- If at First you don’t Succeed: Egg Salad

You may (or may not) recall during "The Great Egg Debate" there was a bit about some potato and onion cakes. The first batch had to be pitched due to over-seasoning, and even though the second batch was better in that regard, the end result was still disappointing. The cakes were chewy rather than crispy and therefore unworthy of further mention.

Fortunately, we had been to brunch at Z'Tejas with Meg and Paul, so I had an idea of what I could try to remedy the situation. Recalling the fine shred of the Z'Tejas hash browns, I used the smallest opening on my OXO box grater ... which just got the nod from America’s Test Kitchen (in their free online newsletter). It was tough grating raw potatoes, but when I tried my microplane box grater, it didn’t give the shred I was looking for.  So I soldiered on and watched my knuckles. After shredding in a hint of onion (much easier), I wrung out the excess moisture. Five paper towels later, I had a nice dry mass of shredded potato and onion, which I proceeded to season lightly and fry to a crisp in olive oil.

My other objective was further self-education in the joys of eating free-range eggs. A bed of greens and prosciutto made the perfect nest for an end-product that turned out to be picture-worthy. Fortunately, Don’s recently acquired Nikon SLR was up to the task of documenting this new take on egg salad.

Egg Salad

2 red bliss potatoes, raw and unpeeled

1 small sweet onion (yellow or red)

2-3 Tbs. olive oil

Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper

Balsamic vinegar

Mixed greens (I used arugula and baby romaine)

Shredded prosciutto

1-2 eggs per person

Butter

Shred potato and onion using a fine grater. Squeeze out excess moisture. Spread into two loose cakes and season lightly with kosher salt. Sauté in olive oil at medium high until dark golden brown, turning several times. Keep warm while cooking eggs.

Dot the serving plates with balsamic vinegar. Top with a nest of greens and shredded prosciutto.

Heat butter in frying pan. Crack eggs into custard dishes and slide into hot pan (to avoid breaking the yolks). Turn gently and be careful not to overcook (the yolks should be runny).

Place potato cakes and eggs on the salad. Before eating, break the yolk, the better to distribute the flavor to the rest of the salad.

- September 11

 

Charles Mathers departed this world

September 11, 2001
 

We'll miss you always Uncle Chuck
 
 

Photo by Lt. Arthur Barnett, FDNY (retired)

 

- Meatballs and Spinach Hockey Pucks

By all rights, I should put the product back on the shelf with an ingredient list like this:

Unbromated Unbleached Enriched Wheat Flour [Flour, Malted Barley Flour, Niacin, Reduced Iron, Thiamin Mononitrate (Vitamin B1), Riboflavin (Vitamin B2), Folic Acid], Unbromated Stone Ground 100% Whole Wheat Flour, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Salt, Contains 2 percent or Less of: Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil, Unsulphured Molasses, Yeast, Spices, Onion Powder, Nonfat Milk, Calcium Propionate (to Retard Spoilage), Buttermilk, Wheat Gluten, Crushed Wheat, Citric Acid, Parsley, Vegetable Mono and Diglycerides, Sugar, Monoglyceride, Honey, Butter, Vegetable Oils (Canola, Soybean and/or Sunflower), Raisin Juice Concentrate, Soy Fiber, Vinegar, Whole Wheat Flakes, Spent Wheat (Wheat Bran, Wheat Protein, Maltodextrin), Potato Flour, Wheat Bran, Datem (Dough Conditioner), Unbleached Wheat Flour, Malted Barley, Calcium Carbonate, Enzyme Modified Soy Lecithin, Cultured Whey, Degerminated White Corn Flour, Soy Flour, Guar Gum, Wheat Starch, Lactic Acid, Enzymes and Soy Lecithin.

I mean, what is this stuff? Trouble is, I love the taste of Pepperidge Farm Herb Seasoned Stuffing, made by a company which was, irony of ironies, founded by a woman who learned to bake bread because of the “severe allergies and asthma of [her] youngest son, whose condition made him unable to eat most commercially processed foods,” to quote the Pepperidge Farm website.

