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Author: Brian Garrido

How Restaurants Are Powering Downtown Tucson Right Now
Downtown Tucson restaurants are helping shape how the city feels in the 21st century, from walkable lunches along Congress Street to late dinners on Fourth Avenue. As Tucson continues to grow as a destination for everything from culture to art to a food paradise, downtown is driving foot traffic, evening and day experiences, and an overall energy found in much larger areas. The best way to understand it is to walk it.

I get to know a place by walking through and imagining what it would be like to live there. Sometimes, as I did in Paris or San Miguel de Allende, I’ve rented homes to get a feel for the locale. To shop in the markets and make my dinner, or to head to the laundry mat to wash my clothes. Other times, I’m content to have passed through. Once, after a meal in Kuala Lumpur’s Jalan Alor night market, I stumbled onto a drag club tucked in an alley, closed for the night but marked by a sign with photos of queens in full regalia. It was one of those treasured discoveries that stays with you, even if you only see it from the outside. (Malaysia is known for terrible LGBTQ+ rights, which is why it was surprising to find any type of gay club.)

It reminds me that Downtown Tucson doesn’t show itself all at once, either. Some people think of it as only a health and wellness destination or hiking trails. Others think of it as a the only the best Mexican Food, but it’s so layered with culture and all sorts of dining experiences.

Candlelit Penca, with its tall windows and industrial vibe, leans into central Mexican flavors with house-made tortillas, roasted meats, mezcal, chile relleno and slow-braised carnitas. It’s that place with sidewalk dining that feels like a neighborhood. It has that fashionable vibe that reminds me of the East Village or the Gold Coast in Chicago, creative food and a realness that displays what Southern Arizona can offer.

Tacos at Penca.

At The Monica, with its large indoor and outdoor spaces that draw a different kind of crowd and keep the entire day moving. Sitting right in the middle of the world, that is Tucson, it begins pulling customers in for breakfast and keeps them for lunch. Perfect for a wine spritzer and a salad or burger. Over the course of its day, it takes the city from morning meetings to downtown cocktails, showing how the area rolls.

The Monica on Congress.

URSA is after something else: Chef\ owner Aaron Lopez explores his Sonoran Desert childhood, raising expectations of how people see Tucson as a food city. It draws in diners who want more of an experience, traveling with their taste buds, if you will. This is one of the few places in the world where eaters get to eat a pickled cholla bud or an entire dessert made of cactus. Its uniqueness lies in the kind of influence that doesn’t stay inside four walls or even within Arizona. Lopez and Ursa are changing the conversation about Tucson and what it can become.

A course at Ursa with natural plant-based skewers.

Right next door, Los Milics Restaurant and Tasting Room create a wine-country experience in an urban setting. Guests get window seats to the comings and goings of the sidewalk, which adds to the urban story. Carefully selected charcuterie, polenta tots with a savory strawberry jam and goat cheese, and house made focaccia to make the Arizona wines sippable on a warm afternoon.

Charcuterie board at Los Milics with housemade focaccia

And then there’s Café à la C’Art, tucked inside the old 1865 Stevens House on the grounds of the Tucson Museum of Art. Come earlier in the day for a slow lunch, chatting with a friend and gossiping about the kids. It’s a casual mix of American bistro dishes, like a steak salad or their version of a croque Monsieur with thickly sliced bread, chunky ham and creamy bechamel. On weekends, the rooms and patio lean into parents with their kids and a louder meal experience, but it never loses that art-filled dining one expects from tier-one cities.

American bistro fare at Cafe a la Carte

Jessica Gonzalez mural, “Mask of Many Stories” Tucson Museum of Art

A short 15-minute walk to the Barrio Viejo, The Coronet, feels different. It’s a melding of Los Milics and à la C’Art, an inventive space with imaginative compositions. Crunchy lettuces dressed in goat blue cheese, Barrio Bread and whipped butter, firm tofu dusted with turmeric and coconut. We sat in the courtyard where cou. Nick said it feels like Beverly Hills. My friends said Santa Barbara. I thought a bit like San Miguel de Allende.

What stands out isn’t just what these places do on their own, but how they carry the rest of their days and weeks. Some are for breakfast meetings, others for the evening and carousing, while others are meant for contemplation and chats. Together, they create a remarkable experience that only Tucson can offer.

My Gluten Free Strawberry Shortcake Cake

When it’s strawberry season, I think of my grandmother picking strawberries at her South Carolina farm. It’s familiar and all about the fruit, cream, and a cake that will hold it like a trophy stand.

Strawberry shortcake, Grandma Anna-style

Essentially, this is the recipe I remember her making. It was a layered cake with berries and whipped cream in the middle and on top. using. The first time, I made this GF version, it came out a little too dry, which was fine, but not something I wanted to repeat. So, this one leans into a moist crumb, with oil and kefir to keep but sturdy enough to hold together as the fruit juices soak in. If you don’t have kefir, yogurt or buttermilk, any of them will also work. While this is gluten-free, feel free to make yours with wheat flour. No judgment, but we are GF focused in our house.

Ingredients

Strawberries (You can also use different berries: Blue, raspberries)
- 1 pound strawberries, sliced
- 1/4 cup sugar
- 1 teaspoon lemon juice
- pinch of salt
Cake
- 1 1/2 cups gluten-free 1:1 flour
- 1/2 cup almond flour
- 3/4 cup sugar
- 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
- 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 2 eggs
- 1/2 cup neutral oil
- 3/4 cup kefir (or buttermilk)
- 1 tablespoon vanilla
Whipped cream
- 1 cup heavy cream
- 2 tablespoons powdered sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
Instructions

Cut the strawberries into bite-sized, uniform pieces. Toss them into a bowl with the sugar, lemon juice, and a pinch of salt. Let them sit until they relinquish their juices.

Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease an 8-inch cake pan. Whisk the dry ingredients together in one bowl. In another, whisk the eggs, oil, kefir, and vanilla until smooth. Combine the two, mixing just until they come together. If you overmix, you lose some of that moistness, and it will become slightly dense.

Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 25 to 28 minutes. A few extra minutes can tip it from just right to overdone, so pull it as soon as you feel the center is set.

