tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-109308192024-03-23T11:35:58.152-07:00Bacon PressUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger223125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-65333463461418195732007-08-21T15:20:00.000-07:002007-08-21T19:21:26.785-07:00Memories of Grandma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTNzSmxFuYBlsxLk4YWVt5mk_BIZhUa6M47-nB9OQfYy1_kOSs0B4qjQgdZUvla95mfdWdVGNuIhoaT247CVdjZrxeeu1iwdhRIB_0PAY92dCuXKZJH8jQ-C3o3tzBnmWDNKE/s1600-h/blog007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101285711409233538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTNzSmxFuYBlsxLk4YWVt5mk_BIZhUa6M47-nB9OQfYy1_kOSs0B4qjQgdZUvla95mfdWdVGNuIhoaT247CVdjZrxeeu1iwdhRIB_0PAY92dCuXKZJH8jQ-C3o3tzBnmWDNKE/s400/blog007.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />All quiet on the blog front in the last week, I know. Where my motivation went, I’ll never know.<br /><br />I do know that if I don’t plant my butt in front of a computer more often and actually start typing, I won’t be getting to the Asheville part of my road trip until December! Geez.<br /><br />And yet, this post has little to do with my road trip and everything to do with missing my Grandma, whose grave and old home I visited while back. I realize this blog is mostly about food, but I was going through three years worth of papers stuffed into boxes last Sunday and found a copy of an interview my mother did with my grandma shortly before she died.<br /><br />Let me testify: if you don’t do something like this (an interview) with your own family, you might regret it. I simply wasn’t around my grandmother enough to learn the things mentioned in this interview on my own. And, unfortunately, she died during a period of my youth where I busy trying to get away from my family. I rarely spoke to her by phone since she was hard of hearing, and most of our conversations had to be done face to face.<br /><br />So, this interview means a lot to me. It’s one of the few pieces of my grandmother’s life I have left, and I cherish it more than anyone could ever know. No amount on earth could ever be worth what these few paragraphs mean to me.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Note: The following is written the way my grandma spoke, as transcribed by my mother. Since she was speaking to my mother, “your grandpa” and “your daddy” refers to my great-grandpa and grandpa respectively. Last names have been replaced with initials...just because. Translation of uncommon terms provided in parentheses.<br /><br />A little more background: My grandmother, Nellie, was born up in a holler in </em></span><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=35.99430084,-82.27439880"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Relief, North Carolina</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>, in an area of the Blue Ridge Mountains her family had lived in for several generations. Despite being unable to read or write, she provided for her large family and worked hard all her life, growing and preserving food, cooking, sewing, cleaning, and raising young’uns.<br /><br />Some, ahem, interesting things you might notice in the interview: drunkenness, marriage between cousins, race mixing, bootlegging, wild game hunting, and child labor. It is likely that a few folks reading this today will frown upon some of these things, much as people did back then. It is also likely that my grandparents didn’t give a shit what those people thought, so long as they minded their own damn business. I’m comfortable in saying that I’m of the same mind.</em></span><br /><br />++++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br /><br />I can remember back when I was 3 years old. The way we played, we’d go to the branch (creek), get rocks and build play houses. We’d travel the mountains...we’d go for miles back in the mountains, a playin’, pick up chestnuts, and I’d lay on the hillside in the brush...make grasshopper cages (you do this with grass needles), and I’d look far away, playin’ alone and think, someday, how I’d want to be in those places…go places. And the first train I’d seen, I was up on a hill where my daddy worked in the corn and I’d watch the train as it passed by. When we left the mountains, the first river I’d ever seen we’d moved to Erwin. I was 9. My daddy bought a T-Model car, so he’d take us to a movie. The first show I’d seen was scary. It scared us all...about a woman with big eyes. Yeah, we’d make trips. My Daddy worked in a shop making parts for trains. He made $4.50 an hour. That was good money back then.<br /><br />The way we washed clothes, we’d boil water, drop some clothes in, take ‘em out and put ‘em on a stump from a sawed off tree. We’d use boat paddles, they called ‘em bats, and we’d bat our clothes. You could hear everyone down at the branch batting their clothes. We’d make our own soap out of lye and meat skin, hog meat skin. People would bathe in it, too. We’d put it in a big iron kettle and cook it until it became thick. We’d have to wait ‘till it cooked, then cut it in blocks.<br /><br />When I was 12, we moved to Elizabethton where my daddy worked in a silk factory. I took care of Bob. (Her nephew.) He was a baby.<br /><br />They wouldn’t let me go to school. The truant officer would come around and they’d tell him that I was older...didn’t have to go. I worked in the house. They always used me as a slave. Well, I used to sew and make my own clothes by the time I was 13. You can imagine what my clothes looked like!<br /><br />Thirteen, that’s how old I was when I’d stay with people…I’d take care of those who were sick. I’d cook for them, clean their house, dust, wash clothes. They paid me $2.50 a week. After awhile, we moved to Johnson City...I was 14. Well, I done the same thing there. I’d wash their clothes on a wash board. I’d take care of 4 or 5 young’uns. And you know the kind of pleasure I’d see? Me and a bunch of girls would start walking the road. There wasn’t many cars back then. We’d walk for miles, and we’d laugh and carry on. Every so often, there’d be a T-Model pass and we’d holler at them. And next we’d, ’bout 4 or 5 of us, walk to the country church hoping to find a handsome boy...never could find any. We’d stay at church and walk home in the dark. We were never afraid.