Gin is In

Texas is no stranger to strong spirits, boasting nearly 200 distilleries statewide, with a clear penchant for whiskey, tequila, and vodka, in that order. Gin isn’t one I initially associate with the Lone Star State, but here in Dripping Springs, Waterloo Gin has planted their flag, extracting the most distinctly Texan brew being bottled today. Juniper is only half of the equation.

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What Makes Gin, Gin?

Originally used medicinally to treat everything from indigestion to gout, scurvy, and malaria. The key ingredient grant it these supposedly restorative properties was, and still is, juniper. The name itself is derived from the Dutch word jenever and/or French genièvre, both of which mean “juniper.” It must have a predominant juniper flavor to qualify as gin, and certain styles (like London Dry) lean much more heavily into these evergreen berries.

For ages, I thought I didn’t like gin, because this was the only type I had known. Aggressively resinous, piney, and grassy, it struck me as dilute floor polish mixed with liquefied Christmas trees. To each their own, of course, as this has been the uncontested winning option for centuries, with no sign of flagging in popularity.

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Proudly American Gin

Waterloo Gin branched off of Treaty Oak Distillery, gaining roots of its own as the first official brand of gin made in Texas, surprisingly not long ago in 2009. Theirs is a proudly American style, less juniper-forward, sourcing botanicals native to Texas. That means that despite being bottled at 94 proof, it’s remarkably smooth, balanced, and easy to drink. The brand’s flagship Waterloo No. 9 Gin uses nine botanicals, as you may have guessed, including but not limited to lavender, grapefruit, and pecan, all locally sourced. This was the first gin I genuinely enjoyed drinking straight, and even more so when mixed into cocktails.

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Neutral Base Spirits, Full-Flavored Results

Limestone-filtered spring water is another key to their success, crafting the cleanest, purest base spirit distilled from corn, which could just as well be sold as upper shelf vodka before infusion. Made in small batches and blended for consistency, they’ve just begun their push further afield for greater distribution in stores across the US. Though the production floor isn’t open to visitors, I was granted a private peek behind the scenes to see how it all happens. Fortunately, the mercantile across the plaza is ready already a destination for all, but more on that in a minute.

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The Whiskey of Gin

What immediately captured my attention, and imagination, is their Barrel-Aged Gin. Not just taking a page from whiskey-making but honoring the traditional process, this is what happens when you take the classic No. 9 and age it for two years in new American white oak barrels. Even after a relatively short rest, the transformation is astounding. Gently smokey, honeyed, and sparking with warm spices, it’s unlike any gin or whiskey I’ve ever had, in the best way possible. There’s an uncanny sweetness to it, though absolutely no sugar is involved.

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More In Store

Not to tease, but for the real gin and whiskey aficionados, it would serve you well to stay tuned to what Waterloo is working on next. I had the privilege of trying limited runs of gin aged for 4 and 12 years, respectively, that absolutely defy all expectations. Despite being wildly high proof, they’re impossibly smooth sippers. Somehow, notes of vanilla, custard, nutmeg, and mace develop over all those years, tasting almost like eggnog, without a drop of cream or eggs. Incredible sacrifices must be made to reach this level; being stored in an hot rickhouse (where the barrels are kept) without climate control means that aging happens at a faster rate than industry standard, but so does evaporation. By the time you hit the 12th year, very little remains. If these bottles do ever hit the market, expect to pay dearly, because it would be worth every cent.

For a more attainable luxury, don’t forget about the latest addition to the lineup, Prickly Pear & Rose Gin which joined the standard trio in 2025, perfect for anyone craving a lighter touch. Hibiscus, rose, and prickly pear are added to the essential base to create a pink elixir that’s more than just a pretty face. Bright, fruity, and floral, it challenges the status quo of traditional gin with a gentle touch.

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New Old Fashioned

The Old Fashioned had been my go-to drink since I first started hitting the bar. The version being served at the mercantile bar here, anchored by Treaty Oak, takes the spirit-forward body, aromatic bitters, the faint glow of citrus, and reframes it through the lens of Waterloo Barrel Aged Gin. Swapping bourbon for this two-year-matured expression doesn’t lighten the drink so much as sharpen it. The gin’s toffee hue, gentle smoke, and spiced depth slip seamlessly into place, creating a cocktail that lands somewhere between the familiarity of whiskey and the brightness of botanicals. An orange twist brings the whole thing into focus, amplifying the gin’s soft vanilla and toasted pecan notes.