Let the cake cool completely before cutting. Whip the cream until soft peaks form, not stiff peaks. Assemble however you like—slice the cake in half or serve it in thick pieces. Spoon the strawberries and their juices over the top, add the cream, and it will drizzle into a succulent puddle. It should be soft, strawberry-soaked, with a light crumb to hold it all together.
April 20, 2026
Tucson Breakfast Burrito Tour + Chicken Thighs with Cream and Chiltepin
We have been in Tucson for nearly six months. Nick and I have been eating out a lot , trying to get a better sense of Southern Arizona through its food. I’m grateful to have a partner who allows me this indulgence. There is no misunderstanding that eating is far more expensive than it’s ever been, for everyone. However, this is our extravagance. We aren’t big on moviegoing, concerts or theater, maybe the occasional symphony, but dining out is our big thing. It’s our entertainment. I know that when you eat at restaurants in an area and shop at its farmers’ markets, you get to understand its culture better than anything else.

I’ve even been trying to eat my way through as many breakfast burritos in Tucson as I can. While I love burritos, I heart an egg, cheese, bean and whatever else can be stuffed into the Mexican roll-up. It’s a perfect balance of carbs, fat, and protein in one portable, easy-to-eat meal.

Over the last several weeks, we had breakfast at four very different tables: Tumerico, Tito + Pep, El Brunch Bistro, and Buendia Breakfast & Lunch Cafe.

At Tio & Pep, brunch is an energetic and gestural, artsy experience. The dishes look more abstract expressionist, with sauces dripping from well-conceived proteins on large plates, serving as canvases. The interior even sets a specific tone with its Midcentury modern appeal and a philodendron that vines itself around the ceiling.

Inside Tito & Pep with the philodendron.

The very well-known Tumerico pulls you in a different direction with its commitment to vegetarianism. I went in thinking light and left with something more substantial than expected. Chef Wendy Garcia doesn’t sell you on anything; she cooks with the intention of flavor. Even when you think you’re ordering simply, there’s more going on beneath it, and the menu changes frequently.

Chef Wendy Garcia’s breakfast burrito at Tumerico in Tucson’s Sam Hughes neighborhood.

Over at Buendia Breakfast & Lunch Cafe, husband and wife team, Julio and Jael Garcia sprinkle a bit of happiness over every meal. (We can all use that right about now.) Their rendition of a burrito is actually two with housemade refried beans as a dipping sauce. Charming place that you can – or I can go in like a crab-apple and come out as sweet as a peach.

Buendia burrito and bean dipping sauce

And then El Brunch Bistro, a hidden carry-out spot where the burrito, a mas grande ham, cheese and egg log felt like it belonged to the burrito-eating project I’ve silently been on. It was warm, lusciously straightforward, and exactly what you want to be fed well with lots of smack. This is the kind of robust burrito that keeps me seeking out others just like it. Look at the ceiling and it’s not tin, but old license plates painted white. Nice touch.

Ham and cheese burrito at El Bruncho.

This is where we are eating right now: Out in the Old Pueblo, somewhere in the middle of a very unofficial burrito tour and at home.

After a week of eating out, I ended up back in our kitchen, trying to cook something that carried a bit of comfort, depth, and enough heat to wake everything up, including my stuffed sinuses from the desert pollen. That’s where this came from: Chicken thighs with cream and chiltepin.

It’s a simple, European-inspired dish with seared skin, a delectable richness from the cream, and a little sharp, indigenous Sonoran heat from the chiltepin, making a dish that tastes like it rightfully belongs in the desert.

Chicken Thighs with Cream and Chiltepin

Ingredients
- 4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
- Salt and pepper
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- One medium chopped onion
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 cup heavy cream
- 1/2 teaspoon crushed chiltepin (more if you want heat)
- 1/2 cup chicken stock
- Optional: squeeze of lime, chopped herbs.
Instructions
1. Pat the chicken thighs dry, then season with salt and pepper.
2. Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Place the chicken skin-side down and cook until the skin is golden and crisp, about 6–8 minutes. Flip and cook for another 5 minutes. Remove and set aside.
3. In the same pan, add garlic and onion and cook briefly until your kitchen smells aromatic.
4. Pour in the chicken stock, scraping up any browned bits. Let it reduce slightly.
5. Add the cream and chiltepin, stirring to combine.
6. Return the chicken to the pan and simmer until cooked through and the sauce thickens, about 10–15 minutes.
7. Finish with a squeeze of lime or and freshly chopped herbs, such as Mexican oregano or epazote, if you like.
Serve with rice, handmade tortillas, or a freshly baked bolillo, toasted, to sop up the sauce.

Saguaro National Park

The end. Go eat.
March 25, 2026
Mesquite Almond Flour Chocolate Chip Cookies: Smoke, Sweet and Salt
When two food cultures meet, you get something that feels familiar but tastes different, with a deeper flavor. Mixing things doesn’t erase what was there, but enhances it.

Lobster folded into mac and cheese. Watermelon with feta and salt. Mango or pineapple with chile and lime. There is still a sweetness and richness, but the lobster in the cheese adds dimension and even a touch of luxury. The salinity against the watermelon makes it sweeter and brighter, and the sugar gets punched up against the heat and citrus. Something new moves in, but the original is still there, just changed.

Some of the most interesting combinations come not from a restaurant kitchen, but from the food that grows in a region.

Mesquite doesn’t smell like a sweet dessert. It smells like heat and smoke caught in desert air. Stand near a mesquite tree in Southern Arizona, and you understand that the aroma comes from being grown in the aridness and sun.

But chocolate chip cookies tell a different story. Even before a taste, it’s a comfort only from a home kitchen. Butter, sugar, vanilla and chocolate turned into dough that doesn’t need explaining. It’s a childhood come back in a flavor.

What happens when you fold mesquite flour into a chocolate chip cookie? You get something you recognize, but the sweetness shifts toward caramel and molasses. Think sassafras and root beer.

Indigenous communities have harvested and ground mesquite pods for thousands of years, transforming what grows in the Sonoran Desert under drought into nourishment. There’s a faint smokiness beneath it all, subtle and dry, a flavor that doesn’t shout but lingers.

So, when mesquite is added to the recipe, it’s still a chocolate chip cookie, but there’s more happening underneath. It’s bringing in the Indigenous tastes, unique and wholly American, because it’s from here.

