Homesick Texan

Banana pudding ice cream

2009-07-14T22:23:00.010-04:00

I have a confession. I’ve never had the pleasure of eating Blue Bell’s Banana Pudding ice cream. I’m not sure why. After all, I love banana pudding and I love ice cream.

As you probably know, Blue Bell doesn’t sell its ice cream north of the Mason-Dixon line (though you can find a few flavors at Hill Country here in New York), and when I go home I get caught up on eating my old favorites—Cookies ‘N Cream and Buttered Pecan, which leaves me little time to experiment. That or whenever I’m home it’s not around as it’s only in stores for three months out the year.

That said, I’ve been craving it as there’s something very appealing about a banana pudding ice cream.

Whenever I hear about the release of their seasonal flavors, I get a little sad that I won’t get to try them. And since their banana pudding ice cream is now available, I decided that even if I couldn’t buy it at the store, I could at least try to make a batch at home.

I usually make my ice cream with just cream and half and half, and don’t bother making a custard with eggs. (After all, it’s called ice cream not ice custard.) But I wanted this ice cream to be yellow and the best way I knew how to do that naturally was to make it with bright yellow egg yolks.

Sadly, the egg yolks didn’t make the ice cream yellow, but it did turn out a lovely shade of off white. But more importantly, I am now a convert for making a custard as the ice cream stayed creamy even after a spell the freezer, and was so rich that I didn’t have to eat a whole mess to feel satisfied.

I ended up straining my bananas as the first batch of ice cream I made turned an icky shade of gray, which I suspected was from banana pulp (that and I had to leave it in the refrigerator for a couple of days before freezing because I was too busy to sit and wait for my dang ice cream machine to do its magic.) But just to be safe, I also added some lemon juice, which not only kept the ice cream a pretty color (if not bright yellow) but also brightened up the flavor.

I’m kind of nuts about ingredients these days, so I toyed with using a certain grocery store’s organic vanilla wafers, but as soon as I opened the box and took a bite, I knew that there was no substitution for the proper cookie for a banana pudding—Nabisco’s Nilla Wafers. The organic one was just too thick and crisp and I had a feeling it would never soften and blend into the banana pudding ice cream, as a Nilla Wafer is wont to do.

So how is it? Well, I love it, but not having Blue Bell’s version of banana pudding ice cream, I shared some of mine with a friend who has eaten the stuff from Brenham. He took a bite, smiled and declared it very, very good. And that’s just the answer I needed to hear.

Banana pudding ice cream
Ingredients:
1 cup of cream
2 cups of half and half
3 egg yolks (save the whites for something else as we won’t be making a meringue)
3/4 cups of sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 bananas cut into slices
1 teaspoon of lemon juice
pinch of nutmeg
2 cups of Nilla Wafers roughly crushed (make sure they're not crumbs but nice chunks).

Method:
Cook the half and half on medium heat until warm, do not let it come to a boil.

Meanwhile, beat the egg yolks with the sugar and vanilla. Add to this 1/2 a cup of the warm and half and half, and then stir the egg mixture and banana slices into the remaining half and half.

Heat this on medium low for five minutes or until it gets slightly thick. Do not let it come to a boil. You’ll know it’s ready when it coats the back of your spoon.

Stir in the nutmeg and lemon juice, turn off the heat, and just let the whole thing rest for about 45 minutes.

Remove the banana slices, stir in the cream, chill overnight or for at least four hours and then freeze according to your ice-cream maker’s instructions. About five minutes before the ice cream is finished being whipped around, add the Nilla Wafers.

Can serve with reserved banana slices. Makes one quart.

How to season a molcajete

2009-07-10T07:50:00.003-04:00

At the delightful bed and breakfast, known as the Red Tree House, that I stayed at on a recent trip to Mexico City, every morning I would see the owner’s aunt use a molcajete to make salsa. I have eaten many salsas through the years and let me just say that this was some of the best salsa I’d ever tasted in my life. I know that much love and passion went into this cooking and that’s the main reason why it was so compelling. But I also figured that using a molcajete didn’t hurt. And so at the moment, I decided must have my own molcajete.

If you’re not familiar with a molcajete, it is a Mexican mortar and pestle. The term molcajete actually refers to the three-legged round bowl, which has been carved out of basalt. The pestle, which is known as the tejolote, has also been carved out of the same volcanic rock. In the thousands of years that this ancient tool has been used, there haven’t been any changes to the core shape—it’s a timeless design. Though because it’s a squatty vessel with legs, molcajetes are sometimes carved into animal shapes such as a bull or a pig.

A molcajete is an extremely durable piece of cookware, so durable, in fact, that in Mexico people pass down their well-loved molcajetes to the next generation, just as Southerners pass down cast-iron cookware to their children and grandchildren. And this is the key: a molcajete only gets better with use, as it absorbs flavors and reflects these back into whatever you’re currently making. A well-seasoned molcajete also is smooth and is no longer in danger of shedding lava-rock grit into your food.

Being more Tex than Mex, I realized that I didn’t have anyone to bequeath me a well-seasoned molcajete—if I wanted one I would have to buy it new. And yes, it would need to be seasoned. After going through the act, I decided that no one should ever have to suffer through my mistakes. So if you’re interested in acquiring a molcajete, here are my tips on making the best out of the seasoning process. And if you follow these instructions, you’ll soon discover that a molcajete is quite simple to use and enjoy.

10 (not quite) easy steps for a well-seasoned molcajete

1. On the way to Spanish Harlem to buy a molcajete at the Mexican grocery that you know sells them, pop into a chain home-furnishings store. Yep, they’re having a sale and included in said bargains is a molcajete. It looks pretty and the price is right, so you buy it.

2. Follow the seasoning instructions that come with the molcajete. The first step is to soak the molcajete in water for a few hours. No problem.

3. After you’ve dried the molcajete,take a small handful (about 1/4 of a cup) of rice and pound it into the molcajete until the rice turns into a grey powder. Repeat this process until rice no longer turns grey but instead stays white.

4. Clean up the rice that has shot out of the molcajete as you’ve been pounding it. You’ll need a vacuum (with hose attachments) and a screwdriver (to wedge up you laptop’s keyboard to pull out errant kernels—yes, that’s why your “T” and “F” keys no longer work). But no matter how thorough you are, please don’t be surprised if you see rice all over the house for weeks—it happens to the best of us.

5. Smash into the molcajete some garlic, cumin seeds, rock salt and cilantro. Create a paste and let it sit overnight so that the molcajete can absorb the flavors. When you clean it the next day, don’t be alarmed if small patches of the molcajete are now stained green—chlorophyll is good for you.

6. If the big-box store’s instructions are to be believed, the molcajete should now be seasoned. Make a batch of guacamole, take a bite, and get a mouthful of grit. Repeat steps two through five, about 20 times.

7. After going through seven avocados, 14 tomatoes, 21 cloves of garlic, a pound of cilantro, countless cumin seeds and chunks of rock salt, you finally admit to yourself that your salsas still have grit in them.

8. Texan food writer Melissa Guerra recommends using a wire brush to season a molcajete, so you buy one at the hardware store. You spend the rest of the evening scrubbing your molcajete with the brush, subsequently scraping your knuckles until they bleed a little bit into the bowl. But that’s OK—blood has iron, right? And that’s good for you.

9. You make a batch of salsa. Grit. You ask around and the consensus is that the big-box store might be selling molcajetes that are partially made out of concrete and no matter what you do, it will never, ever be smooth and grit free because the stone is just too soft. Yes, you’ve bought an overpriced decorative bowl, useful only for showing off those tomatoes you bought at the farmer’s market.

10. Head up to Spanish Harlem, buy a molcajete from the Mexican grocery store you intended to buy one from in the first place and notice that it looks exactly like the one your bed and breakfast used in Mexico (it’s shaped like a pig!). Take it home and repeat steps two through five. Make a batch of salsa, and enjoy it—grit free!

Now, in case you’re wondering if I think it’s worth having a molcajete, I do indeed. I haven’t thrown out my blender, but if I have the time to make a salsa in my molcajete I’m in for a real treat. There’s just something about the texture and flavor that can’t be replicated in a machine.

And if you’re looking for recipes to make in your new molcajete, then head on over to Serious Eats, where I will be writing about salsas on Thursdays for the rest of the summer.¡Buen provecho!

Other people's molcajete-seasoning experiences:
Carolyn Carreno goes through a ton of rice to season her molcajete.
As does the Foodinista.
Melissa Guerra sells molcajetes and discusses her wire-brush method.
And The Kitchn warns about cheap molcajetes.

Texas potato salad, what is it?

2009-07-03T10:52:00.015-04:00

Is there such a thing as Texas potato salad? And if so, what is it exactly?

When I asked my family how they make their potato salad, they all provided recipes that called for similar ingredients: chunky, unpeeled potatoes (either red new, brown russet or Yukon gold potatoes), green onions, celery, hard-boiled eggs, sweet pickles, mustard and mayonnaise. And if you’re on my dad’s side of the family, you stir in some Durkee’s as well.

This is the potato salad that always graced the table at our family barbecues—a thick mouthful that was soft and crunchy, tangy and sweet. But as I asked friends that hail from other regions of the country how they make their potato salads, their recipes sounded shockingly similar.

My family assured me, “Yes, this is how we do it.”

But is it particularly Texan?

People say it’s the mustard that makes a potato salad a Texas potato salad, but doesn’t everyone use mustard? Perhaps we just use more.

Of course, we also eat a lot of German potato salad in Texas. This concoction, most commonly found in the Hill Country, is usually served warm (though it’s also delicious cold). It’s a mix of red new potatoes, bacon, green onions, mustard and vinegar—with nary a dollop of mayonnaise to be found.

Sure, mustard is a quintessential Texas condiment. But so are pickled jalapenos. And why aren’t these in a Texas potato salad? Heck, even my mom—who is the queen of pickled jalapenos and its juice—doesn’t add it to hers. “Why not,” I asked. She didn’t have an answer, but insisted that sweet pickles are a key ingredient that compliments the other flavors.

Even though I’m no fan of sweet pickles, apparently I’ve been eating them in my potato salad my whole life without complaint, so I could see her point. But I still felt that a Texas potato salad needed jalapenos. So I compromised and made a batch of bread and butter jalapeno pickles and added that instead.

I love it when I have a hunch and it’s proven correct. And yes, these bread and butter jalapenos were a wonderful balance—sweet enough to be pleasing to the tongue yet fiery enough to make my lips tingle. Bread and butter jalapeno pickles were just what I needed to perk up my potato salad and make it my Texas potato salad.

