Rice Pudding Paradox

How do you make rice pudding without rice? No, that’s not a pun, but a genuine question that Justice Thurgood Marshall asked himself before creating Farmers Rice Pudding (Rice Not Included). A gem of Depression era cooking, making the most of meager rations, I can’t help but respect such reckless creativity.

It’s hard to imagine a time when rice, renowned for being abundant and affordable, would be subject to such shortages. In the early 1900’s, however, most American farmers focused their efforts on wheat and corn, leaving rice production concentrated in a relatively small number of regions along the Gulf Coast and in parts of California. Domestic production alone wasn’t enough to meet growing demand and imports were out of the question on rapidly shrinking budgets.

The technique itself, of cutting an egg into flour until it resembles tiny grains, is much older than the Depression. It’s a traditional Central and Eastern European method used to make tiny dumplings or noodles, such as Hungarian tarhonya, nokedli, or German spaetzle. These dishes are usually savory, rather than sweet, saying more about the American proclivity for sugar than anything else. Even in tough times, we must have our desserts.

While my pantry will never be without rice, the same can be said of flour. And oh, so many types of flour at that! Driven now by innovation rather than scarcity, this recipe presents a unique opportunity for customization. Personally, I adore all-purpose einkorn flour and will always use it over conventional white wheat, which is exactly what I did here. It adds an uncanny buttery flavor and flaxen color, to say nothing of all the vitamins, minerals, fiber, and protein, especially compared to long grain white rice. Studded with tiny dumplings, chewy but yielding, I might like it even better than the conventional whole grain custard.

Justice Marshall was clearly ahead of his time. Riceless pudding never garnered the same acclaim as mock apple pie or wacky cake, which is a real shame. Maybe rice pudding was just never as popular as other desserts, too homely to share, even in a time before social media. It may sound like a novelty, but I’m shocked to find myself making it as a regular treat now. For such humble fare, it really tastes stunningly decadent.

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Wordless Wednesday: A Spoonful of Sugar

Zucchini Kill Bakery – Queen Cake Doughnut
Zucchini Kill Bakery – Rebel Swrrrl Swiss Rolls
Mission Burger Co. – Soft Serve
Unicorniverse – Ube Brownie
Unicorniverse – Strawberry Chocolate, Salted Caramel, and White Chocolate Raspberry Macarons
Unicorniverse – Speculoos Blondie
Unicorniverse – Cookies and Cream Croissant, Chocolate Pecan Tart

The One Pho – Three Color Dessert (Chè Ba Màu)
MilkMade ATX – White Chocolate Strawberry Fudge Ripple
Insomnia Cookies – Vegan Chocolate Chunk and Vegan Birthday Cake Cookies
Community Kitchen + Taproom – Mini Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake

Buckling Under Pressure

You’ll have to believe me when I said I laid out the most beautiful design for this dessert. Graceful swooping spirals of jam marbled the batter with artfully arranged baby figs on top. They gleamed, catching the light of the oven, as I carefully closed the door. And were promptly swallowed by the cake rising up from below.

Buckle Up

That’s just what buckles do. I knew this, and even had a passing thought that I should photography the dish before baking, and I still failed to capture evidence. At least, I know that I’ve made the recipe correctly, likely suffering the same initial disappointment of my ancestors, seeing all their hard work disappear into the buttery abyss.

What’s a Buckle?

I like to describe the buckle as a confused cobbler. The batter goes on the bottom, rather than being dropped in dollops on top, but then somehow still ends up on top of the fruit. As it bakes, the cake rises around the filling, puffing and cracking until the surface looks rumpled. Performing an explanation of the name without saying a word, the top appears to “buckle” under the weight of all that juicy fruit. Unlike a crisp or crumble, where the fruit is unquestionably the star, a buckle strikes a happy balance between cake and compote. Every bite delivers tender, buttery crumb soaked with vibrant fruit juices, punctuated by pockets of jammy sweetness.

Fig-ment of Your Imagination

Gifted with tiny fresh figs from a neighbor’s tree, mine didn’t even need to be chopped. You should have seen how cute they were before disappearing into the abyss of batter. At least the flavor speaks for itself, imbued with a mellow honeyed sweetness, amplified by ribbons of fig jam that pool at the bottom in a gooey caramelized layer.

Designed to Fail

If this is your first buckle, take a moment to admire your handiwork before it goes into the oven. The fruit will sink, the cake will rise, and your carefully composed masterpiece will exist only in memory. Far from a flaw, it’s exactly what makes this dessert a keeper.

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Do’s and Do-ughnut’s

When I got my first air fryer, there’s nothing I wouldn’t put in it. Whole pies, seitan roasts, random leftovers; things that absolutely did not need to be air fried, and probably would have been better if not. More than the promise of cooking with less fat, it was the convenience and speed that reeled me in. The promise of never navigating a vat of bubbling hot oil didn’t hurt, though.

