Latest news with #mole
New York Times
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Three Restaurants Where Grandma Is (Almost) Always Cooking
My grandmothers were all wonderful women who I adored, but none of them cooks. While I'm slightly relieved to have escaped the trope of the food writer who learned to cook at her grandmother's elbow, I've never been at a restaurant and said, wistfully, 'this tastes like my grandmother's ____.' So, here's yet another reason to love New York: You can borrow someone else's grandma! At least, for the duration of a meal. La Morada in Mott Haven is a lot of things: a family business, a center for political activism and a downright perfect place to eat mole under the watchful eye of someone else's grandmother. Natalia Mendez and her husband, Antonio Saavedra, opened the restaurant in 2009, and the moles are swoon-worthy. The three I tried: mole negro, deeply savory with warmth from pasilla, a perfect hot tub for braised chicken drumsticks; brick-red mole Oaxaqueño with enough bits of pepper to sink your teeth into; and mole blanco, a rich, pale blanket of pine nut- and cashew-based sauce. A few grandma-core touches complete the experience — terracotta share plates are delivered warm, and a colorful container of motley markers and paper wait in the corner of the restaurant. 308 Willis Avenue (East 140th Street) The two women folding and frying dumplings to order at Fried Dumpling in Chinatown move so deftly, I'm confident they could handle a 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift in their sleep. At the small shop on the one-block-long Mosco Street, they're all business, chatting to each other while churning out magnificent, savory pork-and-chive dumplings that need nothing, maybe save for a squirt of chile oil from a bottle on the room's singular table. For $5 (cash only!), you can walk into Columbus Park with 13 of these dumplings and, for another dollar, a pint container of warm, fresh soy milk. 106 Mosco Street (Mulberry Street) Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
BBC News
4 days ago
- Science
- BBC News
Swimming mole captured by Somerset photographer
A wildlife photographer has captured something he had never seen before - a swimming Kirby, from Glastonbury, was having some lunch at the Catcott Nature Reserve on the Somerset Levels when he saw the underground-dwelling mammal splashing took out his camera to capture the creature taking a dip, much to the excitement of those in the hide with Mammal Society said that, while it is not unusual for moles to swim, it is rare to see them doing so, due to their subterranean living habits. Mr Kirby, who volunteers at a number of wildflife organisations in Somerset, said he saw a "thing moving in the water" out of the corner of his eye. "I thought 'what on Earth is that?', and it looked like a fish flapping away, so I swung my camera around and got it into focus - and it was a mole!"A mole in the water - never seen one swimming before," he Kirby said the animal swam around 26m (85ft) to the bank and then disappeared into the photographer shared his images online that evening and said thousands of people saw his posts. According to the Mammal Society, moles are "competent swimmers", but most people will never see one in the water, or even above ground, due to where they Larsen-Daw, chief executive of the organisation, said: "Their powerful forearms are very well adapted for digging through soil but they can also do a mean breaststroke, powering through water at a fair pace."They are masters of irrigation in the event of a flood, blocking flooding tunnels and building secondary tunnels to escape flooded systems."The society is asking members of the public to map moles on its app, saying they are "ecologically important" creatures.
Bloomberg
10-06-2025
- Business
- Bloomberg
The Spying Scandal Rocking the World of HR Software
Businessweek Technology HR software maker Rippling accused Deel, a key rival, of hiring a staff member to serve as a mole. Things escalated from there. On a cold March day in Dublin, Keith O'Brien looked down at his phone, raised an axe and smashed the device, again and again. A day earlier—a day O'Brien would later describe in sworn testimony as one of the darkest of his life—a corporate lawyer had given him the legally dubious advice to throw the phone into one of Dublin's canals. Instead he crushed it beyond recovery, gathered the shards and flushed them down the drain at his mother-in-law's house.