The chocolate chip cookie may be one of the most adaptable eats. It’s welcome anywhere. It’s what you bake when you want assurance that all is right with the world. Mesquite brings in drought and sun, turning the cookie into a more meaningful treat. Even if you never leave your kitchen, wherever that is, it’s like moving between places.

I use almond flour because my partner is celiac. You can use regular wheat flour. What’s important to remember is that foods change because we do. We are not statues; we follow our health, which takes us to the kitchens and destinations. Changing a recipe keeps it alive.

And then there’s salt. Salt brightens it. Without it, the sweetness falls flat; with it, the flavors become more pronounced. If this cookie were a person, it would be me. Don’t laugh. (Okay, laugh.) But it’s made by many places, with a convoluted history that doesn’t fit in one place. I’ve spent my life in that in-between, never just one thing or another. Like mesquite in a cookie, I don’t always match what they expect. Once, someone said when they met me, they expected me to be blonde and blue-eyed.

This version is very Southern Arizona. It’s where desert ingredients meet European baking. It’s still butter, sugar, and chocolate, but with something more grounding—like nutmeg or cinnamon —only sweeter and unfamiliar.

When I make this, I feel it showcases my new home, bringing the old and the new together. It’s still a chocolate chip cookie, for chrissakes, but now it has more of a story.

Mesquite Almond Chocolate Chip Cookies

Makes about 24 cookies

Ingredients

2 cups finely ground almond flour

3 tablespoons mesquite flour

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon fine sea salt

½ cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly

¾ cup dark brown sugar, packed

1 large egg, room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

¾–1 cup dark chocolate chips or chunks (use the higher amount if you like them generous)

Optional but good:

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

Flaky salt for finishing

Instructions
1. Heat the oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the almond flour, mesquite flour, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon if using. Set aside.
3. In a larger bowl, whisk the melted butter and brown sugar until smooth and glossy. Add the egg and vanilla, whisking until fully emulsified.
4. Stir the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients until just combined. The dough will be soft but scoopable. Fold in the chocolate.
5. Scoop heaping tablespoons of dough (about 1½ tablespoons each) onto the prepared sheets, spacing them about 2½ inches apart. Gently flatten the tops slightly with your fingers.
6. Bake for 10–12 minutes. Rotating the pans halfway through baking until the edges are set and lightly golden, while the centers remain soft.
7. Remove from the oven, sprinkle lightly with flaky salt if using, and let the cookies cool on the pan for 10 minutes before transferring to a rack.
Mesquite flour is naturally sweet and aromatic, so resist the urge to add more sugar. This balance lets the caramel notes come through.

Almond flour keeps these tender. If the dough feels oily, chill it for 15 minutes before baking.

These improve after a few hours and are excellent the next day—especially with coffee.
February 28, 2026
Tucson’s Black Foodways and the Sonoran Desert

Black American history is incorporated into the story of Southern Arizona in ways we don’t see in other cities. In the Sonoran Desert, Black life didn’t grow out of the big migration waves or the busy neighborhoods that influenced food in Chicago, the South, or Los Angeles. There were no rows of storefronts, no restaurant scenes built on being seen. Instead, in this arid landscape, where survival depends on resilience, Black communities adapted to the land, forming in small, often invisible ways.

Black history in Tucson and throughout the borderlands starts with the Spanish colonial era, not the U.S. South. By the mid-1500s, Afro-Mexicans were living throughout the region, outnumbering white settlers, with Mexico ending slavery in 1829. After the Civil War, the Buffalo Soldiers stationed in Arizona remained and built lives there. As time passed, Black Arizonaians entered the military, worked on the railroads, taught, and held civic jobs. Neighborhoods formed, as they often do, around churches, schools, and civic institutions.

Enslavement under Spain was brutal, just like that of those bought and sold in the American South, but it operated differently. Spanish colonial slavery allowed for indentured servitude, wage earning, and migration freedom, so by the eighteenth century, many people of African descent in Mexico, then called New Spain, were living outside plantations or farms. Regarding food, cooking was done at home rather than along trade routes, unlike much of the Confederacy. In other words, they were tending their farms and livestock because they owned them. In Chicago and other northern Midwest cities, Southern recipes and traditions were sustained by churches, clubs, and restaurants that served as community gathering places. In the South, food came from working on plantations and farms. Black cooking along the West Coast is part of a broader conversation, blending with Mexican, Central American, and Asian Pacific flavors.

Buffalo Soldiers at a military camp in the American Southwest, early 20th century. Public domain image, Library of Congress.

In Tucson, Black life took shape through military service, particularly at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, because the city is a service town—railroad jobs, education, and civic work—not through dense neighborhoods like Harlem or South Central. There was never a big soul food scene here. Instead, a blend of Afro-Mexican and Mexican cultures began to emerge, found in ingredients that could withstand the heat. The result is a mix that also draws from Indigenous culinary history, too, in what the desert grows and sustains.

Importantly, the Tucson Black History Museum tells the story of Black culture in Southern Arizona, weaving work, service, and the slow building of community, not through big culinary scenes. Across the region’s churches, homes, and workplaces, the food stories told become part of everyday life rather than being celebrated publicly.

Portrait of a Buffalo Soldier, circa 1896–1899. Public domain image courtesy of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture

Preserved by the museum, a quote from a longtime resident, “You cooked what you could get here, not what you remembered from somewhere else. The desert decided a lot of that for you.”

The other night, I cooked cod with garlic, butter, lime, and chiltepín. I used what I had on hand, which I thought might honor those before me. I served the pan-roasted fish with quinoa, roasted cabbage and green onion. It’s a Borderlands meal, but the ingredients might show up in Black kitchens in Borderlandia. Instead of vinegar or tomato sauce, lime provides acidity, shifting the flavors toward the Southwest. Chiltepín, native to this region, adds the heat. Quinoa can be used in place of sorghum or rice, though either would work. The farmers-market cabbage and green onions, sautéed and mixed in, tie it together.

These ingredients don’t match what you’d find in Chicago, the South, or Los Angeles, because life and farming are defined by the desert and what grows here. Everything in the Sonoran has to adapt to heat, to scarce water and to being resilient in the face of adversity.

