American

Last year, my cousin Gloria showed up at our homecoming reunion with a huge pan of baked beans topped with a layer of walnuts. Walnuts? Walnuts are my least favorite nut, and I’ve never seen them paired with baked beans. But Gloria is a fine home cook, so I asked her where she got the idea. “I dreamed it last night,” she said. I tried her beans, and those crispy, toasted walnuts added a lovely crunch to an old standby. By adding walnuts to beans, Gloria has given a delicious new meaning that old maxim: “Live your dreams.” I can’t wait to see what she “dreams up” for next year’s homecoming.

Spoon bread is an old Southern favorite, and it’s beloved in many parts of Texas, too. I’ve heard numerous stories about the origin of its name—some say it is derived from a similar-sounding Indian precursor, others suggest it’s named for the utensil customarily used to eat this softer, smoother version of cornbread. I often bring spoon bread to potlucks, where it can be counted on to stir up old memories. (A version reportedly was served at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello.) This recipe came from Gangy—the favorite grandmother of one of my oldest and dearest friends, Kristen Ohmstede. Kristen’s grandmother served it often with butter and blackberry jam and to this day, that’s the only way Kristen will eat it.

In these parts, everyone knows that “low and slow is the only way to go” when it comes to making barbecued brisket. Whether prepared in the oven, on the grill, or in an old-fashioned barbecue pit, it takes hours and a gentle heat to transform this tough cut into the tender, flavorful dish that shows up at shindigs throughout Texas—from UT tailgate parties, where on game days folks set up steel-drum barbecues in parking lots during the wee morning hours, to family get-together, ranch weddings, and backyard cookouts. My mom, who adored brisket, took it often to parties and family events, and I’ve recently resurrected the tradition. James De Wolf helped develop this recipe. I carted our brisket halfway across Texas—from Frederickburg’s five hours’ drive east to Long view—to share it with my family at our annual homecoming potluck.

Someone always complains if there’s no potato salad at our annual homecoming reunion in Long view. And while I never tire of getting together with my extended family, I do grow weary of eating the same old spud salad over and over. I decided a new version was in order and combined potatoes, buttermilk, sour cream, and blue cheese into a fresh-tasting, mayonnaise-free salad flavored with fresh tarragon.

When I was a teenager, summer meant the beach. If I was lucky, I’d arrive in time for one of the great big beach-bonfire fiestas staged frequently by my friends, complete with roasted weenies, just a touch of beer (I swear!), and my total favorite—bonfire s’mores. Sadly, times have changed. Only a few Texas beach communities allow bonfires, so I came up with a s’more cupcake that puts me into a beach party mood no matter where I happen to be. The only fire necessary to bring their marsh mallow topping to the pitch-perfect golden brown of a genuine s’more is the skinny blue flame that shoots from my portable kitchen torch. These cupcakes are sure to bring smiles to just about any kid who shows up for a casual party, whether it takes place in the kitchen, at the shore, or on a beachfront deck. Now that my daughter is a seasoned college student, I make the cupcakes in advance, and whip up the marshmallow topping just before party time. I provide disposable plastic pastry bags fitted with open star tips so Fran and her friends can decorate the cupcakes themselves. Then it’s time for me to pass the torch—the kitchen torch, that is. Now that I think of it, it’s not the only torch I’m passing.

I recently happened upon a sand dollar cookie stamp at Der Kuchen Laden, Frederickburg’s topnotch kitchen store, and snapped it up, thinking what a great hit beach-themed cookies would be during Gulf Coast getaways. For kids summering on Bolivar Peninsula, a day at the beach meant a fistful of sand dollars, sugar shells, and colorful beach glass as smooth and opaque as Texas honey. Sand dollars were the hardest to find because the disk-shaped marine creatures habitually burrow into the sand. We’d swim out to the sand bars and dig for dollars by burying our feet a few inches into the sand and sliding along until our toes hit the critters’ hard internal shells. We’d pluck them out of the sand and haul them home. Popular legend holds that sand dollars are really mermaid’s coins. If I’d heard that as a little girl, I surely would have gathered even more. This recipe is a variation on the common shortbread cookie, without eggs or other leavening, because, according to the cookie stamp people, the rising of the cookies obscures the pattern left by the stamp. Makes sense to me. Although it is expensive, I like to use vanilla bean paste because it has little flecks of vanilla seed in it, giving the cookie a sandy, beach look. It is available at kitchen specialty stores and at many upscale grocers.

