finish this. Also, there have been some tiny things nagging at me for a while (grammar, punctuation, etc.) so I’ll be correcting as many of them as I can find as I go. The story will not change. In fact, most of the changes are going to be so minor that I doubt anyone (besides myself) will notice. But to keep me on target, I’ll be posting it all here as I go, with links to the other websites it’s on. I hope you enjoy it.

Catch up: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

This chapter: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

Chapter Ten—The Time Vortex, one hour after leaving the Powell Estate, and Dallas, Texas, 22 November, 1963

As he adjusted his dark grey silk tie, Mickey examined himself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the wardrobe.

The Doctor had told him that, although jeans and T-shirts were becoming common in the era, in order to be close to the route the presidential motorcade would take, they needed to be dressed conservatively enough that they wouldn’t stand out in the crowd lining the streets. Mickey needed to change.

Mickey hadn’t known what to expect when he’d been sent to the Wardrobe Room, perhaps a cupboard with an outfit or two, or perhaps something like the Menswear Department at Marks and Spencer, but whatever he’d expected, this wasn’t it. The TARDIS wardrobe was a cavernous space, absolutely massive, several stories tall and easily rivaling a football pitch in area, with spiral staircases strategically placed every twenty feet or so that led to the upper floors. It was jam packed with clothing—and their coordinating accessories—from what looked like, to Mickey’s untutored eyes, every culture and every era of human history (both past and future, based on silvery, space age jumpsuits he saw) and probably hundreds of other planets as well, given the jackets with far too many sleeves than necessary. It also seemed to be less organized than a church jumble sale. Cricket whites, miniskirts, Indian saris, and Japanese kimonos competed for space with velvet frock coats and silk evening gowns. There was even a short blue dress that looked like it was made of bubble wrap. Mickey, who had volunteered on occasion at the British Museum and had been privy to the massive storerooms there, had never seen anything like it.

Lucky for him, this suit was located near the front of the room, hanging from one of the staircases, otherwise he never would have spotted it. He still would have missed it, in fact, if a spotlight, emanating from somewhere above, hadn’t turned on, illuminating it just as he’d begun to walk past it.

He had never been one for suits. He did own one, of course, which he usually only wore to weddings, but the last time he had worn it had been to his grandmother’s funeral several years earlier. Afterwards he had shoved it in the back of his cupboard, intending to never wear it again.

But this suit was as different from that one as a Rolls Royce was from a Mini Cooper. It was made of fine grey wool lined with satin, the cut of the jacket and trousers were in a timeless style, the cotton shirt was crisp and pure white, and the tie was neither too narrow nor too wide.

He had slipped the clothes on and discovered that not only was everything his size, it all fit him like a glove. After admiring himself in the mirror once more, he placed a felt fedora on his head and adjusted it to a jaunty angle.

Mickey grinned. “I should definitely wear a suit more often, because I look good.”

Several minutes later, minus the hat, Mickey returned to the console room to find the Doctor standing at the console, staring into the monitor and frowning.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

The Doctor barely spared him a glance. “It’s fine.”

“Because there was a hat there too. I can go back and get it…”

The Doctor didn’t answer. Instead he began to flip a switch back and forth over and over again so hard he looked like he was going to break it.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked.

“The TARDIS doesn’t want to land,” he answered. “I’m going to have to force her to. Hang on!”

The mere fact that the Doctor was warning him of a rough landing, when he had never given him a warning before, made Mickey grab onto the nearest coral strut and hang on for dear life. The Doctor rushed around the console, flipping switches, pressing buttons and spinning dials. Last, he yanked on a large lever. The TARDIS evidently wasn’t responding the way the Doctor wanted it to, because he grabbed a mallet hanging off the edge of the console and began hitting the controls.

With that, the TARDIS console room rocked violently back and forth and began to echo with the sounds of materialization. Despite his best efforts to hang on, Mickey was thrown to the floor. He landed hard on the metal mesh grating.

“Ow,” he complained. Wincing, he stood and rubbed his bum.

The Doctor ignored the complaint as he stared into the monitor again. “I’m already here,” he said.

“Well, that’s why we came, yeah? Because he’s here?”

“Yes, but I was hoping to arrive before he did. If we had arrived first, we’d have been able to track him from the moment he left his TARDIS.”

Mickey yanked on his collar in a futile attempt to make it more comfortable. Although the suit fit perfectly, he’d never get used to wearing a tie. “Didn’t you say you could sense him?” he asked. “In your head or somethin’?”