Paddle cactus at Mission Gardens

Recipe

Cod with garlic, lime, butter, and chiltepín

Quinoa with charred cabbage and green onion

Serves 2

Ingredients

2 cod fillets

Olive oil

Salt and black pepper

2 tablespoons butter

2 garlic cloves, smashed or thinly sliced

1 lime

Chiltepín, crushed, to taste

1 cup cooked quinoa

2 cups thinly sliced green or Napa cabbage

2 green onions, sliced

Roasted unsalted peanuts, chopped or crushed

Instructions

Begin by cooking the quinoa, then set it aside.

Heat a wide skillet over medium-high heat with olive oil. Add the cabbage and let it sit undisturbed for a minute or two, until it starts to char. Stir, add the garlic, season with salt, and cook until tender, with browned edges. Remove from the heat and fold into the quinoa, along with the green onion and peanuts, if using. Finish with lime zest, a small squeeze of lime juice, and salt to taste. Set aside.

Pat the cod dry and season with salt and pepper. Heat a skillet over medium-high heat with olive oil. Add the cod and cook without stirring for approximately 3 minutes, until lightly browned. Flip, add butter and garlic, and baste the fish for another 1 to 2 minutes as it finishes cooking. Remove from heat and finish with lime juice and a pinch of crushed chiltepín.

To serve, spoon the quinoa and cabbage mixture onto the plate and place the cod on top. Drizzle some of the spicy butter and lime sauce over the fish.

February 8, 2026
Milk-Braised Carnitas: Born in the Sonoran Desert
I’ve made carnitas in every city I’ve called home, always riffing on a San Francisco Chronicle recipe: pork, aromatics — cloves, cinnamon — some citrus, a little heat, and slow-cooked until it falls apart. Most people crisp the meat in oil or bake it after shredding, but I usually just leave it in the braising liquid and pull it apart. Moving to Southern Arizona changed that for me. I started to see how many versions of carnitas belong to the Borderlands, each one telling a different story of history and its place in it.

Along this 378-mile stretch of border, from California to New Mexico, ingredients document memories of their location, from climate to use to migration. Even a dish as familiar as carnitas raises more questions once you pay attention to its components.

I came across a version of carnitas braised in milk. It’s a technique I’d always thought of as French. So how did milk-braising find its way into Mexican cooking? And who gets to say whether it’s authentic or not?

Even as I seek out meaningful conversations about food, that question remained with me. One of those talks turned out to be a lesson I wasn’t planning to learn. Or, maybe I knew I would. I’ve seen it before.

Authenticity, Permission, and a Closed Door

After the holidays, I decided to reframe a cookbook I was working on around immigrants. And since I moved to the Sonoran Desert, I wanted to focus on this historic region. I was recommended to speak with someone — a Midwest academic — known for their knowledge of Indigenous cooking and farming. More scholastic and less homey. More explanation than trying to expand the actual use of ingredients and how to use them in a pie or noodle dish. In less than a full five-minute conversation, this educated man of many letters, who claims the region as his adopted home, slammed the door. His words: “I don’t want to dumb it down.”

It wasn’t so much a conversation as a “see what I’ve done” and “I should be recognized for bringing this to the world.” He mentioned his cookbooks and how long he has been bringing this knowledge to others. He stated that he grows some of the ingredients and sells them as part of his business. I realized it wasn’t about food at all, but that he had an arrogance in wanting to give me permission: In other words, I was supposed to listen to his answers to the questions I wanted to ask, and I was to stay in a lane that he controlled.

It wasn’t so much a conversation as a “see what I’ve done” and “I should be recognized for bringing this to the world.” He mentioned his cookbooks and how long he has been bringing this knowledge to others. He stated that he grows some of the ingredients and sells them as part of his business. I realized it wasn’t about food at all, but that he had an arrogance in wanting to give me permission: In other words, I was supposed to listen to his answers to the questions I wanted to ask, and I was to stay in a lane that he controlled.

It was as if these foodways and history, built on centuries of survival — long before he wrote a book and became the self-appointed guardian — were meant only for the privileged few who used ingredients such as mesquite or chiltepin according to his God-like instructions. It made me think about how power works. Even with the best intentions, these keepers protect the culture and believe they own the traditions.

I don’t think you need credentials to cook. You can certainly have them, and even get degrees in culinary programs, such as a PhD in gastronomy or food & beverage management. But I don’t think caring and storytelling need permission. Tradition only survives because people keep cooking at home with family and loved ones. Adaptation comes over time. Recipes continue to stay alive because they’re savored and eaten, not because they’re locked away or put on display for approval. And chefs, cooks and writers can be creative with whatever they want.

For me, making pork braised in milk was not about proving authenticity. It’s a recipe born in a region where these ingredients resided, and someone said, “Let’s use this before it goes bad,”-a type of humility food earned by being well-made with quality ingredients accessible to all, not by being defended.

Why Milk-Braised Carnitas Belong Here, and How I Make Them

Milk-braised pork isn’t pulled from nowhere. Dairy appears differently in northern Mexican cooking than farther south, shaped by ranching, the climate and, of course, history. Milk isn’t foreign to the Sonoran region, but it’s not native either. It’s existed for centuries, and now, it’s become part of the cuisine. When pork simmers gently in milk, the meat softens deeply, the liquid reduces and caramelizes, and the dish moves naturally from braise to fry.

For this version, I keep things simple on purpose

Sonoran Milk-Braised Carnitas Recipe

INGREDIENTS
- 3 pounds pork shoulder or butt, cut into large chunks
- 1 tablespoon kosher salt
- 2 tablespoons lard or neutral oil
- 1 orange, peeled and pith removed
- 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1 teaspoon crushed Mexican oregano
- 2 bay leaves
- 3-4 garlic cloves, smashed
- 1 medium onion quartered
- 1/4 teaspoon crushed chiletepin pepper or red pepper flakes
- 2 cups whole milk or more.
Cook this up:
Season the pork generously with salt, pepper, and oregano.

Heat up the lard or oil in a wide, heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven. Gently place seasoned meat and lightly brown, no more than a minute or two. We aren’t browning, we are preparing it for the braising. Once done, add the bay leaves, garlic, and onion. Stir for a minute or so.

