Texas Tumbleweeds

Memorial Day weekend. Cookout at my place — twenty-two people. Lily and James were able to come because they closed the restaurant for the holiday, the first time they've closed since opening, and they needed the day off the way you need oxygen after holding your breath. James didn't cook. James drank La Croix and ate brisket and sat in a lawn chair and stared at the sky. Lily slept on the couch for four hours mid-afternoon. The two of them — the engine of the restaurant — let me drive for a day, and I drove. I smoked four briskets, two pork shoulders, six racks of ribs, a leg of lamb (because I had it), a tray of corn, a tray of jalapeños stuffed with cream cheese and wrapped in bacon, and the entire backyard smelled like the right kind of America.

Mai sat in her usual chair under the pecan tree, wrapped in a thin shawl despite the eighty-eight-degree heat because Mai is eighty-seven and the metric system of comfort changes after a certain age. Ava brought her flowers from the yard — dandelions and a single zinnia — and Mai accepted them and put them in an empty water glass and said, in Vietnamese, "Cảm ơn con." Ava said, "Thank you," in English, having not understood the Vietnamese but understanding the rhythm of gratitude. Languages are cousins. They recognize each other.

Marcus, almost seven months old, sat in his bumper chair and accepted a small piece of brisket on his finger from Tyler. Tyler had asked Jessica with eyes whether this was allowed. Jessica had nodded. Marcus tasted brisket. Marcus made a face. Marcus reached for more. Tyler's eyes filled up and he didn't say anything. The first brisket. The handing-down. The fourteen-hour cook reaches a baby's mouth and the chain holds for one more generation.

I put the leftover brisket in the freezer at 11 PM. I sat on the back porch alone after everyone left. La Croix. Mosquitoes. The smoker still hot. The crickets going. I thought: I have never had a better Memorial Day.

The brisket and ribs get the headlines, but every long cook has a support act — something people can grab while they wait, something that holds a crowd together before the first slice falls. That day, it was Texas Tumbleweeds sitting on the folding table next to the drinks cooler, disappearing faster than I expected, refilled twice. Mai had three. Marcus watched someone eat one and seemed personally offended he couldn’t have it yet. If you’re running a cookout that size, you need something exactly like this in your rotation.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes | Servings: 24

Ingredients

1 (12 oz) can shoestring potato sticks
1 (12 oz) can salted peanuts
1 cup butterscotch chips
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt (optional, to finish)

Instructions

Prep the base. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper or wax paper and set aside.
Combine dry ingredients. In a large mixing bowl, stir together the shoestring potato sticks and salted peanuts until evenly distributed.
Melt the coating. In a medium saucepan over low heat, combine the butterscotch chips, peanut butter, and vegetable oil. Stir constantly until fully melted and smooth, about 5–7 minutes. Do not let it scorch.
Coat the mix. Pour the melted butterscotch mixture over the potato and peanut mixture. Fold gently with a rubber spatula until everything is evenly coated.
Portion and set. Drop heaping tablespoonfuls of the mixture onto the prepared baking sheets, forming loose clusters. Work quickly before the coating begins to firm up.
Cool completely. Let the clusters sit at room temperature for 20–30 minutes, or refrigerate for 10 minutes, until fully set and firm.
Finish and serve. Transfer to a serving tray. Sprinkle lightly with kosher salt if desired. Store any leftovers in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 5 days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Texas Tumbleweeds — The Snack That Outlasted the Smoke