How did it get this crazy? I know I’ve mentioned Michael Pollan before, but his message bears repeating. And he’s put an interesting twist on that message in today’s New York Times op-ed piece. Take a look, then come on back.

Because the truth is I’m gonna keep using Pepperidge Farm Herb Seasoned Stuffing ... it tastes that good. It makes the best filler for meatballs and meatloaf I’ve ever used, and crushed in the food processor the crumbs are unbelievably good as a coating for homemade chicken fingers.

However, it reaches its finest expression as a star ingredient in Spinach Hockey Pucks, so dubbed by a disdainful guest at the annual Laroche tree-trimming party (pictures pending) who had seen one too many spinach balls. But not these spinach balls. One taste and he was converted. Spinach Hockey Pucks became a holiday tradition, a non-negotiable must-bring requirement for entrance at subsequent tree-trimming parties. Try them for yourself. Maybe you’ll become a convert, too. And if not, you can always use the leftover stuffing mix for meatballs and chicken fingers.

Meatballs (makes a ton to freeze for future meals)

1 lb. ground veal
2 lbs. ground pork
3 eggs
1 cup Pepperidge Farm Herb Seasoned Stuffing
1 Tb. Italian Seasoning
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1 cup freshly shredded parmigiano reggiano

Lightly knead together by hand in a large glass casserole dish (take off your rings first!). Roll into meatballs (or be lazy like me and make them into small patties, which are easier to flip in the pan). Fry in good quality olive oil (I know, they say it doesn't matter, but it does, it does ... I love Central Market Arbosana olive oil, btw). If you make patties, 2 minutes per side will ensure a good crust, but leave the inside par-cooked so that you can reheat the meatballs in sauce without getting tough). Drain on paper towels and freeze for future meals.

Spinach Hockey Pucks (there won't be any leftovers if you take these to a party)

2 boxes frozen chopped spinach
4 eggs, lightly beaten
1 stick melted butter
½ cup coarse grated Parmesan
2 cups Pepperidge Farm Herb Seasoned Stuffing
1 small onion, coarse grated
1 Granny Smith apple, peeled, cored and coarse grated
4 slices dry-cured bacon, cooked and crumbled

Cook the spinach according to package directions, but be careful not to overcook … you want some texture. Squeeze out the excess water and combine with the other ingredients. Shape into walnut sized balls and place on a lightly greased cookie sheet. Bake 15-20 minutes at 350 or until firm and lightly browned on the bottom. 

- Crazy Country: Going a little farther west

We left Williamsburg, Virginia for Texas on a Thursday morning in late July. I had planned the journey down to the last detail with Trip Advisor and Google Map. We each had cell phones and Garmin Nuvis (GPS). And we had two cars. Knowing how different our driving styles are (mine is “jack rabbit up to speed and hit cruise control,” whereas Don’s is “keep your foot on the accelerator at all times and adjust to the conditions”), I proclaimed that we should not try to stay together.

It was a pretty good plan as far as it went, which was about 40 miles. Then I hit the turn-off for the I-295 bypass around Richmond and realized that Google Map and the GPS both wanted me to stay on I-64 West. What would Don do? I called to ask, but he didn’t answer. So much for well-laid plans.

We did eventually rendezvous at a rest area on the west side of Richmond, decided that it might be better to stay in sight of, if not rigidly one behind the other, and headed on ... only to encounter traffic at a standstill on I-81 South. Hours later, we arrived at the planned lunch stop in Lewisburg, West Virginia where the GPS dropped us four blocks east of our destination. By the time we staggered into the Stardust Cafe it was 3:15 and they had stopped serving lunch. So had everyone else in the area it turned out.

Taking pity on us, a kind waitress delayed her own meal long enough to bring us some fantastic home-made tomato soup and bread, the best she could do under the circumstances. As we ate, I bemoaned the traffic delay that had prevented us from enjoying a fuller meal. Don, ever on the lookout for the positive, noted how beautiful the mountains had been on the drive in.

