Digging Deep

Parsnips are raising their public profile, people. No longer relegated to the bottom tier of the root vegetable family, frequent TV and magazine appearances are turning 08 into a banner year for Pastinaca sativa, if you know what Tamalehawk is saying. Is there something better Tamalehawk could be doing than indulging his penchant for parsing parsnip popularity? It's a fair question.

This recipe came from Bon Appetit - carrots and parsnips with honey and rosemary. Cut everything and start cooking it in a pan. Add everything else. Finish when everything feels tender, like your self-esteem right after you've been crying. It should be noted that Tamalehawk doesn't really see what carrots are bringing to the table in most applications. Color, sure. Some faint sweetness. OK. He's just not really impressed. A nest of limp shavings on his salad? No thanks. Piled high where meat should be in his Szechuan? He'll pass. But here, they do OK. Also in the carrot salad at Aroy Thai on Damen, which is strangely delicious because of some magic lime marinade that you just can't get with the lunch special for some reason, which unfortunately goes in the strike column of an otherwise reputable restaurant.

Mystic Offering

Look, it's no big deal, but have you ever tried a blood orange? Beheld its shimmering sanguine glory? Really marveled at its resplendent hues that are not unlike the most beautiful sunrise the world has ever woken to? You should get on that.

Like a grapefruit without the acidic assault, it really takes the classic orange flavor and lovingly embarrasses it in public with its obvious beauty. It is in the same league as the pomegranate for sheer internal fruit majesty, edging it out because it has blood in the name, which inherent makes things more desirable save for sausages, where it sadly has the opposite effect. Tamalehawk believes that aliens planted this fruit on our planet to show us something; maybe an intergalactic treaty, maybe a crystal filter for a laser that can blast meteors, or as a featured element in a recipe for planet-destroying vinaigrette.

Bad Change

Raise your hand if you remember the Lucky Charms leprechaun being so patently demonic? No one? The face that once expressed glee at the idea of sharing his chalky marshmallow cereal with us now clearly wants to devour children in their pajamas, binding them with white hot rainbows and muffling their stunned shrieks with handfuls of synthetic oat shapes. It's primarily the teeth that are morphing Tamalehawk's childhood memories into a trembling, confused blob. The maniacal mandible is made much more malevolent by the missing mentum and the ceaseless searching of those unblinking eyes.

Full Shilling update: This place first made an appearance in August, claimed by Tamalehawk to be Yakzie's cooler friend. It should be reported that on Thursdays, they have $1 domestic beers and $1 burgers. Tots are available, but you can't front on the crinkle cut fries. A near-insane offering that makes an otherwise OK bar worth the trip. Take with you a seasoned table scout; Tamalehawk fortunately had a blue heron nearby to make the necessary eye contact to secure suitable seating after a short wait.

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.