Naturally, pushing it to the extreme limits of this concept, I had to try my hand at doughnuts. Yeasted doughnuts seemed too easy, or maybe just too precious for something I was fully prepared to get wrong. Cake doughnuts were a challenge within a puzzle, lighting up the problem-solving part of my brain like a glow stick, since there was no way in hell I could fit a conventional metal mold in that tiny countertop oven.

The trick is to make a batter as thick as cookie dough, easily sculpted in the palm of your hands. Landing somewhere between a light brownie and a dense cupcake, these rustic rings have a homespun kind of charm as a result. Those ridges and dips catch the glaze differently, creating little pockets of sweetness that contrast with the darker, more cocoa-forward crumb underneath.

How this recipe could sit in my drafts for all these years is beyond me. Unlike many other unhinged air fryer experiments, this one has withstood the test of time, even if that original air fryer didn’t withstand my trials.

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Playing Favarites

Why would a dip called “fava” not be made from fava beans? Language is a funny thing, especially when trying to transpose a different one with your own. Quite simply, the Greek word fava refers to what we know as yellow split peas in English. If you wanted the broad, flat legumes instead, those would be koukia; another beloved staple across the Greek islands.

Peas and Thank You

After my initial confusion, the attraction was immediate. Yellow split peas have long been a favorite for cozy soups and stews, and I’m certainly no stranger to creamy bean dips the world over. Continuing life without a suitable recipe under my belt was unthinkable.

Certified Inauthentic

Don’t call the authenticity police on me. I’m well aware that this is far from a “legitimate” fava dip, as the genuine legumes are highly regulated to maintain their distinctive terroir. As a Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) food, only yellow split peas that are grow in Santorini can legally be labeled as such. I’ve heard tales that Santorini fava are sweeter and have a smoother texture than other split peas thanks to the mineral-rich volcanic soil of the island, though I’m not fortunate enough to personally confirm nor deny such a statement. I can promise you, however, than regular old, unprestigious split peas make a damn fine dip. You could really rock the boat and use green split peas, too. Just don’t blame me if officials find out and you’re banned from entering Greece at a later date.

Split Decision

Maybe the golden color is playing tricks on my mind, but I swear each velvety dollop, dip, and spoonful has an almost buttery finish. Topping with capers and diced red onion is essential to create the perfect bite, lending a briny, salt, and sharp highlight to what might otherwise fall a little flat. Wrapped in soft, warm pita bread or scooped up with crisp veggies, even this large batch will go fast. It could definitely give the average hummus a run for its money.

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Welcome to Margaritaville

How is it possible that here in Texas, we have no officially designated state beverage? Only 32 of our 50 states have bestowed that title on their beverage of choice, and I must say, I’m roundly unimpressed by those efforts too. Twenty of those went with milk and one (Indiana, I’m looking at you) chose water. Water. Who voted on this?

At least some are trying to pick up the slack, selecting both a plebeian potable and a cocktail or spirit. Much respect to Wisconsin and their preference for a brandy old fashioned, Maryland, Virginia, and Alabama sidling up to the bar for whiskey, Maryland coming back for an Orange Crush which they also share with Delaware, and Nevada inviting everyone to the party with Pisco Punch.

With such a rich history of drinking under our belts, I’d like to start a bid to make the margarita the official beverage of the Lone Star State. Not a single establishment serving alcohol would omit such a staple from the menu, though it’s such an obvious choice that some don’t even go through the trouble of putting it in print. Ask for a margarita and you shall receive. Beyond Texas, it’s the single most popular cocktail in the entire country, in fact; we just like to think that we do it best.

While we wait for Texan bureaucrats to realize that the margarita is the only logical candidate for the job, I’ve found a way to bring that tangy, tequila-spiked spirit to the dessert table. If we can’t legislate the cocktail into the state archives yet, we can certainly bake it into the local culture.

Slice-and-bake margarita shortbread cookies capture the fun of happy hour without the risk of a hangover. Yes, there is a splash of tequila in the mix, but it shakes out to roughly 1/6 teaspoon per serving. Total teetotalers can simply swap in water, if that amount remains a concern. More importantly, to mimic the complex citrus profile of a top-shelf pour, the dough is heavily perfumed with both lime and orange zest. It’s the bright, aromatic punch you expect before the first sip. Each log of dough is rolled in coarse colored sugar before slicing. It creates a shimmering, crunchy crust that perfectly imitates the iconic salt rim, albeit in a sweeter way.

While the “Indiana approach” to beverages might be safe and hydrating, Texas deserves a profile with a bit more bite. These cookies offer a loophole to the legislative lag, serving up our currently unofficial state cocktail one citrusy, sugar-rimmed slice at a time. Until Texas finally puts a ring (or a rim) on it, these shortbreads are the most delicious way to cast your vote for the margarita.

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