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Category: Food Musings

Recipes from Editors and their Musings on food and life. It’s fun.

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
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
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
Discovering Flavor and Community in Tucson

What We Eat When We Move

When you pack up your life and start over somewhere new, you think about the job, the weather, the cost of living, and finding a community. When Nick and I moved to Tucson, a city framed by the Sonoran Desert and celebrated for its food culture, I didn’t expect to miss my grocery store so much.

After six years in Indianapolis, I knew where to buy the best gluten-free baked goods (Gluten Free Creations), which great butcher (Moody’s) to buy meat, and which farmers market stand (Warfield Cottage) sold the best greens. Moving to Tucson meant trading the Midwest’s cornfields for the desert’s cactus, and where much of the food is born of Mexican and Indigenous ingredients, even an easy meal of rice and beans felt like an introduction to another language.

There is no doubt that moving from one state to another changes the way you eat. In Indiana, I cooked broths and experimented with braising, especially during the fall, winter and early spring, eating warm, stewy dishes. Here, I think more about citrus, chilies, and beans. Dinners are full of flavors that make up the region: mesquite, nopales, prickly pear, and the “three sisters” comprised of corn, beans, and squash. Now our pantry will be stocked with dried chiles and freshly made corn tortillas, replacing the hoarded Red Gold pasta sauce of my Hoosier days.

The relocation isn’t only about ingredients; it’s about discovering a community. For Nick and me, it’s how we find and make friends. In our first week in our new home, we joined our next-door neighbors, Greg and Colleen, at La Frida’s Mexican Grill, a charming, well-designed spot located on East 22nd Street with a painterly mural honoring the late artist. The meal started with a basket of chips and — surprise — jalapeño crema (instead of salsa) for dipping, touched with habanero. Zesty, rich, and impossible to stop eating. Alongside it came an additional four sauces to try: salsa verde, black refried beans, a smoky coloradito, and a deep, chocolatey mole. The chef, originally from Hermosillo, cooks with an appreciation for her birthplace and presents dishes in a hearty, picturesque manner: deep browns, rich greens, and sauces with royal crimson overtone. We had a variety of dishes, but the quesabirra, historically from Tijuana and developed by the region’s taqueros, had that buttery crunch with tender meat, salty creaminess from the cheese and that rich flavor from the consommé for dipping. The corn ribs, quartered and eaten off the cob, smeared with cotija, were a reminder of how delicious street food can be. We arrived at 4:00 p.m. and by the time we left two hours later, it felt like the whole of Tucson was waiting for a table.

In every move I’ve made — Los Angeles, San Francisco, Irvine, Palm Springs, New York City, Indianapolis, now Tucson — I’ve learned that the fastest way to feel at home is through its restaurants and markets. Each city teaches you its flavors, and Tucson shows the earthiness of Sonoran wheat tortillas, the char on a roasted green pepper, and the comfort of beans simmering away on the stove. These are image postcards tattooed into my memory banks that will last longer than any logo t-shirt ever will. Indeed, Tucson’s UNESCO City of Gastronomy status only reinforces the idea that what we eat tells the story of who and where we are.

In the freezer, there’s still a loaf of gluten-free bread from Native Bread Company in Indianapolis. I slice and toast it on mornings when I miss the Midwest. It’s that heady scent of bread, with a smear of local prickly pear jam bridging my recent past to today in a way no moving truck can.

What we eat when we move isn’t just about adapting to a new market or menu. It’s about creating continuity. The table’s location may change, but the act of sitting down, of being fed and feeding others, remains constant.

But in a short time, here in the Old Pueblo, I’ve found that the desert’s vastness, beauty and indigenous ingredients are finding a way into my kitchen. As I’ve said before, moving isn’t about leaving something behind. It’s about eating and discovering what’s next.

Recipe: Prickly Pear and Lime Agua Fresca

Makes 2 quarts

• 2 cups prickly pear puree (fresh or bottled)

• Juice from 3 limes

• 4 cups cold water

• 2 tablespoons agave syrup (more to taste)

• Dash of sea salt

Whisk or blend all ingredients until smooth. Taste and adjust the sweetness. Chill for at least 30 minutes. Serve over ice with a sprig of mint or a lime slice. While this is a simple beverage, it tastes like the Sonoran Desert, which I think of as being bright, sweet, and restorative. If you’re feeling festive, add a touch of rum, tequila, or vodka.