“You look at them?” I squeaked in amazement, “I just try to get through them without totally freaking out!” Not to worry, Don reassured me, we’d be through them in no time at all.

“Are you kidding?” I shot back, “We have 150 miles left to go through West Virginia, and West Virginia is nothing BUT mountains.”

And so began my odyssey in the Odyssey: the endless climbs and hair-raising descents through “almost heaven, West Virginia.” (Note to John Denver: what were you on when you wrote that one?) I fairly flew, not daring to slow down as the grills of monster trucks loomed in my rearview mirror, hitting the radio search button on the rare straight-aways, finding nothing but gospel and country to get me through.

As I drove I recalled the last time I had ridden a roller coaster ... a very long time ago, before Busch Gardens had even built the Loch Ness Monster. Back then I had chanted a mild four-letter expletive (starts with “c” and rhymes with trap) over and over, while promising God I would never again go on a roller coaster if I could just survive the ride. So what was I doing piloting 4600 pounds of metal down 45 degree inclines at 80 miles per hour while muttering the same old incantation? In the words of Dierks Bentley, “I know what I was feeling, but what was I thinking?” We should have shipped the cars to Texas and flown Southwest, that’s what.

Obviously I lived to tell the tale and never was I happier then crossing the state line into Kentucky. Beautiful Kentucky, with its rolling hills and blue grass. Gentle Kentucky. I loved Kentucky, yes I did. Of course, by the time we limped into Lexington, the carefully chosen restaurant had already closed for the evening. We opted instead for Ricardo's sports bar in Versailles (pronounced ver-sale … go figure), which turned out to be a high-class honky tonk with a mean pinot noir (MacMurray) and some surprisingly good seafood. My nerves slowly stopped jangling, soothed by the riffs of a two-man combo strumming Keith Urban in the background. 551 miles down, only 1177 to go.

Coda:
It would nice if I could say I left West Virginia behind that day. Nice, but not true. Fate may not be kind, but she does have a wicked sense of humor. You see, the song at the top of the country hit parade, the one that played over and over as I drove through the West Virginia mountains, left its chorus indelibly recorded on my mind's internal soundtrack. So when it comes on the radio and Don calls out, “They’re playing your song,” I’m already gone, barreling down the West Virginia highways once again, singing,“God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy."

Leaving the Burg Leftovers

Good cheese ravioli (fresh if possible)
Chopped fresh tomato
Chopped parsley
Garlic butter
Mascarpone cheese
Toasted pine nuts
Thin shreds of Prosciutto or Speck (smoked prosciutto)
Grated Fontinella cheese
Chopped Kalamata olives

You’ll notice there are no quantities here. That would be because I was literally emptying out the refrigerator and pantry in anticipation of our impending departure. Just cook up some ravioli, warm a little mascarpone, melt some garlic butter, throw the whole thing together and enjoy. If you have different stuff hanging out in your fridge, follow your muse. A glass of red wine would do nicely, too.

- Requiescat in Pace: Remembering Mom

My mom died on April 7, 2008, five months to the day before her fifty-fifth wedding anniversary. Today marks the fifty-sixth anniversary of their marriage on Labor Day in 1953 and my dad still grieves ... will always grieve.
 
It’s impossible to comprehend the depths to which the loss of a parent (or that of a spouse, child, or sibling) will send you until you experience it for yourself. Seventeen months after her death, I am just now accepting that Mom, my daughters’ Nana Ruth, is truly gone.

For the longest time I denied her passing, imagining her to be taking a nap or out at the store when I talked to Dad on the phone. Even when I went to Shelter Island to help sort through her clothes and her crafting supplies, I clung to the illusion that she was just out of sight in another room, unable to reconcile her absence from my life with my need for her.

A few days ago I finally brought myself to complete the linen bag that will hold her ashes. As I stitched the letters of her name and the dates that bounded her time with us in this world, I let go of my denial and accepted the reality, the finality of her death. And realized the wisdom of Kaddish, the Judaic mourner’s prayer repeated daily in the year following the death of a parent. For it is only with time that we can come to face that which we most want to deny.