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The Gin-uine Article

Gin has never been just one thing. It was my mistake to underestimate the category so severe for all this time. Evolving from the crisp austerity of London Dry to the soft, citrus-forward American styles, each bottle reflects the landscape, culture, and imagination of its makers. Waterloo takes this idea and runs with it, rooting their approach in staunchly Texan sensibilities. This new generation of gins don’t take themselves too seriously, and yet turn out serious winners left and right, expanding what the category can be. Waterloo stands as living proof that gin is still evolving, and Texas has something entirely its own to say about it.

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Marvelous Mekelesha

Spice blends make the world go ’round. Individual spices are powerful, but who cooks with just one at a time? It’s rare to find a solo seasoning that really stands up to scrutiny, or at least, can’t be improved by a bit of teamwork from complimentary flavors. Being able to quickly reach for a harmoniously blended combination that’s already carefully calibrated and ready to go is the ultimate cooking hack. When I can add a new blend to my spice rack, it opens up a whole new world of possibilities. That’s exactly what happened when I first tried mekelesha from Red Fox Spices.

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What is Mekelesha?

Traditionally employed as a finishing spice in Ethiopian wots, the warming, sweet character of the mixture seems incongruous to the richly savory stews at first, yet somehow manages to meld seamlessly into the finished dish. Carried by nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom, then sharply contrasted by cloves, cumin, and pepper, it’s a potent, distinctive taste that’s hard to explain. Like any spice blend, the exact components and ratios are up for debate. What’s nonnegotiable, if you ask me, is that long pepper makes the cut. Though a rarity in the US, that’s exactly what Red Fox Spices invites to the party, alongside more commonplace black peppercorns, imparting an irreplaceable slow-building, earthy heat.

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How is Mekelesha Used?

By all means, use mekelesha as intended to make more robust entrees, compelling side dishes, and unforgettable meals. Then, when you’re ready to experiment, consider the sweeter possibilities that I found utterly irresistible. Spice cookies use so many of these basic components already; why not cut to the chase by creating a simple formula that dazzles with wildly complex flavor? That’s why a good spice blend is essential.

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The Sweeter Side of Mekelesha

Mekelesha Molasses Cookies leverage the inherently rich, hot, and simultaneously smooth spice blend to brighten the classic New England treat. Nutty whole wheat flour and molasses lend a dark, deep foundation to amplify the contrasting tastes. Like gingerbread with a brighter bite, soft and chewy, with a crisp coarse sugar crust, the complete package is utterly irresistible. The fact that they come together with only a handful of pantry staples makes them all the more tempting; once you have mekelesha at your disposal, nothing will stand in the way of your next batch.

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Make More with Mekelesha

Anywhere you might reach for apple pie spice, pumpkin pie spice, chai spice, five spice powder, or even garam masala, give mekelesha a try instead. With a single sprinkle, it bridges cuisines and traditions, slipping effortlessly from slow-simmered stews to baked goods that feel both familiar and extraordinary. When a dish needs something more but you can’t quite name it, this indispensable Ethiopian blend just might be the answer.

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Teaching Old Bread New Tricks

Philosophers have long posited that it’s our capacity for abstract thought, creativity, and language that makes us human, but I’d like to argue that it’s our capacity to make bread. Yes, bread; the very bedrock of society, the foundation of nearly all cultures, found globally in every shape, size, color, and flavor imaginable, is the true demarcation between man and beast. Archaeological evidence from over 30,000 years ago, places flour, believed to have been made into unleavened flatbread, on our timeline.

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A Bevvy of Breads

That’s all to say, bread is very important. And, for all its permutations, bread is still evolving, even after emerging from the oven. Leftover, excess, or “stale” bread, to those less resourceful, is simply primed for its next permutation. Before we consider recipes, let’s not forget the basics. There’s no excuse for tossing a day-old loaf when you could transform it into:

  • Breadcrumbs
  • Croutons
  • Crackers
  • Soup thickener

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The Upper Crust

Basic culinary know-how and rudimentary techniques honor bread’s enduring utility. For the more industrious, there’s no such thing as too much bread. Embrace your own humanity, and embrace bread. Here are a few of my favorite suggestions for reviving old loaves, and more.

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Address to a Vegan Haggis

If there can only be one woefully misunderstood and unfairly vilified dish in our collective culinary canon, my vote would go to haggis. Yes, I’m prepared to defend the savory Scottish pudding that takes all forms of organ meat stuffed inside of a sheep’s bladder or stomach. Like any good controversy, there’s much more to it than flashy headlines, and far greater nuance than just excess organs and entrails.