Pour in the milk. It should reach halfway up the meat. Add in the orange peel. Bring the pot to a gentle simmer over medium heat.

Turn the heat to low and cook uncovered, stirring occasionally, for about 2 to 2½ hours. As the liquid reduces, the milk will begin to caramelize and separate, as expected. Watch carefully. (I like to set a timer on repeat in 15-minute intervals. It sounds far more labor-intensive than it actually is. You are making sure the liquid doesn’t evaporate too quickly.) The meat will brown and continue cooking until the liquid has fully reduced — you might need to add a little more milk depending on how the heat — and the pork begins to fry gently in its own rendered fat.

Stir and turn the pieces carefully, allowing them to brown evenly. Cook until the pork is deeply tender with crisped edges, about 20–30 minutes more. Taste and adjust seasoning. Serve as desired — I like it as tacos with crema, pickled red onions, cilantro, thinly sliced radish and crumbled queso fresco.

Eat well.
January 23, 2026
Sonoran Shrimp Salad with Chiltepín, Crema, and Lime
Small shrimp mixed with crema, chiltepin and a side of chips

Shrimp from the Gulf of California is some of the best in the world. Sweet, clean, and deeply tied to the Sonoran Desert. The Gulf helps create the Sonoran Desert’s five seasons, including the brief season when monsoon rains move into the arid landscape and everything responds by getting a little greener. It’s that connection between the sea and the desert that makes Sonoran and borderlands food so distinctive.

Thus, when Nick mentioned we were traveling to Phoenix from the Old Pueblo, for a family gathering of Midwest transplants featuring his cousins and a former childhood next-door neighbor from Wisconsin, I wanted to bring to the potluck something that felt inclusive of our new home. Knowing that the Gulf and the desert are like Lake Michigan is to the Midwest, I wanted to craft a shrimp dip with ingredients used in the borderlands that felt right and, of course, important.

Image of the Baja (Stock)

Using small frozen shrimp, chiltepín pepper, crema, lime and hints of the deep south, dill, instead of cilantro (because not everyone loves cilantro) seemed simple, spoonable onto a chip and delicious. While the main ingredient focused on the small shrimp, the Mexican crema added creaminess, the lime provided citrus notes, a dash of agave to temper the acidity, and the chiltepín added a burst of borderlands warmth.

What’s interesting about Sonoran food, and about the Indigenous nations who have cooked here for centuries, is how much power there is in these foods. Chiltepín isn’t just a pepper; it’s considered the mother of all peppers. But not for its heat, but because botany experts believe it’s the original wild chile. An indigenous ingredient that still grows wild along ravines and canyons, underneath shade, shielding it from the brutal desert elements. It shows up in cooking every day, bringing the desert, the border, and the table. It doesn’t ask to be explained. It simply shows up as a reminder of what came before and is generous to those who pay attention.

Now that the holidays are over, I can really lean into the regions where there are fewer excessive dishes and more food that makes sense where I am.

Saguaro Cactus in the Rincon Valley

I’m especially grateful right now to explore food and ingredients that began in North America but not as something chic, but as food history. Ingredients that are shaped by desert climates, with Indigenous knowledge and surviving milleniums. In the borderlands, ingredients move across borders, kitchens, and of course, across generations. No matter how much we try to maintain a foodways map, it does work that way.

So I wanted something familiar enough for guests from the Midwest, but shaped by the desert and the borderlands.

Shrimp Salad with Chiltepín, Crema, and Lime
Serves 4–6 as a small plate or appetizer

Ingredients
- 1 pound small shrimp, peeled and deveined (frozen is fine), cooked and chilled
- 2–3 tablespoons thick Mexican crema (or crema espesa)
- 1–2 teaspoons fresh lime juice, plus lime zest if desired
- 1-2 teaspoons, chopped dill or cilantro. Nick doesn’t like the latter, so you improvise.
- One stalk of celery, cut in half lengthways, and then diced. Add two if you want more crunch.
- ½–1 teaspoon crushed chiltepín pepper, to taste
- Salt to taste
Optional: 1–2 teaspoons olive oil

½ teaspoon ground coriander
1. Preparation
  If using frozen shrimp, thaw completely according to directions. Drain well. Spread the shrimp in a single layer on paper towels and pat dry thoroughly. For best texture, refrigerate uncovered for 20–30 minutes to remove any excess moisture.
2. Transfer the shrimp to a bowl and season lightly with salt and the crushed chiltepín. Toss gently and let sit for about 5 minutes. If any moisture releases, blot again with another paper towel.
3. In another small bowl, whisk the crema until emuslified. Add lime zest.
4. Add the crema to the shrimp along with the lime juice, starting with 1 teaspoon. Save the remainder of the lime for an accompanying margarita. Just sayin’.
5. Toss gently to coat. Add olive oil, if using, for a silkier texture. Taste and adjust seasoning with more lime, salt, or chiltepín as needed.
6. Serve immediately, or chill briefly and toss again just before serving.
Note: Water may still accumulate while chilling. Use a slotted spoon or don’t mind that it’s not dry.
January 8, 2026
Mesquite Shortbread Cookies with Pecans, Baked in Tucson
Mesquite shortbread cookies with pecans, partially dipped in dark chocolate.

I’ve been baking and cooking with mesquite lately. It’s an ingredient you don’t see on many menus or listed in recipes except as wood used for burning meat. As a wood, it imbues an aroma and smoky flavor you’d associate with a campfire or a grill. That savory, romantic smell of open flame alone is part of the reason many pitmasters pair it with apple and cherry woods.

But mesquite has a much longer history as an edible food. Across the Sonoran Desert, Indigenous communities have harvested not only the wood from the trees but also the pods, drying them and grinding them into flour for thousands of years. That flour was mixed with water or fat and baked into tortillas, bread, or porridge. Mesquite flour isn’t meant to be used as a substitute for wheat. Because it’s derived from a tree pod, it’s grainy in a way that feels closer to rough-hewn corn or barley than sugar. It works best when blended with another flour, such as almond.