The raw edge of grief has blurred. I no longer expect her to answer the phone, but I do hear her voice from time to time, its inflections escaping from my lips, especially when I’m talking to Meghan, Melissa, or Logan.

I sense her presence in other small signs … the ladybug that appeared in St. Mary’s on the day of her funeral and reappeared at the Outer Banks in the two summers since … rainbows … a break in the traffic as I merge onto a highway … stars shooting out of the Pleiades in the middle of August.

Those are not enough, of course. But a wise friend once reminded me to be thankful in all things, rather than for all things, as the scripture is more commonly rendered. The world still turns, each new day bringing grace if we have the will to see it. And that is sufficient to bring a measure of peace.

- Eggs Redux

Did I say I couldn’t tell the difference between mega-mart eggs and free-range eggs earlier today? Please allow me to recant. But first, a picture:

This is a popover. One of the best popovers I have ever put in my mouth. It didn’t hurt that it was accompanied by some Texas free-range loin lamb chops that we scored at the Dripping Springs Farmers Market. The chops had a healthy layer of fat, unlike the mercilessly butchered lamb that appears in the meat cases at most food stores. Fat that carried the essence of lamb to the tongue with a grace that …

Wait, this is supposed to be about the eggs. And the popovers, which were like perfectly toasted marshmallows … crunchy brown on the outside and utterly hollow on the inside. When broken open, each popover released a fragrant puff of steam as it revealed its golden center. They would have been great as leftovers for breakfast, with a dab of butter and seedless raspberry jam, but there were no leftovers tonight. Tant pis.

It’s time for a recipe. And it appears that I’m going to have to find another free-range egg supplier, because the twelve eggs I bought today are now six, which will never last until the next Dripping Springs Farmers Market two weeks hence. Next time I’ll have to buy two dozen ... or three.

Popovers (serves only two when they taste this good)

2 eggs (need I say free-range?)
A generous ½ cup of milk (I use 2%, whole milk would be even better)
1 Tbs. melted butter
A scant ½ cup of flour

Pre-heat oven to 425
Grease a 12-cup mini-muffin tin with Baker’s Joy spray (I know it’s chemical, but it works so well)
Whisk the eggs and milk to a froth, then whisk in the melted butter
Add almost all of the flour and gently whisk
The batter should be like a very heavy cream, but take care not to overbeat it
Add a bit more flour if the batter looks too thin (this takes experience … just keep trying)
Fill each mini-muffin cup to the rim and bake for 15 minutes, or until the popovers are rich brown puffs
They can be held in a warm oven for up to half an hour if need be

- Once a New Yorker … On bagels

There are certain foods that only attain perfection in New York. This is true. Ask any New Yorker. Only in New York can you find the perfect pizza, bagel, or Kaiser roll. Ex-pats commiserate about their never-ending frustration as they try out the newest restaurant or food store. Ever in search of their bliss, never succeeding, they ponder the reasons why. Is it the water? The salt air? Being at sea level? What is it about New York and bread?

So I was worried, very worried, when I learned about the new recipe my son-in-law was concocting. There was no way it could ever hit the mark, but how was I going to tell him the bitter truth? What was he thinking, trying out his bagels on a native New Yorker?

I tried not to worry too much. Paul is nothing if not thorough. He researched everything you would ever need to know about bagel-making. He told me stuff I never knew. Did you know that proper bagels are boiled in a lye solution before being baked? I didn’t. Besides, Paul has made some amazing food for us in the few short years that we’ve known him: fried ice cream, grilled prosciutto pizza with arugula and truffle oil, smoked brisket with his own dry rub, sea scallops perfectly seared with asparagus on the side, fried chicken and waffles … together. Maybe he could pull it off. Maybe I wouldn’t have to be … polite.

