You got the peaches? 

I got the cream. 

                                         

It's too doggone hot to bake. (Yes, I said doggone. Emphatic twang). Too hot to do anything really. (Decided after the steering wheel left char marks on my right palm).

But I had these ripe peaches and they were hanging out on my counter...

I didn't have the heart to toss them. So I cranked the oven to three-seventy-five.

(Musical intermission, anyone?)

Buttery, tangy, sweet, juicy. And perfectly portable.

These cobbler/custard/crumble bars have a lot to offer. Except shade.



Peach Custard Bars
{Recipe via Savvy Eats}

For the crust:

1/2 cup light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold butter
2 teaspoons lemon juice
Pinch of salt

For the filling:

1 14 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
2 tablespoons vanilla bean paste or vanilla extract
1/2 cup all-purpose or whole wheat pastry flour
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 medium peaches, thinly sliced

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and grease a 9×9 baking pan.

Stir the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and lemon juice. (It'll fizz. Like an old school science fair volcano). Cut the butter into cubes, and work it into the flour until the crumbs are pea-sized. (If, like me, you're not a fancy person with a fancy food processor, a pastry cutter or two knives will do the trick).

Press the dough into the prepared pan. Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the edges begin to brown and pull away from the sides of the pan.

While crust is baking, slice the peaches.  Stir together the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, flour, lemon juice and cinnamon until smooth. (At this point, I was all "doesn't this need an egg or something?" Baked up just fine and passed the taste test without one).

Pour the sweetened condensed milk concoction over the crust. Press peaches into it. (I made a pretty design, but no one's judging you for haphazardly heaping them on. Especially because, if you save a little crust mixture, you can throw it on top crumble-style and the peaches disappear underneath).

Bake for an additional 15-20 minutes, or until the top is slightly firm.  Allow to cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing and serving. (A la mode perhaps? I'm not saying you need vanilla ice cream, but c'mon... you need vanilla ice cream).

- Summer peaches, begging to be baked. In a custard crumble. And yes, recipe is on its way.

- Enamored by banjos and big hair? Dirty River Boys at Antone's. 

- Hey, those aren't tulips!

- Racking up the early-morning, backroad mileage. Coffee called shotgun. 

- Boats and hoes. 

- Lunch in Luling. City Market burnt ends have my heart. 

- Getting more than I bargained for at Jo's. Leslie print in the corner speaks volumes. 

- "Oh, you want to drink milk straight from these?" 

- Trail run in triple digit heat. I make no apologies for the state of my front seat. 

The hull of a prop plane, long-defunct, juts from an empty field. As if it took a nose-dive into the red dirt years ago, and its rust grew roots.

A left at the lone blinking light and a right onto CR 112 until it butts into Bug Tussle, where pavement gives way to gravel.

A trailer painted like the Texas flag, parked in the corner of a dusty arena. A Sorrel horse, galloping under the guidance of a gentleman who tips his hat in our direction.

He waves our miniature production fleet through the gate.

I extend a hand and praise for the best set of directions I've ever received.

I'm allowed to say so, he nods, because I found the place.

He slings the rope with the precision of a scientist. It writhes gracefully in midair before jolting to life with a snap.

A patch of shade under the tin roof is prime property for watching Pat Ivey work.

He doesn't miss. Not once.

Ivey's skill is coveted by many, mastered by few. His pupils are a grab-bag of ages and ethnicities and backgrounds.  City slickers. Aspiring cowboys. Retired professionals. Ladies. Little kids. Even a Londoner.

"London London?"

"He bought a roping dummy over there, believe it or not. Drags it out to the forest to practice. His friends give him a real hard time." 

"How'd he find you?"

"Same way you did, I suppose."

No horse, no boots, no Texas citizenry required? 

"Just bring your tennis shoes and a twenty-five dollar bill and we'll rope." 

(If you can find the place).

"Go ahead and rip up that order. He won't be able to afford it."

Stevie Ray Vaughan's mother, calling on his behalf, phoned Manny Gammage to let him know.

Before the record deals, the Rolling Stone write-ups, the half-dozen Grammys - Vaughan was just a seventeen year-old kid who wanted a fancy cowboy hat.