The End. Go eat.

November 14, 2025
My Father & Food: My Filipino American Story
When I think of my father, the only good thoughts appear around food. It’s often how we remember people, how we ate with them at a dinner table or cooked beside them. It’s not how we wish they were, but as they were. In a time when immigration has yet again become so politicized and misunderstood, I think about my father, whose name was Primo. He was a complicated man, an immigrant, an enlisted Navy veteran of 40-plus years and a man I never truly knew. I knew that he walked to school on pristine beaches and white sand. His parents — my grandparents — were killed by U.S World War II pilots, flushing out enemies that hid in the dense jungles of the archipelago. Casualties of friendly bombings, if you will. He, along with three siblings, was adopted by family members. Tropical Cindafella — only hard work, cleaning the relative’s home for his keep, but grieving his childhood and loss. He was never quite taught how to be a father because he didn’t have one, nor were those around him capable. They, too, were mourning the deaths of their children and others. War, ultimately, guarantees that generations will suffer.

Because of his loss, what I received from him wasn’t warmth or fatherly advice, barely even love — although, my stepmother might argue that. However, when I lived with him briefly in my teen years, I was given his childhood memories of growing up and eating in the Philippines.

My father’s family and me.

But Primo enlisted in the U.S. Navy and served a country that didn’t always see him. He stood watch on ships, served abroad, and carried that discipline into every corner of his life. It wasn’t gentle. But it was service and took him away from what he knew. You might even say joining the armed forces gave him a father. He learned about combat and racial discrimination. He learned infidelity and deceptiveness — to lie when he was caught. He did that quite often.

But he loved seafood.

If it came from the ocean, it was on his plate. Prawns, squid, bangus, and crab legs soaked in garlic butter and eaten with his hands. He would suck loudly suck the juice out of the shrimp’s head. “Mmmm, that’s good,” he would say to us around the table: my half-siblings, his second wife, her mother and me.

The sea reminded him of something he had left behind: it was full of free and accessible food. It was easy for him to catch fish with a handmade net and cook the nightly meal he had to make as an indentured child servant. When my stepmother or her mother didn’t cook adobo or pancit, he would make a bowl of halabos na hipon—Filipino-style buttered shrimp and rice—always rice.

When I cook this dish today, I can focus on his trials as an immigrant and his service in the Navy. Not as a father or someone I knew well, but as a figure in my history, a uniformed man who battled on iron ships and his demons. While I toss the garlic and shrimp, with splashes of carbonated lemon soda, and simmer to a tasty syrup, I imagine his life’s grueling and uphill battle. I never fully understood him dismissing me as his son until I wound up on his doorstep, thinking he could save me.

Today, we wrestle, yet again, needlessly, around immigration. As if that’s the problem. My father wasn’t perfect, but his journey — from the Philippines to military service in the U.S. — helped build this country. It’s easy to forget how many of our most valued dishes — tacos, pizza, hamburgers, French fries, dumplings — were brought here in the bags and bellies of people like him. Immigrants have never taken anything from the United States and this country, they bring flavor, resilience, and stories.

This isn’t a tribute to Primo on Father’s Day. Although he was my blood, he was many things: a loving father to his other kids, a daughter and a son, a veteran, a man who loved seafood and a proud settler to the United States. He loved this country as so many immigrants do.

Garlic Butter Shrimp (Halabos na Hipon)

Serves 2–3

Ingredients:
- 1 lb head-on shrimp, shell on (I used shelled shrimp. Since I live in Indiana, it’s hard to find whole shrimp).
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
- 1 tablespoon neutral oil (canola or vegetable)
- 6 cloves garlic, finely chopped
- 1/4 cup Sprite or 7-Up
- 1 tablespoon fish sauce (optional, or substitute with a pinch of salt or a splash of soy sauce)
- Freshly ground black pepper
- Cut lemon for serving
- Steamed white rice
Directions:
1. In a large skillet, heat the butter and oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and sauté until golden and fragrant, about 1–2 minutes.
2. Add the shrimp and toss to coat in the garlic butter.
3. Pour in the soda and fish sauce (if using). Let it bubble and reduce slightly, then cook the shrimp until pink and curled—3 to 5 minutes.
4. Season with black pepper. Serve hot with calamansi or lemon wedges and plenty of steamed rice to soak up the sauce.
June 14, 2025
I8tonite: Final Top Three Favorite 2023 Indy Eating Experiences

We selected eight experiences from all the Indianapolis restaurants we dined in 2023.