I decided to try my hand at gluten-free shortbread made with mesquite. I paired it with almond flour, folded in pecans, and dipped it in melted dark chocolate. Pecans feel like a natural choice. They’re the only nut native to North America and appear across Indigenous, Mexican, and American kitchens. Cacao, indigenous to Mexico and the Amazon, adds another layer, chocolate, to the cookie. Shortbread made sense because it’s traditional and feels like a holiday, and it doesn’t need frosting or messy sprinkles to contend with. This cookie relies on butter and balance, creating a sturdy texture that holds up to being dipped in chocolate.

When they are finished, they make a good Santa treat. How could the jolly man, after squeezing himself down a Tucson chimney, covered in Sonoran dirt, not find joy with these and a glass of milk?

I like mesquite – I’m using it in sauces too – because it connects Indigenous foodways, Mexican culture, and the American Borderlands kitchen that absorbed both, often without being acknowledged.

Did I say these were gluten-free?

Mesquite shortbread cookies with pecans, dipped in chocolate.
(Gluten-free) Makes about 24 cookies

Ingredients

1 cup almond flour
1/3 cup mesquite flour
1/4 cup powdered sugar
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
1/2 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup finely chopped pecans
4 ounces dark chocolate, chopped

Instructions
1. Heat the oven to 325°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
2. In a bowl, whisk together the almond flour, mesquite flour, powdered sugar, and salt.
3. Add the butter and work it in with your fingers or a pastry cutter until the mixture looks like coarse sand and holds together when pressed.
4. Stir in the vanilla, then fold in the pecans. If the dough feels dry, add 1–2 teaspoons of cold water.
5. Roll out the dough so it’s about a quarter inch thick, then cut it into. Cut into rectangles for a classic shortbread shape, then place them on the baking sheet. Repeat the process with the remaining dough.
6. Bake for 14–16 minutes, until set and just lightly golden at the edges. Let cool completely.
7. Melt the chocolate gently. Dip half of each cookie into the chocolate, then return it to the parchment to set. You can even paint the chocolate onto the cookie with the back of a spoon – which is what I did. I tried dipping a couple of times, but found the cookie broke under the weight. I didn’t wait for the cookie to cool completely.
Aside: Because mesquite flour is naturally sweet, it doesn’t need additional sugar. These keep well for several days and freeze well, both as a dough and as a finished product.

Leftovers

Local: Tucson Foodie reported that brothers Erick and Jose Quintero have opened Kintoki Sushi House & Bar in the former El Berraco space on North First Avenue, bringing a modern sushi concept with subtle Latin influences to a longtime neighborhood location. The restaurant, which opened Dec. 5, retains the building’s recognizable exterior while introducing a new menu of sushi, small plates and cocktails, keeping the cultural focus of the brothers’ Tucson ties.

Regional: According to KJZZ, winter vegetable growers in southwestern Arizona are preparing for another uncertain season as water constraints and rising input costs continue to pressure food production in the Sonoran Desert. The Yuma region, which supplies a majority of the nation’s leafy greens during the winter months, remains heavily dependent on Colorado River allocations, even as short-term conservation agreements provide some stability. Growers say labor costs, transportation expenses and long-term water security remain key concerns heading into 2026.

National: Labor shortages across U.S. agriculture are continuing to strain the food supply chain, with growers warning that limited access to workers could reduce output and contribute to higher food prices, according to national trade publication, FreshPlaza.

The end. Go eat.
December 22, 2025
Black Tepary Bean Hummus: A Sonoran Desert Recipe
Nick and I will have been in Tucson for a little over two months by the time I publish this post. While I often mention what I’ve done and where I’ve been, and, of course, what I eat, I try to keep things that are really important to me private. Sometimes, I leave Nick out. Not because I don’t want to share about him, but I believe I honor our life together by not sharing it with everyone. I also feel that way about my friendships. Sometimes, I post about them, but in this day and age of oversharing, I don’t want to share everything.

But, oddly, kismet–happenstance–luck happened before Nick, and I arrived in the Sonoran Desert. Thus, I believe this warrants a blog post.

Unbeknownst to me, Kim, the former food editor for the now-defunct Cottage Living, which published from 2004 to 2008, and I worked together on a series of stories in Napa Valley. We became friendly as journalists and media relations people do. You spend hours – sometimes, days working beside journalists, helping keep clients on message, ensuring control over what your client may or may not say and in general, guiding both with helpful information. On one such venture, Kim stayed with me in San Francisco once, and another time, when I first got sober, she stayed with me in West Hollywood while she was on her memoir tour for Trail of Crumbs. Admittedly, I was a bit of a mess – my world imploded. I realized that those whom I thought cared about me – indeed, said they loved me – had thrown me to the wolves, in front of an oncoming train, under a bus and facing an avalanche.

Kim and me in her Tucson backyard

Kim moved to Alaska with her then-new husband. When Kim said to me about moving to Anchorage, I replied, “They don’t even grow basil there!” (They do, but that’s not the point I was making. Luckily, she laughed.) I floundered about until I met Nick and continued to be a fish out of water until – truthfully, until we decided to move to Southern Arizona.

We didn’t stay in touch except maybe with our social media posts. In September, she posts something about moving to Tucson – and I reply, “No way! We are moving there too!” As a couple, they have been together for 15 years, almost as long as I’ve been sober. Nick and I bought a home in a developing neighborhood about 7 miles south of the entrance to Saguaro National Park. Our commutes to the grocery store and shopping pass through undulating mountain ranges and saguaros – desert sentinels, really – standing as tall as a four-story building.

We’ve spent time together now – the four of us eating magnificent meals cooked by Kim overlooking the Tucson Valley basin from her new home with Neil. If the desert can bring a longtime friend into the fold, perhaps it’s the Sonoran Desert telling us that this is home.

Tepary beans are native to the Sonoran Desert, which extends into Mexico from Arizona. It’s been cultivated by the indigenous peoples for more than 4,000 years and is drought-resistant, owing to its prevalence in the region’s foodways. When cooked, it’s sweet, if not a little sugary, a bit nutty too and stays firm. I bought these at Mission Gardens, a four-acre agricultural museum that showcases the heirloom crops grown in the Sonoran Desert for thousands of years.

Black bean tepary hummus with cotija cheese

Black Tepary Bean Hummus

This version keeps the ingredients minimal, so you will find a sugariness. It has a deeper, more complex flavor than chickpea hummus and a gorgeous dark color that photographs beautifully.