I’ve never forgotten the icebox pies I used to eat as a child at Luby’s Cafeteria. Those pies, along with the jewel-colored servings of Jell-O, were too tantalizing to resist. I always selected an icebox pie and a bowl of Jell-O, agonizing over which color to choose. I always finished the pie, but never touched the Jell-O. The Jell-O was for looks, the pie for flavor. My version of icebox pie is a stunning party animal—dramatic and devilishly rich. For parties, I prepare this recipe in stages: the crust one day, the filling the next, and the whipped cream topping the day of my party. A word of warning: These are large and very rich pies. Only under extreme circumstances do I recommend eating a whole one in a single sitting. (For example, you’re starring in a new movie and have been asked by your big-time director to gain fifty pounds pronto.) So you may wish to serve a half or quarter pie per person.

This is the easiest, simplest recipe and it is guaranteed to draw raves from potato lovers everywhere. Okay, anything with a good dose of butter is bound to taste great. Point taken. But adding Cajun seasoning gives a plain-Jane dish a jolt of heat and energy. Finally, it all goes together in one pot, so even the post-party dishwasher (usually me) gets a break.

My spicy, tangy catfish tacos are a great way to feed a hungry beach crowd without the hassle of frying or grilling. Load up a rimmed baking sheet with fish fillets, pour on the marinade, refrigerate overnight, and just before serving, bake for less than 30 minutes. Heat flour or corn tortillas in a tortilla warmer along with the fish, and set it all out on the table with a bowl of chipotle mayo and a platter of thin-sliced cabbage. Now everybody chow down! The fish is just the way I like it—juicy and flavorful thanks to long marination (at least 6 hours) and oven baking. I’ve allowed two tacos per person to ensure you’ll have enough even for man-size, sun-fueled appetites. (What is it about playing on the beach that makes men so hungry?) If you have a smaller crowd or guests with smaller stomachs, halve the recipe.

Okay, gumbo takes time and patience, especially if you make the effort to prepare a nice, dark roux. On the plus side, you can make it a day ahead and heat it when your guests arrive, leaving you free to mingle, chat, and have a great time with your friends. In addition, it feeds a whole lot of hungry people, and if you are very, very lucky you’ll have leftovers for lunch the next day. (Sometimes I squirrel away a little in the refrigerator for insurance.) Serve with long-grain rice and some crusty bread.

The origin of the name campechana is a mystery, but just about every Texan I know loves this cool, tomatoey seafood cocktail stocked with plump chunks of ripe avocado and served with a pile of crisp tortilla chips. (I hear it is big in some parts of California, too.) I got stuck on campechana at a place run by legendary Houston restaurateur Jim Goode. He parlayed a small Texas barbecue joint into a homegrown restaurant dynasty that includes a Tex-Mex eatery and two Gulf Coast seafood spots. Campechana is incredibly versatile. As an appetizer, serve in long-stemmed glasses set on plates and surrounded with tortilla chips for dipping. Serve as a main course in a huge bowl, surrounded by chips. Offer individual bowls and let guests ladle up servings themselves. For outdoor or beachside festivities, transport in a large plastic container set in a cooler and serve in clear acrylic stemmed glasses or in disposable plastic glasses. Don’t forget plenty of chips.

Chicken-fried tenderloin steak was a top seller at Rebecca’s Table, but I have my bartender to thank for the idea that led to this variation. One night, a couple sat down to eat dinner at the bar, and the husband ordered chicken-fried steak. His wife liked the idea, just not the red meat part of it. So the bartender says, “Why don’t we do some shrimp for you?” She was thrilled. Served with chipotle ketchup, adapted from a recipe by Texas chef and author Terry Thompson-Anderson, chicken-fried shrimp became a best-selling appetizer. It’s also a natural for informal entertaining. Once guests arrive, fire up the skillet, and enlist a helper to dip the buttermilk-soaked shrimp in the seasoned flour mixture. Other guests would be well advised to stay nearby. Chicken-fried anything is best fresh from the frying pan. Set the shrimp on a communal platter accompanied with a big bowl of chipotle ketchup and let guests serve themselves. I guarantee the shrimp won’t last long.

Three Pigs is one of my favorite party dishes because it feeds a lot a people without breaking the budget. I make the stuffing one day in advance, refrigerate it, and all that’s left is to slather it onto the pork in a thick layer, roll it up, top it with a bacon roof, and put it into the oven. The carrots are a snap as long as you have a mandoline, or a carrot guy or gal (someone whose sole job is to cut the carrots into even slices on the diagonal; I’m just fantasizing here). We had a bread guy when I was the executive pastry chef at Tony’s in Houston, and all he did was make bread, all day, every day. Sadly for me, I don’t have a carrot boy or girl. When I’m entertaining at home, the work mostly falls to me, so I hook up my iPod, turn up the volume, and slice my own carrots. And unless I’m at work, it’s up to me to butterfly the pork loin so that it lies flat for stuffing. If I were you, I’d ask your butcher to do it, specifying that the loin be butterflied twice for stuffing. Day-old scones make a fabulously rich stuffing, I’ve discovered. Bake my smoked tomato scones (page 35) for another meal and stow three in the freezer for use whenever you fancy making this dish.