On the appointed day, I volunteered to bring some contributions to the brunch, as I am wont to do: granola, yogurt, strawberries, and a freshly baked blueberry coffee cake. I needn’t have bothered as they went virtually untouched by the assembled noshers. Because the bagels were amazingly good: the surface glazed to a crackle, the texture just chewy enough, the flavor … perfect. As were the honey almond and bacon scallion cream cheese blends that Meg had whipped up. I was … wrong.

Sorry, no recipes to share here. Just this: anything is possible. Even New York bagels … in Austin.

- The Great Egg Debate

I was taken to task for my promotion of “fake eggs” in the “Cookie Dough Conundrum” posting the other day. Guilty as charged, although in my defense, I did read labels and chose the Better’n Eggs brand because it was 98% egg whites, didn’t have too many unpronounceable chemicals, and tasted as close to mega-mart eggs as I could find. So it's only 2% fake. Which is, I guess, about as indefensible as being 2% guilty or as impossible as being 2% pregnant. Fake is fake. (2018 update: So now I use pasturized egg whites from the dairy case ... unadulterated).

Duly chastised, my mission today was to find real eggs laid by real chickens on a real farm. To that end, Don and I headed out early to case the Dripping Springs Farmers Market. The first booth yielded tomatoes, potatoes, and delightfully small onions. (Which merits a parenthetical observation: why do food stores only carry monster-sized onions? Don’t they know you only need a little bit of onion if you’re cooking for one or two?)

The second booth yielded pay dirt: fresh eggs from free-range, pastured, bug and grass eating local chickens for only $4.00 a dozen.  Opening the carton of eggs was like opening a jewel box. I must confess, though I knew intellectually that they existed in more than two colors, I was rocked back on my heels at the sight of the multi-hued eggs. Betraying my total ignorance, I asked if the eggs got that way because of what the hens ate. No, the farmer patiently explained, egg color was determined by the variety of chicken. What kind of chickens? Heinz 57s, production reds, golden sexlinks, leggers, and one other that I can’t quite recall. Really. I looked ‘em up when I got home. And found a bit more on Google than I bargained for. Who knew?

                                                                                                  

In any case, there was no question that we were going to have eggs for lunch. I took out some leftover sausage (pork with poblano chile peppers made by Norman at the local grocery store ... but that’s another story), fried up some potato and onion cakes (the first batch of which I over-seasoned and had to trash), and sliced some fresh tomato (which looked way too much like a mega-mart variety and tasted much the same … you can’t trust everything you find at a farmers’ market).

The eggs I did last, knowing they would cook in a hurry. Melting butter in the skillet and then scrambling the eggs with my trusty bamboo spoon, I was caught off-guard by just how quickly they set into soft golden curds. Light and delicious, the eggs were a perfect foil to the spicy sausage and crispy potatoes. Lunch was a success and I was converted.

But I do have another confession to make. I can’t honestly say that the eggs tasted significantly different from store-bought eggs, which I’m sure will infuriate true egg aficionados. Perhaps it’s because my taste buds are not yet attuned to the subtleties of true egg flavor. Perhaps I need to sample another farmer’s wares. Perhaps I need to make some custard ice cream to better ascertain the flavor potential of the little jewels.

This much I do know: I love the idea of bug and grass eating chickens running around in a pasture much more than the idea of antibiotic-infused warehouse chickens that surely lead miserable lives. That idea alone is worth spending an extra three bucks per dozen to me. And I’ll happily keep working on further educating my taste buds.  No doubt it will be a pleasure.

- Friday Night Supper

Google “eating dinner together” with “student achievement” and you’ll come up with a raft of reasons why sitting around the table with your family every night is a sound parenting practice. But I can honestly say that Friday Night Supper was not designed to enhance anyone’s grades in school.

The original Friday Night Supper was my Mom’s way of taking a break from cooking one night a week since we rarely ate out. So, in my teen years anyway, my brother and I were on our own in the kitchen. My supper of choice was pancakes, made with Bisquick of course. Sometimes I opted for mock Crepes Suzette cribbed from an old, yellowing cookbook with its covers falling off from many years of use. I don’t remember its title, but it was thick as a New York phone book and inscribed to my mom “from your starving husband,” or words to that effect … a true relic from the early years of their marriage.