But enough about me, what does Texas potato salad mean to you?

Texas potato salad
Ingredients:
2 pounds of red new potatoes, cubed
2 celery stalks, diced
2 green onions, sliced
1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup of bread and butter jalapenos, diced (recipe follows or you can use store bought)
1/4 cup of yellow mustard
1/4 cup of mayonnaise
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon bread and butter jalapeno pickle juice
Salt and black pepper to taste

Method:
In a large pot, cover potatoes with cold water, bring to a boil and cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Should be tender but not mushy.

Drain potatoes and rinse in cold water. Toss with vinegar and salt, and let cool in the refrigerator for half an hour.

After the potatoes have cooled, gently stir in the mustard and mayonnaise into the potatoes and then add the rest of the ingredients.

Serves four to six.

Notes: Lots of people like to also add dill pickles and sliced eggs and it always tastes good. And I used red new potatoes because that’s what my grandmother grows on her farm, but you can also use Yukon gold or any other potato that you prefer. I also leave my potatoes unpeeled because I like the texture and flavor of the skins, but feel free to peel your potatoes if that’s how you like them.

Bread and butter jalapeno pickles
Ingredients:
1/2 pound jalapenos (about four)
1 cup of apple cider vinegar
1/2 cup of sugar
1 teaspoon mustard seed
1/2 teaspoon cloves
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1 cinnamon stick

Method:
Pack into a pint-sized jar the sliced jalapenos
Bring the vinegar, sugar and spices to a boil, and pour over the jalapenos.
Let cool (about half an hour) and then cover and refrigerate.
Will be ready in a couple of hours, but I like to let them pickle overnight.

Pickled shrimp with lime

2009-06-30T09:24:00.011-04:00

When the days are hot and muggy, chilled pickled shrimp is a lush and refreshing way to help you forget you’re roasting in a hard, cement-coated city.

Pickled shrimp, which in Spanish would be called ceviche, is simply lightly cooked shrimp soaked overnight in an acidic liquid—such as citrus juice or vinegar—that’s flavored with herbs and aromatics. Pickled shrimp is perfect for summer. And I had some at lunch recently—a bowl so bright and cooling that if I closed my eyes I could imagine that I was no longer in steamy Manhattan but instead lounging on a breezy beach by the sea.

My dining companion was a New York book editor who hails from Texas, whom I’ve had the pleasure of corresponding with for the past few months. And it was a real joy getting to know her as I always get a kick out of meeting fellow Texans; our shared love of our home state instantly creates a special bond.

Though, truth be told, I was also interested in talking to her about publishing. People have been telling me I should write a book and for someone who has loved writing her whole life, this is all very flattering.

That said, for a long time I’ve struggled with what I’d have to say in a book. Not to mention, if I wrote a book would it be a food narrative or a straight-on cookbook? I’ve been advised to do both, which just adds to my confusion.

Our conversation was constructive. But also edifying was the food, especially an appetizer of shrimp pickled in lime juice with Serrano peppers, red onions and chunks of pineapple.

Straight from the bowl we both ate the pickled shrimp, so fast there wasn’t time to layer it on warm flour tortillas also on the table (though that would have been good, too). We did, however, take the time to deconstruct the dish. While a couple of flavors and textures eluded us, it was still clear enough that I knew I could come back home and recreate something similar with ease.

And that’s just what I did.

I enjoyed my lunch and the chance to get to know a fellow Texan in New York, and I’m feeling a bit more clarity about what sort of book I’ll write. But I know I have some more pondering to do, probably because it’s my silly nature to make life difficult by over thinking things.

Fortunately, however, I didn’t have to think too long about making this bowl of pickled shrimp—its flavors came together seamlessly. And, perhaps with a bit of hard work and hope, the right idea for a book will soon come together with such ease, too.

Pickled shrimp, inspired by the restaurant Cabrito

Ingredients:
1 1/2 pounds of uncooked medium-sized shrimp, peeled and de-veined
4 limes juiced (1/2 cup)
1/2 cup of pineapple juice

1/4 cup of white wine vinegar
1/4 cup of chopped cilantro
1-2 Serrano chiles, sliced
1/2 medium red onion, cut into slivers
1 clove of garlic, crushed
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon cayenne
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons of salt, plus more to taste

Method:
Add the cayenne, bay leaf and 2 tablespoons of salt to a large pot of water. Bring to a boil and then add the shrimp. Cook shrimp for one minute, drain and run cold water over shrimp.

In a large jar or plastic food-storage bag, add shrimp and rest of ingredients. Add 1 cup of water (or enough to cover the shrimp), sprinkle in a bit of salt, and marinate in the refrigerator overnight, shaking or turning occasionally.

Can serve in bowls, on tortilla chips or with tortillas. Serves four.

Note: You can doll it up by adding cubed avocado, pineapple or mango when serving, if you wish (not while pickling otherwise the fruit will get mushy). The restaurant where we ate added pepitas on top, which was a great contrast in texture and flavor.

Buttermilk dressing

2009-06-23T10:11:00.001-04:00

The first time I ate pizza with my New York friends, I learned that Texans have a special relationship with buttermilk dressing. When the pizza arrived, I pulled a jar out of the refrigerator, grabbed a slice of pizza and drizzled some of the creamy, tangy dressing all over it.

“What are you doing?” said my friends.

“You don’t put buttermilk dressing on your pizza?” I said.

“No! That's disgusting!” said my friends.

I shrugged and then continued to eat my buttermilk-dressing soaked pizza. And it was good.

When it comes to buttermilk dressing, Texans don’t just stop at pizza. We, of course, put it on our salads. But we also use it as a dip for our steak fingers, onion rings, fried okra, cheese fries and leftover fried chicken, among many other things.

Buttermilk dressing has long been a popular staple in a Texan’s larder. Its presence harks back to a time when dairy was ubiquitous and cheap, so it made sense to craft a dressing out of buttermilk and eggs rather than oil, which was scarce.

In the 1960’s, buttermilk dressing became branded as ranch dressing, but I prefer to call it by its proper name, especially as the stuff you buy in a bottle has almost no relationship to what you can make at home. And yes, buttermilk is indeed the star.

I was reading recipes for buttermilk dressing from almost 100 years ago, and back then it was a boiled dressing made with eggs, vinegar, buttermilk, herbs and spices. In the late 1930’s, however, both vegetable oil and commercial mayonnaise became more available and so people started using those ingredients to make their buttermilk dressing instead.

I have to say that the latter method is how I’ve been making my buttermilk dressing for years as it takes minimal effort to achieve maximum flavor. But I was curious about the boiled method. My grandma has no fond memories of the boiled dressing my great-grandmother made and perhaps the use of mayonnaise indeed marks progress. That said, I decided to make a batch of buttermilk dressing the truly old-fashioned way.

In researching recipes, I discovered that Craig Claiborne (the longtime New York Times food editor and fellow Southerner) also found his mother’s boiled dressing distasteful. No matter, I decided to persevere in making a batch.

Well, after boiling together a concoction of eggs, apple-cider vinegar, mustard, cayenne, buttermilk and butter, I was left with a thick, acidic custard that smelled so bad I had to throw open the windows and leave my apartment for a spell. (Note to self: if both your grandma and Craig Claiborne hate something, you will probably hate it, too.)

So indeed, progress has been made by the advent of widely available commercial mayonnaise. And thankfully, making buttermilk dressing is a snap, which means that you can have it whenever the occasion arises. So go on, what are you waiting for? You just know that slice of cold pizza sitting in your fridge needs an embellishment, and nothing makes leftovers, fried foods or salads sing like a good dose of creamy, tangy, spicy buttermilk dressing.

Buttermilk dressing, extra spicy
Ingredients:
1/4 cup of mayonnaise
1/2 cup of sour cream
1/2 cup of buttermilk
1/4 cup of chopped cilantro
1/4 cup of freshly squeezed lime juice
1 clove of garlic, crushed
1 serrano pepper, finely diced
1 teaspoon of chopped fresh chives
1/8 teaspoon of cayenne pepper
Salt and black pepper to taste

Method:
Mix all the ingredients together and let chill for an hour.
Makes 1 cup, keeps for a week in the refrigerator.
Notes: I like my dressing on the thinner side, so if you prefer it thicker use 1/2 cup of mayonnaise. And if you don't want it to be so spicy, feel free to omit the Serrano or substitute a jalapeno pepper instead. Also, you can use parsley instead of cilantro if you're one of those "Cilantro tastes like soap" people, I won't be insulted.

Guacamole, my way

2009-06-15T19:01:00.011-04:00

I’m often asked why I don’t have a guacamole recipe on my site. I reckon the simplest answer is because I don’t have a recipe for guacamole. Instead, I just add some ingredients to a smashed-up avocado and call it a dip.

When my mom was in the liturgical nacho stage of her life (so-called because she made her daily lunch of nachos always the exact same way) she’d whip up a batch of guacamole to go with them. She totally cheated, however, as she mashed an avocado with bottled hot sauce.

My mom can do many things very, very well, but I have to admit that this guacamole was not the best I’d eaten in my life. (And, for the record, she insists that she no longer makes guacamole this way.)

Guacamole is all about freshness and using a bottled hot sauce is anathema to this underlying principle. While you want the avocado to be the star, the other ingredients need to be heard as well, and nothing is louder than the crunch of fresh chiles, the tang of lime juice and the bite of fresh garlic.

There’s also the problem of bottled salsa having tomatoes as a base. I’m a firm believer that tomatoes shouldn’t be in guacamole; the texture is just wrong. Tomatoes are too juicy and soft and I want my accents to the avocado to be firm. I realize most people would disagree with me, but that’s OK as that’s probably the best thing about guacamole—everyone makes guacamole the way that they like it.

Take my uncle, for instance. He stirs in a heaping spoonful of mayonnaise into his guacamole, which he swears makes it super creamy. Then there’s a friend who’s been known to add sesame seeds to her guacamole, which is a subtle yet surprising accent. Obviously, the ways to make guacamole are infinite.

So, I’m happy to share with you how I make my guacamole, but what I really want to know is how you make your guacamole.

Guacamole
Ingredients:
2 ripe Hass avocados, peeled and cut in half
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 Serrano pepper, diced
1/2 cup of chopped cilantro
Juice from 1/2 a lime
Salt to taste

Method:
Mix all the ingredients together either with a fork in a bowl or in a Mexican mortar and pestle (molcajete) until desired consistency. If you’re using a molcajete, there’s no need to crush the garlic. And you can add another Serrano pepper if you like it extra hot.
Serves two to four.

