Bold Fashioned
Game Play
Crudité & Garlic Hummus Dip
Buffalo Cauliflower
Merry Cranberry Mule
Cauliflower Sliders
Cucumber Elderflower G&T
Mushroom Truffle Pizza
Pan-Roasted Shishito Peppers
Sweet Musings with a Bitterly Sharp Wit
If you’ve ever looked at molten lava and though, “dang, that looks tasty!” then the Carolina Reaper is the pepper for you. Specifically engineered over the course of 10 years to be hot enough to strip the paint off your car, these chilies are no joke. For all the hype and hyperbole, they are every bit as hot, if not hotter, than you would think. Ranging from 1.6 – 2.2 million Scoville Heat Units, they don’t just taste like fire, they taste like napalm. It’s a burn that you can’t escape, that engulfs you from the inside out. Even for someone that can’t get enough of spicy food, this would put them over their limit with just the tiniest bite.
For many years, the Carolina Reaper officially certified as the world’s hottest chili pepper, only to be stripped of the title by Pepper X in 2023. Regardless, this gnarled, blood-red fruit is every bit as dangerous as before. They have, in fact, sent people to the hospital. Under no circumstances would I suggest actually taking a chop out of one, even in minute amounts. Agony is the mildest way to describe the sensation.
Somehow, I came to find a handful of these delightful little warheads in my possession. I like spicy food just fine, but I also enjoy retaining use of all my senses, so I had a reasonable amount of fear when considering how to dispatch them. Your only options for using Carolina Reapers are either making hot sauce or pesticide. They’re not quite at the level of bear repellent spray, though I think you could still do some serious damage to a would-be attacker if you bottled the puree. At a certain point in the process, “hot sauce” started sounding (and feeling) like “hurt sauce,” as a more accurate descriptor.
If I haven’t scared you off yet, keep in mind some safety precautions specific to this prep:
Flavor is secondary to the fire power of this sauce. Use the tiniest amount if you want to taste the food underneath, starting at 1/4 teaspoon for an entire bowlful, if not potful, of chili, for example. Don’t worry, it will still deliver a searing burn at that dosage. This one is only for the insane spice fiends, always diluted in food, and by all means, not to be underestimated.
Some seasonings get all the love. Who doesn’t have a bottle of chili powder somewhere in the kitchen? Salt and pepper are so ubiquitous, they don’t even count as ingredients in some recipes. Even something so amorphous as “Italian seasoning” is instantly understood. Then, we have makulaya. Not to be confused with the seeds of the makulaya tree, popular in African and Caribbean cuisines, the makulaya I’m talking about is the combination of herbs and spices that join forces as an instant meal starter for Ethiopian dishes. If not for Red Fox Spices, I would still be completely ignorant of this understated cornerstone of Ethiopian cooking.
Makulaya is described as a sautéing blend, meaning that it’s best bloomed in a hot skillet at the beginning of the cooking process, just as you would temper spices when preparing Indian or Thai curries. That intense, direct heat releases the essential oils, unlocking its full flavorful potential. Warm and earthy, aromatic and grounding, it’s a more delicate, gentle flavor than Ethiopian dishes are typically known for. That’s also why it’s rarely seen solo, often paired off with fiery berbere for emphasis.
Nigella seeds and bishop’s weed make up the foundation of the mixture, explaining a good amount of the mystique for American cooks. Neither are easily accessible in mainstream grocery stores and few recipes shine a light that might help change that.
Rounding out the blend to make makulaya are cardamom, garlic, and ginger. Together, they bring floral sweetness, savory depth, and gentle heat that unify the mixture, designed to support stronger flavors rather than overpower them.
Most commonly seen in recipes for misser wot and doro wot, additional suggestions are few and far between. It’s not for lack of versatility, but because makulaya remains largely unknown abroad, rarely explored beyond its traditional context. Such a shame to squander all that potential, confining it to only one or two uses! What’s more, it doesn’t need to be literally sautéed for maximum impact, opening up a wider range of high-heat preparations, like roasting, grilling, or dry toasting.
