Emergence

Tamalehawk isn't going to perch here and pretend he has an excuse for the stunning stretch of saturnine silence he has foisted upon his flock of fellow food followers. He's been soaring sullen and lateral over a littoral landscape feeding formidably, his journey charted solely in the folds of his curved bird mind.

He alights again on the brittle and neglected tractate with a tomatillo in repose, itself exposed with husk flaps akimbo. Having shucked and rinsed the intriguing veg, Tamalehawk roasted a host of tomatillos in the oven and, together with jalapeño and cilantro, made a salsa verde that might get elected for local salsa office. The main attraction: a frenzied foray into the realm of carnitas - pork shoulder marinated in a sauce including but not limited to three kinds of citrus, achiote paste, cilantro, garlic, and extra etcetera, and which completely ruined his leg feathers in a sudden spray from the blender - slow roasted, shredded, and bedded into heated tortillas. He couldn't help but top them with homemade pickled red onion, radishes, queso fresco, and más cilantro for a taco that would probably push any other taco down on the street without remorse.

The Swoop

June came and went, quietly sliding by with only two paltry posts to its name. Tamalehawk sounds a mournful squawk for the lack of traction on his beloved tractate. Raising a baby hawk has been a full-time job, often pushing experimentation to the back burner, where it simmers unceremoniously until Tamalehawk gets a free wing to stir, panic, adjust, and rejoice.

That's not to imply that he hasn't maintained a steady trickle of triumphs. This curried lamb burger with grilled zucchini and chili-yogurt sauce would certainly spur a sheep to nod approvingly. Tamalehawk is typically particular about his lamb manifestations, preferring chops to sinewy shanks, but the subtle, uniform taste and texture of ground lamb was designed for the burger format. The toasted whole wheat English muffin made a perfect carrying case, creating a durable lining for runaway flavor.

Perch and Observe

Where do you guys stand on egg salad? Long relegated to Honda dealer vending machines and cafeteria coolers, Tamalehawk has always had an affinity for the often-avoided ovoid sandwich. Here, he tries to create a smooth, spicy profile by adding cream cheese and jalapenos. He also had an idea for draping some apricot-glazed onions on top, but that will have to wait until he's more ambitious and less compelled to eat straight from the Tupperware.

In the search for a new complement of lunch deals on the North side, Tamalehawk recently ventured to Flying Chicken restaurant. Days of passing the $5.99 lunch special sign in the window, a quick Yelp affirmation, and a clawing hunger finally moved him to coordinate a mid-day trek down Lincoln. A few minutes after entering the brightly colored, totally empty Colombian spot, he knew things would be OK. The distinct smell of fresh charcoal in the air supported this notion. The food was a hit - excellent plantains, rice, and chicken led to a stack of empty plates a few minutes later. Add some peer-pressure beers and you have the perfect way to go long on a Tuesday lunch.

Cool Pursuit

Tamalehawk forgot about this jagged gem, a luscious little lithic of dark chocolate profusely punctured with petrous pieces of pistachio. He tasted these and knew no easy ceasing of the treat disease he had unleashed. They lived dwindling on the perimeter of his table, able to be flipped by wing in a dark arc into the awaiting fate of his beak.

Pistachio's perennial play for the king of nuts never escapes Tamalehawk's notice. He bowed his head in reverence after a single sampling of the pistachio gelato at Mario and Gino's in Roscoe Village. It has haunted his dreams since the fateful tasting, tinting all his thoughts in a bright green sheen of delight. It's a certified Summer Essential, worth a languid, winding shuffle down side streets to reach this unassuming shop. Next time, one scoop of pistachio and one of apricot together at last, forming the elusive apristachicot, a flavor combination worthy of royalty. Update: Mario and Gino's is totally closed on the forever tip.

Idle Flap

Tamalehawk apologizes. He never intended to leave you grappling the gravity of grapes for such a gaping gap of time. He has been eating nonstop, craving brownies at almost every turn, fighting impulses to shun normal food forever and embrace full-wingedly the blaring beckon of the constant dessert lifestyle. If it weren't for sandwiches like these, on fresh ciabatta bread from Bennison's in Evanston, he might tumble beakward into the chocolaty void.

Acting on the spurred curiosity of an owl, Tamalehawk pulled the trigger on Sarpino's, a strange sliver of a store situated in a nearby stripmall. It's kind of shocking how many things Tamalehawk will commit to based solely on morbid intrigue. He ordered a hilariously complicated taco pizza that was wildly overpriced, and some garlic-cheese breadsticks. The whole operation hinged on the suspicious dipping sauces. Final evaluation: Take Papa John's, add a Napoleon complex and a baffling global presence, and you've got Sarpino's. The pizza was very weird and the breadsticks were great, and he'd probably order it again whenever he feels a longing for the reckless majesty of his college days.

True Test

Tamalehawk's life-long tendency of eating grapes until he gets a serious grape-ache and then mustering up some kind of inner strength to keep eating more blooms into a full-blown habit in the spring months. There is just never enough room for all the grapes he needs to eat, and as his wing muscles gently vasodilate, beak agape in a kind of grape paralysis, he wonders if there were any strays left in the bottom of the crisper that could be fervidly foraged.

Each grape session sparks stark images of the most powerful grape challenge Tamalehawk has had to date; one that tests the very limits of your will by posing a single, haunting question: Can you eat 100 grapes in a minute? The scope of the task seems manageable, even laughable in its apparent modesty. You want to stand up and proclaim, yes, of course I can do that, any person with any shred of focus can achieve this lowly goal. It is this very hubris that contributes to your inevitable demise. You go in half-cocked, shoveling in wing-fulls at a time into your manic mandibles, spurred on by the ticking of the stopwatch. It's not long before that colander of innocent grapes looks like a bucket of tiny, live grenades.

Little Help

So, Wikipedia is calling this an Egg in the Basket, and since society has spoken on its formal title, who is Tamalehawk to object? You guys make these, right? Tamalehawk is a big fan of constricting the egg's reckless sprawl. Nothing is worse than setting your egg adrift like a jellyfish in poaching liquid, albumen tendrils ghostly coasting along. So, clearly, using the fried toast to fetter the egg is a satisfying solution. It's also a great use for terrible Trader Joe's bread that you got fooled into thinking was edible and have since been neglecting.

Speaking of being pleasantly fettered, Tamalehawk is officially on the search for a silver bullet take-out options to supplant the dine-in experience he so cherishes. He has long exhausted his folder of the usual suspects, and has grown resentful of their uninspired selections. Here are his judging criteria: Speed - it has got to be reasonable. No longer than an hour average. Packaging - it has got to be secure and appropriate. Friendliness - they've got to have a distinctly detectable tone of appreciation in their voices. Even a tinge will do. Selection - can you offer me something different? Tamalehawk has even stopped to inspect rain-soaked menus on the sidewalk for new contenders. That's how desperate he's become - it's a cry for help.