Category Archives: Food & Drink

Mission: Chicharrones

pork_rinds For some reason I felt a weird compulsion to attempt to make my own chicharrones this weekend. Chicharrones are pork rinds, but not at all like the kind I grew up with (and never really liked). Those are the the sad, distant cousins of the type of pork rind I discovered a couple of years ago at a local Mexican bakery and sandwich shop. These still have meat attached and are chewy and decadent (or disgusting, depending on where you stand on the whole skin-eating thing). Over the past two or three years, I’ve gotten chicharrones maybe 8 or 10 times. Of those, maybe only half of the times were they really, really good. They don’t do well under heat lamps, and unless you get there early (and I never get anywhere early), you’ll be stuck with dried-out, hard bits of pig. I decided to try to make my own so that I would be assured of getting some that were fresh and delectable (or fresh and disgusting depending on that skin-eating thing).

I turned to the internet to see what I’d need. The main ingredient here is pork belly. And it is, apparently, all but impossible to find at any of the white-bread grocery stores I frequent. I figured I would have to go to a Mexican meat market, but I decided to try a couple of my usual grocery stores first. First I tried Central Market — the upscale Texas grocery store chain that is every bit as good as its P.R. claims it is. Mostly. This place has an incredible meat department — the sprawling display case of meat is bigger than the house I grew up in. When I asked the butcher behind the counter if they had any pork belly, he seemed surprised. I’m guessing it’s not a common question. He told me I could call and place a special order sometime, but it just wasn’t something they carried. This is the store that carries 8-foot stalks of sugar cane and 57 varieties of apples. If octopus-and-rhubarb sausage exists … they’ve got it. They’ve got EVERYTHING! But pork belly? No way. Don’t they do their own butchering? Isn’t that part of a pig? Along with cheeks and jowls and bacon and pork chops? Shouldn’t it be on the premises — maybe not wrapped up all pretty but available? When I asked about fresh lard, the guy’s eyes got really big, but he managed a polite, “No ma’am, we sure don’t.” I also asked at my neighborhood grocery store — part of a large local chain. The butcher was Hispanic, and when I asked about pork belly and fresh lard he started laughing. “I’m going to have to go to a Mexican meat market, right?” And he said, “Yes you are, miss — this is a white people’s market.” I laughed with him, and felt really … white.

So I went to La Michoacana on Greenville Avenue yesterday. I’d never been there before and had expected it to be much larger inside. I walked around a bit looking at the produce and bakery items. I eventually made my way to the back of the store to the meat department. I had practiced a few phrases in Spanish just in case the butcher didn’t speak English, and, in fact, I don’t think he did speak much English, but we managed to understand each other after a tortured few minutes where I was trying to convince him that I wanted to make my OWN chicharrones — “No, really!” — and not buy the ones under the heat lamp on the counter. As I waited for him to go fetch my pork belly, I suddenly noticed a guy four feet away from me hacking away at a giant piece of bloody meat. There didn’t appear to be any skill in what he was doing. He was a teenager — maybe he was in training. Or maybe he’d lost a bet. I averted my eyes from the bloody mess only to see a whole row of containers of manteca fresca — fresh lard. Yay! I was expecting it to be refrigerated, and I was expecting it to be white … but inside the hot store it was liquid and looked like chicken soup. I picked up a container thinking “This is sure gonna make a mess if it spills in my car on the way home.” The butcher came back with two strips of pork belly. It was more than I wanted, but he seemed insistent on selling me a pound’s worth. Why not? He kept looking at me very suspiciously as he wrapped it up for me. He handed it to me, and as I started to walk away, I heard him tell another customer in Spanish that “la rubia” was going to make her own chicharrones. I turned around to look at them and they were chuckling. Again, I felt VERY white but smiled weakly and headed to the register.


The manteca fresca.

So anyway, I made my chicharrones today, and it was really easy. And they were great! Although, after about three you start feeling a little queasy. I made only a half-pound’s worth, but I still have a LOT left over. I hate to waste food, but I don’t know anyone who would even want to contemplate sharing. And I’m not sure these are going to keep. (I’ve been told that fat freezes well, so I should have just popped the unused pork belly into the freezer.) I think you can chop them up with chiles and make a kind of stew or something.

A pleasant, if fat-filled, weekend.

The “recipe” (which I originally found here):


The pork belly, cut into large chunks.


