Mushroom and Brie Quesadillas

Mid-March. Spring practice opens at Eldorado Prep on Monday. Three weeks. Helmets and shoulder pads only — no full contact, that is summer — but it is the first organized football activity of the year, the first time the team is on the field together as a team, and you can feel the building. The kids show up. The juniors who have been waiting are now seniors. The seniors who graduated are gone. The new freshmen — boys we have been watching since middle school, boys whose fathers I have shaken hands with in elementary school gyms — they show up wide-eyed and small and scared, and you watch them for the next four years become the leaders of the program.

Diego was first to the field on Monday. He has been first to the field every Monday of practice since he made varsity, and Mike Reyes makes a quiet point of noting it without making a public thing out of it, because the worst thing you can do for a coach's son is to single him out for being early. The other kids see it. They know. Diego has not had to talk about leadership in his three years on the team. He has just been the first one out and the last one in, and the team has organized itself around that.

I ran the first practice. I always do. The head coach runs the first one — sets the tone, sets the expectations, sets the language. Then the position coaches take over. We installed three plays Monday. Three plays. That is it. We installed them perfectly. The line drilled the steps. The receivers ran the routes. The quarterbacks read the looks. We ran each play a hundred times. By the end of practice every kid on the offense knew exactly what every other kid was supposed to do on those three plays. That is how you build an offense. Not by having a thousand plays you cannot run. By having three plays you can run in your sleep, and then four, and then six, and so on, until you have an offense that does not break under pressure because you cannot break what is rote.

Sofia's outdoor track season opened this week too. Her first race was on Wednesday — a tri-meet at one of the suburban schools. She ran the 1600 and the 800. She finished third in the 1600 and second in the 800. The 800 surprised her. She had not run an 800 since middle school, and she had not done much speed work over the indoor season, and she came in second to a senior at a fancier school who is going to run at Stanford. Sofia ran a 2:24. The Stanford-bound senior ran a 2:21. Sofia walked off the track and said, "Dad, I did not think I could run an 800 that fast." I said, "Soph, I did not think you could run an 800 that fast." She said, "I want to run more 800s." I said, "Talk to your coach." She said, "I will." I have not seen Sofia get excited about a race before. The 800 might be her thing. I am not going to push it. I am going to let her find her way. But I felt something when she said that. That is the look of a kid who has just found a thing.

The practice schedule and the meet schedule overlap badly. I am missing some of Sofia's meets because of practice. I told Lisa this week I was sorry about it. Lisa said, "Carlos, every parent in this town knows the football coach has a daughter who runs. Every parent in this town also knows that the football coach is a football coach in March. Sofia knows. She is fine. Stop apologizing." Lisa is correct. But I am still going to leave practice ten minutes early on Friday to make it to Sofia's next meet. Some sins are unforgivable and missing your kid's race is one of them, even when you have a justifiable excuse.

Mornings have been brutal. Practice starts at six-thirty in March because the field is shared and the spring sports get afternoons. That means I am at the school by five-forty-five and the kids are at school by six-fifteen. The way I survive this stretch — and the way the kids survive it — is breakfast tacos. Soft flour tortillas, scrambled eggs with chile, refried black beans, cheese, salsa. I make a dozen of them at five in the morning and wrap each one individually in foil. Diego eats two on the way to school. Sofia takes one. The twins eat one each before Lisa drives them to elementary. I eat one in my truck on the way to the field, with the foil wrapped tight to keep my fingers clean while I drive.

Breakfast tacos are not, technically, a New Mexican food. They are Texan. I have admitted this in the past and I will admit it again. But they have been adopted by everyone west of the Mississippi who has to get to a job before sunrise, and they have earned their place in the rotation, and I am not going to be the kind of cuisine purist who refuses to eat a breakfast taco out of regional pride. There are hills to die on and hills to walk past. The breakfast taco is a hill I have walked past, repeatedly, with a foil-wrapped breakfast taco in my hand, on my way to a field where boys are about to learn to be men.

The team is going to be good. Sofia is going to be fast. Marco and Elena are going to grow another quarter inch. Lisa is going to keep saving lives in the ER. Mamá is going to roast chiles in September. Papá is going to take his metformin reluctantly. The world is going to keep happening, in this order, in this rhythm, and my job is to keep showing up for it. Breakfast tacos at five a.m. The field at six-thirty. Sofia's race at four. Dinner at seven. Bed by ten. Repeat. Feed your people. The game is won at the table. And in the truck, on the way to the field, with a foil-wrapped breakfast taco in your hand.

The foil-wrapped breakfast taco is my five a.m. religion, but on the weekends — when the alarm goes off at a civilized hour and Diego is already on the back porch stretching and Sofia is lacing up for a road run — I slow it down and make quesadillas instead. Mushrooms and Brie, because the earthiness grounds you and the richness reminds you that not every meal has to be eaten in a truck. It is still a tortilla. It is still the same principle: feed your people something warm before they go out and become who they are supposed to be.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 large flour tortillas (10-inch)
8 oz Brie cheese, rind removed and thinly sliced
12 oz cremini or baby bella mushrooms, cleaned and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
Salt and black pepper to taste
1/4 cup shredded Gruyere or Monterey Jack cheese (optional, for binding)
Sour cream or creme fraiche, for serving
Fresh chives or parsley, chopped, for garnish

Instructions

Cook the mushrooms. Heat 1 tablespoon butter and the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the sliced mushrooms in a single layer and let them cook undisturbed for 3 minutes until they begin to brown. Stir, add the garlic and thyme, and cook another 2–3 minutes until the mushrooms are golden and any liquid has evaporated. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.
Build the quesadillas. Lay two tortillas flat on a clean surface. Distribute the Brie slices evenly across the entire surface of each tortilla, then spoon the mushroom mixture over one half of each tortilla. Sprinkle the shredded Gruyere or Monterey Jack over the mushrooms if using. Fold each tortilla in half to form a half-moon shape.
Cook until golden. Wipe out the skillet and return it to medium heat. Melt 1/2 tablespoon of the remaining butter in the pan. Cook one quesadilla at a time for 2–3 minutes per side, pressing gently with a spatula, until the tortilla is golden and crisp and the cheese is fully melted. Repeat with the remaining butter and second quesadilla.
Rest and slice. Transfer cooked quesadillas to a cutting board and let them rest for 1 minute before slicing each into 3 wedges. This helps the Brie set slightly so it does not run when cut.
Serve. Arrange on a plate and top with a dollop of sour cream or creme fraiche and a scatter of fresh chives or parsley. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Mushroom and Brie Quesadillas — When the Tortilla Is the Thing That Holds the Morning Together