“If I can sense him, he can sense me, and that’s the last thing we want.” The Doctor let out a huff of irritation. “Now we’ll have to do this the hard way. We’ll just have to look for him.” He picked up his long brown overcoat and pulled it on. Mickey frowned.

“Aren’t you gonna change?” he asked.

“Why bother? Pinstriped suit? It’s a classic,” the Doctor informed him. “Wearing this I fit in anywhere. Well, almost anywhere. I did have to change into a toga while we were in ancient Rome. And then there’s this little planet named Xerbet in the galaxy Andromeda where all forms of clothing are absolutely forbidden. Against the law, in fact. See, the Xerbetians value honesty above all other virtues, and they see clothing as a form of deception. They consider the hiding of one’s body to be the hiding of one’s true self. Quite liberating, actually, albeit a bit chilly.”

“You didn’t take Rose there, did you?” Mickey asked.

The Doctor didn’t answer, but a smirk spread across his face. He headed towards the TARDIS exit and Mickey quickly followed.

“Seriously, you didn’t take Rose there? You’re just windin’ me up again, yeah?”

Ignoring the question, the Doctor flung open the doors of the TARDIS. “Mickey Smith, welcome to Dallas, Texas, 22 November, 1963.”

The TARDIS had landed in a narrow alley between two tall brick buildings. Thankfully, the alley was deserted. Because of his own experiences having seen it appear and disappear and even plummet from the sky, Mickey didn’t know how strangers would react to what looked like a British police box suddenly appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, on a city street in America, but he assumed it wouldn’t be good.

“Looks a bit boring,” he answered, looking up at the metal fire escapes that clung to the walls of the building. “Could be any alley anywhere. You sure we’re in Dallas?”

The Doctor gave him a look before heading out of the alley.

Mickey followed him out to the street. His jaw dropped. He stared around himself in amazement. The storefronts looked like many of the older shops on the Estate, with old fashioned cafés replacing modern takeaways, but the street...

The street was filled with Packards and Plymouths, Buicks and Chevys, some of which he had only seen in photographs before. All were ancient vehicles to him, but they weren’t ancient here. They were new, brand new in some cases.

And the people also seemed to come from another era. Which they did, he reminded himself. The women all wore dresses that fell below the knee, and the men all either wore suits or trousers paired with collared shirts or jumpers. Mickey suddenly understood why the Doctor had insisted he change out of his T-shirt and jeans. He would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Unreal,” he said. “Looks like a movie set. But it’s real. It’s really, actually real. We’re really in the past.” He grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! And Dallas, 1963! History in the makin’!” he said excitedly. A couple of passersby stared at him, and he lowered his voice. “The grassy knoll, the second gunman…”

“Ah, so you’re a conspiracy buff?” the Doctor asked.

“A little,” he answered. “So, what was it? Did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone or was there a second gunman? Was he hired by the KGB or in league with the Mafia? Did the CIA order the hit?”

The Doctor chucked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I try to stay away from fixed points. Too easy to muck things up.”

Mickey shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, we’re really here. We’re actually here.” When he saw the Doctor smirking at him again, his smile disappeared. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“I’m still angry, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, just because we ended up where we meant to go this time doesn’t mean you aren’t still a bloody wanker.”

Again the Doctor shot him a look. “Well, there we are then.”

“Right. Just so long as we’re clear about that.” Mickey looked around. “So which way do we go?”

The Doctor pointed directly in front of them. “About three blocks that way is Dealey Plaza and the Texas Schoolbook Depository. If I’m here, that’s where we’ll find me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s where I’d go,” the Doctor said simply. He took two steps forward and then stopped short. “Almost forgot,” he said. He rummaged deep in one of the pockets of his trousers. After a moment he pulled out what looked like two tiny hearing aids which he pushed into his ears.

“Telepathic dampers,” he said, answering Mickey’s unasked question. “Don’t want him to sense that we’re here. Of course, the downside is that I won’t be able to sense him either. We’ll just have to look for him.”

“If you had those, why didn’t you wear them before, when we were lookin’ for him on the Estate?”

“Didn’t have them before. I made them while you were getting changed. It’s not as if I didn’t have enough time. You took longer to get ready than Rose does.”

“Oi, I’m not the one who gave me the wrong directions to the Wardrobe Room! I got lost three times on the way there.”

