Passionfruit Butter

I fail at blogging… In other news, here’s an article I wrote that ran today in Post-, a student-run magazine here at Brown. It’s 1:01 here which means it’s 12:01 at home… officially Super Bowl weekend! My pump-up playlist is at 32 songs and I am getting uncontainably excited. Miss you, New Orleans; wish I could be there at this special time, but I’m repping you here in Providence.

This Sunday, amid gloriously misogynistic beer commercials and eerily verbose E-Trade babies, uniformed hulks of men will hurl themselves at one another in Miami’s Sun Life Stadium as they clamor for the pigskin (and for their own oh-so-tasteful Super Bowl ring). The big, bad, vapid Colts will saunter in, finally away from the hell-frozen-over that is Indianapolis in February. Then, the zesty New Orleans Saints will cartwheel into their first Super Bowl in franchise history, magically bringing the crowd to decibel levels even higher than those accompanying the Patriots’ slaughtering a couple months back, and all will be as it should be.

As native New Orleanians and born-and-raised Saints fans, Colts quarterback Peyton Manning and I join in anticipation of this important game (and in hopes of a Saints win… can’t cheer against your home team, Peyton). As with meat and king cake during Mardi Gras, all that is delectable and cholesterol-filled during Jazz Fest, 72-ounce beers for any night on Bourbon Street, and unreasonably lavish food in the interim, celebrations like this have a tradition of good food. In the spirit of the decadence that typifies New Orleans, I’ve compiled a Super Bowl menu that fulfills the cardinal requirements of all respectable football snacks. Take note and follow suit: you, too, deserve excessive amounts of carbs and grease (and no, pizza from the Gate doesn’t count).

Giant batches of love: Most evolved, college-aged humans have a finely tuned radar for home cooking. Masses of them flock to you if you so much as turn on a stove. But, lucky for you, New Orleanians are old pros at cooking by the truckload. Grab the biggest pot you can find, toss in a bunch of meat, veggies, and rice (and, if you’re feeling feisty, more hot sauce than Jesus would approve of), and you’ve got jambalaya. Chili is an acceptable substitute for this if and only if you harbor an obsession for clichés and/or the other team.

Wings: Obvi. Go traditional (barbecue, buffalo) or more exotic (sesame, parmesan). Since these are ubiquitous right now, you can buy most things pre-made at the store if you’re feeling lazy, but why would you do that now that you know buffalo sauce is little more than Tabasco and butter? Bonus: guys, you get man points for gnawing meat straight off the bone.

More spiciness than your body has room for: Scrape the innards from halved jalapeños, stuff them with cream cheese, wrap in bacon (always, always bacon), and bake for about 20 minutes. Hoard before everyone else snitches them. And oh, they will snitch.

Dips. Lots and lots of dips: Chili con queso (go Rotel; I won’t judge). Barrels of guacamole and salsa. Seven-layer dip. Pimento cheese. Options abound; all you have to do is pick. Hummus will keep things from feeling too grimy. To make your own, drain a can of chickpeas and mash (or food-process, if you are so lucky) until smooth with tahini, olive oil, and lemon juice. I’ll toss some red beans in with the chickpeas and finish with Creole spices, but you can also play around with caramelized shallots, jalapeño and cilantro, or roasted red pepper to taste.

Maturity: Pigs-in-blankets are a relatively painless tribute to the otherwise gastronomically unremarkable Indianapolis, whose natives are known to prefer grilled brats. (They serve the added purpose of being mildly phallic, in case you tire of courtesy.) Extra points if you cook the sausages in beer before you wrap them in dough (cut down on time and use canned crescent rolls); serve with Zatarain’s whole-grain mustard, a New Orleans original that I’ve heard is highly favored up in Colts territory.

Popcorn: This is a huge cop-out as snacks go, but as long as your movie-watching experience is multiplied in the company of salty, buttery popcorn, so will your viewing of this game, which will likely be high-scoring thanks to kickass offense on both teams. Sprinkle liberally with Creole seasoning (cayenne pepper, garlic powder, paprika, white pepper, etc.) and look like you actually put in some effort.

Whether or not you know the meaning of a third-down conversion — no matter if you think a flea flicker is a groovy gadget you’d find at a pet store — the Super Bowl is as much an athletic showdown as it is a media spectacle and a once-a-year social event. Even if you’re not tuning in to behold Drew Brees’ otherworldly passer rating, you might as well pick a team, drink one too many beers, and meet your calorie quota for the week. And hey, if you’re lucky, you might just catch one of Peyton’s requisite sideline temper tantrums. Look for me if you get hungry; I’ll be the one in a gold leotard with buckets and buckets of food. Who dat!

With love from yours truly.