potato lust

The following are ten things I would do because of/with gratin dauphinoise, the greatest, creamiest, saltiest, perfectest dish EVER.

1. rub it on my feet in place of lotion. fragrant, buttery lotion.
2. eat it every single day for the rest of my life
3. make it into a candle for my bathroom
4. petition the FDA to sanction it as one of the necessary 5 daily fruits/vegetables
5. bury my face in it. scream because it's hot and i just burned my face. lick my lips. re-dunk my face in it.
6. buy a $40 mandoline just so i can make it more often (this I actually did)
7. find it strangely more attractive than leonardo dicaprio in 'the departed'
8. become sexier than a victoria's secret model to leonardo dicaprio by seducing him with a plate of it
9. imagine that heaven is comprised of diamond roads, wine rivers, and buildings made of potatoes
10. grow morbidly obese with it, like at least 417 pounds

Oh yeah, and here's the recipe.

Gratin Dauphinoise

8-10 red potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced
1 stick butter at room temperature
s&p
1 cup heavy cream
1 garlic clove

Cut the garlic in half, and rub the cut sides all over a large casserole dish. Discard the cloves. Peel and slice the potatoes, then rinse them with cold water and pat them dry with paper towels (removes all starch and makes the texture divine).

Arrange a single layer of potato slices in the dish. Heavily salt and pepper them. Dot them with butter. Repeat until all the potatoes are used. Dump the cream over the whole mess. Stick it in the oven for an hour at 325 degrees. Devour.

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.