The Doctor ignored the accusation. Instead he began to lecture as they headed in the direction of the Plaza. “The ‘60s were an age of enormous turmoil and massive contradictions in America. The Cold War, race riots, the Vietnam War, the space race… Just a few months ago, Martin Luther King gave his iconic ‘I have a Dream’ speech, spurring on the peace movement.” He came to a stop and paused for a moment. “And in an hour’s time, an assassin’s bullet will end the life of President Kennedy, leaving behind a widow, two small children, and a nation in mourning.”

They were both silent for a moment before they continued on down the street. They passed a variety of shops: a butcher’s, a bakery, a tobacconist, a bookstore. All were common to Mickey’s home and era, but somehow they looked different in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Ahead he heard the strains of music. Next to him the Doctor grinned.

“Ah, a record store. And playing the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley! I bet Rose would love to meet him! Maybe after this is all over…”

As they walked down Main Street, they joined the crowd that already begun to form. There were people from all walks of life lining the street. Young and old, rich and poor, all races and creeds, all were gathering to catch a glimpse of the presidential motorcade.

Despite himself, Mickey caught the excitement of the festive atmosphere. Red, white, and blue banners fluttered overhead, suspended on wires that crisscrossed the road. Children darted back and forth, weaving in and out of the crowd while their parents scolded them. Older men congregated in groups smoking cigarettes and cigars, while older women stood apart and gossiped. Police officers wandered up and down the street, while photographers snapped photos of the crowd.

Mickey stopped and looked around, taking in the surroundings. He’d never been to America, never been back in time, and he wanted to memorize all of it if this was going to be his last trip with the Doctor.

Beside him he heard someone giggle. He turned to see a group of girls looking at him. One, a pretty young woman in a yellow dress and white cardigan, smiled shyly at him. He smiled back.

“Come on, Mickey,” the Doctor snapped. “You can flirt later. We’ve got a job to do. We’ve got to find me before I get myself into trouble.” He strode quickly down the street, his coat flapping behind him. Mickey had to jog to catch up.

“Why don’t you use your sonic screwdriver to track down your TARDIS like you did last time?” he asked breathlessly.

“Because I don’t want to find the TARDIS, I want to find me.” The Doctor stopped short and scanned the crowd on the other side of the street. “The photo of me here, do you know from what vantage point it was taken?”

Mickey shook his head. “I didn’t see it. Rose did.”

“Hmm. If you were me, Mickey, where would you stand?”

“I dunno. I guess as close to the street as I could.”

“But that’s assuming that the reason I came was to see the motorcade. If I just wanted to see President Kennedy, I’d have gone to his inauguration. No, there’s something else going on here.” He closed his eyes. After several long moments his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “This is a fixed point.”

The Doctor opened his eyes and jerked his head towards a building. Mickey nodded and they left the crowd.

“What’s goin’ on?” Mickey asked.

“I told you about fixed points,” the Doctor said quietly. “The Kennedy assassination is a fixed point. It has to happen. But something’s wrong. Something here is in flux. Something could change. And I don’t know what it is.” He looked around. “Just our being here, our very presence here could change something. And since I’m here twice… We have to find me. And fast. Before I change history.”

If Mickey had thought Main Street had been crowded, that was nothing compared to Dealey Plaza. It was wall to wall people on either side of the road. The Doctor led the way as they fought their way through the crowd, searching for the younger Doctor.

“I don’t see him. You. Whatever.”

“Neither do I,” the Doctor said. “And it’s almost time. The motorcade will be here within minutes.”

“Which one’s the Depository?”

The Doctor pointed to a tall building about a block back the way they came before returning to scanning the crowd.

“He’s there right now, isn’t he?” Mickey meant Oswald, rather than the younger Doctor, but the Doctor understood what he meant.

“He works there. By now he’s been in the building for hours, biding his time, waiting for everyone to leave so he could set up his rifle.” He huffed in frustration. “There’s too many people. We need to be higher up.”

“How ‘bout over there?”

They fought their way across the street to a sloping grassy area that was high enough to see most of the crowd. The Doctor pulled a pair of opera glasses out of his pocket.

“Much better.”

“Got another pair of those?”

“Yep.”

With the aid of a second pair of opera glasses, Mickey scanned the crowd. “I don’t see… Got ‘im. There he is. Behind that fat guy over there.” The younger Doctor was at street level near the Depository, waving something back and forth. “Looks like he’s looking for something with his sonic screwdriver.”

“What?”

The Doctor turned and looked where Mickey had indicated. “What? What am I…”

In the distance, the crowd began to cheer, and Mickey turned back to looking at the street. “Doctor! Doctor! I think the President’s here!”