We have a French bulldog puppy, Rufus. He came home this summer with us not long after our other Frenchie, J.J., passed. As I write this, the eight-month-old trundles through the backyard strewn with falling leaves. Sniffing. Munching on things that he shouldn’t. That is all he wants to do. Eat. Anything that might have a taste, he is willing to try. That journey of discovery, flavors and aromas compels him to sample anything in his path. George, our chocolate doesn’t help, either. Canine garbage can.

Strangely, as a human baby, that’s all we do, too. As we grow, we seek nourishment to strengthen and teach us. As an adult, I seek dining experiences that make me feel fortified, give me vigor and energy, and are memorable. I think that way as I continue going through my remaining years.

In the Midwest, it’s difficult for a gay man of color who grew up in progressive areas to have a favorable reception, even in a very blue city. Having worked as a waiter in New York City restaurants to pay my college tuition, I met the world, all races, creeds and colors. To be even more specific, as a server at Soho Kitchen & Bar, my colleagues came from Tunisia, Jamaica, the Netherlands, the country of Georgia, Mexico, Venezuela, France, Israel and China. Of course, the U.S. came out on top with struggling artists from various disciplines, hailing from every corner but many from the Midwest. With so many backgrounds and different religions, we learned under this one roof about wines and food. The cavernous space focused on essential bar eats – pizzas, wings, salads, pasta – to accompany the star, the new global world of wine tasting. It was the first restaurant to offer 110 varietals from every grape-growing region. They even had 75 beers on tap. We needed to attend weekly Thursday tastings; sickness and a doctor’s note would get us out from a Kevin Zraly-taught sommelier (it might even have been Mr. Zraly himself a few times). It was the beginning of an eatery to offer such a vast line-up of flights, a now ubiquitous term for small tastes of anything.

I bring this up because I have faced bigotry, intolerance, and racial discrimination throughout my life. While I expected to see it, I didn’t think it would bother me as now that I’m older. And, I thought after all the pandemics and epidemics we have collectively weathered over the last 50 years, it would have been a moot point.

While I would love to say what food and beverage company have treated me in such a fashion, I’m not going to give them any credit.

All of this to say, everyone should work in a restaurant. You may not like everyone, but you are there to ensure your customers eat and drink well.

Let us recap the first five of eight I8tonite’s Favorites of 2023:

Lady Tron’s, New Albany, Indiana

Perillos Pizzeria, New Hope, Indiana

Tinker Street, Indy

Chicken Scratch, Indy and Cincinnati

Anthony’s Chophouse, Carmel

When I thought about the list, I wanted to include Midwest restaurants where we have eaten over the past year. Then, as I mentioned, the New York Times 50 Best Restaurants came out without even a whisper of Indiana. I thought it was unfair and not democratic in the least. Selecting 50 establishments implies one from every state, not only a set number with several in one location. Also, we paid for every meal. It wasn’t because we had a media pass.

Here are the final three for i8tonite. They should get a T-shirt.

Petit Chou Bistro & Champagne Bar

Patio for Petit Chou Bistro & Champagne Bar

Four years ago, Nick took a position in Indianapolis. We visited the city seeking a place to live before his start date in Fall 2019. That was the first time I stepped onto Midwest soil. I had eaten everywhere but the Midwest. As a public relations professional in various industries, including tourism and hospitality, I could boast about sleeping and eating on six continents and over 200 destinations. Before my debut flight to this patch of green – Nick is from Wisconsin – I researched places to eat. I couldn’t live in some place without good food. Two of the places I selected were Cafe Patachou and Napolese, two of Martha Hoover’s establishments.

We found a house around the corner from Martin Luther King Jr. Park & Memorial. Napolese, the pizza and wine bar, still stands as a favorite – notably because they offer gluten free, but Petit Chou Bistro holds a special place. The establishment is inclusive, as are all of Ms. Hoover’s places, making everyone feel welcome. Bright plastic flowers and garland edging the windows make it feel like perpetual spring, and I feel a surge of Gallic love without the price of an airline ticket. Of course, the food is delicious Parisian bistro fare such as omelets, salads, rillettes, burgers, steak, and frites. The combination of everything makes me feel good about dining here: the food, the atmosphere and the service.

