Local Flavor

Tamalehawk has long squawked the praises of the breakfast sandwich. Homemade attempts at fabrication always, at least in part, seem a solemn solatium for the Sausage McMuffin with Egg, which, as is widely and correctly purported, is half a century of food science distilled into a perfect grenade of breakfast harmony. It can't be beaten, everyone. So please set down your skillet and hang up your apron.

A quick search of the tractate confirmed that Tamalehawk hasn't yet sung from the granite gargoyles of the looming urban vista the unparalleled praises of Los Nopales. A quick search of his soul confirmed that this was an unforgivable oversight. Based on a hot tip from an owl in the know, this Mexican food is the best he has found in his extensive quest. The tortilla soup must have been forged on high from the slow-churning spoon of an ancient Aztec deity. The skirt steak, in all forms, is a marvel of modern meat manipulation. Please frequent this popular place. Tamalehawk will hoist his Jarrito as a sign of approval.

Life, Again

In his youth, Tamalehawk could eat an entire frozen pizza in one sitting, during a commercial break, without even gesturing toward a beverage. He's mellowed out somewhat over time, and eating has become less corporal punishment and more something to be enjoyed and at least lightly regulated. As such, he finds himself with leftover slices.

What could be more delicious than rubbery, congealed frozen pizza slices the next day? The translucent peppers, the grainy sausage, a black thing you convince yourself is a mushroom. Faced with this sad reality, Tamalehawk employed one of his coveted culinary parlor tricks: force everything into quesadilla form and pan fry. It occurs to him that this is a practical re-imagining on the 7-Eleven P'Eatzza Sandwich, which is hilscarious, except his version inverts the pizza so the crust is on the outside. It sort of seemed like you wouldn't want sauce and cheese streaming down your wrists as you hurriedly eat it in near-complete secrecy. Nestled between the pieces is more cheese to act as a binding agent. Fry until crispy and flip over, repeatzza.

Ceaseless Night

Tamalehawk wishes to inform you that he has no idea what this is. It is a sandwich made of mystery. Obvious tomato and likely cheese, but for the life of him, there's no deciphering the other elements. It is not long into this new year, this year that started off with so much promise, and he has found himself flying in low, lazy circles, looking at everything and nothing at once. His sandwiches have blurred together, mashed into unmemorable amalgams where once hope was delicately stacked and seared. Chickpeas? Chicken? Cauliflower? He glides through alleys and avenues for clues but the city is not kind to a lost hawk.

He considers himself lucky he bothered to pose the ghostly halves. What's next? Will he, so straying from standards, finally post the endless photos of fried eggs, whose refusal to look appetizing has rendered Tamalehawk's trash replete with deletes?

New Blood

Part 2 of the two-part series Glaze Makes Life Worth a Damn, this specimen embodies the theme of the series more than Tamalehawk could have ever hoped for when he approved funding of the project. A chocolate-chip and brown sugar poundcake truly touches the sun when coated with a maple and espresso glaze. Forged by the brave wingtips of a determined Ladyhawk, it was as if somehow the concept of glaze itself wrote this recipe, an aria to its own ability to make you lick a spatula long after it's been sitting in the sink.

For Christmas, Tamalehawk welcomed a new addition to his arsenal - a nonstick pan that goes from stove to oven to broiler without flinching. Let's just say frittatas fear him. He knows it will be a sad moment when he retires his old nonstick pan to the trash. A loyal friend since sophomore year of bird college, he will quietly say a few words during the act, loud enough to be heard if you're very close by, but not so loud that you'd come from another room to investigate. He also got a new paring knife to replace the one he broke in half prying apart frozen hotdogs.

Bone Collection

OK, so no one has ever accused the short rib of being a beauty. Its gnarled tangle of beef is bequeathed only to those willing to put forth a solid braising effort. Half an hour on the stove, two hours in the oven, bathing in bottles of wine and its own admirable reluctance, until finally, when your hungry has peaked in a way that resembles rage, it completely acquiesces to your will. Then you eat.

The result is very similar to pot roast in taste, texture, and the comfort it conjures. It makes an untraditional centerpiece to a Thanksgiving meal, but the casual bounty that it offers fits perfectly within the holiday's theme. Just trim away or be prepared to not be able to eat all the meat present on each bone. These ribs were once in charge of moving the entire back half of a cow during its sojourn on Earth, so their hard work is in sacrifice of some edibility. No matter. The braised short rib is long on charm and flavor.

Glazed Expression

Part 1 of the two-part series entitled Glaze Makes Life Worth A Damn. Sicilian lemon cookies, displayed as a trio because Tamalehawk barely has the first one crushed in his beak before maniacally planning the demise of the other. After three he must physically restrain his own wing as it flails and flaps in search of a fourth and fifth. These indeed bring out the worst and best he has to offer. In a mirror, quickly think of all things that come glazed. Remember the face that you make. Now picture the same items, completely denuded of their glaze. Compare that face with the one you made previously. Without exception, your face transformed from delighted grin to deadly grimace.

For lack of a smooth transition to Chinese food, Tamalehawk will just lay it out there. He thinks he found a new home base. He has been struggling with the cuisine for some time; Orange Garden can't get their act together to offer delivery, most other places are obsessed with ladling a cabal of crinkle cut carrots and an odorous onslaught of onions in every dish. However, Silver Seafood on Broadway and Lawrence, delivered on the promise made by Check Please, which Tamalehawk had watched just a day earlier. It marked the quickest turn-around time from viewing to tasting, and proved a wise move. Great fried rice, bafflingly fresh chicken, crab rangoons that quite effortlessly go Beyond Rangoon, and only a small container of white rice which Tamalehawk feels no guilt about depositing directly into the trash unopened.

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.