As a plain, white Ford, the beginning of the motorcade, turned the corner onto Elm Street, Mickey’s heart began to pound. The excitement that he had felt earlier had disappeared, and now he felt sick. This was history for him, he knew what was going to happen, but somehow knowing and doing nothing made it worse.

The next few moments seemed to be in slow motion. As he watched, the white car pulled ahead while a midnight blue convertible, President Kennedy’s car, moved at a crawl around the corner, followed by police escort. Just as Mickey spotted the President and First Lady in the back of the car, he heard the sound of a car backfiring. The President slumped forward. As the First Lady tried to aid her husband, several people in the crowd began screaming.

Eyes wide with shock, Mickey gasped for air, sickened by the realization that what he had heard was the shot of a sniper’s rifle rather than a backfire, and that he had just witnessed President Kennedy’s assassination.

He had just seen someone murdered. He fought down the urge to vomit.

But it wasn’t over. As confusion reigned, Mickey turned back to look at the younger, leather wearing Doctor. Another shot rang out, and then possibly a third. At the same time, he saw the Doctor lunge to the side, knocking a young woman to the ground.

As time returned to normal, police began to swarm over the hill.

“Doctor!”

The Doctor stood next to him, still staring through the opera glasses, seemingly frozen in shock. Mickey shook his shoulder.

“Doctor! We’ve got to go! Now!” He yanked on his arm. “Run!”

They ran in the opposite direction of the crowd, making a large loop around the Plaza before heading back the way they came. When they reached the TARDIS, the Doctor fumbled with his key before letting them inside.

“I really need to make an electronic key for the TARDIS,” the Doctor said.

Beside him, Mickey wheezed for air. “I really, really need to work out more.”

The Doctor circled the console, setting the controls. The Time Rotor began to move up and down and the sound of dematerialization echoed through the room.

“Where are we goin’? Aren’t we gonna go back and try to find him again?”

“No need,” the Doctor answered. “Whatever injured both the TARDIS and me didn’t happen here.”

“What did happen?”

“He saved someone’s life. Someone, a young woman who originally died from the ricochet of a bullet fragment, didn’t die now.”

“Didn’t you say that this was a fixed point?”

“The Kennedy assassination was a fixed point,” the Doctor told him. “Her death wasn’t.”

“So you saved someone’s life.”

“It appears so.”

“Is that why you went there, to save her life?”

“I honestly don’t know. I still don’t remember any of this, and that worries me. Really, really worries me.” At Mickey’s questioning look, the Doctor continued. “If I was involved with this situation, if I had somehow met him, to maintain the timelines my younger self would have had to forget this happened until it happened to me, this me. If that had happened, if my involvement here had caused him to force himself to forget this had happened, then the memories of today should be returning to me now. And they’re not. Which means that my memory loss has been caused by something else, something that affected both me and the TARDIS.”

“Which means we’re back to square one.”

“Which means we’re back to square one,” the Doctor agreed.

“So now what?”

“Now we go on to the next place I know I was, and we look for something that could have affected both me and the TARDIS.”

The Doctor moved around the console, setting the next coordinates.

“How do you do it?” Mickey said quietly. “How can you go someplace like that and not do something? I mean, a man was shot, murdered, right in front of us. How can you just watch that happen and not let it affect you?”

“Who says it doesn’t affect me?” the Doctor said in a low voice. “This is why I don’t go to fixed points. The temptation to do something is too great.” He turned to face him. “This is how I see the world, Mickey. Every second of every day of my life, I see what is, what could be, and what can’t. I know what’s right, what has to happen, and more importantly, what’s wrong and mustn’t happen.”

“Is that what happened with Madame de Pompadour?”

“Yes. Her death at the hands of futuristic robots was wrong. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. I had to stop it. I’m just sorry that you and Rose were hurt by it.”

They both fell silent for a moment, and Mickey was overwhelmed by a glimpse of what it meant to be a Time Lord and by a new sense of what life was like for the Doctor, how he must be filled with agonizing choices every day. He didn’t know how the other man could handle it, day after day, year after year, and if what Rose said was right, century after century. If it was him, he’d want to escape it. Run away, as far away from all of it as he could.

But the Doctor didn’t have that choice.

Finally the silence between them became oppressive.

“We never found out, did we?” Mickey said, mostly to lighten the mood.

“Found out what?”