Ingredients
- 1 ½ cups dried tepary beans
- 2 tablespoons tahini
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
- 1–2 cloves garlic, minced
- ½ teaspoon ground cumin
- ½ teaspoon salt, more to taste
- ¼ cup of cold water (to thin)
- A pinch of chiltepin or red pepper flakes
- A drizzle of chile oil
- A squeeze of lime instead of lemon
Instructions
1. To begin, soak the tepary beans for at least 24 hours. They take a very long time to cook. I have found that they need at least 10 hours on the stove at a gentle simmer. I also add salt, pepper, a garlic clove and a bay to the water. Keep testing a bean or two until soft.
2. In a food processor, combine the tepary beans, tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, cumin and salt.
3. Add ¼ cup of cold water at a time until the smooth texture to your liking. Tepary beans make hummus thicker, so continue adding a little water until the desired consistency is reached. Adjust seasoning as needed.
4. Add more salt, lemon or garlic as needed. If you’re using chiltepin or chile oil, add it now.
5. Spoon into a serving bowl, drizzle with more olive oil and finish with your optional Tucson flourish.
Paddle cactus at Mission Gardens

LEFTOVERS

LOCAL

Café Maggie, according to Tucson Foodie, a popular Fourth Avenue spot known for coffee, sandwiches, and a collegial atmosphere, has closed after an equipment failure and ongoing financial strain.

REGIONAL

KTAR News reported that Michelin Guides will now cover the Southwest. It will include Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Utah.

NATIONAL

The James Beard Foundation announced new criteria for its 2026 Awards, placing greater emphasis on community impact, wage transparency, and equitable workplace culture. While culinary excellence remains central, nominees will now be required to show documented commitments to fair labor practices.
Bon Appétit did a beautiful story on Tucson. I wish I had the chance to write it. Bummed.
December 12, 2025
Cooking with Tucson’s Indigenous Ingredients
Interior of Wildflower, Sam Fox’s first restaurant

Smoked salmon and potato pancake

How a Newcomer to the Southwest Dips His Toes into the Holiday Festive Glaze.

When Nick and I picked Tucson as (hopefully) our final move and — yes, our last destination — I knew I didn’t have a clear picture of Tucson’s Indigenous ingredients or the region’s complex food history, even after living on both U.S. coasts and in seven cities. Tucson, also known as the Old Pueblo, is full of gastronomical history, indeed the country’s oldest, going back nearly four centuries. In comparison, I’ve spent years writing about ingredients, cooking techniques, and chefs in their kitchens, and I’ve felt confident in my descriptions and use of both gluten-free and non-gluten-free ingredients. Living in the Sonoran Desert is making me realize my usual approach doesn’t apply here.

This Tucson gluten-free almond cake came out of that intention — something simple, something I could bake without fuss, but still tasting like the Sonoran Desert brushing up against my kitchen. Hibiscus for tang and color, citrus for brightness, almonds for body. It’s the kind of dessert that lets the region show up without trying too hard.

Tucson isn’t a “farm-to-table” town in the way the Midwest is. It’s much older than that. What you see in markets and farmers’ markets traces back to Indigenous farming methods that have been here long before the United States existed. Tepary beans. Mesquite. Chiltepin. The three sisters — corn, squash and beans. Sonoran white wheat. These are foods created by people who figured out how to thrive in arid conditions, stark heat and scarcity, including long periods of drought. Yet, they managed to build a culinary region with depth.

I’ve certainly not used many of the new ingredients I’m surrounded by, such as the beans or nopales. Instead of asking myself, “What’s seasonal?” I’m now asking no one but me, “What survived here, continues to grow and why?” It creates a different way of viewing local Ingredients. And, these, of course, carry stories as well as the people who cultivate them, too.

I’ve also been reading how longtime Tucson restaurants have done this work. Wildflower, native Tucsonan and restaurant impresario Sam Fox’s first restaurant, manages to highlight the region without leaning on trends. No doubt you know his Culinary Dropout or Flower Child, and the selling of his empire to the Cheesecake Factory netted him $800 million. It opened more than two decades ago and still draws a regular clientele because it balances a sense of place with a contemporary atmosphere: no adobe wall or cactus but a well-lit, sexy space. The menu changes enough to keep new and old customers happy, but you’ll always find something tied to the desert, such as mesquite, squash, cinnamon and Oaxaca cheese.

So, I’m trying to cook with the foods that matter to my new home. I’m buying mesquite flour. I’m reading up on tepary beans. I’m reaching for chiltepin instead of the usual red pepper flakes. And I’m letting Tucson teach me to look at food from a different, more inclusive perspective.

This week’s recipe is an almond cake with cinnamon, covered in a “pretty in pink” hibiscus glaze, which isn’t ancient or Indigenous. But it uses items such as almond flour (while wild desert almonds can be made into a flour—this Bob’s Red Mill almond flour), hibiscus, an edible flower found throughout the Southwest, and cinnamon, brought to the region in the 16th century by the Spanish. It tastes sweet and right while showcasing the beauty of where I’m living now. It’s easy, with hints of sweet floral notes and pantry ingredients I have on hand – except the hibiscus syrup. (You can find that online or at specialty stores like AJ Fine Foods. It’s where I purchased mine.) And sometimes it’s enough to acknowledge the food where you moved, combined with familiar elements that you know.

Importantly, it’s festive enough for the holidays.

Almond Cake with Cinnamon and Hibiscus Glaze

Serves 8

Ingredients
- 1 ½ cups almond flour
- ½ cup white rice flour
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- ¼ teaspoon baking soda
- ½ teaspoon kosher salt
- 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 2 large eggs, room temperature
- ⅓ cup neutral oil (avocado, canola, grapeseed)
- ½ cup sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- ½ cup milk or a milk alternative
Hibiscus Glaze

• ½ cup powdered sugar
• 2 to 3 tablespoons hibiscus syrup (adjust to taste and thickness)
• A gentle squeeze of fresh orange juice for brightness (Optional)

Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease an 8-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with parchment.
2. Whisk the dry ingredients together in a medium bowl: almond flour, rice flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon.
3. In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs, oil, sugar, vanilla, and milk until smooth.
4. Combine the wet and dry ingredients. Mix until just blended. The batter will be slightly thick.
5. Pour into your prepared pan and smooth the top.
6. Bake for 22 to 28 minutes, or until the center is set and a toothpick comes out clean.
7. Cool completely before glazing.
8. Make the glaze: whisk the powdered sugar with hibiscus syrup until it reaches a pourable consistency. Add lime juice if using.
9. Drizzle glaze over the cooled cake. Let it sit for at least 15 minutes before slicing.
LEFTOVERS

Local: Tucson
Tucson’s KGUN reports that the MSA Annex at Tucson’s Mercado District continues to grow, adding two new food spots to its westside lineup. BŌS Burger opened with Japanese-leaning Wagyu smash burgers and katsu-style sandwiches, while Hidden Hearth Bakery started serving whole-grain, fresh-milled breads in late November.

