Beware the kalends of April.

Biscuits and sausage gravy. © Ryan Schierling 

We're a pretty open-minded pair when it comes to what we eat. I haven't really encountered anything that I wouldn't put into my mouth – kind of like a two-year-old in the backyard – sampling rocks, dirt, snails and whatever else crosses my path. Okay, I don't eat rocks and dirt, but thanks to my mom's policy of "taking a no-thank-you helping" when I was growing up, I'll eat and enjoy pretty much whatever you put in front of me. 

I've gotten Julie to at least taste a great number of the meatses I've prepared, but she draws the line at pork. 

So when I make sausage gravy, which is a traditional biscuit blanket here in the South, I compromise. We use a pork proxy – Gimme Lean sausage. 

The very first time I used Gimme Lean, I also made a batch of my normal pork sausage gravy. Two skillets with identical ingredients (fat, white flour, whole milk, salt, white and black pepper), save the faux-sausage. My longtime-friend and fellow Kansan (read as: born-and-bred carnivore) Dan was our unwitting test subject. I didn't ask him "which one do you think has real sausage in it?" I simply asked "which one do you like better?" 

Now, I have to qualify Dan with a quick story here: 

A number of years ago we were at Trader Joe's in Seattle. In the vast and wonderful cheese section, there were sample trays with little cubes of different cheeses to try. Dan was tasting each and every fromage they offered up – aged English cheddar, Havarti with dill, Parmigiano Reggiano – but wasn't paying much attention to the labels on each tray. He got to the final sample station, popped a cube of cheese into his mouth, chewed twice and suddenly stopped. His jaw clenched, his eyes were wide and frightened, and he began frantically looking around for... something. Dan, as discreetly as possible, leaned over and ejected the cheese from his mouth to his hand, making a "Bwuuuu-uuuulll-uuch" sound. He was looking for a trash can, and I was no help, standing a few feet behind him nearly choking from trying to hold in my laughter. He looked back at the tag on the tray, which read "soy cheese." 

Let's just say Dan prefers the real things in life. 

So when I put two plates of biscuits and gravy in front of him – not disclosing anything about the dishes – and asked him to tell me which one he preferred, I figured he'd instinctively choose the biscuits with real sausage gravy. 

I was wrong, and he was rather surprised to learn that the one he liked better was actually pretend pork. 

My sausage gravy has been prepared this way ever since, even on April Fool's Day.

Rocks. Salt. Lime.

Margarita. © Ryan Schierling

Ahhh... it's spring. The bluebonnets are blooming along the Texas highways and the time is coming for drinks on ice. Margarita season is nearly upon us and I thought this might be a good opportunity for a mixed drink-based Public Service Announcement. 

"Please, please, do not resort to using any of those unnaturally green bottled mixers for your margaritas." 

As with innumerable foods these days, many people have been conditioned to believe the margarita is some complicated formula of lime, syrups, and exotic citrus spirits, so they simply give in and buy a bottle of fluorescent green lime-flavored high-fructose corn syrup labeled as 'margarita mix' because it seems foolproof and understandable. This breaks my heart. 

I don't remember the first time I tried a margarita, but I do remember that it was enough to have me proclaim for some years that I did not like them. Then, one fine summer day over lunch, a friend insisted I would love this margarita. Refreshing and not cloyingly sweet – it was wonderful. I suspect my earlier experience had been an unfortunate run-in with a cheap margarita mix. 

While some prefer blended margaritas, as far as I'm concerned they are far too involved for an impromptu summer social with friends. Moreover, 'brain freeze' is just not the cocktail experience I seek. For these reasons I side squarely with the "rocks / salt" crowd and use this super simple method to make them. 

These are the essentials to have on hand: 

8 oz. lowball glass
Fresh lime - cut in wedges
Kosher salt - (this should be a pantry staple anyway)
Tequila - go with what you like or can afford, either gold or silver. Sauza seems to be a good starting choice for mixed drinks.
Limeade - Simply Limeade and Odwalla "Summertime Lime" are both very good and are sweetened with real sugar! 

It goes together in this order: 

Pour a layer of kosher salt on a small plate.
Wet the rim of the glass with a slice of lime.
Turn the glass upside-down onto the plate of salt to get that delicious salted rim.
Fill the glass with ice.
Squeeze a wedge of fresh lime into the glass.
Pour a shot of tequila over the ice.
Throw in a fresh slice of lime and fill the rest of the glass with limeade. 

Okay. All done. Cheers! 

Did you notice the glaring absence of Triple Sec? While it may function as the traditional sweetener for this drink, I don't mind passing on sweet liqueurs which can be a sticky, sugary mess. Limeade is sweetened enough to work as an all-in-one substitute for the typical "lime juice and triple sec" formula, and although it may not have the more complex orange/citrus flavors, it delivers splendidly on summer flavor and refreshment. 

If you want to make a fuss over it, go ahead! Add a splash of citrus liqueur like Triple Sec, Cointreau or Grand Marnier, but don't sweat it, and adjust to personal taste. 