I still whip up crepes and orange sauce from time to time, using a recipe that has never before been written down and the battered Flint pancake turner that my brother Art gave me as a wedding gift. Another relic, it has been mightily used and abused in its time. On one memorable occasion, Art and I were bickering as Mom tried to fix dinner. She cautioned us to stop, which we ignored. Repeatedly. Finally fed up, she raised her voice and intoned, “Cut it!” while whacking the edge of the counter with the pancake turner. The handle shattered. Art and I stared at each other, eyes wide, then erupted in snorts as we tried to keep from laughing. Mom turned, the mangled Flint in her upraised hand and … laughed out loud. At which point we joined her, laughing until tears came to our eyes and our sides ached as we gasped for air. I don’t know if I was actually supposed to keep the Flint when Art gave it to me years later … I so wanted it that I never asked, and I’ve used it to flip hundreds, if not thousands, of pancakes since. It’s the best spatula I’ve ever used.

Fast forward to the 1990s: Friday Night Supper was my way of getting out of cooking, too. As a working mom, the end of the week marked the ebb tide of my energy and cooking ambition. I would head to the grocery store after work to do the shopping for a weekend’s worth of eating, but it was Ma Ukrops who did the actual cooking for the Friday night meal. The shopping list rarely varied: a rotisserie chicken, a loaf of crusty bread, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil, and avocado. Whoever packed the groceries was asked to place the bread atop the chicken nested in its plastic shell, the better to warm the bread up on the drive home.

I rationalized this abdication of my cooking responsibilities thusly: what is a recipe but an assemblage of ingredients after all? And the proof was in the pudding … my kids rarely missed being home for Friday Night Supper. In fact, they often brought friends to share the meal with us.  Heather and Jessica (shown here at Melissa's wedding) became stalwart fans. The resultant lack of leftovers was more than offset by the gift of their presence as we sat at the table talking on and on, long after the eating was done.

Friday Night Supper (Williamsburg Style)

1 warm rotisserie chicken (from Ukrops, if you have one in your own hometown)
1 fresh loaf of crusty break (Ecce Panis Neo-Tuscan Boule, if you can find it)
Fresh tomatoes (whatever variety is ripest)
Fresh basil (don’t count the cost, you’re worth it)
Fresh mozzarella (the softer the better)
Avocado (yielding ever so slightly to a discerning thumb)
Unio olive oil (you must have this on hand at home)
Kosher salt (another staple)
Fresh lemon (ditto)

Slice enough bread to serve the assembled diners, wrap in foil and put in a 350 oven
Slice tomatoes and mozzarella, top with basil leaves and a drizzle of olive oil
Peel and slice avocado(s), drizzle with lemon juice
Request the services of your favorite carver to dismantle the chicken
Provide ample salt and pepper for seasoning at the table, along with olive oil for dunking the bread


Friday Night Supper (East Williston Style)
aka Crepes and Orange Sauce (serves 2)

2 eggs
2/3 cup milk
½ cup Bisquick (there I go with the Bisquick again)

Whisk the eggs and milk together, then add in just enough Bisquick to make a thin batter
Let the batter sit while making the orange sauce (see below)

Pour ¼ cup of batter into a hot, lightly oiled omelet pan

Tip pan to spread batter into a thin crepe, flip once (with a Flint, if you have one)

Batter should flow easily and set quickly … adjust as needed by adding Bisquick or milk

Roll each crepe and put on a warm plate in the oven until ready to serve

Sauce

¼ cup orange juice concentrate (which now comes in re-sealable containers, very cool)

¼ cup water

¼ cup sugar

2 Tbs. butter

Combine orange juice concentrate, water and sugar in a small saucepan

Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to a simmer while the sauce thickens (five minutes or so)

Whisk in butter to finish the sauce and keep on very low heat until crepes are done

Adjust sugar to taste

Serve crepes with warm orange sauce and a sprinkling of extra sugar if you’re feeling particularly decadent (which is par for the course for me)

- Craving Mexican (well, Tex-Mex anyway)

Wannabe-Yankee that I am (I grew up on Long Island), I always thought that Mexican food was too hot and spicy to handle. Fortunately, Cindy Sedam invited us out to Fort Worth about ten years ago and took us to Joe T. Garcia’s.

