i8tonite

Category: Food

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
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
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
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 9 Favorite Indiana Food Finds of 2025

Plate of vegetarian dishes at Corridor

A year of eating throughout Indiana and what it taught me about community.

I often think about the delicious six years I’ve spent exploring Indiana food. My path crossed many food folks and chefs, including Rachel Firestone and Samir Mohammed at 9th Street Bistro, as well as Zoe Taylor and Josh Kline at Borage. I ran into Shadow Lounge’s Chef Tia Wilson at one of the local markets one day and, the next, watched Jonathan Brooks man the line at Beholder. One of my favorite stories was seeing Burgeezy’s Kadeesha and Antonine Wiggins grow their dream business. Of course, there is pizza and Diavola may serve the best Neopolitan pie in all of Indy, in my humble opinion.

Some editors took notice, giving me a platform to write about food: Culinary Crossroads’ Jolene Katzenberger, former Edible Indy owner Jennifer Rubinstein, current publisher Adam Grubb and, of course, Indianapolis Monthly’s Eve Batey and Andrea Ratcliffe. Through them, I found a voice focused on Midwestern cuisine, especially as it relates to identity and immigration. But it also showed me something more profound: that food entrepreneurs create a sense of community wherever they are.

While I genuinely love fine-dining, destination experiences, it’s the local neighborhood spots that bring people together—whether over coffee, drinks, or dinner—that make communities thrive. Gather 22, for instance, with its hammocks and generous outdoor space, does that beautifully, along with its tasty bites. What Adam Reinstrom and Pablo Gonzalez have created — part restaurant and adult playground — is nothing short of remarkable.

The International Marketplace, one of the first places I wrote about, remains a touchstone. Saraga International Market and Indiana barbecue, especially the historic Bar-B-Q Heaven, continue to be regional legends deserving of an iconic Hooiser food status.

This is only a partial list of what I ate this year. I’m eternally grateful to Culinary Crossroads’ Larry Dickerson for allowing me to travel all over Indiana during the course of my three years writing for them. After visiting nearly 100 towns and hamlets throughout the state, I’ve come to understand how both historians and restaurateurs have shaped the Midwest’s culinary history and, importantly, how interconnected the region truly is.

It’s not that my time in Indiana has come to an end. I’m working on a cookbook project that is part Midwestern history and part chef-driven stories from across the region, which I hope to see published next year. I also like to think that I’m evolving, which is vital to my well-being.

While some people go to concerts, shop, watch IMAX, or attend large-scale sporting events, spending their hard-earned wages – and yes, any work today is hard-earned – I head to a locally owned restaurant or a farmers’ market. By doing so, my partner and I give back to the communities we live in. That’s important to the region’s economic health and vitality.

Last word: Writing about food, I can’t be tone-deaf to how nearly 40 million people will suffer without SNAP benefits. My childhood was marked by food insecurity and hunger. My mother raised me alone, stretching a meager salary that never went far enough. She tried really hard, but there were days when the sharp pain in my stomach could only be eased by water. Despite paying taxes on her modest income, she could never get ahead. It was systemic gender bias at work: no matter how hard she pushed, the system pushed back harder. I’m seeing this play out again; it’s always the hard workers who only want to raise families who suffer at the hands of the big corporate powers.

Roasted Kabocha Squash at Corridor, Indianapolis

Roasted Kombucha Squash at Corridor

Chefs Erin Kem and Logan McMahan reimagined the venerable Tony and Rosa Hanslits’ Nicole-Taylor Pasta and Market, which had been an emporium focused on Italy, into a mostly vegetarian cafe and retail experience. What they do with simple ingredients is on full display with a roasted kombucha squash, caramelized and seasoned with restraint, which showed me how Indiana produce can shine when treated with respect.

1134 East 54th Street, Studio C, Indianapolis, IN 46220

(317) 257-7374

Fried Chicken at Wagner’s Village Inn, Oldenburg

Fried chicken at Wagner’s Village Inn

In Oldenburg, a small-town gripping tightly to its German Catholic heritage, Wagner’s has been feeding generations with its four-ingredient, family-style fried chicken. Crisp skin, juicy meat, and it makes it a southern Indiana tradition worth the drive. The James Beard Foundation even awarded it for Classic American. It’s one of those honors that tries to extend an olive branch to communities often dismissed in the cosmopolitan food world. Regardless, the eatery and the hamlet have a history and a sense of place, with church spires casting shadows over two-hundred-year-old cobblestone streets, and the highly seasoned chicken is pretty good.

22171 Main Street, Oldenburg, IN 47036

(812) 934-3854

Gluten-Free Pop-Tarts at Borage, Indianapolis

Gluten free pop tarts at Borage

Chefs Zoe Taylor and Josh Kline created an homage to Midwestern food at their restaurant, cafe and market. They elevated their dream business to something beyond nostalgia, transforming it into a refined yet rustic experience that stays true to their regional roots. Sometimes, in their deft hands, childhood treats become both nostalgic and refined. At the bakery, the gluten-free Pop-Tarts — technically made by their pastry chef Rachel de Masi — change with the seasons and serve as proof that playful baking can be serious food. I’ve often written about the duo and profiled them for Edible Indy, my last story for that publication.

