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.

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.