Yahoo
18-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Contributor: When it comes to mole, it's personal and political
For me, mole has always been personal. It's a bridge to my family, my memories and to Mexico itself. But lately, it's become political too. In these past months, as Trump's administration has run roughshod over any pretense of humanity in the way America treats immigrants, I've been thinking about how culture itself can be criminalized, policed, restricted and erased. So when I heard that Pujol, Enrique Olvera's Michelin-starred Mexico City restaurant, was bringing a pop-up, and his famous mole, to Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I wasn't hungry just for mole but for my people, our culture, to be seen, even celebrated. Ten kitchen and wait staff traveled to Olvera's L.A. restaurant Damian for the event. That detail hit me hard because of the risks in crossing borders at a time when every Latino entering the U.S., no matter how or why or with what legal status, is suspect. Even inside the U.S. the border follows you. The message is clear: Perceived outsiders are untrustworthy by default. Read more: Contributor: My grandmother opened a restaurant in Echo Park in 1951. The rest is history Still the Pujol chefs and servers came, and brought with them Olvera's mole madre — a constantly aged, evolving mole that has been developing (almost like a sourdough starter) for a full 10 years. Some call it iconic. But as Olvera says, 'We're not trying to make the best mole — just our own.' That's the heart of it. Mole is memory, place, family, self. At the pop-up, I expected to be served one mole, the mole, the mole madre. Instead, we were served three. The first was a mole de olla — meaning, cooked in a clay pot. (I'm used to the term 'de la olla' referring to beans — frijoles de la olla, soupy and whole, not mashed or refried.) I was surprised to find that this mole wasn't traditional, that is, it wasn't a sauce poured over meat. Instead, it coated a tender short rib, more like a basting than a pour. And the flavor went deep: dark, smoky, with a chocolatey-coffee undertone — not sweet, but rich and complex. If I hadn't known it was mole, I might've mistaken it for a sophisticated barbecue glaze. The short rib itself was fatty, fork-tender and indulgent. Read more: Making tamales brings my family together. But can we keep the tradition going? The next mole arrived like a tribute to artist Josef Albers' 'Homage to the Square' — except this was a composition of nested circles on a round, white ceramic plate. At the center was an adobe-red mole nuevo, alive with brightness and vibrancy. The mole madre encircled it, just as its name suggested, like a mother cradling her child, a culinary pietà. Hand-written in pen, the menu noted the mole madre had now been aged for 3,676 days. The color was a deep, dark brown — like the bark of an ancient oak tree after a rainstorm, earthy and noble. The colors reflected not only the dish's depth but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary home. And it was served sans protein. Suddenly, the richness of the short rib in the previous course made sense — it had fulfilled the need for heartiness, allowing this dish to stand on its own. I scooped a tortilla outward toward the plate's edge — from the younger mole to the madre mole. The first bite was lively, spiced and bright — already better than almost any mole I'd ever had. Then the mole madre : thicker, more like pudding than sauce, reminiscent of the dense Spanish hot chocolate served with churros. It had the presence and gravitas of the San Gabriel Mountains — rising sharply from sea level to 10,000 feet. Just like those mountains catch the light — pink, orange, purple — this mole revealed layers of spice and complexity. It didn't just have depth; it had archaeological, geological depth. And yet, I had to laugh. It was a good thing I hadn't brought my mom or my tias to the pop-up. As transcendent as the dish was, they would've said: ¿Y la carne? When we asked how the mole evolves, our waiter explained that the ingredients change with the seasons. Before coming to Los Angeles, the chefs had added guava, apples and pears. Excited, I asked, 'What will you add while you're in L.A.?' The waiter smiled. 'We don't have plans to add anything.' But I wanted them to. I wanted Los Angeles to give the mole something in return — a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visits from Mexico, they bring raw cheeses, dried shrimp, artesenal pan dulces, beaded art made by the Huichol. We reciprocate with See's candies boxes, Dodger gear, knock-off designer purses from Los Callejones. Couldn't the chefs take something back? A flavor? A symbol? Something to mark that they weren't just visitors, but familia returning to ancestral soil here in Los Angeles, a city that was once itself part of Mexico? I thought of the loquats in season, sweet and floral, growing in backyards across L.A., so delicate they cannot be sold in markets. They'd make the perfect local accent. I thought of the sour cherry juice from a Georgian dumpling house in Glendale, its tartness would add a contrast to the mole's depth. I thought of David Mas Masumoto, the Japanese American farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during World War II but whose peaches still flourish. Then I remembered the orange blossoms, blooming at the Huntington in San Marino. I'm writing a book about the Huntington gardens, and I know those trees once bore fruit picked and packed by Mexican laborers, 100 years ago. The Pujol mole, I realized, could hold a memory, just as those trees do. L.A. oranges and mole madre — they'd form a kind of culinary Latinidad, a genealogical and territorial fusion through food. I turned to the waiter and said, 'Please, take our oranges back with you. They're a link — across miles, generations. They belong with your mole.' He promised to pass the message on to the chefs. I had come to taste a legendary dish, to be sure. But in the savoring, I was struck by how precarious everything feels in this moment. I found myself yearning to convey how deeply what's Mexican and what's American are still connected, people to people, gente to gente, no matter what the government in Washington says. Every mole carries a story, even if it doesn't earn Michelin stars. The story tastes of a living, evolving history. And I want that story to shine. Natalia Molina is a professor of American studies and ethnicity at USC. Her latest book is "A Place at the Nayarit: How a Mexican Restaurant Nourished a Community." If it's in the news right now, the L.A. Times' Opinion section covers it. Sign up for our weekly opinion newsletter. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
The Guardian
12-05-2025
- General
- The Guardian
Country diary 1925: Don't question the wisdom of the mole-catcher
CUMBERLAND: When I came upon the mole-catcher again he scoffed at my having, a week or two ago, held up 100 yards as a somewhat long distance for a mole to tunnel without once putting his nose above ground. 'Come with me,' he said, 'and I'll show you what a 'mowdy' will do when he is travelling to a good feeding place.' We walked half a mile into the country and he pointed to a mound at the gate on the roadside. 'That's the starting-place. Now follow this dyke (of thorn and beech) and I'll give you my spade if you can spot a single mole working on the way.' Of course there was not one. Here and there the mole-catcher, regarding me as a doubting Thomas, lifted a spadeful of soil to reveal the tunnel. That ended at the garden of a cottager on the estate. 'The mole likes a newly-dug garden with plenty of 'management' in it,' commented the catcher. 'He gets his grub easily there.' Afterwards I paced the distance from gate to cottage garden. It was 275 yards.