Half a pound of pork belly, simmering in water infused with about a tablespoon of baking soda (this seems to be a necessary step in making the pork belly pliable enough to cut and to chew). Remove the chunks from the water after 10 or 15 minutes; rinse off, and pat dry. Cut into small pieces.


I put a little lard into a skillet, but you probably don’t really need any oil or fat in the pan, other than the pork belly. Start frying skin-side down for 10 minutes or so, then flip over and fry the other side until crisp.


And … tada! Chicharrones! Add a little salt, and enjoy!

***

UPDATE (Dec. 15, 2012): This page gets an incredible number of hits, and I thought I would update very quickly on the current availability of pork belly. I recently purchased a pound at Whole Foods in Dallas and was told that they now carry it regularly. This must be a fairly new addition, because when I asked a few months ago, I was told that they did not carry it. It comes in wrapped, coiled one-pound pieces. I forget what the price was, but it was inexpensive (I think it was under $5.00). Here is what it looks like in the butcher’s case wrapped and, below, unwrapped. Go find some!

porkbelly_wrapped

porkbelly_unwrapped


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High Grade: The Beer That’s Liquid Food!

I have a bunch of stuff crammed into boxes. I don’t even know what’s actually IN some of the boxes. There are books and papers and documents and potentially collectible stuff that I’ve acquired over the years, most of it coming from the bowels of my father’s book store. Sometimes I see stuff I don’t remember ever having seen before. Like yesterday, when I saw a postcard lying on the floor, near a box ominously labeled “eBay.” This was the postcard (right click for a larger image):

I have to admit I’ve never heard of High Grade Beer, “The Beer That’s Liquid Food,” but, damn, that’s a cool-looking brewery. I investigated further.

According to The Handbook of Texas, “The Galveston Brewing Company (1895-1918) was one of the few regional breweries that survived Prohibition. Adolphus Busch and William J. Lemp of St. Louis were both major stockholders of the corporation that raised $400,000 to found the Galveston Brewing Company in 1895. The brewery formally began operations on February 3, 1896. The pre-Prohibition physical plant consisted of a large ice plant that could produce seventy-five tons of ice, and a modern brewery that could produce 75,000 barrels of beer a year. The plant also had cold-storage rooms and railroad tracks on two sides of the building. The company dug several wells that gave a water supply of two million gallons a day. The Galveston brewery was so well constructed that it survived the Galveston hurricane of 1900 with only minor damage. The major product of the Galveston brewery before Prohibition was a beer called High Grade.”

Sounds like a pretty amazing operation (I’m not sure about post-Ike, but I think the building still stands).

I found a couple of amusing ads for the beer that appeared in the Galveston Daily News. These two ads appeared in 1908 and 1909, and this campaign featuring the annoying “Otto” seems to have gone on for quite some time. The first one, from 1908, is my favorite:

The kids … they love the beer.

The second one, from 1909, isn’t as “enlightening” as the first, but it gives a nice nod to the hard-working (and always sober) Galveston brewery workers:

More successful, I think, (and certainly less didactic) is this typically lovely example of early-20th century advertising art, featuring beer-loving mermaids prettily washed up on the rocks below the Galveston seawall:

I am endlessly fascinated by the weirdness of advertising.

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Orange Julius!

Summer’s approaching and I have a real hankering for an Orange Julius. Apparently the chain has been bought up by Dairy Queen. As far as I know, the city of Dallas (proper) does not have a Dairy Queen in it, and it CERTAINLY doesn’t have an Orange Julius! Warren Buffet — you own Dairy Queen … rectify this!

When I was growing up there was an Orange Julius stand in a little shack-like building directly across the street from the Granada Theater on Greenville Avenue (it’s now Aw Shucks — a seafood place). It had a convenient walk-up window, and it was a frequent destination for my brother and me — a short walk from home. I also remember one in NorthPark Mall. Let’s just say I was a loyal (and frequent) customer. And then they disappeared. I went a good fifteen years without an Orange Julius until I was visiting Nashville a few years ago and somehow found myself walking through the daunting and overwhelming Opryland Mills when, suddenly, I saw an Orange Julius stand! After all those years! And it tasted exactly the same as I remembered it.