Think of makulaya as an aromatic base that can move far beyond stews:
Bringing it back home for a more concrete example, candied yams are a prime canvas for showcasing the compelling flavor of makulaya, where its warm, earthy aromatics deepen the natural sweetness of the potatoes without tipping the dish into dessert territory. Yes, I did say potatoes, if you can allow the momentary tangent; though the dish has been called “candied yams” since its inception, it rarely uses the tuber of its namesake. Sweet potatoes are softer and creamier, more widely available in America, and were often mislabeled as “yams” a century ago. To this day, we’re stuck with the title of the dish, despite the sweet potato base.
Makulaya fits in naturally here, adding layers of flavor that linger without overwhelming the palate. Tender, rich, festive, yet appropriate for all occasions, it belongs on more mundane menus too, not just the holiday table. Besides, with only a few minutes of prep work and half a dozen ingredients all told, there’s never been an easier way to try a new flavor sensation.
Makulaya may never become a household name in the US, but that’s precisely what makes cooking with it so rewarding. It asks very little of the cook while offering a depth of flavor that feels both grounding and transportive. Whether folded into a familiar dish or used as the first building block of something new, makulaya invites a broader way of thinking about spice: not as a finishing flourish, but as a foundation. Once you start reaching for it, the question quickly shifts from why try makulaya? to why not use it more often?
While all signs point to a declining appetite for fast food hamburgers, fried chicken sandwiches are hot and ready to take up the slack. You’d think that simply slapping a bun around the standard staple would be a forgettable adaptation, but less than 80 years ago, it simply wasn’t done.
That historical oversight has now been corrected with a dizzying swiftness that borders on violence. Anyone can and will attempt to peddle their own version with widely varied results. I think we can all agree that no matter what, the best versions should be immaculately crisp, audaciously juicy, and boldly seasoned. Toppings should be minimal to allow that thick patty to shine.
Sink your teeth into the plush brioche bun, meeting just the slightest resistance from a toasted edge, before reaching the treasure within. Crisp, cool coleslaw contrasts against the star of the show at the center of the action, dressed in its finest golden-brown fried breading. Ketchup, both sharp and sweet, anchors the bite in comforting nostalgia. It’s all so satisfying, so familiar, and yet… Melting away, like a half-forgotten dream.
It would be tough to truly trick someone with this trompe l’œil ice cream sandwich, a dessert masquerading as lunch, though the best pranks are harmlessly on par, if you ask me. Inspired by “fried” ice cream which has never once gone near a vat of bubbling oil, it starts with a pint of vegan ice cream sliced into four perfect rounds. Crushed corn flake cereal is pressed into the surface to form a crunchy crust, then stashed in the freezer until ready to serve. Shredded green apples with a touch of lemon, maple syrup, and mint makeup the slaw, while the ketchup is merely thinned-out strawberry jam. The bun is still a toasted brioche bun, sweet enough to pass muster as a confection as is.
Is it excessive? Sure, and isn’t a proper fried chicken sandwich squarely over the line for everyday indulgence, too? For a crowd-pleasing shortcut, you could always just serve your chicken-fried ice cream over waffles with maple syrup. If you play your cards right, that could even be considered an acceptable breakfast, no fooling.
I know, I’m a cheap date, but one of my favorite things at Eldorado Cafe is completely free. The first basket brimming with tortilla chips arrives sometimes before you even secure a seat, no questions asked, aside from which type of salsa you want. From mild to wild, there’s not a single wrong answer, and it would serve you well to double down with an extra order or two. However, I can confidently say that Salsa X, which falls in the middle of the road in terms of heat, is absolutely at the top of the hierarchy.
Salsa X could easily be overlooked. Rusty orange, emulsified to a creamy consistency, it’s smooth aside from some flecks of charred chilies and spice. Unadorned and unpretentious, the flavors speak for themselves. Deeply roasted tomatoes, ripe with umami, meet with a gradual heat that builds to a comfortable smolder. Balanced by acidity to cut through the richness of the roasted elements, there’s a subtle, natural sweetness that smooths out the edges, preventing any bitterness from creeping in. For something so simple, it’s remarkably layered in complex flavor.