823 E Westfield Blvd, Indianapolis, IN 46220

(317) 259-0765

9th Street Bistro

Pork Chop Crusted with ras al hanout, Brian Garrido

Husband and wife team Chef Samir Mohammed and his wife Rachel Firestone launched this 35-seat restaurant in 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic. It took me three years to get here, but it was one of the most memorable meals I had anywhere this year, including places in New York, Chicago, and Nashville. It’s a gem, situated a few doors from the Noblesville landmark courthouse and about a 45-minute drive from downtown Indianapolis. Its diverse menu featuring American classics and globally inspired dishes has already captured attention.

On the night that we were there, the menu, which changes monthly, offered gluten-free hushpuppies, a ras al hanout crusted pork chop on a bed of saffron risotto, and a luscious rib eye with butter and fingerlings. While it was simple, there was a deft execution from a chef who knew his ingredients, primarily local Indiana produce and meats, to serve their customers who traveled to get there.

Nominated for a James Beard award for the Great Lakes region, Mohammed and Firestone should win in the coming years. It offers rustic and welcoming interior decor, attentive service, and delicious flavors from the Mediterranean, Middle East, Southwest, and California in America’s heartland.

56 S 9th St, Noblesville, IN 46060

(317) 774-5065

Love Handle

Pork Belly Sandwich, courtesy of Facebook, Love Handle

When I first ate at Love Handle, it was love at first bite. Scrumptious lumberjack breakfasts and thick Dagwood sandwiches populate the handwritten chalkboard. It’s an eating experience of depth, clogged arteries and breathtaking flavors. For example, a typical daily special included a roast pork belly sandwich with homemade guacamole, pea shoots, red salsa, three cheeses melted, pickled red onion, and Sport pepper. And for those vegetarians, one can sup on baked taleggio grilled cheese, raspberry compote, marinated spinach, and a sunny-side-up egg.

The brainchild of Chefs Chris and Ally Benedyk – she makes the sweets – I feel a touch of Southern California kitschy nostalgia when I dine here. It’s a mish-mash of thrift store finds and curiosities that can help bring on a conversation for a first date or perhaps end it. There is a quarter-munching video game, curated clown paintings, and paint-by-numbers pulled out of second-hand bins, creating an eclectic atmosphere to match the food.

It’s not a place for dieters, but one can have a pound of pulled pork if need be. And it’s tough for those who are celiac or gluten intolerant, but the sandwiches can’t be found anywhere but right here in Indy. That’s a good thing.

877 Massachusetts Ave., Indianapolis, IN, United States, Indiana

(317) 384-1102

November 21, 2023
i8tonite: Top Favorites Eats, 2023: Delicious, Easy Recipe for Hasselback Potatoes
Our favorite meals over the last year. And a Thanksgiving Hasselback Potato Recipe.

I spoke to a born and bred Hoosier who said to me, “Hoosiers are humble. We don’t talk about the great things we offer.” In today’s day and age of marketing and promotion, no one wants to dine at your table if they don’t know what’s available. We have many opportunities to promote local Indiana food entrepreneurs, and we should. A friend and former editor-in-chief of the biggest food magazine in the world said her life was about traveling to eat. In 2004, London-based food writer Andy Hayler went to every three Michelin-starred restaurants worldwide and was the first to do so. He continued to do it six more times until the pandemic. Traveling for food is big business.

Having lived, worked and promoted destination and resort towns across the United States and internationally for most of my life, it’s always about the food and drink first, even more so than the hotels. Think about heading to Napa Valley without the wine? Leaving the lackluster conference hotel room, the food – and service –will make or break the experience. Before living in Indy, except once, I never read about great food from the Hoosier state, but there are stellar places. I’ve eaten at them.

Read our first two of 2023 until we get to eight!