Since I am unable to pop into a local Orange Julius to satisfy my craving, I’ve had to figure out how to make my own at home. And I have. I’ve found a recipe that tastes just like the Orange Julius of my childhood. The secret ingredient is … powdered egg whites. You can get them at Whole Foods and probably most larger supermarkets — they come in a can that looks like a small Crisco can. (You could probably use regular egg whites, but I distinctly remember the people behind the Orange Julius counters adding in that scoop of mystery powder. It gives the drink some body, and it seems to aid in froth production. If you make the drink below without the egg whites it wil NOT taste like an Orange Julius. It’ll probably be good, but it won’t be an Orange Julius.) Also, I recommend using orange juice with the highest amount of pulp possible. Yes, it’s my preference, but I also remember those Juliuses being pulpy, and I’m going for nostalgia here. So pulp and powder are essential ingredients.

Here’s the recipe:

ORANGE JULIUS

1 cup orange juice
1 cup water
4 tsp. powdered egg whites (or 2 egg whites)
3/4 tsp. vanilla
1/4 cup sugar (seems like overkill, but this is necessary)
1 & 1/4 cup ice
Straw

Throw everything in that blender you haven’t used since that party where everyone got really drunk on banana daiquiris and that guy Tom or Tim or Ron or whatever his name was passed out in your hallway and you had to drive him home and on the way he threw up in your car, putting you right out of a party mood, and blend everything together on high for 30 seconds, or until there are no longer any pieces of ice. The more foam the better. Insert straw. Enjoy!

Makes two large servings.

UPDATE — Dec. 2012: A few weeks ago I happened across a Dairy Queen in a small Texas town that had a large sign inside touting that Orange Julius was finally on the menu! Excitedly, I ordered one and … yuck. It was awful. Like a cold drink made from powdered Sweet Tarts. No, worse. It tasted like a drink made from those little orange-flavored St. Joseph’s Children’s Aspirin (if they even still make those). Awful. AWFUL. Do yourself a favor, and make your own! It’s really easy, you use natural ingredients. and these Juliuses taste like the ORIGINAL!


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Red Hot / Diddly Squat

red hots I just got back from a search for red hots. After spending a nice day yesterday inside while it rained, I decided I needed to make some stewed apples — always a sign when I was a child that my favorite seasons, fall and winter, had arrived. My mother made stewed apples by cooking apples in a pot of water with copious amounts of dissolved red hots. So my shopping list was: apples, red hots.

I made the mistake of looking for these items while I was shopping at Central Market, the somewhat snooty gourmet food emporium. I eat a lot of apples, but I almost never cook with them, so it was a bit daunting to be confronted with 158 varieties of apples from which to choose. My mother couldn’t remember what type of apples she used to use, but she said she had just baked a tart using Gala apples, so I figured I’d give them a try.

Then I headed over to the section of bulk foods hoping to find some red hots. You can buy just about ANYTHING in the bulk section — including two weeks’ worth of bulk oatmeal for seventy-nine cents, but if you have a hankering for the — let’s face it — rather plebeian red hot at Central Market, you’re out of luck. The closest I came was a bin of Hot Tamales. I had only ever really seen Hot Tamales at movie theaters, and as I almost never partake of such hideously overpriced foodstuffs to chew on absent-mindedly while watching a movie (unless they are the somewhat elusive Sugar Babies), I’d never tasted one. They looked suspiciously like jelly beans. I asked a fellow shopper (a young woman who looked like she might have been in town for the Texas-OU football weekend — i.e. the drunken, vomit-soaked “Red River Shoot-Out” that descends on Dallas every year) if a Hot Tamale was, in fact, similar to a red hot. She didn’t know but fearlessly pulled the lever on the big plastic container and we both popped Hot Tamales into our mouths. Well … ick. I can’t stand the texture of jelly beans, and this was, basically, a Contac Time-Release capsule-shaped cinnamon-flavored jelly bean. Not the sort of thing I would imagine would “melt.” So I left with my apples and my scones and my stuffed salmon and my oatmeal, but without one of the two things I had actually left the house for.

I stopped at 7-Eleven on my way home. Afterall, 7-Eleven has lots of candy, right? … Well, they don’t have red hots. I saw a box of — hey! — Hot Tamales (“Chewy Cinnamon Flavored Candies” — “The Choice of NASCAR!”) and I decided to take a look at the ingredients. Not only didn’t I see mention ONE of cinnamon flavoring (natural or artificial), I saw that Hot Tamales are basically a tantalizing combination of corn syrup, modified food starch, pectin, something called “corn protein glaze,” carnauba WAX, and — yummy — mineral oil. So, no, they probably wouldn’t melt (hell, they probably don’t even digest), BUT one might buy a box of Hot Tamales safe in the knowledge that one could always — in a pinch — stick a wick in one for an emergency makeshift candle. (I suddenly feel duty-bound to forward this potentially life-saving tip to Hints From Heloise.) I bought a little box — just in case my candy search proved fruitless and I got desperate.