Taking second place twice in the Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival for the restaurant red sauce category, I know I’m not alone in my obsession. Still, no one seems to have quite cracked the code for a perfect replica, nor even figured out why it’s called “Salsa X.” I can’t help with the latter, but I’d like to take a shot at the former.
To reverse engineer this Tex-Mex masterpiece, we need to start at the source. A bit of internet sleuthing reveals the base ingredients: tomato, onion, garlic, chile de arbol, chile morita, water, oil, salt. From there, it strikes me as having a similar construction as doña sauce, replacing the fresh jalapeño with toasted chilies, and roasting up tomatoes and onions for a bit more body. Could it really be that simple?
I would never be so bold as to say that it’s perfect replica. I would, however, say that it’s pretty damn close. Smooth, subtly smoky, and savory, with heat that slowly blooms, but never overwhelms.
Every ingredient, few as they are, carries incredible weight in the final blend. Technique is just as important too; this is no dump-and-stir recipe. Take time to properly roast the vegetables and toast the chilies, and your patience will be rewarded. Restaurants benefit from scale, equipment, and repetition that’s hard to match, but home cooks have the upper hand when it comes to attention to detail. You have the power to adjust to taste, either in the heat or consistency, until it’s just right. Maybe, you’ll end up with something entirely different, in a good way. Maybe you’re just a step away from discovering Salsa Y or Z.
Until Eldorado Cafe takes mercy on us salsa-lovers and bottles the stuff for sale nationwide, I’m reasonably content with my copycat, interspersed with visits for the real deal, of course.
Oleo saccharum sounds like it belongs on a dusty apothecary shelf, christened with an antiquated Latin name and sealed up tight. While it’s true that the technique was created centuries ago in the heyday of medicinal potions veering curiously close to the realm of witchcraft, this is one concoction that’s every bit as welcome at the bar today. Calling it “syrup” like any other plain sugar solution does a disservice to the full bouquet of flavor found within. Oleo saccharum tastes like fruit that has given up its very soul into a sweet, glossy elixir.
Oleo saccharum predates cocktail culture and even refrigeration itself. Made from scraps, it was a thrifty way to prevent waste and preserve citrus flavor long after the fruit itself had vanished from the market.
Literally meaning “oil sugar,” oleo saccharum is osmosis in action. Granulated sugar and citrus peels, not the fruit or juice itself, are always at the foundation. Sometimes that’s all it is, other times, anything from fresh rosemary to sliced jalapenos could be invited to the party. Over the course of one or two days, without any further intervention, the crystalline sweetener liquefies, infused with the pure aromatic essence locked inside the zest. What you’re left with is a syrup that tastes brighter, perfumed rather than sharp, ideal for making balanced yet bold cocktails.
Use a vegetable peeler, not a microplane, to slice wide ribbons of zest with as little white pith as possible. Toss them with an equal amount of sugar by weight and roughly muddle to release the essential oils. Then, all you have to do is cover and wait. By the next day, the sugar will be damp. By the following, the peels will be fully submerged in the thick, sticky liquid. Strain out the solids, pressing to reclaim every last drop, and store the syrup in the fridge for the greatest longevity. It should keep for anywhere from 1 – 3 months.
When you want to experiment with different additions, consider the following, but bear in mind that citrus (lemon, lime, orange, grapefruit, etc.) should always take up the bulk of the solution. Add complimentary flavors sparingly:
I’ve also heard tales of swapping out the citrus base for things as wild as banana peels and apple peels, but you’re on your own with those experiments.
Oleo saccharum is a bartender’s best friend, perfect for using instead of less potent simple syrup, but that’s far from the end of it. beyond cocktails, consider:
Oleo saccharum is an old fashioned antidote to modern waste. If you, too, can look at a pile of discarded peels and see potential instead of trash, oleo saccharum is for you. Extracting every last drop of life from what we usually throw away makes the transformation all the more gratifying. Anyone with a bit of sugar and patience can pull off such a feat. All you need to do is get started.