Tag: cooking

Recipe Revue, (but not quite a revue)

Last century, in Tiny Town, Texas, our local newspaper regularly featured the photo of a home cook and three or four of their favorite recipes. Most were the sort you’d find in a local ladies’ auxiliary plastic comb-bound publication. Some were off if you followed the recipes instead of only reading them. Misprints or typos like 1 cup of tea instead of a teaspoon of instant tea mix. 1 c. of lard instead of, well, what kind of recipe might one need with a full cup of lard?

People dressed up for their photos. Nothing like today’s influencer photos. These were studio photos with bad lighting in colorless newsprint. No highly styled foodstagram pictures either. Just the recipe and your imagination or actual ingredients and something to eat as a result.

Yesterday, in suburban central Texas, the hubster opened a last century recipe book hunting down an apple cinnamon bread recipe.

“My sister gave me the recipe. I think your mom makes it too,” he recalls as he flips through pages of handwritten recipes.

“My mom got the recipe from your sister when she was in the paper,” I announce.

“Were you ever in the paper?” he asks.

“Not for the recipes. Mainly for nerdy school stuff. Band, honor roll, the regular school activities everyone did because there was nothing else to do.”

“French breakfast puffs,” he mutters as he continues to search.

“Ha! Those were neither puffy nor Frenchy. They’re basically muffins doused in melted butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar. They’re good, but not French.” I recall getting that recipe from one of my friends who was featured when we were in high school. They were a hit with our family, French or not.

He finds the recipe, discovers we’re out of apples, pushes the recipe book aside and searches for one on his phone. Settling for cinnamon bread with pecan strudel topping, he begins mixing.

I wonder what my blurb would say if I were selected today? Impossible, since the newspaper is defunct, but it’s fun to imagine.

Better yet, hubster and I would be the first dynamic duo, breaking with a single person featured. Would each of us take a turn over two consecutive weeks or would we hang out together? He loves cooking, I prefer eating. He’s the cook, I’m the baker. Team Use Every Utensil (him) or Team Clean As You Go? Complex recipes or one pot wonders? Which recipes would we choose? Three each or three of our favorites?

Hubster’s recipes: Tx cheesesteaks on the Blackstone griddle, cinnamon rolls in an hour, carne guisada with homemade corn tortillas, refried beans, and guac.

Wifey’s recipes: Rotisserie chicken taco Tuesday extravaganza, blueberry smash margaritas, tub of salad with olive oil & balsamic vinegar-serving bowl optional. Oh, and maybe a batch of those French breakfast puffs for special occasions.

Tuesday, April 8, 2025

Family Recipe

People who have recipes passed down from generations have always fascinated me.

“I have my grandma’s tomato pie recipe.”

“This strawberry cake is from my great-great grandmother.”

“I baked this bread with my great aunt and she got the recipe from her aunt’s grandma’s cousin’s sister-in-law…”

I don’t have recipes like those.

Nana in the center, her niece, Ruth, on the left, and my great-grandmother, Welita, on the right.

Nana’s tortillas were measured with her hands: several scoops of flour, shortening-tantito así –just this much, a few sprinkles of salt and pinches of baking powder. Heating water on the stove, she’d dunk a finger to test the temperature, who needs a cooking thermometer for accuracy? It’s either too hot or too cold. Agua tibia, she’d instruct, even though it looked much hotter than warm, judging from the steam rising and the bubbles just starting to form along the inside of the pot. Pouring a stream of hot water into a small well in the mound of flour, her other hand worked it quickly into a dough. A little more, the dough started coming together. The final stream, just a tad, and the dough was smooth and ready.

She pulled apart small portions of dough and rolled them into balls, covered the green Tupperware mixing bowl with a dishcloth and continued with the rest of the meal. Carne guisada. Rice. Frijoles. No recipes for those, either. She just cooked and her tastebuds guided her.

There was no Martha Stewart or Pampered Chef tortilla rolling guide for her to roll out the balls of dough. She rolled them out, perfectly, with a smooth and well worn rolling pin Papá made from some repurposed tool. Probably the handle of a broken garden hoe. Each tortilla hung over the edge of the bowl awaiting its fate on the comal.