But worry not, I DID manage to track down a bag of red hots (aka “Cinnamon Imperials”) from the omnipresent Brach’s candy display at a nearby drugstore. Apple-stewing shall commence shortly. Like the smells of fresh-cut grass, smoke from wood-burning fireplaces, cucumber slices, chocolate chip cookies in the oven, popcorn in the basement of the old Sears store where our family shopped when I was about eight, and vanilla extract — the smell of stewed or baking apples wafting from the kitchen makes me feel calm and happy. So the Red Hot Search (as pedestrian as it was) was worth it.

***

Those apples call. I’ll go find a sweater I haven’t worn in months and curl up on the couch and watch an old black and white movie while I’m happily surrounded by the smell of apples and cinnamon. And I’ll look outside where it’s gray and rainy and I’ll imagine Autumn really IS here — brisk and chilly and full of promise. Maybe I’ll light a little Hot Tamale and bask in the glow of my NASCAR-approved candy votive. And I’ll be happy today.

***

After a second taste of Hot Tamales, I realize that they’re basically capsule-shaped gummi bears dipped in some sort of cinnamon-flavored candy shell. Two steps removed from wax lips!

Personally, I like using the red hots because they give the apples that frightening bright red color I remember from my childhood — one of those colors you can only really obtain with artificial colors.

My stewed appples were a success!

 

STEWED APPLES

4 small baking/stewing apples, cut into six wedges, peel left on, but cored

2 cups water

1/2 cup red hots

Bring water to a boil. Add red hots and stir until dissolved. Add apple wedges. Turn heat down and simmer, covered. Stir occasionally. Cook for twenty minutes, or until soft (but not falling apart).

 

apples


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Dublin Dr Pepper

texas-theater-1-20080303180725.jpg Dublin, Texas is a tiny town (pop. 3800) along Hwy. 67 past Stephenville. If you’ve heard of it, there’s only one reason: they bottle Dr Pepper there — the only place that produces Dr Pepper made with real cane sugar instead of corn syrup. (And, yes, it does taste better.) I took a trip to Dublin Saturday because it was a special day — October 2, 2004 — or … 10-2-4 — three numbers that have significance probably only to Texans over the age of 35 or so.*

I was expecting Dublin to be a little like Stratford-upon-Avon — a town that exists primarily as a cringe-inducing tourist attraction (I swear I saw a Merry Wives of Windsor laundrette and a Titus Andronicus chip shop when I was in Stratford). There was large billboard and a mural, but that was about it.

 

dp brickmural

 

I was a little disappointed it wasn’t cheesier.

Because of the special 10-2-4 day, there were several tourists milling about. I walked into the Old Doc’s Soda Shop (which, like the similar tourist stop attached to Sun Records in Memphis, serves as a sort of holding pen for people waiting to take a tour). Way too many people were lined up at the counter paying large sums of money for Dr Pepper memorabilia: shirts, bottle openers, commemorative bottles, Dr Pepper-flavored Jelly Belly jelly beans, Dr Pepper Beef Jerky (?!), Dr Pepper salt & pepper shakers, Dr Pepper jewelry, Dr Pepper Cake Mix, and all sorts of reproductions of Dr Pepper signs and Dr Pepper advertising. Two of the high school girls at the cash registers even had Dr Pepper temporary tattoos on their cheeks. These people certainly drink a LOT of Dr Pepper — and they’re proud.

I looked forward to touring the bottling plant — free 8 oz. bottle of ice cold Dr Pepper in hand — but, unfortunately, tours to watch actual bottling are available only on Wednesdays. I’m fascinated by great big industrial machines with conveyor belts — and I only wish the one I stood in front of had been operating then and there. The great big machine that is the centerpiece is both a giant bottle sterilizer as well as a … um … bottle filler-up-er. Syrup and carbonated water each have their own hoses, and the liquids remain unmixed in the bottles (with the syrup at the bottom and the water at the top) until they go through a device that turns each bottle over three times to permanently mix the drink. Somewhere along the line the bottle caps are pounded on. And at the end of the line, inspectors examine the bottles in front of light boxes to make sure the drinks are the proper color, with the right amount of syrup and carbonated water. Then the bottles are packed in crates (I was amused to see so many Dr Pepper bottles lounging in arch-rival Cocal Cola crates).