Tinker Street

Four years ago, Nick and I spent my first birthday in Indy at Tinker Street, one of the city’s mainstays, which I place as one of the finest eateries in the Midwest. Opened in 2015, the small restaurant on 16th Street in the historic district of Herron Morton provides Chef Tyler Shortt an opportunity to be creative with Indiana-grown ingredients. It’s one of the few restaurants that promote the area farmers while also being in the 21st century with a female sommelier, Ashlee Nemeth, and providing reservations.

Shortt’s recipes showcase regional agriculture, corn and tomatoes, and meats like duck and pork. That’s a good thing. The New American fusion – that ubiquitous term that uses herbs and spices from international flavors with European cooking methods – shows in the sauces such as the yuzu garlic aioli on the scallop and scallion risotto or the cappelletti with a Korean braised short rib. It’s an eating destination where one is never disappointed in the food or service. Importantly, it’s that place you bring your Chicago, Los Angeles and New York City friends when they finally come to visit you. Thankfully, it’s 21 and over, too.

402 E. 16th Street

Indianapolis, IN 46202

(317) 925-5000

Reservations

Chicken Scratch

A graduate of Ivy Tech’s Culinary School, Chef Tia Harrison, who catered for ten years before opening her restaurant called Chef Tia & Co., started serving her wings as a special on Wednesdays. Upon being one of two $25,0000 Discover Financial Services recipients to support Black-owned food entrepreneurs, she opened her first standalone devoted to the hump day special on Keystone. It’s a pickup and delivery spot with over a thousand reviewers from happy customers giving it a thumbs up. Ms. Harrison creates mighty tasty wings and loaded fries from this location. And as a customer, your choices feel endless. Who knew there were so many variations on wings? Naked or breaded, bone-in, boneless, and vegan, made with cauliflower florets and tossed in almost a dozen hand-crafted sauces that make everything finger-licking good.

Parmesan garlic is a house specialty, and the spicy jerk BBQ fires up the tastebuds, but no one can do wrong with the hot honey. If you’re visiting Indianapolis, have them delivered to your room and source a wine from one of the Black female winemakers in Indiana (Sip & Share or Cultured Urban Winery). You will remember the meal much more than the keynote speaker.

Since debuting in 2021, Harrison opened two more this year, one in Cincinnati and another downtown Indy location.

5308 N. Keystone Avenue

Indianapolis, IN 46220

Order

Anthony’s Chophouse

Filet of Beef, courtesy of Anthony’s Chophouse

I’m fascinated by Carmel’s carefully planned community design, so much so that I often drove by Carmel’s Anthony Chophouse without noticing. The developed city has entranced me with its perfect walkways and storefronts, that I missed the illuminated sign, mistaking it for another chain.

But once inside, they transport you past the white picket fences and into a South Beach atmosphere, exuding sex appeal. A gas fireplace framed by brick illuminated the staircase leading upstairs and packed the bar area with crowds of Carmelites — sculpture and texture play in the dining room, with Rat Pack chocolate-covered banquettes and brass mid-century lights. A wood-planked floor allows for runway arrivals of Manholos and To Boots before stepping onto a modern weave. And, of course, the glass-walled kitchen allows diners to see the back of the house between sips of ready-to-pair meat cabernets.

As for the boeuf, it was standard with freshly seared ribeye and filets. We like the flight of beef, like tastes of wine, that featured four-ounce portions of USDA prime, grass-fed, and Wagyu. We have yet to eat in every steakhouse in the world, but we found this to be a novel idea. Dining at a butcher emporium, for the most part, is about something other than the steaks. It’s about the wine, the cocktails, service, appetizers and the sides. Diners will find creativity in these dishes, wine menu and libations. The bone marrow, harvest pig and the gambas pil pil are worth visiting every single evening. And if we could afford it, we would.