Saveur, the Texas issue

2009-06-08T12:53:00.007-04:00

Do you love Texas food as much as I do? Then check out the June issue of Saveur, a special edition devoted to the Lone Star State.

You’ll find a beautiful portrait of West Texas border food, a convincing argument to eat okra, a history of chuck wagon cooking, stunning photos by Penny De Los Santos, excellent writing by Robb Walsh, Patricia Sharpe and Alison Cook, and recipes galore.

Oh, and there’s also a fine essay (if I say so myself) by yours truly, your favorite Homesick Texan food blogger.

But the most exciting thing for me is seeing my Texas-shaped cake pan in the magazine. My grandma baked a big cookie into this pan and mailed it to me when I first moved away from Texas. She wrote, “I’m sending this to you so you’ll always remember where you came from.” As you can see, it’s an oft-used and well-loved treasure. And I may be biased, but I can think of no better way to illustrate a section entitled, “Twenty-four reasons why we love Texas.” Can you?

So a big hearty howdy if you’re coming here for the first time—happy reading and eating!

Aunt Margaret's strawberry delight

2009-05-28T08:45:00.010-04:00

A few weeks ago, before it was strawberry season, my grandma tempted me with a dessert my Aunt Margaret used to make: strawberry delight.

Aunt Margaret was one of the fancier members of the family. She was always impeccably dressed and when I was young, she would give me her perfume and make-up samples from Neiman Marcus.

Like Aunt Margaret, strawberry delight sounded swank. And when my grandma gave me the recipe, she admitted that strawberry delight was both elaborate and delicious. But she then added no dessert could compare to eating fresh, ripe berries either on their own or with cream on a flaky biscuit split in two.

Dazzled by the name, however, I insisted on making strawberry delight when I bought my first pints of the juicy red berries at the farmer’s market last week.

Strawberry delight is very similar to a fool, where the berries are mashed and then stirred into whipped cream. This dessert differs, however, by the addition of a buttery pecan crust and a meringue that’s folded into the strawberries and cream.

Now, if I had any sense, I would have heeded my grandmother’s advice and kept it simple. But I like a challenge and when I was faced with whipping a couple of egg whites into a meringue without a stand mixer, I knew I had to give it a try. How hard could it be? I make whipped cream all the time with my eggbeater so I assumed that a meringue could hardly be all that more work.

One hour later, I was still struggling to make my egg whites fluff while the strawberries sat on the counter mocking me with their easy beauty. Tired of spinning the eggbeater, I took my meringue and folded it into the whipped cream and berries. I spread the whipped concoction over the crust and then put it into the freezer to chill overnight.

In the morning, when I pulled the pan out of the freezer I was stuck by how the peaks in the dessert looked like the topography of a pretty pink world. I cut out a piece and took a bite. It was buttery, nutty, creamy and fruity. It had been a lot of work, but it was indeed good.

Desserts such as this are frilly and fun and remind me of summer garden parties or church potlucks; there is a certain nostalgia when you dip your spoon into a creamy, cold square.

That said, my grandma made an excellent point about simpler pleasures. And this time of the year when the summertime fruits are making their debuts, I do believe that nothing beats eating them as they were made, still fresh, juicy and warm from the sun.

Strawberry Delight
Ingredients for the crust:
1 cup flour
1/4 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 cup chopped pecans
1/2 cup melted butter
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
Pinch of salt

Ingredients for the filling:
2 cups of fresh strawberries, sliced in half
1/4 cup of brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
2 teaspoons of lemon juice
2 egg whites
8 oz. of heavy cream
1/8 teaspoon of ground ginger
1 teaspoon of vanilla

Method:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Mix the crust ingredients and bake in a 9x13 pan for 20 minutes.

Stir the brown sugar into the sliced strawberries and let macerate at room temperature for half an hour or until juicy.

Beat the egg whites, lemon juice and sugar until light and fluffy. Then whip the cream until also light and fluffy and then stir into it the vanilla and ginger.

Add the strawberries to the whipped cream and then fold in the meringue.

Spread the fluffy strawberry filling over the crust, cover well and then freeze overnight or for at least six hours.

Before serving, let it thaw a bit and then cut into squares.

Alternatively, you could freeze the crust and filling into six or eight bowls or glasses and serve it that way.

Dr Pepper ribs: sticky, spicy and sweet

2009-05-20T11:42:00.006-04:00

I’ve been on a rib kick lately. I usually like my ribs simple—seasoned with nothing but a salt, cayenne and black pepper rub, smoked low and slow over post-oak wood. But when I’m trying to make outdoor fare inside, I tend to change my tune. Take my Dr Pepper ribs. These are sticky, spicy and sweet, which is the exact opposite of how I like my barbecue. And yet, I love my Dr Pepper ribs so much that I could eat a whole rack by myself.

Now if you know me well, you are aware that I’m a staunch opponent of sauce on barbecue. And yes, these ribs are wet and messy, so much in fact that if you don’t have a stack of napkins nearby you should probably wear a bib. So what changed my mind and why did I decide to make saucy ribs?

We Texans love to cook with Dr Pepper. I love to use Dr Pepper in my peanut brittle and a Dr Pepper chocolate cake is wonderful as well as it always turns out so moist. But I’d never tried using Dr Pepper with meat and I was curious if it would make that much of a difference.

I’ve tried making meat with my stove-top smoker in the style that I like it, but save for fish and vegetables, the results haven’t been great. So when it comes to oven-baked ribs, I decided to eschew outside authenticity and instead shoot for lots of flavor. Enter the Dr Pepper.

At first I tried making my ribs savory, using the Dr Pepper as only a tenderizer. This was wrong as the ribs were soggy with a strange flavor. It wasn’t, however the Dr Pepper’s fault—it was mine for pretending that the drink was something it wasn’t. So I decided that I would embrace the Dr Pepper’s inherent sweetness and try to compliment that with flavors that balanced it instead of fought it.

I coated the ribs in a smoky, sweet dry rub made with chipotle powder and brown sugar and let them rest for a few hours. I then made a glaze with my chipotle ketchup, Dr Pepper, mustard, vinegar, molasses and allspice. I baked the ribs in a low oven for a little over an hour and then started applying my Dr Pepper glaze. After another hour and a stint under the broiler, the meat was tender and each bite was coated in a sticky glaze both fiery and sweet.

Now because these ribs are messy, you may be tempted to eat these with a knife and a fork. Don’t. A year ago, the family was gathered for Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s farm and her neighbor brought over some ribs. Because we were having a sit-down dinner, I started to eat my ribs with a knife and a fork. “What are you doing?” said my uncle. “You don’t eat ribs with silverware! Use your hands like a Texan.”

You won’t find wet, sticky ribs at a Hill Country barbecue joint, so you could argue ribs such as these aren’t authentically Texan. But that’s just silly. Why? Because there’s nothing more Texan than Dr Pepper, chipotle peppers and eating meat with your hands!

What do you like to make with Dr Pepper?

Dr Pepper ribs
Ingredients:

For the rub:
1/4 cup of salt
1/4 cup of black pepper
1/4 cup of brown sugar
4 teaspoons of mustard powder
1/2 teaspoon of cayenne
2 teaspoons of chipotle powder
1/2 teaspoon of allspice

For the glaze:
2 cups of Dr Pepper
1 cup of ketchup
1/2 cup of mustard
1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons of molasses
2-4 teaspoons of chipotle powder

Two racks of St Louis ribs
1/4 cup of Dr Pepper

Coat the ribs with the rub, wrap in plastic and place in the refrigerator for at least four hours.

Heat the oven to 300 degrees and bring the ribs to room temperature.

In a foil-lined large baking or roasting pan, arrange the ribs with the meat side up, pour in 1/4 cup of Dr Pepper, cover pan tightly with foil and place in the oven.

Meanwhile, place all the glaze ingredients in a pan, bring to a boil and then simmer for 20 minutes until thick and syrupy.

After an hour and a half, take the ribs out of the oven and spread some of the glaze on each side of the racks. Place back in the oven, meat side up and cook uncovered for 30 minutes.

After 30 minutes, take out the ribs and spread more glaze over them and cook for 30 more minutes or until ribs are desired tenderness.

At this point, take the ribs out of the oven, spread more glaze on them and then cook each side under the broiler for four minutes.

Divide and serve!
Notes: You can use my chipotle ketchup instead of regular ketchup for the glaze and I used Dublin Dr Pepper, but you can use regular Dr Pepper, just don't use diet!

How to make a cemita

2009-05-14T10:58:00.002-04:00

Have you ever had a cemita? It’s a sandwich found in the Mexican state of Puebla. At first glance, you may think it looks like a hamburger as it’s housed on a round, sesame-seed bun. But after you take a bite you’ll realize this isn’t a hamburger at all—instead it’s a festival of flavors and textures nestled between a pillow-soft bun.

The bun, which is also called a cemita, is where the sandwich gets its name. It’s an egg-rich bread topped with sesame seeds that is sort of a cross between challah and brioche. (And it’s not to be confused with the cemita or semita found in Northern Mexico, which is a Mexican sweet bread spiced with star anise).

The other distinguishing characteristic of a cemita is the liberal use of the minty herb papalo. When I had my first cemita, it was that bright note cutting through all the other flavors that made this sandwich sing.

Papalo isn’t always in season, however, so you may sometimes have a cemita made without it. But without the sesame-seed roll, you no longer have a cemita, you just have a sandwich.

Recently I was at a Jackson Heights taco truck that I’d never been to before, but the line was long and the condiments were fresh and plentiful—two signs the food should be delicious. To work on my Spanish I struck up a conversation with one of the other customers and asked him what to order. He said everything was good as the food tasted like what you would make at home.

We don’t often think about street food as home food, but ever since that conversation I’d been obsessed with making a cemita at home. And since the cemita is nothing without the roll I knew that I’d have to figure out how to bake that particular bread in my own kitchen.

I speak just enough Spanish to get into trouble when I visit forums on Mexican food sites, so until I learned that there were two cemitas, I was wondering why there were no sesame seeds and so much sugar in the recipes I found. And yet I still couldn’t find a proper recipe for the bread that I wanted.

After much delicious research out in the field, however, I decided to combine several recipes to create the tender roll. Eggs and buttermilk make the crumb soft and dense, oil and sugar make it sweet and moist and the sesame seeds add crunch and contrast. Sure it’s a bit decadent, but lean times sometimes call for affordable pleasures.

This roll is intended for a cemita sandwich, though I find that it’s also darn good as a bun for hamburgers, as a home for barbecue or simply on its own, warm from the oven and slathered with cool butter.