This was the best part. As she stacked warm tortillas and wrapped them in another dishcloth, we’d snag one and smear it with butter. Folding it in half or rolling it up, we’d take a careful bite, they’re hot! These were our appetizers. No fancy snack trays or crudités.

My mom tried to translate hand measured scoops and portions into measuring cups and spoons for us to use. Since she learned from Nana at a young age, she doesn’t use conventional measuring tools either. I’ve tried to make them as well with the guidance of other people’s recipes or the assistance of “just add water” mixes. They aren’t the same. We buy them from the grocery store bakery.

Some day I’ll stop long enough to give my patience a rest and pick up the art of homemade tortilla making. I just have to pull up my sleeves, heat up some water, and scoop out handfuls of flour into a bowl.

December 7, 2021

Air Fried Marshmallows

Around Thanksgiving, my husband found a deal on an air fryer. Nothing fancy, or name-brand, just functional. I’m not a fan of extra countertop appliances besides a toaster and a coffee maker. We’re short on space in our kitchen. To avoid arguing, I gave in. He brought it home, like it was a Major Award and frrra-gee-lee. He opened the thing with the enthusiasm of The Old Man opening his leg lamp in “A Christmas Story.”

I rolled my eyes. He prepped chicken strips. We ate them, but they tasted, well, baked. My husband has a knack for chicken strips. The deep fried kind he dunks in egg wash and a seasoned flour mixture he’s concocted over the years. My kids critique restaurants on their chicken strips, the only thing they order off the menu. If they’re as good as or better than Dad’s, we add it to the list of favorites. This time, they were dry and nowhere close to what we’re accustomed to eating.

Then I opened my mouth. Not to say they tasted bad, we all knew they did, but to discuss the air fryer. I suggested he return it. You would’ve thought I took a lollipop away from a kid. Or a bone from a dog. Or Twitter from…never mind. Anyhow, I asked “What’s the difference between this and using the oven?” I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I surrendered, he found space in the pantry to store it, and we compromised. A few days later, he made chicken wings. Those were delicious.

One evening, he came home with a bag of marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and chocolate bars. It was a nice evening for hanging out in the backyard around the fire pit. The kids prefer to stay inside glued to their devices. Unless there are s’mores. We enjoyed the evening and I didn’t balk at the kids eating more than their share or toasting extra marshmallows. We’re still in a pandemic and I might as well let them enjoy it.

I put away the extra s’mores ingredients for another evening. But where would I put them so the kids wouldn’t smell them and devour them before the next perfect night for s’mores? I found a spot for the chocolate and graham crackers, but I needed to find a different place for the marshmallows. I’ve run out of good hiding places; my kids are that good. I mean, I thought I was smart when I hid my pint of double chocolate ice cream in the bag of frozen broccoli. Until they found it.

In a rush, I put the bag of marshmallows in the cooking drawer to the air fryer. They’ll never look there. The new appliance was perfect. It was only temporary anyway. I planned to move them later.

One Saturday, my husband busted out his handy dandy air fryer to make his new favorite recipe for chicken wings. My youngest passed through the kitchen to the backyard to jump on the trampoline. My husband seasoned and prepped, whistled a jolly tune, and pre-heated his faithful companion. When my kiddo, who has a bionic nose, skipped into the house, her eyes searched the kitchen. “Ooooh, marshmallows. It smells like marshmallows. What are you making, Dad?”

I brushed her off. “Marshmallows? What do you mean it smells like marshmallows? You’re imagining things.”

“It totally smells like marshmallows,” she commented as she ran up to her room. I kept sipping my coffee, scrolling away on Instagram.

A few minutes later, I heard a few choice words from The Most Patient Man in the World, who hardly ever uses choice words. He started grumbling and slamming things, shouting “Who put marshmallows in the air fryer?”

At that moment, I remembered my clever trick. I countered, “Who the heck doesn’t open an oven–air fryer–before they turn it on?” I laughed as I explained it was a new hiding place and I forgot I put the bag there.

He held the cooking drawer with the bag of perfectly toasted marshmallows nestled inside, the plastic warped and baked into them. “It’s nonstick, it should be fine. Dump it in the trash.”

“Wait, I wanna see!” S came down to inspect the marshmallows. She wanted to eat them. We said no. The trash got them. And the chicken wings came out fine, without a trace of sticky marshmallows on them. So much for a new hiding place.