“What happened. Whether there was a conspiracy. Whether there was a second gunman. We didn’t even see who was on the grassy knoll.”

The Doctor chuckled. “No, as far as whether there was a conspiracy, whether Oswald acted alone or not, that will have to remain a mystery. But as far as who was on the grassy knoll, I would have thought you’d have figured that out.”

“Who?” Mickey asked. And then the penny dropped. “Us?” The Doctor gave him a nod. “But if we changed time by being there, how could it have been us?”

“There may not have been anyone there before,” the Doctor told him. “Witnesses were divided about that. Or maybe two other people had been there before who weren’t there now because we were. Or perhaps there was a ripple effect from our being there. Who knows? Most people consider time to be a straight line, a strict progression of cause to effect, but really it twists and bends, curves and circles upon itself. You can wake up in London in the year 2007 and spend the day creating the seeds of a conspiracy theory in Dallas in 1963.”

Mickey shook his head in disbelief.

The Doctor gave him a rueful grin. “Mickey Smith, welcome to time travel.”

#the choice #ficandchips #tenth doctor #mickey smith #revised chapter

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survivingmexico · 6 years ago

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In rural eastern North Carolina where I grew up, church dinners on the grounds are staples of summer. Church Homecomings are scattered throughout late spring, summer, and early fall with seemingly coordinated timing so that no two are on the same Sunday. After all, folks might want to go to more than one, depending on which church their extended family attends (or attended).

Homecoming – when everyone who ever went to a particular church comes home and brings all the young’uns and the grandbabies. It’s like a big ole family reunion. The laughter, the hugs, the embarrassing stories of youth, watching the kids run around on the same grounds you ran around on as a kid – it makes for a truly delicious bit of nostalgia. And the food. Oh my, the food.

Although technically a potluck dinner, a Southern country church dinner on the grounds is no average run of the mill potluck where people show up with just a skimpy little side dish. No, ma’am. The rule is you bring enough to feed your entire family and at least two other people so that out of town folks don’t feel so much pressure to perform. Because it is definitely a performance. I wouldn’t say the ladies are competitive, but heaven help the poor fella who yumyums someone else’s fried chicken if his own wife made fried chicken that day.

When the last amen is said, there’s no dilly-dallying. Dozens of country boys with uncomfortably snug neckties dutifully follow their wives, mothers, and sisters to the parking lot and return heavily laden with casserole dishes and Tupperware buckets and tubs. They follow the perfectly manicured finger of the church lady in charge who is pointing everyone to the correct table. Advice for the younger men: Remember the color of the dish you are carrying, what’s in it, and what table you put it on because you absolutely must put your wife or girlfriend’s food on your plate even if you have to search for it. The only acceptable excuse is that it was finished by the time you got to it.

More than a dozen eight-foot tables are stretched end to end piled high with everyone’s best dishes. First up – meats and main courses including sliced ham and roast beef, chicken pastry, pulled pork, lasagnas, and at least ten variations of fried chicken, followed by potato salads, seven layer salads, jello salads of every color, deviled eggs, collard greens with ham hocks, squash casseroles, macaroni and cheese, baked beans, scalloped potatoes (technically au gratin because, cheese), green bean casseroles, succotash, broccoli a dozen ways, corn on the cob, raw veggies with ranch dip, plates of sliced red tomatoes fresh off the vine, alongside a divinely heady selection of homemade pickles and relishes. Lots of biscuits, yeast rolls, breadsticks, and cornbread both baked and fried. And of course, plates of ham biscuits are scattered throughout just in case you needed a snack while waiting in line.

And desserts, lawdamercy! What can I say? It’s an irresistible confectionary dream or diabetic nightmare depending on your perspective. Banana pudding with toasted meringue, coconut cream pie with real whipped cream, cheesecake, chocolate layer cake, German chocolate cake, caramel cake, carrot cake, strawberry shortcake, Boston cream pie, lemon meringue pie, pecan pie, chess pie, apple pie, blueberry pie, peach pie (my fave!), puddings, trifles, cookies, brownies, and homemade ice cream. Oh, my! *I make most of these exquisite Southern specialties at home from scratch because I love to do it, but for folks who can’t make them at home, really SadFace because there is no bakery here that sells them.

So, when the little Mexican church we attend announced an “Anniversary Celebration” complete with a potluck dinner on the grounds, this little ole Southern girl’s heart was just all aflutter with excitement and anticipation. Oops. Hold the phone.