Cemita roll
Ingredients:
2 cups (9 oz.) flour
1 teaspoon of salt
2 tablespoons of sugar
1 teaspoon of yeast
2 eggs at room temperature
½ cup of buttermilk
¼ cup of canola oil
1 tablespoon of milk
1 tablespoon of water
¼ cup of sesame seeds

Method:
Mix all the dry ingredients together. Whisk the eggs together with the oil.Heat the buttermilk on low until it’s warm (110 degrees if you want to use a thermometer). Do not let it come to a boil!

Stir into the dry ingredients the warm buttermilk, eggs and oil. Mix until the liquid is incorporated and then let it rest for 15 minutes.

After it’s rested, knead the dough on a floured-surface until it’s smooth, though note that it will still be a bit sticky. That’s OK.

Place the dough in an oiled bowl, cover it and let it rise until it’s doubled in size, about an hour and a half.

Depending on how large you want your rolls to be, divide the dough into eight or four balls and let them rest, covered for 15 minutes.

To shape the rolls, take each ball and then flatten it so it looks like a disc.

Place each roll a few inches apart on a parchment-paper lined baking sheet. Cover the baking sheet and let the rolls rise for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

When rolls have risen, mix the milk and water and brush the top of each roll with the wash. then sprinkle with the sesame seeds. Bake the rolls for 20 minutes or until lightly browned.
Note: Bread only lasts a day, but freezes well.

And now that you have the rolls, you can make a cemita sandwich!

Cemita sandwich
Ingredients:
A few papalo leaves (can be found at most Mexican markets)
Chipotles in adobo
A ripe avocado cut in slices
Savory Mexican meat such as carnitas or tinga
Mexican Oaxacan cheese (can substitute mozzarella if you can’t find it), shredded

Method:
Take a roll and slice it in half.
Lay the avocado quarters on each half of bread.
Pile high the meat, cheese, chipotles and papalo on one half of bread, place the other half on top and enjoy!

Other people's thoughts on cemitas:
Anita shares more background, while Matt professes true love.

Dewberry cobbler is your reward

2009-05-07T10:14:00.003-04:00

Picking dewberries is a wonderful warm-day pastime. When I was young, my friends and I would march out to the wilder parts of my suburban Houston neighborhood—such as the bayou, vacant lots or the rough patch next to the golf course—and brave water moccasins, thorns and poison ivy to score some of these black orbs, warm from the sun and ready to pop in your mouth.

Usually, we’d eat them straight from the bush, smearing our t-shirts and shorts with the dark, sticky juice. But sometimes we’d be more organized and bring a container so we could pick them and then take them home to our parents so they could make dewberry cobbler for dessert.

Spending plenty of time on a farm, I know that when you venture into a bramble you need to wear strong boots filled with sulfur to keep those chiggers at bay. But what was cool at the farm was not cool in Houston, and so we’d usually be wearing at best tennis shoes and at worst flip flops as we made our way through the berry patch. Needless to say, you can get scuffed up something ugly after a bout of picking dewberries if you’re not properly clothed. But no matter—the joy of finding food in the wild mitigated any cosmetic damage done to our legs.

Between my mom’s organic garden in the backyard and my family’s farms, I had plenty of experience with food coming out of the ground. But there was something special about dewberries. Perhaps it was because we suffered greatly to get to them. Or perhaps it was because there were never any grown-ups involved in our foraging adventures. Or perhaps it was just because this wild food tasted so darn good.

Some argue that blackberries and dewberries are one and the same. I don’t know the answer to this. And sadly, I haven’t seen dewberries growing in any New York City vacant lots or in Central Park (though if there are dewberries here, please let me know!) so I can’t do an immediate taste comparison. But we do have blackberries and they are a decent substitute for dewberries.

I like to make a cobbler with my berries, though they could also be made into jam, juice or tarts. What do you make with yours?

And don’t get me wrong—a blackberry cobbler is nothing to sniff at. But I know that it would taste even better if I had made it with berries I had picked myself, berries still glistening with the morning’s mist that gives the berry its proper name—dewberry.

Dewberry Cobbler
Crust ingredients:
1/2 stick of butter (2 oz.)
1 cup of flour (6 oz.)
1/2 cup sugar (3 oz.)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 cup of buttermilk
1/2 teaspoon salt

Filling ingredients
4 cups dewberries or blackberries
1/2 cup sugar (3 oz.)
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon lemon juice

Method:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Place the rinsed berries in a large cast-iron skillet or nine-inch round cake pan, and toss the berries with the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon and lemon juice. Let them macerate for 20 minutes.
To make the crust, melt the butter on low in a pan, and then add the other ingredients. Dough will be slightly sticky, moist yet pliable.
Pat out the dough and place it over the berries.
Bake 40 minutes or until light brown and bubbling.
Serves six

Chipotle ketchup changes everything

2009-04-29T12:50:00.007-04:00

I was talking to a friend on the phone last night and he asked what I’d eaten for dinner. “Ketchup,” I replied. “And what else?” he said. “And nothing. Just ketchup,” I said, “though I suppose onion rings would have been nice.”

I am in love with ketchup for the first time. And yes, I could be biased because I made it but no matter—I think it’s the best ketchup I’ve ever had in my life.

Have you ever made ketchup? If you haven’t, you’re in for a treat. You get to control the sweetness, the spice and you can even make it fiery if you desire, as I did with mine by adding chipotles.

I make salsa at least once a week and I’ve even been known to whip up mayonnaise or Hollandaise when I had a craving for the good stuff. But for some reason homemade ketchup never crossed my mind. Like most people, I ate Heinz my whole life, until I decided that I didn’t want to eat a condiment made with high-fructose corn syrup. I then switched to Whole Foods' version, which is made with cane sugar instead. And it’s good. But not as good as mine.

There are countless recipes floating around, but the one thing they all adhere to is the use of vinegar and a sweetener—usually brown sugar—as it’s this combination mixed with the tomatoes that gives ketchup its distinctive flavor. From there, you can do anything you like, making your ketchup as simple or sophisticated as you desire.

For mine, I diced a 1015 sweet onion and cooked it in olive oil until it was just starting to brown. I then added a 28-ounce can of Roma tomatoes, apple cider vinegar, brown sugar and a bit of molasses. I threw in some chipotles for smoke and fire, some cinnamon and cloves for spice and some celery seed for brightness. I let it cook for a couple of hours and then pureed it and let it cook some more. My yield was about a pint, though it could have been more if I hadn’t been constantly spooning it out of the pot to taste.

And yes, I do believe that a spoon is an acceptable vehicle for this condiment. But I have over six pounds of 1015 onions that are just begging to be made into onion rings, and I just know that they’ll go beautifully with my homemade chipotle ketchup.

Chipotle ketchup
Ingredients:
1 medium-sized sweet onion, diced
1 tablespoon olive oil
28-ounce can of whole tomatoes
½ cup of apple cider vinegar
¼ cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon molasses
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon celery seeds
3 chipotle peppers in adobo
Salt to taste

Method:
On medium low heat, cook the diced onion in the olive oil in a medium-sized pot just until the onions start to brown a bit on the ends.

Add the tomatoes and their juice to the pot, crushing the tomatoes with the back of a spoon.

Stir in the rest of the ingredients, bring to a boil and then simmer for an hour, stirring occasionally.

After an hour, puree the mixture, and then continue to cook on low heat until it reaches your desired thickness.

Ratios and cherry almond cookies

2009-04-24T07:44:00.010-04:00

I’m an improvisational cook. This means that I’ll take stock of what I have in the kitchen and then create dishes from what’s available. This method usually works if I’m making savory dishes, but when it comes to baking I’ve had less success. (We won’t discuss the time I spontaneously threw in steel oats, cayenne and sea salt into a chocolate cookie recipe.)

Baking calls for precision, which I lack. For a long time I’ve wondered if there were basic formulas for making pastries, something I could use to make up my own recipes, if say, I wanted a steel oat and sea salt cookie to actually be edible. So when I heard about Michael Ruhlman’s latest book, Ratio, I knew this was the information I’d been looking for.

A professor of Ruhlman’s at the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) presented him with the initial ratio concept, which takes certain foods and reduces them to their basic essence. For instance, let's look at pie crust. Its ratio is 3 parts flour: 2 parts fat: 1 part water. So no matter if you’re mixing butter and lard with wheat flour and ground pecans, or shortening with oat flour and buckwheat, by using these exact proportions of fat to flour to water you should have a crust that works.

Besides his pastry section—which covers all doughs and batters—he also shares the ratios for stocks, farcir (a fancy term for sausages), sauces and custards. And while he provides measurement conversion from weight to volume—ounces to cups—you’ll learn that it’s more accurate to use a scale.
Now that I had Ruhlman’s ratios on hand, I decided to put them to work. I wanted to make a shortbread cookie in which the ratio is 1 part sugar: 2 parts fat: 3 parts flour.

I placed a four-ounce stick of butter in a bowl on top of my new toy—my kitchen scale—and then creamed it with two ounces of powdered sugar. I had some almond flour around, so I threw in three ounces of that and then three ounces of wheat flour. To jazz up the cookie a bit more, I added a pinch of salt, a pinch of nutmeg and an ounce of chopped dried cherries.

I know that I’m prone to exaggeration, but believe me when I say that this dough was a dream to work with as it wasn’t too sticky nor was it too dry. It was just right. And the cookies baked beautifully. Still unsure about this wonderful cookie I’d made without a recipe, I took them to a group of people with very discerning palates—my coworkers. I explained to them how I’d baked with ratios and not a recipe and I needed their honest opinion on the cookies. They ignored me, however, and managed to finish the whole batch in record time. I reckon this means that my ratio cookies were indeed delicious.

I’m not going to stop reading recipes, blogs or cookbooks, but with this knowledge I now have a solid foundation for being more creative in the kitchen. Not to mention, I love using a scale. Why didn't anyone tell me that it was so easy and so efficient? Do you use a scale in the kitchen? I'm a convert! And with that, let's just say I'm already planning my next recipe: citrus breakfast rolls.

Cherry almond wedding cookies
Ingredients:
2 oz. powdered sugar (1/4 cup) plus another few ounces more for coating cookies
4 oz. unsalted butter at room temperature (1/2 cup)
3 oz. of almond flour (1/2 a cup, can make by grinding almonds in the blender)
3 oz. of all-purpose wheat flour (1/2 a cup)
2 oz. (1/4 cup) dried cherries, chopped
Pinch of salt
Pinch of nutmeg

Method:
Cream the butter and the sugar and then mix in the flour, spices and dried cherries.