Gammage's wife, Norma, knew that.

Instead of trashing the ticket she'd just penned, she operated on stubborn faith.

And a young Vaughan, his first hand-crafted high-roller in hand, found a special message stamped inside...

 Made especially for SRV.

The gesture wasn't buried in Vaughan's memory, or his fame.

Nearly two decades later (and two months before his untimely passing), he'd tell Leno - and the world -  about Manny Gammage and his custom cappers.

Manny's youngest daughter, Joella Gammage Torres, recalls that story with particular pride. Though celebrities and politicians are a dime a dozen at Texas Hatters.

The walls, drenched in proof, do the bragging... Ronald Reagan. Robert Duvall. Penelope Cruz. Hank Williams, Jr. Willie Nelson. George H. George W. Chuck Norris. Colt McCoy.

Her father's apprentice until his passing in 1995, Joella now runs the family business alongside her husband, David, and son, Joel. Sewing, cutting, steaming, shaping. Second-nature for the third generation master-hatter, who's as quick to whip out nicknames as she is a tape measure.

"Seven and a quarter? Long Oval. Six and seven-eigths... that'd make you Skinny Egg. My son, oh, at least you don't have his! He's Bullet Head." 

It's had a few different names, moved a few different places... Pasadena to Buda. Austin to Abilene.

"You're never gonna move outside of Texas, Dad. So why don't you just call it Texas Hatters and you'll never have to change it again." 

One savvy piece of advice and ninety-something years later, this hatting legend - now right off Hwy 183 in Lockhart - remains a Lone Star treasure. And should be for generations to come, says Joella. The Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise too high. A Gammage family mantra. 

When there's an opportunity, take it. When there's not, create it.

I don't know if I read that on a coffee mug or heard it from a professor once or made it up entirely... but I'm putting a lot of confidence in those two sentences this week.

Enough so that I felt compelled to bombard Twitter with them.

And then I remembered that Twitter is reserved for snark, social commentary and obnoxious pictures of my baked goods.

I had a moment.

I'll make it up to you with two bits of useful information.

All good?

1) How to open a stubborn jar.

I eat jalapenos like candy, plow through a jar a week...  and believe me when I tell you, these spicy beauties were trapped. (In a glass case of emotion?) No amount of twisting and turning and sweating and swearing... the lid was not budging. I got desperate. Dug through my cutlery drawer and drilled in with the first sharp, shiny object that caught my eye. POP goes the weasel. Multi-purpose magic.

2) How to make no-fail brownies.

And dispose of a leftover sleeve of Oreos that calls to you from the pantry shelf in late-night moments of weakness.

Homemade brownies are my nemesis. Jiggly in the middle, edges burnt to a crisp. I never had the mojo to get them just right.

Then Came You (not be to confused with the fantastic Dionne Warwick ditty)...

INFALLIBLE BROWNIES
{Recipe via Confessions of a Cookbook Queen}

The original is a German Chocolate version. I borrowed the brownie base and free-balled it from there.

1/2 cup salted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup semi sweet chocolate chips

You could skip out on the extras, but I wouldn't:

Oreos (Double Stuf'd, if you're smart)
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/2 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350. Line an 8×8 pan with foil and spray the foil thoroughly with nonstick spray.

In a medium bowl, combine melted butter and cocoa powder, stirring until the cocoa powder is dissolved. Add the sugar and mix well. Add eggs one at a time, stirring well after each addition. Stir in vanilla. Add flour and stir only until you can no longer see flour in the batter. Gently fold in chocolate chips. Pour batter in prepared 8×8 pan and smooth the top with a spatula. Press Oreos (as many as you can cram) into the batter.

Bake brownies for 25-28 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out with only a few crumbs stuck to it. Cool on a wire rack to room temperature.

Here's where things get out of hand:

Melt peanut butter and chocolate chips together. (Zapped mine for 30 seconds in the microwave. In a microwave-safe bowl). Spread it on top of the brownies. Hit it with some Oreo crumbs. Hit it with some extra chocolate chips. Get artsy and drizzly with whatever is left of the peanut butter/chocolate mixture. And prepare to be berated in CAPS LOCK by co-workers who claim you're making them fat.