death to bisquick

With five words, my hopes were dashed. My heart began beating erratically, my palms broke out in a sweat, and I was suddenly, irrevocably gripped with a fear so great, I considered chaining myself to the couch to physically prevent the terror from becoming true. And yet, my courtesy-drippin' Southern blood prohibited me from backing out on an RSVP. All day, the five words hovered like some gut-grinding harbinger of nausea... the five words promised with pride by the hostess of a church dinner I'd agreed to attend:

"Tuna Ring with Cheese Sauce."

What was this fearsome beast? What onerous textures and tastes awaited any who partook of such a revoltingly named creation? A TUNA RING. My stomach, so open and accepting of the vast quantities of food I feed it, closes its mouth in fury. A TUNA RING. It sounds like a dolphin's vomit. A jello-molded fishy circlet. The punchline for an inappropriate joke. For heaven's sake, the primary ingredient is Bisquick.

I suppressed my disgust, put on a dress, and carried my dish of gratin dauphinoise (recipe to come... a decadent success!) to the church dinner so I could count on SOMETHING edible. And an hour later, I was mechanically putting a slice (yes, a slice) of tuna ring on my plate and spooning something that looked an awful lot like paste over it. Ironically, the paste was the most delicious part.

Tuna Ring is a mysterious concoction involving tuna salad stuffed into a circular shape, covered in a tasteless dough, and drenched in gluey cheese sauce (which also has Bisquick in it. My gosh.) It is served warm and sliced like a horrifying fishy Bundt cake. Here's the recipe...

(Psyche.)

trailer treasure

"They make maple bacon donuts."
"I'm sorry... WHAT?!"
"Yeah, it has maple icing and bacon on top."
(Gasping for joy like a three-year-old at FAO Schwarz. Continue stuffing face with olive-and-chevre ravioli.)
"Say that one more time."
(Ok, now friend is looking at me with a slight air of horror. Am I drooling whilst reloading my fork? Too much?)
"Umm, maple and bacon donut."
(Chest now heaving. Voice becomes embarrassingly urgent.)
"We. Must. Go. Get. One. Now."

Half an hour later, ravioli freshly eaten and bill just paid, we pulled into the parking lot of Gourdough's, an unassuming silver trailer in a parking lot in Austin with a menu of donuts so daring it makes you laugh and cry simultaneously. And as the sky dripped and the air froze, we made our selections (mine was easy -- bacon + donut = utopia) and crammed back into the car to crank up the heat and devour our fancypants fried rings.

Allow me to highlight the perfection of the Flying Pig donut (such was my precious dessert named) in greater detail. The donut was thick and yeasty, crisp on the edges and pillowy on the inside. The icing was drizzled atop it in the exact quantity necessary to balance the salty grease of the unglazed donut with the cheek-puckering sweet of maple syrup. The bacon? Sigh. Oh, the bacon! Four curly, chewy-crispy pieces of pig belly cradled atop the pastry with the attention of a sculptor!

Within five bites, I had declared my bacon donut one of the most delicious things I've ever ingested, ranking among my mother's dumplings and my Nanny's cobbler. It is a high honor, and Gourdough's deserves it. If it were not three hours away from my house, I would drive there every day. And weigh 467 pounds.

And if you do not go and get one the next time you're in Austin, I will have no choice but to slap you soundly for your culinary stupidity.

the upscale pancake

My half-French, half-Texan family has an odd and delicious holiday tradition... seven days after tamales on Christmas Eve, my dad whips out a very thin, flat disk of a pan, mixes batter, and makes fresh crêpes. We pour champagne, open a jar of Nutella, sit around the kitchen island, and wait for our New Year's Eve treat -- a piping hot, fresh, oh-so-slim crêpe.

In Paris's always bustling Les Halles, you can scarcely throw a stone without hitting a street vendor offering crêpes (usually by shouting) to passersby, and I could scarcely resist buying one, no matter what time of day or what I'd just eaten. On the streets, Parisians eat them "avec beurre et sucre" (butter and sugar), folded six times, and tucked in a cone of paper, which is typically tossed on the streets in a crumpled mess... Paris is not renowned for its cleanliness. And in a French kitchen, the edges of crêpes are folded inward like a burrito over fillings both savory and sweet -- coulis, berry jam, chicken, vegetables, you name it.

But my favorite crêpes are still my dad's, smeared with the heavenly goodness of Nutella. The edges are crunchy, lacy, and golden, the center slightly eggy and soft. Ah! Perfect for breakfast... or lunch... or dinner... I think crêpes should be a Saturday morning tradition in the Boone household.

Sweet Crêpes

2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups milk
1 tablespoon canola or vegetable oil
1 cup flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla

Put all ingredients in a blender and mix well. Dip a paper towel in more oil and rub it all over a frying pan on medium-high heat (I prefer using a smaller, 8-inch pan). Let the pan get very hot, then pour a little bit of the batter onto the pan, about 2-3 tablespoons. Pick up the pan and swirl the batter around so it covers the bottom of the pan in a very thin layer. Place back onto heat, and flip onto a plate when done. They cook very fast, less than a minute, so the second you see that the liquid batter has turned solid, remove them from the heat!

And before you cook another one, be sure to re-grease the pan. If you like, you can lay wax paper between each crêpe and keep warm in the oven.

If you want to make savory crêpes, nix the sugar and vanilla and add 1/2 teaspoon of salt.