Form the dough into a log, and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

On a greased cookie sheet or one lined with parchment paper or a Silpat, form the dough into 1/2 tablespoon-sized ball, placing each ball about an inch from the other. Bake for 15 minutes.

Let cool for five minutes, and then dip cookies into powdered sugar.

Makes 20 cookies

Notes: You can really taste the butter in this cookie, so be sure and use fresh, good quality butter. Also, you can substitute dried blueberries or chocolate chips for the dried cherries.

What's in your English pea salad?

2009-04-16T08:04:00.021-04:00

I was sitting with a group of food writers from the Northeast the other day (I would playfully call them Yankees, but as it was gently pointed out to me, they wouldn’t call me a Confederate so I should be careful with my adjectives). They asked me if there was something that we Texans eat that I was reluctant to write about and I didn’t blink before I said, “Pea salad.” (If you’re a fan, please do not take offense. Instead, bear with me. )

We didn’t often eat pea salad often in my family and for me it was always the strange-looking dish holding court next to the lime congeal at the church potluck or in the cafeteria line.

I can guarantee that you would never see it here in New York City, and, well, because it’s been out of sight, it’s also been out mind. (I know, I know—how could I forget about pea salad? I hear it all the time: I’ve lived away from Texas too long!) But when a reader requested that I post a recipe, saying, “We always eat it around Easter,” I figured it was time.

Pea salad is a Texan classic and yet it changes as much as the weather on a spring day.

Take my grandmother’s recipe: she makes hers with peas, cheddar, mayonnaise and pickles. But I also know people who make their pea salad with boiled eggs and bacon, not to mention those that make theirs with pickled onions and pimento cheese. And let’s not forget those other weighty questions: Do you go with canned Le Sueur peas, frozen or fresh? Do you shred or cube your cheese? Do you add other vegetables such as carrots or celery? And how do you feel about the inclusion of macaroni or almonds?

As you can see, pea salad is the font of much debate and deliberation. .

I decided that in order to decide how best to eat it, I’d just have to make my own.

I love peas and bacon together, so that was simple decision. And since I’m the kind of person that eats mayonnaise by the spoonful, I was definitely including that. When it came time to add cheese, however, I was flummoxed. Of course, in Texas you add yellow cheese—most typically Longhorn cheddar (unless you prefer Velveeta or American). But the combination of peas and bacon reminds me of northern Italian food, and so I thought that Parmesan shavings would be tasty.

In the end, however, tradition won out over experimentation. I realized that pea salad can be found all over the place, but it’s the yellow cheese, preferably Longhorn cheddar, that marks pea salad as Texas pea salad (that is, unless you make it with hard-boiled eggs, but I’m just confusing myself).

And while I couldn’t remember the last time I had this classic Southern side dish, when I took my first bite I was pleasantly surprised as it was soft, sweet, crunchy and spicy. It was good. I wouldn’t try to overanalyze pea salad—if you dissect its parts you’ll probably be put off of it. But when you add all the ingredients together, you have a refreshingly cool spring salad that is certain to please most everyone.

So, what do you put in your pea salad?

English pea salad
Ingredients:
4 cups of English peas (can be either fresh or frozen
4 pieces of bacon, cooked and crumbled
1/2 of a small onion, finely minced
1 tablespoon of fresh mint, chopped
1/2 cup of sharp cheddar, cubed
1 teaspoon white wine vinegar
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Pinch of cayenne
Salt to taster

Method:
Rinse your peas (do not cook, either fresh or frozen) and then mix all ingredients together. Chill for a few hours and serve.
Serves 8.

Notes: Like all salads, this is just a guide and you can jazz this up any way you see fit, such as using ham or chicken instead of bacon, adding pimientos or jalapenos, or maybe adding a dollop of mustard to give it some tang.

Honey-soaked hot cross buns

2009-04-09T06:26:00.013-04:00

The first time I heard of hot cross buns was during a piano lesson. It was early in my (very short) musical career, so I could only play songs that had a few notes all hovering close to middle C. One day, my teacher opened my book to a song called “Hot Cross Buns,” and said, “This is easy. I’m sure you can handle this.” And I could.

Along with the song being easy to play, the lyrics were also simple:

“Hot cross buns,

Hot cross buns,

One a penny,

Two a penny,

Hot cross buns.”

But like most simple yet catchy songs, it stayed in my head and I wasn’t satisfied until a few years later when I finally convinced my mom to make them for our family.

Hot cross buns are a sweet roll served at Easter time. Traditionally, they’re sold and served on Good Friday (hence the song’s lyrics, which chronicle a hot-cross bun transaction in a more-kind economy). My family, however, also ate them also on Easter morning, which is where a bite of one always transports me.

Before we’d go to church, mom would pull out of the oven a pan of these soft buns sprinkled with raisins and cinnamon. After letting them cool for a few minutes, she’d cross the tops with icing and then we’d grab them while they were still warm to the touch.

I’m kind of a fallen Episcopalian, but I still enjoy following the liturgical calendar and observing some of the traditions that accompany each celebration. Of course, hot cross buns can’t be found in the Bible or the Book of Common Prayer, but nonetheless, eating them makes me feel like I’m observing Easter the way that I was raised.

Here is my mom's recipe for hot cross buns. They appear to be a holdover from her granola days when sugar was bad but honey was healthy. No matter, the honey makes them sweet, sticky and soft.

Of course, you don’t have to be a Christian to enjoy hot cross buns. There’s evidence that these buns hark back to pagan times, but no matter your religious affiliation, you will agree that hot cross buns are indeed heavenly.

Honey-soaked hot cross buns, from my mom
Ingredients for buns:
1 package of dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water plus 2 tablespoons of water
3/4 cup of milk
½ cup of butter (one stick)
2 tablespoons of honey, plus more for glazing
1 teaspoon of salt
½ teaspoon of cinnamon
½ teaspoon of nutmeg
3 eggs
2/3 cup raisins or currants
4 cups of flour (plus more if dough is too wet)

Ingredients for frosting:
1 cup confectioner sugar
2 tablespoons of water
1 tablespoon of honey

Method:
Combine dry yeast and 1/4 cup warm water.
Warm over low the milk, butter, salt and 2 tablespoons of honey until the butter has melted. (Do not let it come to a boil!) Add to yeast mixture.

Whisk in cinnamon, nutmeg and eggs into the mixture. Add 2/3 cup raisins and slowly add the ﬂour, one cup at a time.

Knead on a lightly floured surface for five minutes until the dough is smooth and resilient.

Let rise covered in greased bowl until double.Then punch down the dough and divide into 24 balls and place, sides touching, in a greased and ﬂoured 13x9x2 pan and let rise again. With a sharp knife, cut crosses into each bun.

Bake at 375 for 15 minutes.

Glaze with honey (as much or as little as you like) and bake five minutes more. Meanwhile, stir together the confectioner sugar, the honey and the two tablespoons of water to make the frosting. When you take the buns out of the oven, cool for 10 minutes, then cross each bun with the frosting.

Makes 24
(Notes: You can substitute the raisins or currants with dried blueberries, cherries or even chocolate chips. Chopped nuts also make a tasty addition. I also like to add lemon zest and a bit of vanilla to the frosting.

Lamb barbacoa: a special spring treat

2009-04-05T09:29:00.011-04:00

Is there a reason why we Texans don’t eat much lamb? It’s tender, it’s flavorful, it’s not too expensive and yet you seldom see it. Heck, I even heard a statistic that said we eat less than a half a pound of lamb a year.

So imagine my surprise when I was in El Paso and saw listed on a menu lamb barbacoa with the added note, “For a special treat.”

I was tempted, but I went with the regular barbacoa—the kind made from a cow’s head. You can’t get that in New York City as the barbacoa found here is made with goat instead.

But I’ve been thinking about that lamb barbacoa ever since. And because Easter is coming up and lamb is one of the traditional dishes to serve, I decided to try making some on my own.

True to form, however, I’d never cooked lamb, let alone eaten all that much of it.

My father has always enjoyed lamb and I remember on one vacation we had dinner in a charming New England lodge where they served leg of lamb with mint jelly. He offered me a bite, and while I enjoyed the lamb I wasn’t a fan of the mint jelly—its color seemed unnaturally green and I couldn’t figure out how it could possibly compliment the meat.

It wasn’t until I was 21 that I again had lamb. I was having Easter lunch with my boyfriend’s family in a small Texas town’s finest restaurant and on offer was a choice of either ham or lamb. Ham was my family’s preferred Easter meat, but I decided to go with the lamb as it felt exotic and sophisticated.

I was served a thick pink slab crusted in black pepper that was cut from a lamb roast. On the side was the requisite mint jelly, but I ignored that and just ate the lamb unadorned. I was surprised at how tender and juicy the meat was, and the flavor had hints of earth and grass but it wasn’t overpowering. I enjoyed it—its flavor was refreshing like spring.

Since spring has finally arrived and Easter is next Sunday, here is my take on lamb, and easy lamb barbacoa. It makes for wonderful tacos, tostadas or just served on its own. Though you don’t have to be celebrating Easter to enjoy this lamb barbacoa—for any occasion it will still be a special treat.

Lamb barbacoa
Ingredients:
3 pounds of de-boned lamb shoulder
6 ancho chiles
3 guajillo chiles
10 cloves of garlic
1 cup of coffee
1/2 cup of water
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon cumin
1 tablespoon agave nectar
1 small onion, cut into slivers
1 carrot, peeled and cut into rounds
Salt to taste

Method:
Toast the chiles in a dry cast iron skillet on medium heat for a few minutes on each side and then turn off the heat and fill the skillet with water. Let the chiles soak for 20 minutes or until soft.

Cut the lamb into three-inch cubes and rub the meat with salt.

Drain the chiles from the soaking water and place in a blender. Add to the blender the garlic, the coffee, the water, the cinnamon, the oregano, the cumin and the agave nectar. Puree until smooth.

Coat the lamb with the chile puree, and let it marinate in the refrigerator for four hours.

Heat the oven to 250.

In a roasting pan, coat the bottom with some of the marinade. Place the onions and carrots on top of the marinade and then top this with the lamb.

Tightly cover the pan with foil, and then cook in the oven covered for four hours or until fork tender.

Shred meat with forks and serve in tortillas with cilantro, onions and salsa.

Serves four to six.

Austin and basic black beans

2009-03-26T10:38:00.004-04:00

Now that SXSW is over and my non-Texan friends who attended the conference are back on the East Coast, all I hear from them is, “Where can I get a breakfast taco?” or “Who has the best queso?”

Austin food is addictive, isn’t it?