 

dp bottles

 

All of this is basically in one fairly small room. Apparently it is the oldest bottling plant in the world (est. 1891). It certainly seems quaint.

We also got a little tour through a museum with all sorts of interesting Dr Pepper-iana. I thought that the “Dr” in “Dr Pepper” had always been missing the period, but I found out the period was dropped only around 1950 because they changed fonts and the period made the drink’s name look like it had a colon in it — it looked like “Di: Pepper”. I also learned that the company stopped trying to push the idea of piping hot Dr Pepper with lemon (ick) as a holiday tradition because the new corn syrup formula of the 1970s scorched when heated and, apparently, made the unpleasant beverage taste even more disgusting than the original version made with sugar.

And the inevitable question about whether DP’s secret ingredient is prune juice was firmly shot down by our bubbly teenage tour guide. (The prune-juice-in-DP rumor is as prevalent among Texas school children as the rumor that JFK is being kept alive as a vegetable and resides in a secret room somewhere in Parkland Hospital.)

After the tour we were treated to yet more free soft drinks and a surprisingly good chocolate cake made with … what a surprise … Dr Pepper.

So, not a terribly exciting day, but I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Dr Pepper — mainly because the DP headquarters was four blocks away from the house I grew up in — a wonderful sprawling Deco building on a huge parcel of land that always seemed so odd to see right next to residential neighborhoods.

 

dp dallas

 

It was a sad, sad day when they tore it down a few years ago to make way for a Kroger, a gas station, and “edgy” apartments for Dallas’ relentlessly hip and fabulously well-groomed under-30 set.

On the drive back I passed these signs:

“TEXAS’ BEST COMPOST!”
“SPRUILL’S SHOW LAMBS & MEAT GOATS”

And a First Assembly of God Church boasted HELL HOUSE! on their marquee (and I’m not absolutely sure it had anything to do with Halloween).

 

*10-2-4: An advertising ploy intended to get people to drink a sugary pick-me-up at the times of the day it had been determined the body begins to slump: at 10 a.m., at 2 p.m., and at 4 p.m. It’s like, you know, medicinal.

 

dp1024label

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Anyone For Clamato?

clamato drink So I’m driving down the street yesterday and I see a billboard that says, simply but forcefully, “Clamato y Cerveza !” Yes, indeedy. I’ve never actually had Clamato, but as I understand it, we’re looking at a mixture of tomato juice and clam juice (… that’s the juice of a clam — and I’m not exactly sure what that means — just how is this “juice” extracted?). That sounds disgusting enough, but then you go and add BEER to it. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.<

Apparently, there is a similar drink (though in a non-clam version) popular amongst the locals up in Wichita Falls, Texas called "Red Draw" — beer and tomato juice. How do things like this happen? At least they had the good sense not to taint it with the “juice” of a bivalve.

I checked out the Clamato website (a phrase I’m guessing is uttered infrequently) and found their delightful “bar page.” In case you want to whip up a “Clamato y Cerveza ” in the privacy of your own home, you need the following: Clamato, beer, Tabasco sauce, lime juice, salt, and something called chile piquin. Mix it up and pour it into an opaque glass (…because, I mean … really, who wants to look at that?), and, shoot, you’re ready to go to town. Maybe some clam-froth to top it off. And, what the hell, plop a big ol’ clam or two into the glass as a whimsical garnish. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Clam-a-licious!

I see they’re also trying to get Clamato-ites to experiment further — with tequila and vodka which, though still clammy, sounds enough like a Bloody Mary to not be completely disgusting — certainly more of a potent potable than the bewildering combo of tomato/clam juice and BEER. (Oh dear — I just saw the ingredients for the “Clamato Dorado” which involves Clamato, bourbon and … ginger ale. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.)

Sadly, I don’t see a refreshing non-alcoholic beverage for people who like to consume their recommended daily allowance of clams without fear of intoxication. Might I suggest a classy, French-ified “Clamato au Lait.” (Or if we’re still hating the French, I guess we could just call it “Clamato Olé.”) I can’t think of a better way to start the day than a big glass of red, curdled milk with a piquant clam aftertaste. Olé, indeed!