Regional: Arizona and the Southwest
According to The Glendale Star, A 16-year-old was hospitalized after visiting the fair on Oct. 26. She and several others say the illness began after petting pigs at the fair’s zoo.

National:
The USDA Economic Research Service says food prices in the United States will continue to rise in 2026. The agency’s latest Food Price Outlook projects an increase over all food categories of about 2.7 percent next year, with grocery costs climbing roughly 1.2 percent and restaurant prices up an estimated 3.3 percent. The forecast states that uncertainty remains high, driven by tariffs and climate-related disruptions.
December 3, 2025
The Thanksgiving We Didn’t Expect
A move from Indianapolis to Tucson reshapes our holiday season and inspires a Sonoran sweet potato and green chile gratin.

We thought we had two more years in Indianapolis. Two more winters of fall-back clock changes, farmers’ market routines, and knowing exactly where to find good greens or a reliable gluten-free loaf for the poultry stuffing. But as we know, life doesn’t exist for our specific timelines. Instead of a nice, slow transition, we decided to pack up boxes, say as many goodbyes as our last month in Indy would allow and drive southwest toward Tucson. The move to the Old Pueblo felt like stepping back into a familiar space – Nick and I had lived in Phoenix for a year and, of course, Palm Springs, which has a similar weather pattern: warm, arid and dry, with occasional heavy rain. Tucson, though, feels safer than both. More diverse and friendly, perhaps it’s due to the Indigenous and Mexican cultures, which lean heavily into their foodways.

Thanksgiving is next week, and we are still getting into our familiar patterns. Back in the Midwest, the holiday always had a specific blueprint, as it had over the last 12 years of our relationship. Nick makes the turkey, and I would cook everything else, including the cheesecake. It’s usually the two of us and occasionally someone else. Last year, we had Tanya, a longtime New York City friend who moved up from Nashville. This year, we will have some of Nick’s cousins who live in Phoenix, Bill and Anne and possibly the new neighbors – Collen and Greg – our Lucy and Ricky, to our Fred and Ethel.

Moving sooner than expected shifted everything. We’re still figuring out which grocery stores offer the best deals – especially in this challenging economy – where to walk Betsy and Rufus, and how to create a neighborhood in our builder community.

This Tucson Thanksgiving wasn’t the one we planned at the beginning of 2025 – we also didn’t plan on losing George – but we have Betsy for Rufus.

If you are looking for a change of scenery other than your kitchen stove, bring friends and family to the newly opened Redbird at Sam Hughes. It offers something for everyone and a great local back story. Located in the historic, former Rincon Market building, the restaurant opened in September and appeals to everyone with seemingly little effort, but most likely requires more than most. The former grocery outlet, which had been part of the area for almost a century, has been divided into two spaces, and Redbird Scratch Kitchen + Bar “flits” right into it, meaning it’s the kind of restaurant that feels cared for because the people running it care.

Pretty much everything is made from scratch: sauces, dressings, and marinades. The only exceptions are the gluten-free hamburger buns and waffle fries, which are bought from a wholesaler. Think of Redbird as a place to hang out, watching sports in a creative atmosphere with someone else doing all the cooking, such as tacos, wings and burgers. They also have a house-made black bean burger for the vegetarians in the group. Another great touch: they offer a hot towel to clean off their hands at the end of the meal. The first time I saw this was at a high-end resort in Bali. I asked Sergio Pinon, one of the owners and general managers, about this amenity. He basically said they saw it at a luxury property and wanted it at Redbird.

It offers coziness and the aromas of the Sonoran Desert as soon as you walk in, but the neighborly atmosphere of a “Cheers” bar. Sometimes it’s enough to sit in a place that welcomes you without hesitation, especially when you’re still figuring out what it means to belong in a new city.

I

Sonoran Chile and Sweet Potato Gratin

This is a dish that bridges both worlds. It nods to the Midwest—where casseroles anchor every gathering—but pulls its warmth from Tucson. Roasted Hatch or Anaheim chiles replace the traditional green bean casserole’s heaviness, and sweet potatoes stand in for richer autumn sides. It’s comforting, regional, and quietly celebratory.

Ingredients

• 2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced
• 2 Hatch or Anaheim chiles, roasted, peeled, seeded, and chopped
• 1 small yellow onion, thinly sliced
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1 cup whole milk
• 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• ½ teaspoon Mexican oregano
• Salt and pepper to taste
• 1½ cups grated asadero Oaxaca or Chihuahua. If you can’t find these cheeses, substitute Monterey Jack or a mild white cheddar
• Olive oil for sautéing

Instructions
1. Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a medium baking dish (about 9 x 9).
2. In a skillet, heat up the of olive oil. Sauté the onions until soft and lightly browned. Add in the garlic and cook for another minute.
3. Stir in the chopped roasted chiles, then season with smoked paprika, cumin, Mexican oregano, salt, and pepper. Remove from heat.
4. In a small saucepan, warm the cream and milk together until just steaming. Don’t boil.
5. Layer half the sweet potatoes into the baking dish. Scatter half of the chile-onion mixture over the top. Add a handful of the cheese.
6. Repeat with the remaining sweet potatoes, chile mixture, and cheese.
7. Pour the warmed cream and milk mixture over the potatoes.
8. Cover with foil. Bake for 30 minutes. Remove the foil and then bake another 20–25 minutes or until the top has turned a lovely brown, bubbly and the potatoes are tender.
9. Let it rest for 10 minutes to allow the layers to settle.
November 20, 2025