One of the things I love the most about Texas is its size. Because it spans across several geographical, topographical and climatic zones, naturally there are going to be variations in what people eat in each area. While I would say that the trinity of Texan food—Southern dishes, barbecue and Tex-Mex—is the same throughout the state, how each region within the state interprets these cuisines differs.

Take Austin and Tex-Mex. After spending years in the Dallas area and Houston, I was already aware that differences could exist between the two Texan cities’ cuisines, so I wasn’t that surprised when I arrived in Austin to see that it, too, did things just a bit differently than other places in the state.

The first thing I noticed was migas. I’ve written about migas before—Austin’s signature breakfast dish of scrambled eggs with cheese, chips and peppers. Every place in Austin serves migas, yet when you leave Austin you rarely see them, if at all.

Black beans are another Austin Tex-Mex distinction. It was in Austin that I first saw black beans served alongside your tacos or your enchiladas, instead of the more typical refried pinto beans. This isn’t to say that you can’t find refried pinto beans in Austin, because there are many fine, fine examples of this noble dish. But, I found that Austin’s Tex-Mex could be a little quirky and so black beans would be on offer more often than I’d see them in Houston or Dallas.

I wasn’t a stranger to black beans. My mom fed me all sorts of beans when I was growing up in Houston and black beans graced our table probably once a week. But there was something about black beans that made me feel they were more upscale. Perhaps it was the color of the bean (black is always stylish!) or perhaps it was its more diminutive size, but I adored black beans just as much as my beloved pintos.

I know I’ve written a lot about beans lately—and if you’re not a bean eater, I apologize. I reckon you could say it’s the grim economy that has me returning to beans so frequently—they are, after all, such a healthy, inexpensive protein. But as beans have been a staple of my diet my whole life, I also just really enjoy cooking and eating them. And since they’re what I had for dinner last night, I thought I’d share them with you.

This is my basic black bean recipe. It takes little effort and has a rich smoky flavor that comes from chipotles instead of the usual ham hocks or bacon. And, of course, if you’re bored by black beans at least now I have something to point to when I write in the future about really fun things, such as black-bean salsa, corn and black-bean salad or that Austin late-night staple, Mag mud.

Basic black beans
16 oz. dried black beans
1 tablespoon of lard, bacon grease, peanut oil or canola oil
1 onion, diced
4 cloves of garlic, minced
1 carrot, diced
4 chipotles in adobo, chopped
1 tablespoon of epazote or 2 sprigs fresh
1/2 teaspoon of cumin
1/2 cup cilantro. chopped
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/4 cup lime juice
Six cups of water
Two cups of chicken or vegetable broth
Salt to taste

Soak the beans covered in water—either overnight or the quick soak method in which you place the beans in a pot, cover with water, bring to a boil, cover and remove from heat and let sit for one hour.

Drain the soaked beans.

In the pot you’re going to cook the beans, sauté the onions and carrots in your preferred fat for 10 minutes and then add the garlic for one minute. Add the beans, chipotles, epazote and cilantro.

Cover beans with water and chicken broth, bring to a boil, and then reduce heat to low (liquid may still be moving and all the ingredients may still be jumping around the pot, just not as vigorously as when the heat is high. That's fine.). Stir occasionally.

After 1 1/2 hours, add the cumin, tomato paste, lime juice, salt and remaining cilantro and cook for 30 more minutes or until beans are tender. At this point, smash a few against the side of the pot with a spoon to thicken the broth a bit, stir the pot and serve.

Feeds six or four hungry people.

Notes: If you don’t want to serve the beans with the carrots, onions and garlic—leave them whole and then remove when beans are done. And if your store doesn't stock either dried or fresh epazote, you can order it from Penzey's or you can just omit it from the recipe. Though it is supposed to help with the beans' tendency to cause intestinal issues, so omit at your own risk!

Fish tostadas, Veracruz style

2009-03-19T10:50:00.004-04:00

I spent part of my junior year of college living in Spain. I was in the southern part of the country, in Granada, which is not too far from the Mediterranean Ocean. Because of this proximity, my host family ate a lot of seafood. And during Lent, it seems that’s all we ate.

We had fish stew, shellfish paella, tuna pizza, fish mashed potatoes and fish croquettes. But one of my favorite dishes served was flaky white fish covered in a tomato sauce studded with green olives. All at once it was salty, acidic and sweet.

The Mexican state of Veracruz is on the Gulf of Mexico and is said to be where the Spanish first made their entry into Mexico. Because of this, much of the Veracruzana cuisine is still heavily influenced by Spanish cuisine.

The Spaniards introduced the herbs thyme, marjoram and bay laurel, which have become hallmarks of that state’s cooking. They also brought along olives and capers, so it’s no surprise that the signature salsa from that state uses all of these ingredients.

Salsa Veracruzana is a rich tomato-based sauce that isn’t too spicy. It’s cooked, so the ingredients meld together into one complex flavor instead of the several distinct flavors more often found in raw-blended salsa. Also, the bay leaves, thyme and marjoram give it a distinctly different flavor than your usual tomato salsas made with just cilantro, jalapeno and lime salsas. That said there is also cilantro, jalapeno and lime juice in this salsa, which makes it still taste distinctly Mexican.

And then there are the olives and capers that are found in this salsa. I love salty and acidic foods—they remind me of the sea. For this reason, I think that olives and capers also go very well with fish, thus making this salsa a perfect topping for a Mexican fish dish such as a tostada or a taco.

We have a few more Fridays in Lent, and I think if you aren’t eating beef or pork during this time, these fish tostadas are a hearty, meaty dish. I also enjoy it, however, because it takes me back almost 20 years to when I was a young student living in Spain.

Salsa Veracruzana
Ingredients:
1 28-oz. can of crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon of olive oil
1 small onion, diced
1 jalapeño, diced
2 cloves of garlic, minced
12 large green olives, pitted and diced
2 tablespoons of capers
1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon cayenne
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1 tablespoon limejuice
Salt to taste

Method:
Heat the olive oil in a pot on medium high, and then cook the onions and jalapeños for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the minced garlic and cook for another minute, then turn off the heat and then stir in the crushed tomatoes, scraping any brown bits that might have formed on the bottom of the pan. Mix well but don’t let it get hot.

Immediately place the tomato mixture into a blender, and puree into smooth. Pour the blended tomato mixture back into the pot, and add the rest of the ingredients. Bring to a boil and then simmer on low for 20 minutes. Remove bay leaf and serve.

Fish tostadas with Veracruzana salsa
Ingredients:
Four 4-oz. fillets of cod
Four corn tortillas
1/2 cup of peanut oil, canola oil or lard
1 tablespoon of olive oil
2 teaspoons of cumin
Salt to taste
One lime cut into quarters
A couple of sprigs of cilantro
Veracruzana salsa

Method:
In a skillet, heat up the 1/2 cup of peanut oil on medium high for five minutes. If you flick in a drop of water and it sizzles and pops, it’s ready. (Alternatively, you could heat it to about 280 degrees). One at a time, add the corn tortillas and heat on each side for about a minute. Remove from oil, sprinkle with salt and drain on a paper towel.

Season each side of the fish fillets with cumin and salt. Heat a skillet to medium heat, add the olive oil and cook the fillets on each side for about four minutes, or until the fish flakes. (You may have to do this in batches, depending on the size of you skillet).

Take cooked fish fillets, and place one fillet on a fried-corn tortilla, cover in salsa and garnish with lime and cilantro.

Serves four.

Greetings from Texas!

2009-03-12T13:30:00.029-04:00

Greetings from Texas! I have spent the past few days tooling around the state, reuniting with college friends in Dallas, visiting my grandmothers in McKinney, shopping for new cowboy boots in El Paso and relaxing in the big sky and vast landscape of far, far West Texas.

Of course, I’ve been eating myself silly—sometimes up to seven little meals in a day. For instance, one day started with a fried pie at Shirley’s Burnt Biscuit in Marathon, TX. I then had a mid-morning snack of a Frito pie at Alicia’s in Alpine. Next was the Marfalafel from the Food Shark truck in Marfa, followed by the Mexican plate at Alice’s. I gave my stomach a rest for a few hours, and then had a brisket sandwich at Mo’z in El Paso, a milanesa de res (Mexican chicken-fried steak) smothered in queso at Casa Jurado, and then concluded my eating day with a carne guisada taco from Taco Cabana. Needless to say, I slept very, very well that evening.

You may think I’m a glutton, but rest assured I do not eat this way when I’m back in New York. It’s just whenever I’m in Texas each meal and each bite is precious and I want to squeeze in as much good tastes as I can during my brief time at home. When I go to Texas, I have my usual places where I like to eat, but this time I branched out and ate at some new restaurants, too. Here’s a list of five new favorite dishes I sampled while I was at home:

Breakfast tacos: El Tacaso in Oak Cliff, Dallas. I enjoy my breakfast tacos with eggs, but sometimes I just want a fluffy flour tortilla stuffed with refried beans and spicy, crumbly chorizo. This cheerful restaurant at the corner of Westmoreland and Fort Worth Avenue serves breakfast tacos such as these in the morning, alongside a container of fiery thin tomato salsa for dipping. Not much English is spoken, but everyone understands the international language of good food.

Chile con queso: When we Texans talk of chile con queso, we are usually referring to orange processed cheese melted with Ro-Tel tomatoes. And don’t get me wrong—this is good, addictive stuff. But in northern Mexico, chile con queso means white cheese melted with sautéed green chiles. And this also is good, addictive stuff. Julio’s Cafe Corona in El Paso serves its queso this way—a big bowl of melted Monterrey Jack laced with spicy strips of sautéed jalapeno and serrano peppers. And while it’s soft enough to dip a chip into it, I prefer to ladle it into fresh flour tortillas.

Chicken-fried steak: Every day on my trip I ate a plate of chicken-fried steak. It was not my intent to do this, but it just kept appearing on menus and so I indulged. I have always been a bit dubious of chicken-fried steaks made with fancy cuts of beef or served with embellished cream gravy, but the chicken-fried hanger steak at Tillman’s Roadhouse in Oak Cliff, smothered in a poblano cream gravy was a real crowd pleaser. And Paul Petersen at the Gage Hotel’s Cafe Cenizo also offers a chicken-fried steak, his served with a jalapeno, chorizo and roasted-corn cream gravy. If I hadn’t been stuffed, I may have ordered another plate.

