The Rebirth

A casual, covert census has confirmed melted marshmallows as a ubiquitous umbrella for this sweet seasonal side. Holidays are a balance of preservation and experiment, of nostalgia and opportunity. Some smells must be recreated note by note; other new smells must be allowed to wantonly waft their way into tradition. Magazine recipes meet mom's memory, surprise meets certainty. The crescent rolls blacken from neglect and are heroically saved at the last moment, or ceremoniously buried beneath a hillock of potato peels. Everyone eats in eleven minutes and meanders back to the couch to finish the puzzle.

That was weeks and weeks ago now. Tamalehawk stills soars stoically above the staggered cityscape, save for the surreptitious swoops to the shadowed streets for a sweet or savory snack. He apologizes for his prolonged perch in the placid penumbra, and affirms that his appetite has not abated, but rather accelerated to accommodate the inflated belly of '08.

Ageless Wisdom

At three o'clock, eons after lunch and a lifetime before dinner, Tamalehawk needs to fill the growing void that is his hunger. Often it's a tortilla wrapped around something strange and broiled. Occasionally it's something wrenched directly from its jar, perhaps plucked from bottomless briny depths. On this day, a small bolt of inspiration led to this: a peanut butter, blackberry jam, shredded apple and cinnamon sandwich. It's not often that Tamalehawk gracefully handles the haunting chime of three o'clock, and this brief bit of guiltless guile made him flash a proud smile.

Critical update: Tamalehawk has secured what he was sure would remain forever in his imagination - an authentic copy of Seven Hundred Sandwiches. A remnant from the volatile sandwich culture of a nation poised on deep depression, this cherished artifact now claims a place of distinct honor in Tamalehawk's heart. One need only to glimpse the foreword to realize the true power of this tome; as it clearly notes the "constant and insistent demand for new ideas in sandwiches, new combinations in fillings, and new and attractive architectural plans for construction." Tamalehawk is filled with a renewed sense of purpose, determined to continue the groundbreaking work of his ancestors.

The Science of Madness

Sometimes in a great while, you just have all the ingredients you need to make a thing worth really eating. Tamalehawk had the onions, lettuce, cheese and turkey to make this monster come together beneath the crack of lightning, lurching to life in a frenzy of forming, chopping, spreading, and sizzling. Too big for its mortal bun, the burger broke free of its earthly binds and clawed its way into legend.

It was this sad day that Tamalehawk used the final few drops of Worcestershire sauce, causing the ghosts of both Lea and Perrins to gasp in horror. The crucial cure-all, a certain stand-by to all mashed meat mixtures, sat sad and empty in its crinkled paper shroud. Tamalehawk winced as he knew he might forget to put this shadowy staple back on the grocery list. All the best sauces go unremembered in the clank and clamor of the supermarket. Nonetheless, the sauce made a proud and final performance, the likes of which no man can forget.

A Certain Victor

Chocolate and bacon fight ferociously for the coveted title of Best Ever, each outdoing the other time and again in ways it can make a person feel simultaneously awful and ecstatic upon consumption. Tamalehawk long ago resigned that from perfection always dangles a price tag. He can't blame these foods for achieving these forbidden aspirations, their continual dominance of the sweet and savory worlds. To do so would be like blaming the sun for making the world too beautiful.

The Dutch, for example, excel in the realm of chocolate, harnessing fully its powers to be shaped into all letters of the alphabet. Tamalehawk thanks them for realizing that chocolate and text are a marriage long overlooked, and that indeed all messages of importance should be spelled boldly in cocoa. Don't be too lazy to get that glass of milk, either.

Creeping Heat

Tamalehawk, perpetually plagued by persistent impatience, has never used his slow-cooker. He prefers the panic and pacing of skillet sorcery. It's the same reason he doesn't bake, really, when you get down to it. But bakeries and barbacue rank right at the top of any list of weaknesses he might endeavor to make. Thankfully, Ladyhawk specializes in patience.

So, with a bite, Tamalehawk again realized this fact of life. Time plus the patience can bring about a lot of worthwhile things. Axl Rose knew it, though by then it was on Lies and everyone already knew it wasn't quite as good as Appetite for Destruction, and that really nothing ever could be, and so patience didn't really sate their appetite for destruction in that case, even considering and for some especially because of its protracted whistle solo. But the point still holds true. Slow-cooked pork is pretty great.

Sweet Sadness

Tamalehawk can confidently say that he would, if practical to request of his loved ones, have his coffin filled with cannoli cream. He would sign any necessary waivers, serve as the liaison between the baker and morgue, even pay extra for handling. It would be unusual, but all attendees would have thoughts of Italian pastries perforating their mournful laments.

Tamalehawk readily admits to a near-crippling affliction for all Italian confections. It haunts him yet makes him whole, holds him back yet helps him soar. No man-made smell comes close to that of a New York bakery; Tamalehawk spend an entire childhood smearing the glass display cases with frantic wingprints, pointing and contemplating, gesturing and pleading. Having that white box tied with red and white string sitting on the kitchen counter was often the only thing that would get a tiny 'Hawk through dinner. Today, he relies on the generosity of a fine Ladyhawk to hit an out of the way Italian deli and bakery and rescue him from his endless quest.

Sabor Sin Labor

Tamalehawk has to thank the fine people at Goya for constructing all the parts of this strange improvised version of arroz con pollo. Goya labored over every element that was delicious in this steaming creation...the yellow rice, the sofrito, the culantro and achiote seasoning packet. The hawk-handling time was mercifully minimized. It's like Goya just wants you to be happy, and you just let them, because they are so good at it.

You brown chicken or pork in a big pot, then take it out. Then get some chicken broth going in the same pot and dump your rice in. Then add sofrito and the magic packet, cook it for a while until the rice is almost done, and add the chicken back. Also some chopped olives. When the rice and chicken are done, you're done. Hang up your apron, eat it too quickly and burn your face off, wait impatiently, continue, realize the rice is the best part and don't even need meat, eat the meat anyway but in a begrudging manner, repeat.