201 W. Main Street

Carmel, IN 46032

(317) 740-0900

Reservations

A Thanksgiving Recipe for Hasselback Potatoes

Ingredients:
- 4 large russet or Yukon Gold potatoes
- Olive oil or melted butter
- Salt and pepper
- Optional toppings: grated cheese, chopped herbs (such as rosemary or thyme), garlic powder, paprika, sour cream, bacon bits, or any preferred toppings
To Make:
1. Preheat your oven to 400°F (200°C). Wash the potatoes thoroughly and pat them dry with a kitchen towel. Place a potato on a cutting board. Using a sharp knife, make vertical slices across the potato, about 1/8 to 1/4 inch apart, ensuring it does not cut all the way through. Pro tip: To prevent cutting through the potato, place chopsticks or wooden spoons on either side to act as a barrier.
2. Once all the potatoes are sliced, place them on a baking sheet or in a baking dish.
3. Drizzle olive oil or melted butter over the potatoes, making sure to get some in between the slices. Use your hands or a brush to evenly coat each potato with oil or butter.
4. Season generously with salt and pepper, ensuring the seasoning gets into the crevices.
5. Optional: Add your preferred toppings such as grated cheese, chopped herbs, garlic powder, or paprika between the slices or on top of the potatoes.
6. Place the baking sheet or dish in the preheated oven and bake for about 50-60 minutes, or until the potatoes are crispy on the outside and tender on the inside. The cooking time may vary depending on the size and type of potatoes used.
7. Once done, remove the potatoes from the oven and let them cool slightly for a few minutes before serving.
8. Serve the Hasselback potatoes as a side dish with your favorite main course. Optionally, garnish with additional toppings like sour cream or bacon bits before serving.
November 16, 2023
I8tonite: A New York Pizza Experience

Pepperoni Pizza

On a recent work trip to the Big Apple, I found myself working voraciously from one area of the boroughs to another, with only an opportunity to grab a quick slice of pizza for lunch, before hailing an Uber (Who takes cabs?) or jumping on the subway, repeating this action until dinner. I did this for five days. By the end of the trip, exhausted and not feeling well plus I felt bloated from the amounts of consumed dairy and wheat. (Yes. I realized that milk products including trace amounts of butter and I are no longer friends.)

With this said, the trip provided me a rewarding experience that only Lactaid can cure the next time I venture forth with so much mozzarella. And, although, the New York slice, the version that you dab with a napkin to relieve of extra grease, rolling-up like a New York Times straphanger, is becoming extinct like said transit-rider, it still is served deliciously — and for me, gratefully.

On Quora – the internet answer for everything — someone tried to figure out the number of shops, reckoning it’s anywhere from 3200 to 32500. Suffice it to say it’s a broad number. They even try and figure out how many per day a pizzaiolo must toss, bake and sell (about 50) to stay in business.

Whatever the case and take this with a grain of well-tossed salt hidden in the folds of rising dough, here are my selections for a few grand pizzas – in today’s Manhattan.

Prince Street Pizza

Formerly known as Ray’s when I lived was a poor New York student in the eighties, I would stumble by for a pepperoni slice after nightclubbing, something to soak up the alcohol. Purchased a decade ago, the existing owners kept the place alive and very much a Soho tradition. Instead of the fold-and-go variety of pies, they execute a Sicilian square loaded with small circles of spicy pepperoni. When baked onto one of the gooey delicacies, they become mini-cups of flavor, holding liquid fat, ready to drip down your chin or shirt. There are only a line and a counter so may do like a New Yorker and eat while walking.

27 Prince Street (between Elizabeth and Mott Streets)

(212) 966 – 4100

Princestreetpizza.com

Farinella

Days of cheese and pepperoni

I came by the Romanesque pizza shop after Uber hightailing from a meeting in Brooklyn to Lexington and 78^th only to be thirty minutes early. Rarely do opportunities arise with time on your side, so I sought out a quick place to eat and came across Farinella Pizza and Bakery. Here the pies are elongated rather than round and the dough stretched rather than tossed. Regardless, it’s really delicious with a crispy under-carriage while it grips onto the selected toppings. The margherita is divine Italian simplicity at it’s best.

1132 Lexington Avenue (between 78^th and 79^th Streets)

New York, New York, 10075

(212) 327 – 2702

Champion’s

Pepperoni Pizza

Who knew that pizza – an import foodstuff brought over by Italian immigrants – could be so delicious in the hands of a Turk? Hakki Akdeniz worked for many years making $300 per week to learn the tasks of pizzaiolo trade. The outcome is a true slice of New York pizza. Folded in half, paper plate underneath – and a walk to the subway – or hanging out at one of the few tables. Eating the chewy dough and cheese with just that right amount of giving made me feel like all is right with the world – that Andy Warhol, Deelite and Nell’s where still around.

17 Cleveland Place, New York, New York

The end. Go eat.

(P.S. Apologies for the long space between posts. Life happens.)

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June 26, 2018