Barbacoa: I’ve wanted to eat at Carnitas Querataro in El Paso for quite a while. It’s a small chain of restaurants that serves up Mexican comfort food, with an emphasis on braised and roasted meats, as the name would suggest. While their symbol is a grinning pink pig, I found that their beef is equally delicious, especially their barbacoa, which in Texas is slow-cooked meat from the head of a cow. On my last day, after eating a breakfast of excellent red-chile cheese enchiladas, I asked my server to bring me a menu so I could order food for the plane. I got carnitas, but on a whim decided also to bring along a barbacoa burrito, which was a large homemade tortilla simply stuffed with pork-rich refried beans and strands of smooth barbacoa. Mid-flight when we were somewhere between El Paso and Dallas, I unwrapped my barbacoa beauty and everyone within a few rows of me asked, “What is that amazing smell? What are you eating?” Note to self: next time buy extra barbacoa burritos and sell them on the plane.

Frito pie: I stopped into Alicia’s Burritos in Alpine with the intent of ordering a breakfast burrito, but when I saw Frito pie on the menu, my plans changed. After my last post, I’ve had Frito pie on the brain (as have some friends of mine, to which I apologize if they still have not gotten their fix), and Alicia’s version did not disappoint. It was a cast-iron bowl filled with a mountain of crisp, tiny Fritos, topped with homemade chunky chili, melted cheddar and juicy diced onions. As I sat working my way through the bowl, I admired the decor of Elvis curtains and cheerful turquoise walls. After a while, I realized that this bowl would just not quit. I had ordered a small Frito pie, so I asked the waitress how big was the large. “That is a large,” she said. “We thought you looked hungry so we made you a large bowl instead.” You can't beat service like that! (Though if they had known I was on my second breakfast they might have reconsidered.)

This concludes my travelogue. Next time, I will be writing of salads or fish—it is, after all, Lent. Plus my stomach could use a break. But was I ever happy while eating my way across the great state of Texas!

Pinto bean pie: sweet, not savory!

2009-03-04T08:18:00.013-05:00

Vinegar pie, buttermilk pie, and corn meal pie—these are all desserts that were in vogue when my grandmothers were growing up in the Great Depression. Made with just a few inexpensive ingredients, these pies—which are all, at heart, a variation on chess pie—were refreshing and still presentable to good company.

But what about pinto bean pie? It’s another oldie but was it also a goodie? I decided to find out on my own.

I’d been curious about bean pie for quite a while. When I first heard of it, I assumed that it was a version of Frito pie that was made with beans instead of chili. But when I heard people talking about eating bean pie for dessert, I realized that I had been wrong and that bean pie is sweet not savory.

After a bit of research, I found quite a few recipes and from the spices added decided that bean pie was trying to approximate a pumpkin or a sweet potato pie, as often included were allspice, cloves, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. And even though some recipes insisted that pinto bean pie was a substitute for pecan pie, after making it I failed to taste how this could be the case.

At first, I was put off by adding mashed beans to my mixture of butter, sugar and eggs. The resulting color of the blend was a bit unappetizing (a less-than-lovely shade of washed-out beige), and, well, it just seemed odd adding mashed pintos to my dessert. Pintos are made for savory dishes, not sweet!

But after I threw some spices into the mix and took a small taste of the uncooked filling, if I hadn’t known that it was beans in the spoonful instead of pumpkin puree, I would have been fooled. After baking it for an hour, the color—thankfully—deepened into a warmer, darker brown. And after topping it with a big scoop of vanilla frozen yogurt, I had my first slice of bean pie. I found it creamy, rich, spicy and fulfilling.

Now, I figured that because it was made with beans it was healthier than your typical slice of pie. And perhaps it is, at least in terms of protein. But it’s still not as healthy as eating a piece of fruit for dessert. (Though I guess if you had fresh fruit you might not even need to make pinto bean pie!)

Since the beans are just there for texture and not flavor (sort of like when you make a cream pie with tofu—which is, incidentally, also beans), I’m eager to make some variations. Such as a chocolate bean pie, made with black beans and spiced with cinnamon and ancho. Or perhaps a banana bean pie or a coconut bean pie or, why not just combine two Depression favorites and make a vinegar bean pie? The possibilities for bean pie combinations are endless!

When my grandmother was telling me about these Depression-era pies, I asked if she’d heard of pinto bean pie. She replied that she hadn’t. She added, “But as long as it doesn’t taste like raisin pie, which is another pie that my mother made back when I was growing up, then bean pie is probably pretty good.”

Raisin pie? Very interesting. But I guess that’s another subject for another day.

Pinto Bean Pie
Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups of unseasoned cooked pinto beans (can use a one 15oz. can if you prefer)
1 cup of light brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 cup (1 stick) of butter at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/4 teaspoon clove
A pinch of salt

1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell

Method:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

In a blender, cream the sugar, butter and eggs.

Add the beans, and blend until it’s thick and smooth.

Add the spices and vanilla.

Pour pie filling into an unbaked pie shell, and bake for one hour or until an inserted knife comes out clean.

Saved by red beans and rice

2009-02-24T08:53:00.015-05:00

To celebrate Mardi Gras, I decided to try and to make gumbo.

I failed.

It wasn’t the fault of the recipe, I just don’t think I’m hard-wired to stand in front of a stove for an hour stirring flour and oil to make a roux—there’s just no pleasure in that for me at all. So since I had the ingredients on hand, I decided instead to make red beans and rice. Now that’s a Louisiana dish I can understand.

At my house when I was a kid, we ate a lot of beans. Weekly, we’d have pinto bean night, bean salad night and red beans and rice night. The latter was my favorite, as mom slow cooked the beans with sausage, lots of spices and love.

Now, our Texas version of red beans and rice used pinto beans and kielbasa whereas the Louisiana version has little red beans or kidney beans alongside ham or andouille sausage. But no matter, after you cook the beans long enough the flavors come together in very similar ways.

Red beans and rice is traditionally served on Mondays in New Orleans. This goes back to when people had a hambone leftover from Sunday dinner, and Monday being washday, cooks needed a slow-simmering dish that didn’t call for a lot of fuss as they were cleaning clothes.

Of course, I’m fairly certain that anytime is a fine time for red beans and rice. And with just enough attention, after a few hours you are left with a flavorful, creamy dish that sticks to your bones and warms you to the core.

But the best thing is that you it practically makes itself, so you can busy yourself with other more important things, such as visiting with friends or reading a book, instead of being a slave to the skillet. And after a few hours, you can return to the pot and dinner will be served.

Red beans and rice

Ingredients:
16 oz. red beans, soaked
1 tablespoon of bacon grease (can substitute canola or olive oil if you prefer)
1 bell pepper, chopped
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
2 celery ribs, diced
6 cloves of garlic, minced
1/4 pound of andouille sausage, cubed
1/2 cup of parsley, minced
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon of dried thyme or 1 sprig fresh
1 teaspoon dried leaf oregano
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
1 tablespoon Worcestershire
Cayenne, salt and black pepper to taste
2 smoked ham hocks
8 cups of chicken broth or water
4 green onions, green part chopped (save the white for another use)
6 cups of cooked rice

Method:
After cleaning and sorting, soak your beans in water overnight.

In a large pot on medium heat, sauté in bacon grease the onion, celery and bell pepper for 10 minutes. Add the garlic and sausage to the pot and cook for two minutes. Add the rest of the ingredients to the pot except for the green onions.

Turn up the heat to high and bring to a boil. Let it boil for 20 minutes and then turn the heat to low, cover the pot, and let it simmer for 40 minutes.

After 40 minutes, take off the lid, stir the pot and continue to let it simmer for two hours. You might check back on it every once in a while to make sure there’s still enough liquid in the pot.

At this time, test your beans—they should be soft, but if not, continue to cook on low until they are.

When the beans are ready, with a wooden spoon smash a few of them against the side of the pot—this will make your beans extra creamy.

Pour the beans over rice, and garnish with the green onions. A few shakes of some Louisiana hot sauce such as Tabasco or Crystal is a good addition as well.

Serves six

End of winter carrot and raisin salad

2009-02-18T11:26:00.005-05:00

The end of February can be a very tiring time. You’re tired of wearing that long, black, down-filled coat that keeps you warm but makes you look like a stack of tires. You’re tired of the sun staying in the sky longer without generating any extra heat. And you’re tired of seeing at the farmer’s market only potatoes, winter squash and carrots. Fortunately, with the carrots you can make a sweet salad that holds a promise of warmer days to come: carrot and raisin salad.

I’m a late convert to carrot and raisin salad. When I was in college I had a friend who would go nuts whenever they put some out on the salad bar. She’d eat bowl after bowl and I’d just be horrified. Who wants to eats shredded carrots with raisins? It just seemed like a bad combination.

And then there were the endless church suppers where you could always find a big bowl of it in potluck purgatory alongside the green jiggling Jell-O and fruit salad made with tiny marshmallows. Nope, carrot and raisin salad just wasn’t for me.

But then, I grew up and my palate changed. I’ve started to enjoy raisins. And I’ve always loved carrots. So one day I decided to take the plunge and make a batch.

I looked at the recipe that Luby’s uses, which for many seemed to be the carrot and raisin gold standard. It called for copious amounts of mayonnaise, but I thought I’d lighten mine up with Greek-style yogurt. It also called for pineapple, but I had some fresh juicy oranges on-hand so I used orange juice instead. I added some ginger and cinnamon for spice and found myself with a sweet, crunchy salad that was both fresh and satisfying.

Carrot and raisin salad has been good company the past few weeks. I know that it’s something that people serve year round, but for me it’s become that bridge between late winter and early spring. And during these final tiring days of winter—bright, crisp carrot and raisin salad has proven itself to be delightful refreshment indeed.

What do you put in your carrot and raisin salad?

Carrot and raisin salad
Ingredients:
3 large carrots, shredded (2 cups)
1/4 cup Greek-style yogurt
1/2 cup raisins
2 tablespoons of orange juice (juice from ½ half of a large orange)
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 tablespoon mayonnaise

Method:
Mix all ingredients together and refrigerate for two hours.
Serves four
Note: This recipe can be easily doubled or tripled. And if it seems to dry to you, feel free to add more yogurt or mayonnaise.

Cornbread -- how sweet it is

2009-02-10T10:21:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago, I had a lovely lunch at Dovetail, an Upper West Side restaurant that serves what I would call creative comfort food. The meal was good but the one thing that stood out for me (besides the excellent company) was the bread they served—it was a small, sweet loaf made with cornmeal that was by far the highlight of the meal.

Now, I’ve long said that cornbread made with sugar is no longer bread—it’s cake. That isn’t to say that it’s not delicious, but don’t go serving it alongside a bowl of beans or a plate of greens because sweet cornbread is best saved for dessert. (And I'm not alone in this belief.)