This cold soup is yet another use for the exploding basil in my garden. I created it for a backyard party that Country Living photographed for a summertime issue. There’s something special and a little bit elegant about starting an alfresco party meal with soup. Texas summers are so hot that I always like to offer something refreshing right off the bat. The gorgeous green color of this soup is set off beautifully by stark white serving bowls.

My friend Yvonne makes this salad for her summertime pool parties when we crave something cool and light, which is often. She tosses it in a big bowl, we throw something on the grill, and everyone heads for her backyard pool. Sometimes we float in the pool all afternoon, climbing out of the water only when we need a watermelon break. It’s a great way to beat the Texas heat. Using the scooped-out watermelons as serving bowls means this dish performs double duty: satisfying your guests’ appetites and adding an eye-catching decorative touch. It’s easier than you think and your friends will marvel at your artistic flair.

My mother loved fresh peas and she’d routinely prowl local farmers’ markets to find them. Purple hull peas were her favorite, but she also had a thing for cream peas, black-eyed peas, or just about any fresh legume that showed up at the farmstand. She’d make us kids shell the peas, and I always suspected it was to keep us out of her hair. I didn’t mind, though. For some reason I enjoyed shelling peas. Naturally, I liked eating them better than shelling them and this recipe, which makes enough to feed a crowd, showcases peas and my mother’s other summer favorite, fresh corn. Just like my mother, I find fresh peas at Texas farmers’ markets and sometimes even at my regular grocery store. Any fresh southern pea (see Tip) will work, but I especially favor cream peas. Do not use green peas, which will not hold up. I use canned black-eyed peas if I can’t get my hands on fresh and the salad still shines.

After handing guests a drink, I often like to offer them a special morsel of food to perk up their taste buds and to make everyone feel at home. My friend and Austin farmer extraordinaire Carol Anne Sayle shared this recipe, and it warmed my southern gal’s heart. (For skeptics, these little pancakes do not suffer from the slime factor some associate with okra.) I served these at my annual garden party for chefs and friends, and people couldn’t get enough. The trick is to serve them hot off the griddle, so make sure you have someone to fry them in a skillet, and someone else to pass them around while they’re still hot. For this kind of job, I often enlist a shy guest or two. It keeps them busy, and frees them from the stress of having to make small talk. I’ve found that people will eat as many of these as they can get, but one or two per person is plenty and when they’re gone, they’re gone. (The recipe doubles easily if you’re serving a crowd, though.) I have added a little touch of my own to Carol Anne’s recipe. My garden was producing way more jalapeños than I could manage, so I decided to pickle them. I tossed a few chopped, pickled chiles into Carol Anne’s pancakes and loved the result. You can leave them out if you like.

I placed this dish in the dessert chapter, but it’s so filling it might be best thought of as a brunch dish, or perhaps dessert-for-dinner. Adding sweetened bread crumbs to the preparation makes a French toast with extra crunch and a dark exterior, a nice contrast to the light, moist interior. I’ve turned the French custard toward the tropics by using coconut milk, and taken the topping to New Orleans with the classic combination of bananas, butter, rum, and pecans. Any other seasonal fruit can work: sliced apples or peaches sautéed in butter, fresh berries, or, when the fruit bowl is empty, your favorite jam.

Besides the Cochinita Pibil Tacos (page 95), this is the purest, least messed-with application of leftover Yucatan-Style Slow-Roasted Pork (page 66). In a riff on the North Carolina tradition of pork with a tangy coleslaw, I’m using green mango, which sounds exotic until you realize that it’s just . . . green mango. Unripe, firm, not-yet-ready-for-prime-time mango. It’s super sour, which is one of the reasons I like it. The other is that, depending on your supermarket, it might be even easier to find unripe mango than ripe mango. Of course, one turns into the other if you wait long enough.

Shrimp and citrus make such a natural match, I often combine them in tacos, but they call out for something with a little heft, such as black beans. Depending on the size grapefruit you use, you’ll probably have more than you need for this recipe, but that’s not a problem. Just eat the remaining sections for breakfast with a little yogurt, for dessert instead of the oranges in the Yogurt Parfait with Mulled Red Wine Syrup (page 161), or in a smoothie with banana and milk. I like to sometimes double up the salsa on this taco, drizzling on a little Salsa Verde (page 14) in addition to the on-the-fly grapefruit–black bean salsa, but these tacos are plenty flavorful without it.