1609 North Lynhurst Drive, Indianapolis, IN 46224

(317) 734-3958

Reuben with Smoked Corned Beef at Smokey’s Concession Stand

I was on one of my small-town Culinary Crossroads travel excursions and decided to swing by Smokey’s Concession Stand. It was early on Friday, and a crowd was already seated at the bar. While some people say not to ask the server—or, in this case, the bartender—what’s good, I often do. A restaurant worker will honestly tell me what they prefer — and I, being a former dishwasher and waitperson who believes in excellent customer service, will point you in the right direction. The bartender recommended the smoked Reuben, which featured house-smoked corned beef that raised the bar. The smoke clung to each slice, balanced by tangy kraut and melted Swiss. It reminded me how a sandwich can be just as transportive as a tasting menu.

732 Main St, Lapel, IN 46051

(765) 534-4111

Japchae at Sokuri in Kokomo

Assprtment of Korean food at Sokuri

Kokomo may be best known for auto manufacturing, but tucked into one of its Korean restaurants, I found japchae that took me to another continent. Sweet potato noodles, sesame oil, and vegetables created a plate that was comforting and unexpected in central Indiana. It’s hard to find great Asian food in this part of the country, but this was one of the best noodle dishes without having to fly to Seoul. It was also part of a destination piece I wrote for Indianapolis Monthly.

108 N Main St, Kokomo, IN 46901

(765) 416-2848

Hokkaido Scallop Crudo at Nesso, Indianapolis

Hokkaido scallop crudo

Inside the Alexander Hotel, Nesso delivers an upscale Italian coastal dining experience under the direction of recently appointed Chef Zach Szabo. He’s a transplant from D.C, and brings “glam Italian” to the Midwest, meaning rustic yet refined. An example was a special item: Hokkaido scallop crudo, bright, clean, delicate, citrusy and with a hint of heat. It was a dish that felt worldly without crossing the Atlantic. It was mastery of crudo, with thin rounds of the mollusk in a sauce meant for slurping.

339 South Delaware Street, Indianapolis, IN 46204

(317) 643-7400

Sweet Pea Agnolotti at Roselilly, South Bend

South Bend is emerging as its own dining scene, and Roselilly, with its chef-owner Eamonn McParland, is at its center. The AAA four-diamond dining experience is one of two in town, which is also home to the University of Notre Dame. He created a tasting menu, and his sweet pea agnolotti, part of the experience, captured the freshness of spring in tender pasta pockets that were both delicate and celebratory.

701 South Main Street, South Bend, IN 46601

(574) 347-4560

Fried Pork Tenderloin at The Tin Plate, Elwood

Fried pork tenderloin at the Tin plate

The breaded tenderloin has long been considered Indiana’s official sandwich. And, truthfully, like many people, I love breaded, fried meats (chicken-fried steak, chicken tenders, fish and chips anyone?), but it’s not that unique. However, the version at The Tin Plate in Elwood — while not unique — made me a convert. The pork is pounded thin but not too thin, and then fried to a golden brown, retaining juiciness rather than a dry puck, which can happen without brining. Like a soft-brimmed hat, it flopped over the sides of the bun. It was a taste of pure Midwest and Hoosier comfort. I also loved the fact that Elwood is home to Red Gold Tomatoes. While the canning company is not related to the German-inspired pork tenderloin, add some sauce and fresh mozzarella and you have pork cutlet parmigiana.

2233 S J St, Elwood, IN 46036

(765) 557-8231

Pork and Foie Gras Meatloaf at 9th Street Bistro, Noblesville

Pork and foie gras meatloaf at 9th Street Bistro

Noblesville’s 9th Street Bistro is intimate in size but ambitious in flavor. Husband-and-wife team Samir Mohammed and Rachel Firestone created a well-thought-out small-town bistro in the heart of Noblesville, half a block from the town square. It’s one of the places you would find in a European hamlet, owned and operated by the same family for decades, sewn into the community fabric. The pork and foie gras meatloaf is an indulgent, warm dish —essentially a country pâté heated rather than served cold—that marries Midwestern comfort with French luxury. It is proof that, even in a small town, with this duo at the helm, grand tastes can fly without pretension.

56 South 9th Street, Noblesville, IN 46060

(317) 774-5065

Brian Garrido

9th Street Bistro, Borage, Culinary Crossroads, Edible Indy, food, Indiana Restaurants, Indianapolis, Indy Restaurants, Nesso, Roselilly, Smokey’s Concession, Sokuri, South Bend, The Tin Plate, Wagners Village Inn
Read more: My 9 Favorite Indiana Food Finds of 2025 Read more: My 9 Favorite Indiana Food Finds of 2025

November 2, 2025
This Is American Food
If a corn cake and crab dip chatted in the kitchen, they would say, “Gurl, this is real food for the Fourth of July.