When the outdoor temperature in Austin is cranking its way toward 100 degrees... rocks, salt and lime.

Hangover breakfast.

Corned beef hash. © Ryan Schierling

We've slumbered away the hangovers of St. Patrick's Day (literal hangover... we drank a bottle of Jameson and watched Irish American Ninja) and SXSW (metaphorical hangover... we embraced the madness but actually saw little live music), and are now back to our regular chops. 

Yesterday, I dug up an old corned beef hash recipe I'd forgotten about and pulled down the cast iron skillet from the rack. 

I was never a fan of hash when I was younger, probably for the simple reason that we were never properly introduced. Our family never had it when I was growing up, so I never thought to order it at restaurants or make it at home once I'd moved away. My first experience with corned beef hash – to my recollection – was in my late 20s. I purchased and opened a popular brand of canned hash the morning after a particularly libatious night out, gave a hairy eyeball to the tin and remarked how similar the texture and smell was to dog food. Not a good start, for a dish oft-described as a hangover remedy. 

I fried up the mash of miniature-diced potatoes and what I can only imagine to be mechanically-separated beef that's been corned within an inch of its life, and ate it with a pair of over-easy eggs. It wasn't bad, but it really wasn't that good either. It would be the last time I ate a plate of corned beef hash for a long, long time. 

A crazy Iron Chef-inspired dream two years ago had me waging Battle Potato the following day. Sometimes things stick with you after you wake up and you can't clear them until they've been actualized... so I'm a lucky man that Julie encourages me when I get worked up about ideas like this, even though she'll taste (but won't eat) two-thirds of these dishes, what with the meatses and all. 

I imagine other people's "significant-other / life-hostage conversations" would probably go something like this... 

"I dreamed I was on Iron Chef last night and the secret ingredient was potatoes."
"Mmmhmm."
"I need to go to the grocery store so I can get all the stuff to cook what I dreamed about, what I made in my dream."
"Sweetie, I love you, but that's ridiculous. We have plenty of food in the house already. You're just going to destroy the kitchen and leave a sink full of dirty dishes."
"But... but there were sweet potatoes, and leeks, and hash browns, and corned beef and... and bacon..."
"(Grumble.)" 

The Road Food to Perdition.

Spanish For 100's Corey Passons, somewhere in mid-America. © Ryan Schierling

Austin is the "Live Music Capital of the World." 

The South by Southwest Music Conference and Festival – which currently draws some 12,000-plus registrants just for the music portion of the event  – is a yearly influx into this city like none other. It's a lot of bands, because it's a lot of fans and the numbers are growing every year. 

The majority of those bands are touring around the SXSW dates, and the festival is not just a destination, but one more stop on the highway to load in, play, and load out before hitting the road again for the next city. While they are here, they will no doubt ask someone "What's the must-eat" thing in Austin before we leave in the morning?" Or maybe they've played here many times before, and really dug on that Casino El Camino burger, great Indian food and beer at Whip-In, or some incredible taco joint on the east side that the bass player found and they've been going back ever since. 

For non-Republic-of-Texas bands on tour, Austin is road food. 

Olive Fillet

Olive Fillet. © Ryan Schierling

At the intersection of family tradition and food culture, the occasional recipe oddity finds notable staying power. In my family that recipe is called "Olive Fillet."

Its exact origins have not been fully determined, however, we know it has been in the family since the late 1920s. Campbell's Tomato soup, although produced as early as 1899, was not available nationally until 1911. So, somewhere in this span of opportunity, the mother of my grandmother's sister-in-law, who just happened to be a hospital dietician, either created or acquired this recipe.

So, what is it, and why is it so curiously named Olive Fillet?

My dad, who has eaten a lot of Olive Fillet in his lifetime and is also a wiz at conjecture, speculates that "it may have served as an early meat alternative at an Adventist hospital." This fits because “vege-meat” products made from textured vegetable protein and soy did not become widely available until the 1930s. It would certainly make sense that in a hospital culture where a meat analog was required, this satisfying “fillet of bread" might be created as a kind of healthy entrée in place of meat.

Another clue with respect to the name may be in the physical appearance of one of these diagonally cut and baked slices. With a little imagination, the triangle of a half-sandwich begins to resemble the shape of a piece of meat – and the color and texture of the tomato mixture on top... well... it certainly won’t fool anyone, but it does bake to a dark glossy red finished serving. It is a stomach-filling addition to a dinner plate, and perhaps the name Olive Fillet offered an aire of importance people needed in a main dish at that particular time.

Which, of course, leads us to the glaring economic piece. This is a recipe that was developed shortly before the difficult years of the Great Depression and survived to be passed intact through four or five generations. Based simply on a read of the primary ingredients – eggs, white bread, condensed soup – it is almost impossible not to imagine this composition coming straight out of a Depression-Era cookbook. Olives are the most sophisticated item in the ingredient list, honored in the name, yet, even with so few actually used, they aspire to elevate.