Les Dames d'Escoffier

Over the holidays, I went to a friend's party that featured three recipes from the American-Statesman's food section — an amaretto cheese ball, a sparkling wine punch and pralines.

"They are some of my favorite recipes," the hostess said of the foods she had prepared for her guests.

I was beyond flattered. I remembered each of the recipes, how they tasted, and the Central Texas cooks behind them: Lin Brinkman, Marie Offerman, Rosie Coble. That's the way food has always been for me — a blend of flavor, creativity and relationships. Granted, food can stand alone as sustenance or science, but for someone who grew up in the South, I will always associate it with people and its social nurturing and celebration.

I have been reminded of this often in the past few weeks as I have cleaned out desk drawers, file cabinets and notes folders. It's been like looking through a scrapbook of the tables of Central Texas for the past 28 1/2 years.

By now, you have to be wondering, "Where is she going with all this?"

I'm taking early retirement. I want a more flexible schedule to travel with my husband and try my hand at some new projects and adventures.

I instigated this change. But that still does not make it easy because I have a personal relationship with so many of you. We have grocery shopped, cooked and eaten together for nearly three decades. Since my husband was transferred here with IBM in the late '70s, many of you have educated me on Texas' culinary ways and allowed me to share that knowledge with others.

As we began our Lone Star love affair with brisket, salsas, breakfast tacos and nachos, I wondered how I ever reached adulthood without knowing these cherished foods. Later, we witnessed together the emergence of the fajita movement, now ubiquitous and multiprotein, but at one time, beef only.

We sat on the banks of the Colorado River with you and celebrated Austin Aqua Fest, a festival that served up various ethnic music and food nights and introduced us to German sausage wraps, Czech kolaches and Mediterranean pastries that make up the diverse culinary culture of the city.

I remember the first shower I attended in Austin where the food spread was a roaster of tamales and a tub of iced longnecks, not petits fours and punch. I realized early that Texas has its own way of doing things. So I quizzed guys named Fred and Rudy and Rick in Taylor and Lockhart on barbecue, as well as cooks at the multiple chili contests with their tackle boxes of spices. I bought my first barbecue smoker, my first pure ground chili, then a boot-shaped cast-iron corn bread pan and bandanna napkins.

Still, I had more to learn. I attended my first tamalada at the home of my friend Lucy Garza and spread dozens of corn husks with masa. I went to Dallas and saw celeb chef Stephan Pyles turn masa into tarts and fill them with garlic custard and crab. I visited the Texas Department of Agriculture for a quick course on the state's crops and discovered how to make peanut brittle in my microwave oven. A neighbor taught me how to shape won tons, and Ann Clark of La Bonne Cuisine Cooking School introduced me to scrambled eggs with truffles.

Won tons and truffles? Indeed, Texas kitchens have changed as Austin has grown and diversified. While neighborhoods near the University of Texas have long had international flavors, the increase of high-tech firms and other businesses brought even more, with accompanying small groceries.

The expansion of the city also has resulted in an explosion in the local restaurant scene, which, when we arrived, focused primarily on Tex-Mex, barbecue and chicken-fried steak.

What a great experience it has been chronicling Austin's emergence as a hip, trendy city with some of the nation's top chefs, award-winning farmers' markets and food entrepreneurs, flagship gourmet supermarkets and a smorgasbord of cuisines with eatery names such as bistro, trattoria and enoteca, not to mention menus of sushi, tapas and mezes.

Am I crazy to leave these wonderful tables? Maybe. But I am full.

Besides, I'm not leaving this city. I plan to write occasionally on a freelance basis, so you will see my byline again. I will see you at food events, grocery stores, festivals and restaurants. Most of all, I will think of you often as I consume the culinary treasures that you have taught me and other readers.

Meanwhile, the American-Statesman will continue to report on food and restaurants actively. A new food writer is expected to be announced soon.

Porked out on pork:

Early in my Texas food writing career, I helped judge the pork category of a big barbecue competition. "Piece of cake," I thought; "this is beef country." Then I discovered there were 64 entries in the pork category. Five dozen bites of pork! I faithfully pigged out. But never again did I agree to judge that many entries. I also learned later that swallowing was not mandatory.

Oh, waiter! There are scary things in my bowl, on my plate:

At a Spanish dinner in New York City one evening, a course consisted of baby eels. Which looked like baby snakes. Which I have no use for.

At a restaurant in Boston, the seafood was so fresh the sea urchin was still quivering when it was set before me. I quivered, too. Not for me.

For years I was asked to judge Spamarama, and for some reason, was already busy. (Ironically, it often was held in competition with the annual Texas Hill Country Wine & Food Festival.) But I promised the organizers of the Spam romp that I would judge their 20th anniversary, never dreaming it would really last that long. Darned if it didn't. So I judged all sorts of things pink, obscene and not, gross and actually good.

Shed the most tears:

When I toured the Pace picante plant in San Antonio a number of years ago. It was not a sad scene; my eyes were just sensitive to the fumes from the abundance of chopped peppers and onions. (I cry over onions in my own kitchen, too.)

The not-so-glamorous side of food:

Wearing hairnets in various food establishments. Getting down on supermarket floors to check bottom-shelf prices. Hitting fish markets in big cities at 2 a.m. Visiting slaughterhouses. Seeing hot dogs made.

My dumbest moment:

I agreed to a hot air balloon flight in Napa Valley. Paid my money, never thinking conditions would be right for it to really happen. The balloon ascended with my white-knuckled hands clutching the side of the basket. When the burner was off, it was quiet and beautiful. Then I looked down and questioned my sanity. I was floating over wine country, spiked with thousands of stakes for the vines. Why hadn't I picked a hay field?

Was I in a fridge factory?:

One year I joined the Dallas Cowboys for dinner at their training camp at St. Edward's University. The players were nice enough to me. But, dude, these guys were huge! And I don't recall them offering to share any bites.

Statesman food editor retires after 29 years