We know our founding fathers did not eat hot dogs, hamburgers, and apple pie after signing one of the world’s most important political documents. Most likely, their plates were heaped with pancakes made of cornmeal served with roasted meats and seafood gathered from nearby waterways.

It makes sense that corn, cultivated by Indigenous peoples for thousands of years, was the staple of early cuisine. Indeed, cakes made from ground maize, such as hoecakes or johnnycakes, were easy to make and eat, piping hot out of a wood-burning fireplace. Coupled with the abundance of seafood along the Eastern Seaboard, tables featured paired combinations like crab, oysters, and fish, to accompany the cornmeal staples.

Indigenous Ingredients Were Already Here

However, these flavors didn’t originate from European settlers; they were already grown and eaten by the existing populations of Indigenous people. New foods were introduced to the settlers including corn, squash, beans, and natural salts harvested from brine springs and coastal waters. These weren’t just ingredients, they were intertwined to the land, ceremony, and survival of the tribal nations.

Enslaved Africans brought frying, stewing, and seasoning traditions that became the foundation of Southern and coastal cooking. Caribbean immigrants layered in citrus, chili, and preservation techniques that show up in seafood, spice blends, and pickled vegetables.

Who Gets Credit for “American” Food?

For too long, the narrative of “American food” has centered on Germanic and Eastern European traditions, sausages, stews, pies, because these communities, though once immigrants, came to hold power in cultural storytelling. Meanwhile, Indigenous, African, and Caribbean contributions were often erased, commercialized, or absorbed without credit.

Thus, I decided to create a bit-sized corn cake appetizer dolloped with hot crab dip ontop. It’s inspired by the foods served during those first July celebrations in 1776. American cuisine has always been a blend of indigenous crops, African techniques, Caribbean flavors, and immigrant ingenuity.

This 4th of July, Celebrate Interdependence.

This Fourth of July, I’m celebrating not just independence, but interdependence. The shared hands, cultures, and histories that shaped what we eat today.

Mini Corn Cakes with Crab Salad (Gluten Free)

I created this recipe from many sources as a showcase of early American roots: Indigenous, African and early settlers.

Makes about 12–16 mini corn cakes

For the Corn Cakes:
- 1 cup stone-ground cornmeal (medium grind works best)
- ½ tsp baking powder
- ½ tsp kosher salt
- 1 cup buttermilk (or ¾ cup milk + 1 Tbsp vinegar, rested 5 minutes)
- 1 large egg
- 2 Tbsp melted butter or neutral oil
  ½ cup corn kernels (fresh, frozen, or canned—optional)
- oil for frying
If the batter seems too thin, let it sit for 5–10 minutes so the cornmeal can absorb more of the liquid. For a thicker batter, add 1 Tbsp finely ground cornmeal or masa harina.

For the Hot Crab Dip:
- 8 oz lump crab meat, drained and checked for shells
- 2 Tbsp mayonnaise
- 1 Tbsp sour cream or plain Greek yogurt
- 1 tsp Dijon mustard
- 1 tsp lemon juice (plus more to taste)
- 1 tsp chopped chives or green onion
- Pinch of Old Bay or cayenne (optional)
- Salt and pepper to taste
Instructions:

Corn Cakes:
1. in a medium sized bowl, mix cornmeal, baking powder, and salt.
2. In another bowl, whisk buttermilk, egg, and melted butter. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir just until combined. Fold in corn kernels, if using. Let it sit for a few minutes to thicken.
3. Heat a skillet or griddle over medium with a light layer of oil.
4. Drop batter by heaping tablespoonfuls to form small cakes (~2 inches). Cook 2–3 minutes per side until golden and crisp on the edges. Transfer to a wire rack or paper towel.
Crab Salad:
1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. While that reaches temperature, Gently mix mayo, sour cream, mustard, lemon, chives, and spices in a bowl and place into a baking dish
2. Fold in crab meat, being careful not to break it up too much. Taste and adjust seasoning.
3. Bake for 15 – 20 minutes until heated through.
Serving:

Top each corn cake with a spoonful of crab dip. Garnish with a sprinkling of fresh, chopped herbs (such as dill or chives) or a sprinkle of smoked paprika or lemon zest, if you’re feeling fancy.

Sources & Further Reading
- Randolph, Mary. The Virginia Housewife (1824) – One of the earliest American cookbooks, documenting cornmeal-based dishes such as hoecakes.
- Freedman, Paul. American Cuisine and How It Got This Way – A comprehensive look at the evolution of American food culture, including colonial influences and Indigenous ingredients.
- Miller, Adrian. Soul Food: The Surprising Story of an American Cuisine, One Plate at a Time – Explores the role of African American culinary traditions in shaping Southern and early American cuisine.
- Library of Congress – Food at Mount Vernon and American Memory collections: Primary source material on colonial food habits, including George Washington’s preference for hoecakes.
- Southern Foodways Alliance – Oral histories and essays on cornmeal, seafood traditions, and foodways rooted in African, Indigenous, and Southern cultures.
P.S. Photo was AI-generated. I made the crab dip for a party and planned to create the corn cakes. But, life got in the way.

The end. Go eat.
July 1, 2025