The rest, as the saying goes, is history. I fell in love with fajitas, enchiladas, guacamole, and pico-de-gallo (aka salsa) … only to be cautioned that I wouldn’t find the same fare back in Williamsburg. Fortunately, that wasn’t entirely true. Casa Maya, and then Tequila Rose became my go-to haunts for all things Mexican. But they couldn’t hold a candle to Joe T’s … or to Matt’s El Rancho on South Lamar … or to Torchy’s Tacos in the South Austin Trailer Park (hold your fire Austinites … I’m sure there are others, I just haven’t had time to sample them all yet).

So while we were still on the East Coast, I developed my own take on Mexican-style food. I discovered that jalapenos could be tamed by removing the seeds, became adept at timing avocado ripeness, and stalked the local food stores for Cotija. I took a deep breath as I paid $12.99 a pound for skirt steak and $1.99 a bunch for organic cilantro. And I learned how to make my own flour tortillas, the core ingredients of which --flour, lard, salt and water-- are the same as my grandmother’s Depression-era bread recipe.

Now lard can be found in many grocery stores, but I share Michael Pollan’s dim view of animal fat that doesn't need to be refrigerated. Read the fine print on a lard box and you’re apt to find the dreaded word “hydrogenated.” I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to eat something that’s full of saturated fat, I want it to be unadulterated. Fortunately, you can find leaf lard online, which can be portioned and frozen for future use. I’ve also made tortillas with olive oil, and they’re actually pretty good, but there’s nothing like using lard in flour tortillas, absolutely nothing. So find yourself some good lard and make some tortillas. Then you’ll have enough lard leftover to try in your next apple pie crust. At which point you should be well and truly hooked.

East Coast Fajitas (serves 2)

1 lb. skirt steak
Hardwood charcoal for grilling if at all possible

Marinade
3 Tbs. soy sauce (I just eyeball this as it glugs out of the bottle)
3 Tbs. olive oil (ditto)
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp. cumin
Juice of ½ lime
2 Tbs. brown sugar

Salsa
1 ripe Haas avocado, chunked
½ small red onion, finely diced
½ cup diced ripe tomato
¼ cup chopped cilantro leaves
1 small jalapeno, seeded and chopped fine
Juice of ½ lime
Kosher salt to taste

Tortillas
1 cup flour
½ tsp. kosher salt
2 Tbs. lard (or olive oil)
1/3 cup water

Optional toppings
Grated Cotija cheese (or queso seco)
Sour cream
Onion and/or red peppers, lightly sautéed in olive oil

Make the tortilla dough at least two hours before you plan to start dinner
Put the water and lard (or olive oil) in the microwave just long enough to warm it
Add to the flour and salt and give them all a spin in the food processor
The resulting dough should come together in a ball without being too sticky or crumbly
Add water or flour as needed to make a nice elastic dough
Let it rest under a damp towel for at least an hour, more if possible

The salsa and marinade can be made about an hour before grilling time
Cut the skirt steak into two to four shorter strips before marinating
Assemble any other toppings as desired
Recruit your favorite grillmaster to get the grilled fired up and the meat cooked rare
Then carve the meat into thin strips just before serving

Try to cook the tortillas while the meat is grilling, so they’re hot when you serve them
You can hold them under a damp towel in a warm oven, but hot off the griddle is best
Divide the dough into 6-8 pieces
Roll into 6-8” circles, using as little flour as possible
Cook on a 400 degree griddle (or a hot frying pan) … do not grease the cooking surface
Flip several times, 20-30 seconds to a side, until each tortilla puffs
You’re aiming for light brown spots … if the pan/griddle starts smoking, turn it down a bit

To serve, layer ingredients onto tortillas, roll up as best you can (good luck with that) and enjoy