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Criminally Misconstrued

As of 1971, it is in fact illegal to import or produce traditional haggis in the US. Concerns stemmed from the use of sheep’s lungs, which were deemed particularly susceptible to contamination, which could in turn spread disease. While this ban still stands, more contemporary versions of haggis, made without the offending offal, are permitted. The easiest way to bypass the restriction is to simply leave the entrails in the past.

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A Short History of Haggis

To fully appreciate this medieval meal of subsistence, it’s important to understand how it came to be. Sheep outnumber the human population in Scotland, making them the obvious fodder for all sorts of traditional dishes. Waste not, want not; everything remotely edible would be chopped up and heavily seasoned to detract from the more gamey flavors, heavily salted to prevent spoilage, and stuffed into some sort of casing for easy transportation. Though sausage-like in construction, it has more in common with savory English pudding in practice. The stomach or bladder would be cut open and emptied after cooking and summarily discarded. So much for all that shock value.

Somewhere along the line, shepherds began to settle more into farming, and stretching their meat with grains. Oatmeal, specifically Scotch oats or porridge oats, became an equally iconic cultural touchstone, finding its way into this amalgamation. The earliest written record from 1430 CE lists sheep’s heart, liver, lungs, oatmeal, onion, suet, and stock as the key ingredients.

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Burn’s Night: Address to a Haggis

Haggis is redeemed by the annual tradition of Burn’s Night, January 25th, marking the birthday of Scotland’s national poet, Robert “Rabbie” Burns. Mr. Burns immortalized haggis in his 1787 poem Address to a Haggis, a florid, passionate ode that elevates the humble pudding to near-mythic status. In it, he celebrates not only the hearty dish itself but the rugged self-reliance of Scottish culture. So exuberant and impassioned were his words that generations have since treated the poem as both sacred text and dinner entertainment.

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A Modern Answer to an Ancient Problem

Like any other recipe that’s been around for a few centuries, endless variations have sprouted from that original seed of inspiration, and vegetarian haggis is no stranger in Caledonia. By the mid–20th century, more Scots were living in cities, fewer were butchering their own livestock, and a growing number of people were deciding, out of ethics, health, or pure squeamishness, that eating minced organs packed into a stomach wasn’t quite for them.

The earliest meatless versions began appearing in the 1960s and 70s, coinciding with the rise of the modern vegetarian movement in the UK. A wholesome amalgamation of oats, legumes, root vegetables, and aggressive seasoning, it was first commercially produced in 1984, and now makes up for 25% – 40% of all haggis sales.

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Makar’s Mash Bar – Vegan Haggis Interior

Bringing Haggis Back Home

When I visited Scotland last year, the single best thing I ate was the vegan haggis at Makar’s Mash Bar. Incredibly rich, tender yet toothsome, the combination of chestnuts, seeds, lentils, and oats put it over the top. Combined with the traditional pairing of neeps and tatties (rutabaga and potatoes), plus decadent whisky cream sauce, I was hooked on haggis from the first bite. Since then, I’ve been dreaming of recreating that experience and finally, the time has come.

Skipping the questionable casing entirely, since it would only be scrapped anyway, I baked my haggis in ramekins for easier prep and serving alike. Make no mistake though, this is not a quick fix meal. Your best bet is to make the main in advance, and plan to reheat when you’re ready to serve. It’s an entree worthy of a celebration, and not just Burn’s Night; my original batch went to the Thanksgiving feast, and I can see this being right at home at a Christmas dinner or Hanukkah party, too.

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Haggis for the Whole Herd

Warm, peppery, a little earthy, mushrooms lay down a savory foundation, all umami and bass, while chestnuts chime in with mellow sweetness. Beans, lentils, and steel-cut oats create the hearty core of the dish, punctuated by the toothsome bite of roughly chopped seeds. What truly ties everything together, though, is the seasoning. Warm, herbaceous, complex, tart, tangy; it’s a lot to take in at once, but still never too much.

I’ve plated it two ways, and I’m sure there are many more possible. You could even leave your haggis right inside the ramekin and call it a night. In a nod to the original inspiration, I made a little tower from my neeps and tatties, emulating fine dining flair with a bit of homemade rusticity. Of course, I do much prefer the simpler approach, spooning generous portions of each side onto the plate before drowning it all in whisky cream sauce. Regardless of the arrangement, I feel confident that this take could finally sway those on the fence about haggis. After all, it did for me.

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