Month: June 2017
Peach Crisp
There’s nothing that says summer like peaches. My roommate from college had a peach tree in her yard in Big Spring. The tiny tree branches hung to the ground, heavy with gorgeous, juicy peaches. I helped harvest them one Memorial Day weekend years ago, and her aunt turned them into a luscious peach cobbler. This weekend my Belgian friend hosted a BBQ – and asked everyone to bring something. With the sun shining, temperatures warm, and promises of spending an afternoon outside just chilling and grilling, I knew a peach. . . something would be the only thing that would
Baker’s Rack
You find out you’re moving to Europe – the dreams of touring famous museums, sipping wine along canals, stepping through streets lined by ancient architecture or (insert postcard perfect dream here) – are quickly pushed aside (at least after a few days of the approval) and the front-runner of your mind becomes. . . the mountain of administrational tasks before you. FBI background checks, medical exams, reissued birth certificates (as if anything had changed since the original documents were issued?) – I could go on, but I won’t in order to prevent an anxiety attack, except to say that the
Jalapeno Ranch Dip
Shannon is an old friend from college who’s lived in the U.K. for what seems like forever. She visits Texas often and last summer I hosted her and a two of our close college girlfriends for dinner. After popping champagne to celebrate the momentous occasion of the four of us actually being in the same country at the same time, the conversation turned to her ‘must dos’ in Texas. “Oh, I have to go to Chuy’s,” she exclaimed. I cocked my head. “Really? Chuy’s is your Tex-Mex of choice? I’m more of a fan of Pappasito’s, Mi Cocina, or rather
Homemade Tortillas
“Oh my, these tortillas are fantastic – man, I miss good, flour tortillas so much!” and I gobble another one. One of Nikki’s cousins eyes me suspiciously. He’s 13 and in that curious and not-too-cool-to-talk-to-adults-phase. “Why don’t you just go to your local grocery store and buy them?” he asks, in between mouthfuls of his own. “Jacob, I live in Belgium, not San Antonio. You can’t get homemade tortillas in Belgium, okay?” I explain. He blinks, then frowns. “Yeah, I guess not. That sucks,” he deadpans. “Yeah, it really does,” I tell him. I decided then and there that