Well, I’m off for a relaxing nightcap of Chamomile and catfish juice. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

 

clam cross-section


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SPIGOT CHEESE, DEVIL DOGS & SCHWAN’S HOME DELIVERY

cheese_dispenser1.gifI moseyed into a 7-Eleven the other day — as one does. I picked up a newspaper and a Diet Coke and sighed heavily when I saw that there were 57 uniformed grade schoolers in front of me, fresh from a hard day’s work at the nearby private school. (Should one really have to stand in line in a “convenience” store?) This gave me a chance to notice my surroundings (which I rarely do in a 7-Eleven). I know they’ve sold hot dogs and nachos and some other brownish, withered cylindrical foods I can’t identify that roll around on a sort of metal treadmill, but today I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: a machine set up next to the hot dogs. It looked like a self-serve drink machine. It had two spigots — one for chili and one for cheese. Okay. I can almost accept the chili faucet, but … damn — I don’t want to live in a society that dispenses “cheese” from a Big Gulp machine. “Have more cheese!” I think the sign said. I’m not talking about a pump here — those are, sadly, ubiquitous, and I have wincingly accepted them. This thing looked like the kind of soft drink machine you set your cup under and voila! … CHEESE! All that was missing was the ice dispenser in the middle. The potential for abuse is … well … it would seem to be unavoidable. What if I wanted a Super Big Gulp-quantity of “cheese”? Would they object? What about a “cone” made of tortilla chips with the “cheese” dispensed like a soft-serve ice cream cone? With a little curl on top. And then dipped in chocolate. I felt queasy. God knows I eat as much junk food as the next person (probably more), but I’ve never understood the phenomenon of pourable cheese. That’s just not right. Not right at all.

 

More recently I noticed (in the very same 7-Eleven) a new product that, I think, is a breakfast item. It’s ALSO one of those cylindrical things that tumbles endlessly on metal rollers. Something like a corny dog-shaped, breaded or battered thing with bits of sausage and … gravy! … inside. Gravy. Wow. That looked nigh on inedible. Kind of like a normal person’s breakfast of sausage and biscuits and gravy, but instead — for convenience — compressed into a long tube that you can eat on your morning commute. I bet the astronauts eat those in space! (Hmmm … maybe gravy in a handy dispenser….)

 

Speaking of junk food, I was trying to describe a Pink Thing the other day. Are these available anywhere but Six Flags Over Texas in Arlington? Very definitely amusement park fare. It’s a sort of pink-flavored (…I don’t know what the actual flavor is but it tastes pink…) frozen ice cream … thing on a plastic stick. When you’ve licked away the last remnants of pink noveltiness, you’ve got a little surprise — a cartoon character or something artfully carved out of the plastic stick. I wonder if they even still make them? I think I would feel too self-conscious, as an adult, asking a pimply-faced teen-aged kid, “So. I’d really like a … ‘Pink Thing’. Can you help me out … big boy?”

 

And what happened to Mrs. Baird’s Devil Dogs? A Devil Dog was a sort of cupcake, shaped kind of like … I don’t know … a squashed hot dog, I guess, made with devil’s food cake and a creme filling. Mrs. Baird’s Bread is a North Texas tradition. Until its recent re-location, the factory used to be near the neighborhood I grew up in. Right outside the main factory was a little outlet store that sold day-old bread and other assorted day-old things. My father always called it the Used Bread Store. That was our Devil Dog stop. There’s nothing like a Day-Old Devil Dog. Feel free to quote me on that. But, seriously, I haven’t seen a devil dog in years.

 

And speaking of convenience food, I saw a Schwan’s truck not long ago! In Dallas? I was introduced to Schwan’s trucks out in the Big Bend area where the nearest grocery store could be a hundred miles away, over desert and mountains. Schwan’s drivers deliver frozen food right to people’s doorsteps. I never thought about it, but how else would people in the desert ever be able to eat store-bought ice cream or anything else that requires freezing? Need a frozen entree? Orange roughy, perhaps? No problem! Just wait for the yellow Schwan-mobile to drive up and the nice Schwan driver will pull one out of the Orange Roughy compartment! Sort of a frozen-food automat on wheels. And you don’t even have to put up with the annoying ever-present “Turkey In The Straw” blaring at you. So I can see that Schwan’s would be a welcome luxury to people who live a million miles away from the nearest Dairy Queen or Kroger’s. But … Dallas? I don’t know how many people live here (TOO DAMN MANY) — but it’s well over a million. I’m assuming there are more than enough places to purchase ice cream sandwiches and frozen french fries here in town. Maybe they make deliveries in the Big City and I’ve just never seen a truck here. Either that or the driver made a really wrong turn somewhere.

 

schwans-truck.jpg


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