Brooklyn Belly Photos and Enchiladas and the Poor, Poor Phoolies

A beautiful bagel-ly bike ride-y Saturday morning in Saint Plotniko has been made even sweeter by the arrival of two photos of Brooklyn Belly. These appear to be taken on the stoop of their apartment in Park Slope. What we know for sure is The Great PD took them with his I-Phone -- Plotnik did not realize the quality of I-phone photos was this good.



Yesterday, The Great FiveHead phoned to ask about a recipe for Plotnik's Green Oaxacan Enchiladas. In talking through the recipe, Plot realized there are only two things they haven't been able to find yet in The Brapple of the Shmapple that are imperative to make proper Green Oaxacan Enchiladas. The most important is the smoked chiles, several bags of which Plottie brought home to Saint Plotniko from the Indian market outside Puebla. He'll have to act like his grandmother, only heading East this time, and bring chiles to Brooklyn next month.



The other missing link is fresh epazote, an herb that is common in Mexican sauces and easy to find here, but probably only available in a pure Mexican neighborhood in Brooklyn. Are there any? Got to be. You can substitute cilantro, but cilantro tastes like cilantro. Epazote doesn't taste like anything except Mexico. Plottie can't describe exactly what that means.

Good, fresh tortillas won't be available, but they can get tortillas in packages there, and since the enchiladas cook in the sauce they should be OK.

Plotnik isn't mentioning the Queso Oaxaca, which is a stringy white cheese that makes these Enchiladas even more special, but hey. Mozzarella will do. Ya gotta when ya gotta.

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Yesterday's Plotzer game comment: In today's Morning Birdcage there was an article about the poor Phoolies, about how their poor manager's 87-year-old mother died yesterday, as did the poor granny of the poor center fielder -- the center fielder whose excellent play won the game for the Phools.

Now Plot asks ya: If you offered either of those two players another day for Mom and Granny along with a loss to the Plotzers, or keeping things just the way they are, which is to say the Phools are ahead 2-0 in the series and Mommy and Granny are stone cold dead, does anyone think either of these two men would choose a little more time around the hospital bed?

Poor Phoolies. As Plotnik's own dear old Grammy P, dead for 25 years, would do right now if she could: Pttt-t-t. (She just spit over her own shoulder, muttering something nasty about the Czar. And the Plotzers are still behind.)