That said, while it doesn’t have a role during the main course, sweet cornbread at the end of the meal can be a wonderful thing. And for some reason I’ve always felt like it’s healthier than your usual dessert, even though with all the sugar and butter involved, it’s certainly not as virtuous as eating, say, an apple.

But perhaps my feeling goes back to when I was young. Whenever my family went to Luby’s, I was never allowed to get dessert. But I was allowed to get a sweet corn muffin to eat at the end of the meal, which in my mind was just as good if not better than any other dessert I might have chosen.

Dovetail’s sweet cornbread was no different. It would have been out of place paired with chili, but since my main course included French toast, the sweet cornbread was just fine. And while I usually make my cornbread Texas style without sugar, there’s nothing wrong with having a sweet cornbread in your repertoire for either dessert or for pleasing your Yankee friends. Dovetail’s had a soft, creamy texture that definitely made me want to bake it at home, so I asked for the recipe and, surprisingly, they gave it to me.

When I looked at the recipe, I started to laugh. No wonder it was so good—in it was over a cup of sugar and a cup of butter. There weren’t any eggs, so it wasn’t quite cake but instead more like a very sweet cornmeal biscuit. The recipe also called for cheddar cheese, but the amount was so minute that in proportion to the other ingredients, its sharp tangy flavor was lost. Not to mention, this cornbread would be best topped with fruit and cream or slathered in lots of honey—and neither one of those applications are made better with cheese.

If you like sweet cornbread, you will love this. But even if you agree with me that there should never be sugar in cornbread, you might also enjoy this because, well, it’s not truly cornbread. Instead, think of it as cake or a sweet biscuit. I know I will. And when those springtime strawberries arrive in a few weeks, this cornbread will make a dandy shortbread.

Sweet cornbread, adapted from Dovetail
Ingredients:
3 cups all purpose flour
1 1/4 cup coarse cornmeal
1 1/4 cup sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup cheddar cheese (optional)
2 sticks cold, cubed butter
1 cup buttermilk

Method:
Preheat oven to 400.

Mix all the dry ingredients. Work the butter into the flour mixture with your hands or a pastry blender until it resembles pea-sized crumbs. Add the buttermilk and stir until dough comes together.

Chill for one hour. Roll out into 3/4” thickness and cut out desired shapes.

Bake for 15 minutes or until lightly browned.

Notes: If you want to make this savory, I’d cut out most of the sugar, increase the amount of cheese and throw in some jalapenos. You can also make it prettier if you do a milk wash before baking.

A more precise Texas chili recipe

2009-02-04T10:44:00.007-05:00

I love to buy chiles, especially when I find ones that are soft and pliant, so fresh you can imagine they were drying in a Mexican field maybe just last week.

I have to be careful, however, when shopping because my storage space is very limited. And the other day when I opened my cabinet, out came tumbling three bags of chiles that hit me on the head. I then realized that I needed to make something that would use up a lot of my supply. Fortunately, there was a big football game and nothing pleases people watching winter sports more than a big bowl of spicy red chili.

Now, I’ve written about chili before and provided you with general guidelines on how I make my chili. I don’t use beans, I don’t use tomatoes but most importantly, I don’t use measurements. It works for me, but can be frustrating if you’ve never made chili and desire more strict instructions.

So for this batch, I decided to multi-task and wrote down what I was adding to the pot when I made my what I dubbed my seven-chile chili. Of course, there were a couple of mishaps—I added way too many ground cloves in the beginning and accidentally added cardamom instead of coriander during one spice addition. But the best thing about chili is that the longer it cooks, the flavors both deepen and blend into a complex dish where the sum of the bowl is greater than its parts.

People often ask if my chili is authentic Texas chili. I’ll say yes because I’m a Texan and it’s the chili I grew up eating. Though defining what authentic Texas chili is can be difficult. The term “chili” comes from chile con carne, which translates to peppers with meat. And that’s at heart what I make, with the addition of some spices and aromatics. But there have been some grumbles.

Some people have grumbled because there’s cinnamon and chocolate in my chili, though these flavors are commonly found in Mexican cuisine. Some people have grumbled because there aren’t tomatoes in my chili, though I don’t think that cowboys on the range had access to tomatoes all the time. And some people have grumbled because I don’t use Gebhardt’s Chili Powder, though I can’t buy that in New York and using fresh chiles will trump chili powder any day.

But no matter what people say, I love my chili and usually, those that eat it love it, too. So here is some of my chili with measurements. Enjoy!

Seven-chile chili
Ingredients:
6 anchos
2 pasilla
2 costeñas
2 guajillos
4 chiles de arbol
2 chipotles in adobo
4 pieces of bacon
4 pounds of chuck roast, cut into 1/4 inch cubes
1 large onion diced
6 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 cup of brewed coffee
1 bottle of beer
2 cups of water
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp clove
1/2 tsp allspice
1 tsp coriander
1/2 tsp cayenne
1 tablespoon cumin
(For all spices, please feel free to add more to taste throughout cooking if you like.)
Salt to taste
1/4 cup masa harina
1/3 Mexican hot chocolate tablet, grated

Method:
Heat the dried chiles (anchos, pasillas, costenos, guajillos and chiles de arbol) in a dry, cast-iron skillet on medium for a couple of minutes on each side. Turn off the heat and then add enough water to the skillet to cover the chiles, and let them soak for half an hour.

Meanwhile, in a large heavy pot, such as a Dutch oven, fry up your bacon. When done, remove from pan and crumble (Don’t worry if you opt to eat a slice—you deserve it!) and leave the bacon grease in the pot (it should be about 3) tablespoons. In the pot, cook your beef in the bacon grease on medium heat, a few minutes on each side until lightly browned. You will probably have to cook these in two batches.

Remove the browned beef from the pot, and add your onions. Cook on medium until clear. Add the garlic and cook for another minute. Put the beef back in the pot, and mix in the coffee, the beer, two cups of water, bacon crumbles and the dry spices. Turn the heat up to high.

Your soaking chiles should be soft by now. Drain them and discard the soaking water (it will be bitter) and place them in a blender with one cup of fresh water. Puree until nice and smooth and then add the chile puree to the chili pot.

When chili begins to boil, turn heat down to low and let simmer for five hours, stirring occasionally. Taste it once an hour, and if the flavors are too muted, feel free to add more of any of the spices. Also, it starts to get too dry, add more liquid (your choice!).

After five hours, take a Mexican hot chocolate disc, and finely grate 1/3 of it into the pot. Scoop out 1 cup of broth and add the masa harina. Mix it well and then reincorporate it back into the pot. Stir until chili is thickened.

Let the chili simmer for another half hour or so. When done, serve with cheddar, onions and tortillas.

Note: If you can't find all of these chiles, I would just use the more readily available anchos and chipotles. I'd use 6-8 anchos, following the same soaking and pureeing method, and two chipotles.

Carne guisada, Tex-Mex stew

2009-01-26T09:20:00.008-05:00

I receive many emails from y’all, asking when I’ll be writing about a certain favorite Texan food. I’ve had requests for everything from deep-fried pickles to peanut-butter pie. But the most requested recipe is for carne guisda.

Carne guisada, which translates to “meat in gravy,” is a slow-simmered stew that varies across the state. Some people make their carne guisada with pork, others with chicken. The most common meat used, however is beef.

Another variable with carne guisada is how the gravy is made. Some people opt to cook their meet with tomatoes, potatoes and sweet bell peppers, while others just simmer the beef in water and chiles.

You’ll see your carne guisada as a group of distinct cubes floating in a rich sauce. And you’ll see your carne guisada where the meat has cooked so long it’s hard to tell where the meat ends and the gravy begins. My carne guisada, like my chili, deliciously falls into the latter category.

Actually, the way I make my chili is very similar to the way I make my carne guisada. I start with a four-pound beef roast and cut it into one-inch cubes. I chop up my onions, my garlic and my chiles, sear the beef and then throw everything in a pot with some beer and water and let it cook for several hours.

The difference, however, between my chili and my carne guisada is the types of peppers I use. For my chili, I use smoky red chiles such as chipotles and anchos; for my carne guisada I use bright green chiles such as jalapenos and serranos. There are a couple of other differences as well. A tomato will never be seen in my chili, but I don’t mind adding a few to my carne guisada. I would never add a bay leaf to my chili pot, but I like the nuance it adds to my carne guisada. And while my chili making tends to be improvisational, I have a set recipe for carne guisada from which I rarely stray.

Carne guisada can be a meal in itself, served in a bowl with tortilla chips. It’s also wonderful nestled between refried beans and rice. I like to wrap it up in flour tortillas for tacos, and the leftovers are a hearty topping on a pile of scrambled eggs.

So for all that asked about carne guisada—here is my recipe. Now I have to say that this is my recipe, so it might not be like your grandmother’s recipe because that’s the thing about carne guisada—everybody’s is different all over the state of Texas.

How do you make your carne guisada?

Carne guisada
Ingredients
4 pounds of chuck or bottom round beef, cut into 1-inch cubes
4 tablespoons of peanut oil
1 medium onion, diced (about 1 cup)
5 cloves of garlic, minced (about 1/4 cup)
1 14.05 oz. can of diced tomatoes or 3 fresh tomatoes, diced
2 jalapeno peppers, diced
2 serrano peppers, diced
1 tablespoon cumin
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 teaspoon oregano
1/2 cup of chopped cilantro
1 bay leaf
2 cups of water
1 12 oz. bottle of dark Mexican beer such as Negro Modelo

1 tablespoon of flour (optional)

Method
In a large pot or a Dutch oven, brown the beef on medium high heat in 2 tablespoons of the peanut oil, may have to do in batches.

Remove beef from pot, add the final 2 tablespoons of peanut oil and cook on medium heat the onions and chiles for about 10 minutes or until the onions are translucent. Add the garlic and cook for another minute.

Throw in the browned beef, add the herbs, spices, water and beer and mix everything really well. Turn up the heat to high, bring the stew to a boil and then turn heat down to low and simmer for five hours, stirring occasionally. At this point, some of the meat will have turned to strings thus thickening the gravy.

Note: If you want your meat to be distinct cubes rather than strings, lessen the cooking time. If you cook the stew for less time, you may also need to add some flour to thicken the gravy. Take out a 1/4 cup of the cooking liquid, stir into it a 1 tablespoon of flour and then incorporate this back into the stew. Stir until gravy has thickened. Also, I like my meat in big stringy chunks, but if you prefer smaller pieces, cut the meat into 1/2 inch cubes.