The Lone Star Law of Cuisine

You know you're in Texas when someone hands you a tortilla and it's got brisket, queso, a fried egg, and possibly some leftover chili in it. And you don't even blink—you just eat it. Because in Texas, everything belongs in a tortilla.

Texans treat tortillas the way the French treat baguettes, or Italians treat pasta—as sacred, versatile, and absolutely necessary for survival. Soon you will learn, should you ever visit the Lone Star, that everything in Texas considered tortilla-compatible will be pushed into this round piece of goodness and handed over.

Some say it's practicality. Others say it's tradition. I say it's because Texans believe anything tastes better when wrapped up and portable.

When I was a paratrooper in the 82d Airborne, everyone had a roll of duct tape on them at all times. It was called "100-mile-per-hour" tape. Some say it is because silence is golden, but duct tape is silver. I understand the idea, but the utility was so great that we just said, "If you can't duct it, [screw] it." Yes, that rhymed on the way out of our mouths.

Family audience and all of that.

Tortillas are the culinary equivalent of duct tape—if you've got something falling apart, wrap it in a tortilla, and it'll hold together long enough to eat it. A sandwich has its place, sure. But can you roll a hot dog, pickles, and coleslaw into a sandwich and call it a meal? No, sir. But you can do it with a tortilla.

There's no better way to start the day in Texas than with a tortilla stuffed with eggs, bacon, cheese, and maybe some jalapeños—because why not break a sweat before sunrise? If you've ever seen a Texan stuck in morning traffic without a breakfast taco, you've seen true suffering. The tortilla is both a meal and a coping mechanism.

Brisket, ribs, smoked sausage—you name it, it's all fair game for a tortilla. Texans have even figured out how to make coleslaw portable this way, and honestly, that's culinary innovation at its finest. I once saw a man wrap leftover barbecue, pickled onions, and potato salad in a tortilla. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn't.

Are the kids from some other planet and won't eat a hamburger because they are afraid of the bun? It happens. Roll that sucker into a tortilla and call it a very good day. Worked here at the house, so I'm willing to swear by it.

You've got Tex-Mex, sure, but also sushi tortillas, stir-fry tortillas, and, I kid you not, spaghetti and meatballs in a tortilla. It's not fusion; it's tortilla diplomacy. We are willing to reach out in this love and interstate diplomacy and open our own embassies of fine Texas cooking in your area if you're willing and need food salvation.

It doesn't matter if the food originally came from Italy, India, or Antarctica. In Texas, it's going in a tortilla sooner or later. Got ice cream? Screw it, we'll figure it out. It might not be the corn or flour tortilla you were afraid of; it will be something better and more conducive to the exercise, but it will resemble a tortilla.

We really thought this one out. It wasn't just some gimmick to look cool or be different. They have a history of making the world right. Texas is big—really big. And when you're driving three hours to the next town, you don't have time for fussy meals. A tortilla-wrapped feast is portable, efficient, and lets you eat while yelling at other drivers.

Plus, there's no plate to wash when you're done. If that's not Southern ingenuity, I don't know what is. We'll admit that we stole the idea, and as the good Texans we are, we'll even share it all with you.

Texans don't just eat tortillas—they revere them. They're a unifying force in a state where barbecue pits and Tex-Mex joints share equal billing. Just like Georgia has sweet tea and Louisiana has gumbo, Texas has the tortilla as its culinary crown jewel.

Y'all, let me tell you about the moment I laid eyes on the most perfect tortilla blanket at HEB. There it was, nestled among the holiday throws and novelty gifts, calling out to me like a warm, carb-loaded dream. The design was flawless, a giant flour tortilla in all its glory, and I could already imagine myself wrapped up in it like the coziest burrito on this side of the Rio Grande.

But I hesitated. Do I really need another blanket? My practical side said no, but my heart whispered, "Absolutely."

The longing only grew stronger as I walked the aisles, picturing that tortilla blanket on my couch, ready to be the MVP of every movie night and lazy Sunday.

I'd heard rumors of these things selling out faster than fresh tamales at a Christmas market, and the thought of missing out was unbearable. So I did what any self-respecting Texan would do: I turned right around, marched back to that display, and claimed my prize. It was a moment of pure triumph, like winning the last slice of pecan pie at Thanksgiving dinner.
Now, that tortilla blanket and I are inseparable. It's more than just a throw; it's a statement, a symbol of comfort, and maybe even a little piece of home. Every time I wrap up in it, I'm reminded that sometimes, you've just got to treat yourself. Life's too short not to have a tortilla blanket, y'all.

My little one agrees because she went and stole it like a bandit and I had to scrap to get it back.

So the next time you're in Texas, skip the plate, grab a tortilla, and let the magic happen. But be warned: once you've tasted brisket and queso wrapped in a warm tortilla, there's no going back to forks and knives.

In Texas, the tortilla isn't just food—it's a lifestyle, a philosophy, and maybe even a state religion.

Or even a nice blanket.