Sign up sheet? What do you mean, I can’t bring deviled eggs? All my Mexican friends love them. I can’t bring a seven layer salad either? They love that too!

Nope, tacos. Tacos? OK, so back up and punt.

Right now friends SOTB are saying, “yum!” and friends NOTB are going “huh?” We aren’t talking about those crunchy shells with meat-like filling that some consider tacos which I do love and recreate here in Mexico from scratch with healthy ingredients. Shhhh! But no. A real Mexican taco is made with soft tortillas, usually corn but sometimes flour so you can fold them or roll them up depending on your age and eating style, often with una copia, a second tortilla to give a little extra support. Basically, a tortilla is cornbread that’s been rolled out like a pie crust and lightly toasted so you can pile it up with all kinds of deliciousness.

So, the day arrived. We brought a large casserole dish of chicharrón en salsa verde (recipe below) and a 13×9 simple chocolate cake. I forgot that a lot of Mexican women don’t bake, and ovens are often absent from Mexican homes. Mine was the only dessert other than the official celebratory anniversary vanilla sheet cake. Faux pas? Maybe, but it was eaten, every crumb.

From the moment the church service was over and the people began setting up tables, the air was buzzing with a familiar church dinner electric excitement as people greeted friends they hadn’t seen in months or years. The menfolk paraded through the crowd with pots and pans full of the aforementioned deliciousness made by their wives and mothers and sisters into the sanctuary turned fellowship hall, and followed the perfectly manicured finger of the church lady in charge pointing them to the correct tables to display their chicken tinga, chicharrón en salsa roja, res con papas, nopales, rajas con crema and so on.

Kids eagerly scrambled to find their places at big round tables, to nibble on corn chips and frijoles refritos, to hear instructions from the church lady, and the blessing from the pastor.

And then, the most familiar tantalizing aroma tickled my nostrils as the top was removed from a nondescript metal box near the table. Carry me back, cochinita pibil (“Buried Little Pig”)! No time to discuss that now, but we absolutely will be comparing Down East pit-cooked barbeque to cochinita pibil in an upcoming post, and I’ll be asking my brother-in-law for the recipe for his famous sauce. Stay tuned.

This is what happens when I am unable to write for a long time; I can’t stop. Here I am already well over a thousand words and haven’t even gotten to a recipe yet! So, here is my husband’s very spicy, strongly seasoned recipe. This is definitely NOT a “no pica” salsa, but there were some habañero salsas on the table that were even spicier. Remember our motto, always make it yours. Use fewer serranos, less garlic, less onion if you like. Or more. Remove the seeds if you want. Or not. Up to you.

Nico’s Chicharrón en Salsa Verde

12 tomatillos

12 serranos

One medium onion

One small head of garlic or 5-6 large cloves

1 ½ tsp salt

½ tsp black pepper

½ tsp dried herbs of choice (we used epazote & oregano)

½ kilo (1 lb) chicharrón (fried pork rind)

Place the tomatillos (whole), serranos (whole with stems removed), garlic (whole peeled cloves), and ¾ of the onion (rough chopped) in a large stockpot and just barely cover with good water. Bring to a soft rolling boil and cook until the tomatillos are soft but not bursting, about ten minutes.

Please be careful with this step and use proper precautions. If your blender cannot handle very hot liquids, allow the veggies to cool completely before blending. You know that, right?

Transfer the veggies to a blender along with a cup of the liquid, the salt, pepper, and remaining quarter of the onion, chopped. Reserve the remainder of the liquid in a separate bowl. Blend on medium speed for one minute.

Return the salsa to the stockpot and let simmer for about five minutes, adding more liquid if the salsa gets too thick. Using a small piece of the chicharrón, taste and adjust seasoning if needed. Keep hot until time to serve, then break up the chicharrón and stir into the salsa.

Nico’s plate

My plate

This is the point where Southern and Mexican diverge. I love the crunchy chicharrón by itself and have eaten it plain since childhood. As an adult, I like to use the salsa as a dip with a little sour cream. But I my husband loves it this way, and it is a very popular dish. Enjoy!

***Y’all, just a little side note. As I was proofreading this article, the voice in my head had a decidedly more pronounced Southern accent than usual. Weird, huh?

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Read more Southern Comfort Mexican Style by Neva here.

Southern Comfort, Mexican Style – Church Dinner on The Grounds In rural eastern North Carolina where I grew up, church dinners on the grounds are staples of summer.

#adapting recipes to Mexico #chicharron with salsa verde #chicharrron recipes #salsa verde

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