I'm going to Wichita / Far from this opera forever more.

Chicken-fried steak and eggs at Jimmy's Egg. © Ryan Schierling

We do not eat poorly. Truly. 

But when we're on the road, any and all respectable regimens of normal dietary discipline go out the window at 75-miles per hour, sometimes even before we leave Austin proper. I'd like to think that I can blame it on genetics – mom always packed boxes of Cheez-Its for vacations, and dad had to make pit-stops for Dr Pepper and peanuts – but the truth is, the road is kind of like the bottle. "It don't make you do a thing, it just lets you."*

Wichita, Kansas is 543 miles from Austin, Texas. There are a number of other, perhaps more desirable destinations within that 543-mile radius. Tampico, Chihuahua and Ciudad Juarez in Mexico. New Orleans, Louisiana. Mobile, Alabama. Jackson, Mississippi. Las Cruces, New Mexico. Certainly these are all more favorable locales than the largest city in Kansas? Perhaps. Depends on your history, and what your motivations are. We are headed to Wichita.

Micklethwait Craft Meats.

Tom Micklethwait, moving meat. © Ryan Schierling

Barbecue in Central Texas is getting progressively more difficult.

Thanks to the telegraph, the telegram, the radio, the telephone, the television, the barbecue televangelists, the godless liberal media and the internet, there are no secrets anymore. Luling, Llano, Lexington, Lockhart? Austin. AUSTIN. This town is loaded with the new-guarde when it comes to the old-style, and we're wearing the biggest, baddest buckle in the barbecue belt. 

Julie and I drive up East 11th, passing a queue easily in the hundreds already at Franklin Barbecue. It's 9:30 in the morning… today, Sunday, and that's a regular thing. A week after a Franklin spread graced a gloriously glossy cover of Texas Monthly's issue with "The 50 Best BBQ Joints in Texas in the World!" I drive around the north side of the building, just to see where the line ends, and it's halfway around the block. I smile, because Aaron and Stacy are some of the nicest folks we've met in Austin, they deserve every bit of success, and also probably a good nap. We have a previous engagement with a man and some meat, so we continue up the street. 

If you come to the fork in the road at East 11th and Rosewood, take a left. You will pass East End Wines, Raymond Tatum's Three Little Pigs trailer, the RS Food Mart, and if you're not careful, you'll also pass Micklethwait Craft Meats. On the right side of the street, tucked into a bit of a dip in the landscape, is a pale yellow trailer with a smoker next to it. Follow your nose.

Oklahoma prime rib redux.

Fried smoked baloney sandwich with dill pickle spread. © Ryan Schierling

"What the hell are you smoking?"

I get that question from time to time, especially when I come up with oddities like Chicken-fried Chicken a la King Ranch Chicken or the unholy marriage of gas-station snack-pack jerky and cheese inside a homemade jalapeño popper. But today, since you asked, I'm actually smoking bologna, thank you.

Bologna, Italy would have been my first guess as to the genesis of smoked bologna. They probably figured out every way imaginable to prepare that mishmash meat loaf and I'm betting the guy that perfected it wasn't named Oscar Meyer. But, from what I've heard, Italy didn't want to have anything to do with this bastard-child treatment of their lard-studded mortadella. The Sooner State takes full responsibility for the further preparation of this one.

As with any legendary regional recipe, there are disputes when it comes to origins. Cheap and plentiful, fried bologna sandwiches have been around forever, and everyone from states south of the Mason-Dixon line probably has a fond childhood memory of their favorite version. Smoked bologna is another tall-tale altogether, with a pair of pushpins stuck squarely in a map of Oklahoma – one in Tulsa and the other in Oklahoma City. Stories go back fifty or sixty years about the creation of "Oklahoma prime rib" and wherever it started, you know there had to be some drinking involved. 

The devil made me do it.

The fruits of the devil... vegetarian deviled ham spread on crackers. © Ryan Schierling

Deviled ham is disgusting. 

Wait, what? You don't agree? Okay, go get one of those tins of the deviled ham with Old Scratch on the side – the ones that have been manufactured by the same company since 1868. Oh, and walk over to the pet supplies aisle and fetch a can of dog food with pork in it. 

Put on a blindfold. Have someone crack both tins open and wave them around under your nose, one by one, then tell me which one is the deviled ham. You can't. Spread a little of each on a cracker and keep that blindfold on. Pop those crackers into your mouth and let me know what you think. Indistinguishable, no? 

I've prepared and eaten a lot of questionable foodstuffs in the name of research, and progress, and… boredom. I've never made a Beggin' Strips, lettuce and tomato sandwich, but I've taken a few shots in the gut for the team. I like the idea of deviled ham, and I've eaten it infrequently enough to have a sentimentality-fueled craving once every three or four years. Last week, I bought a couple little tins of Underwood® deviled ham and some buttery crackers to snack on, and boy was my nostalgia disappointed. It was beyond bland – nearly tasteless and textureless – with a scent that made our cats come running to the kitchen. I ignored the congealed yellow fat immediately under the pop-top lid. By this human's standards, it was nearly inedible. The kids have less discerning palates, and scarfing down the pork and associated gelatinous fat would probably give them a kitty cardiac event. 

