Fried Cinnamon Strips

The bakery's eleventh anniversary. March 15, 2027. Eleven years. The celebration was at both bakeries — simultaneous events, connected by video call (Sofia set it up — the El Paso celebration on one screen, the Anapra celebration on another, two rooms full of people eating conchas and watching each other eat conchas, the most Mexican form of video conferencing ever invented). Sofia gave her speech from the step stool in El Paso. Lupita gave a speech from behind the counter in Anapra. Lupita said: "This bakery has been open for five months and already the neighborhood treats it like it's been here forever. Because Rosa has always been here. The bakery just gave her a building." The bakery gave Rosa a building. The sentence is the truth. The truth is the anniversary.

My birthday is in two months. Fifty. I don't think about fifty — I think about the bakery at fifty, the bakery at the moment when its founder turns half a century, the moment when the woman who opened the door at forty turns fifty inside the door, and the turning is the decade, and the decade is the door, and the door is still open, and the open is the everything.

I made chile colorado for the anniversary dinner. Year eleven. The recipe that is the bookmark. The recipe that marks the years. The recipe that I have made on March 15 for eleven consecutive years, which is more consecutive than most things in my life — more consecutive than Luis Jr.'s presence at the table (deployment interrupted it), more consecutive than the farmers' market (pandemic interrupted it), more consecutive than anything except the 4 AM alarm and the flour and the Mass on Sunday and the candles at St. Patrick's. The chile colorado is the most consecutive thing in my life. The consecutive is the devotion. The devotion is the recipe. The recipe is Rosa. And Rosa is eleven years and counting.

The chile colorado is the main event — it always has been, for eleven years it has been — but every anniversary table needs something to close on sweetness, and these fried cinnamon strips are what I bring out after the plates are cleared, when the video call is still running and Sofia is still on the screen in El Paso and Lupita is still leaning against the counter in Anapra and nobody wants the evening to end. They are simple the way devotion is simple: hot oil, dough, cinnamon, sugar, the kind of thing that disappears in minutes and leaves everyone reaching for one more. Eleven years deserves one more.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

6 flour tortillas (8-inch), cut into 1-inch strips
2 cups vegetable oil, for frying
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
Honey or chocolate dipping sauce, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Mix the coating. In a wide, shallow bowl, stir together the granulated sugar, cinnamon, and salt until evenly combined. Set aside near the stove.
Heat the oil. Pour vegetable oil into a heavy-bottomed skillet or saucepan to a depth of about 1 inch. Heat over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F (175°C). A small piece of tortilla dropped in should sizzle immediately.
Fry the strips. Working in batches of 6—8 strips, carefully lower the tortilla strips into the hot oil. Fry for 1 to 2 minutes per side, turning once, until deep golden brown and crisp. Do not crowd the pan.
Drain and coat. Using tongs or a slotted spoon, transfer the fried strips to a paper-towel-lined plate. Let them rest for 30 seconds, then immediately toss them in the cinnamon-sugar mixture while still warm so the coating adheres.
Repeat and serve. Continue frying and coating remaining strips in batches. Arrange on a platter and serve warm, with honey or chocolate sauce on the side if desired.

Nutrition (per serving)

Fried Cinnamon Strips — The Sweet That Follows Eleven Years of Devotion