Austin Bakes for West, Texas.

 A good old-fashioned bake sale for a worthy cause.

What we love about Austin being such a food-centric town is that we're part of a greater community – one of chefs, restaurateurs, food writers, bloggers and food and drink aficionados who not only organize in appreciation of food, but to pool their energy and talents to help others. 

This month I am excited to be baking for the Austin Bakes for West event on Saturday, May 4. This delicious fundraising event will be from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. in eight locations around the Austin-metro area and there's a venue near you. 

• Bee Cave: Whole Foods Market, 12601 Hill Country Blvd, Bee Cave, TX 78738
• Central: Foreign & Domestic, 306 E. 53rd Street, 78751
• Central: Stiles Switch BBQ & Brew, 6610 N Lamar Blvd, 78757
• Downtown: Whole Foods Market, 525 N. Lamar Boulevard, 78703
• East: Springdale Farm, 755 Springdale Road, 78702
• North: Whole Foods Market, 9607 Research Boulevard #300, 78759
• Round Rock: Round Rock Market 221 E. Main Street, Round Rock, 78664
• South: Crema Bakery, 9001 Brodie Lane, Suite B, 78748

We put a lot of love into our baking at Foie Gras Hot Dog, and we're sharing in hopes that our friends, family and neighbors will come out to support those in West who have been so terribly affected by the explosion that devastated their city.

For more information about this bake sale and supporting Austin Bakes, please visit austinbakes.com.

East Austin salsa shootout.

Margo's salsa. © Ryan Schierling

In Texas, the most important food contests and cook-offs involve barbecue, chili, and salsa or hot sauce.

There are as many opinions on salsa as there are types of salsa, and the stuff is so cheap and plentiful in the Lone Star state you'll never go wanting. Like breakfast tacos, it's just something Julie and I take for granted.

For years, we never entertained the idea or explored the possibilities of making our own. Our "house" salsa was a store-bought, fiery little number made in Telephone, Texas. It just worked for us, and that was that. When a tortilleria down the street opened up last year, we started buying freshly-made tubs of a delicious roasted rojo and a fresh, piquant verde. The flavors were so much more crisp and unadulterated, and a 16-ounce container was under two bucks. Say hello to the new "house" salsa...

A few months ago, Julie's friend Margo brought totopos and fresh salsa for a party. It was a roasty, spicy, smoky kick in the face and everyone loved it. Growing up, Margo's grandmother would make a special pico de gallo every Saturday. "It had loads of lime and tomatillos and an entire bunch of cilantro. A part of me keeps that flavor in the back of my mind every time I hear the word salsa." Her salsa recipe is a heritage-driven nod to her grandmother, with her own twists based on the ways her palate has changed since she was little – and it is some of the best table salsa we've ever eaten.

Last week, we got an email from RL Reeves, Jr. asking if we'd like to participate in a salsa shootout at his next pop-up restaurant event at Tamale House East. We were flattered, and a little baffled. Though we make pico de gallo and salsa verde often, there's not a single salsa recipe on Foie Gras Hot Dog. It was either develop our own version quickly, or make a batch of what was inevitably bound to be our new "house" salsa – salsa de Margo.

Tortas de coliflor tacos.

Our new "house" taco - tortas de coliflor (cauliflower). © Ryan Schierling

It's been some time since a new taco recipe has graced the pages of this humble blog. There are taco joints a-plenty in this town and every home cook has a private claim to fame – such is the nature of good Austin living.

To date we've stayed true to our mission statement, entertaining ourselves here with stupendously highbrow and treacherously lowbrow tacos, plus a couple in between. But these tacos with their little cakes of tender, sweet cauliflower have, in a matter of just a few weeks, become our new "house" taco. As in "just you try and stop me from eating these every day!" 

I wish we could take credit for the concept, but we know a good thing when we taste it and Papalote Taco House on South Lamar in Austin gets our respectful nod. Papalote is a friendly little taco purveyor with an assortment of creative and delicious fare, and some of the more interesting vegetarian options you'll find in town. Unique among these offerings is a taco starring a fried patty made with cauliflower, dressed in guajillo chile sauce and topped with cabbage and queso fresco. Delicious! It's a stroke of genius with a very low guilt quotient. 

How we first made these at home is most certainly not a story of scientific inquiry or deliberate re-creation. We just had a head of cauliflower that needed to be used, a stack of corn tortillas in the fridge, and we were hungry. We were working from vague memory of a previous visit, but with the basic concept and flavor profile in mind, and simply began making them as we saw fit. The cauliflower, we thought, would be most flavorful if roasted, and in order to let it shine we kept the patty seasonings minimal, simply adding an egg and some flour to tighten up the mixture. Loose as it was, we were able to form small patties, coat them in fine breadcrumbs and fry them up moist and delicious. 

Instead of making our own sauce that first time, we tried using the Frontera Guajillo Salsa which is looser, chunkier and milder but makes a bang-up shortcut if you're pressed for time. If you like them this way, you'll eventually want to try our Guajillo Sauce recipe below for the richer depth of chile flavor it imparts.