<br /><br />Your grandma always stayed at home. She went to church a lot. Her and my daddy argued all the time. That was back in the Hoover days. We liked to starved to death. When my daddy got the job at the Foundry, we lived a little better. They made steel parts for trains, cars. I’m trying to remember how old I was when I met your daddy...about 16. I met him at King Springs. There was a spring and there was a dance hall built over it. We’d go there on Sundays and sit. The way we dated, we’d go for walks...to friends houses. We’d go to the cow pasture and practice football. I was 22 when we got married. He went into the Army about 17...served 3 years the first time. We had 3 young’uns when he had to go in again. Jane was about 2 years old. He stayed in one year...he went overseas. That was when he got his leg broke.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82jErstlZzS1jqRd0FjHHNUPJfNDcn8cgMrhYZpkiblRyYozMoKi60K-CpHKdaoLw9bWLgzm55-hu8GDh8c_MSNBcFj3PNZeOhWI90MCnJOHS2tOIy_Oj09JFUMWCpqaFRZie/s1600-h/g&pop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101285844553219730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82jErstlZzS1jqRd0FjHHNUPJfNDcn8cgMrhYZpkiblRyYozMoKi60K-CpHKdaoLw9bWLgzm55-hu8GDh8c_MSNBcFj3PNZeOhWI90MCnJOHS2tOIy_Oj09JFUMWCpqaFRZie/s400/g&pop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Back when we lived in the mountains, my daddy got mad at my mother...said he’d just kill himself. And they had a place where they hung hogs over at the house. We looked over there, us kids. My daddy had his legs over that pole and his head hangin’ down and his arms just a-shakin’...had us kids cryin’. Then another time he said my mammy didn’t love him…he got drunk. He said he’d just leave. He went up in the holler. My mammy got his brother and they went up on the hillside where they could see up that holler where those legs was, and they saw his heels. He had his head hung down in the branch. He was drunk...cussing. They dragged him out, carried him to the house. They put him to bed to sober up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDPE8yHqZCykOPwP0kZvJdT-HZlieNAahdBtKdK05QeBbs0Q7k2bGqvV0iXqVEXh6L0zxquQHd24V8XDoWrY2avjd7tVNDGtdkqmHJslsZ9E0hNCKB7HQAiF8sDvHfHO6kwOPR/s1600-h/scan0008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101287150223277730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDPE8yHqZCykOPwP0kZvJdT-HZlieNAahdBtKdK05QeBbs0Q7k2bGqvV0iXqVEXh6L0zxquQHd24V8XDoWrY2avjd7tVNDGtdkqmHJslsZ9E0hNCKB7HQAiF8sDvHfHO6kwOPR/s400/scan0008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Another time, he and my mammy got into a fuss. He wasn’t drunk then. He told her he’d just leave. Well, when he went outside, he took his gun off the rack...said he’d just kill himself. The moon was full that night and the cows had been feeding out in the yard that day. We heard a shot go off. My mammy took out, running. My daddy hadn’t shaved in 2-3 days. He shot up between his hat. He fell in a cow pile. My brother ran out to him...he ran his hand up underneath my daddy’s head. He said, “Yeah, mom he shot himself. Here’s his brains under his head.” So my mom passed out and my brother had to carry her in. My daddy got up and walked in with him.<br /><br />My Grandpa M came from Cherokee. He was raised there…he was Indian. He was in the Civil war. He died when my oldest sister was born. Grandpa H was 104 when he died. He was Dutch. My grandma M and Joe H were brother and sister. Grandpa H was a preacher. My mother was 12 when they married.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvErj-xSr3gimmPQ4WDzr3KMsJ6qeg2X_g4Etqb3b2yo-ieg0yDLRH00mdfNGH9tY4cGgF98vEDKeYBv3QOo7v0BJv0Tmr0V3rE2Tq-8uyycEyT7-ubOvvaPEI6GAR21l9vYn/s1600-h/scan0028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101287506705563330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvErj-xSr3gimmPQ4WDzr3KMsJ6qeg2X_g4Etqb3b2yo-ieg0yDLRH00mdfNGH9tY4cGgF98vEDKeYBv3QOo7v0BJv0Tmr0V3rE2Tq-8uyycEyT7-ubOvvaPEI6GAR21l9vYn/s400/scan0028.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Grandma M...when they moved to the mountains, they had to sleep in the woods at night. They had to hide their personal belongings in the bushes because the Rebels came through. They’d (the Rebels) take cows and anything away. There was a woman who lived there and always knew when the Rebels were about to invade. She’d let everyone know so they could hide their things. The Rebels found out about her, and she was shot in the chest. She had a little girl.<br /><br />My grandpa got shot. They threw him up in a wagon, and they drove through a thicket, and he worked his way off the wagon and escaped. He crawled to a haystack and stayed there for 3 weeks. He got well enough to go home. They came and got him…took him back. A drove of them went through again, back to the river. They shot the democrats and buried them in the river bottom. That was the end of them.<br /><br />My grandma thought he was coming in one night. She had a bullet that had come out of one of the soldiers who had been killed. She looked out the window and saw a white horse coming. There was a man on it. She ran to meet him. The horse reared back. The dogs were barking...her little sister was clinging to her. She went back to the house. She sat at the chimney corner and watched the man on the horse. When grandpa got home, he took the bullet and threw it away. She didn’t see the man on the white horse again. He was dead. It was his bullet...the one that killed him.<br /><br />My daddy and mother used to make moonshine. They’d sprout the corn to make the beer. They kept it hid from us young’uns. Between 2 bedrooms, there was a wood stove. Somehow, they dug a place in the floor that led to the basement. They had a stove pipe that leg through. We didn’t suspect anything...the stove pipe would never get hot. In one bedroom that had canned food, and behind those is where they stored the jugs of moonshine.<br /><br />There was a sawmill near the house. They’d haul out lumber and had toe sacks (potato sacks) filled with straw for the workers to sit. They’d throw them in the yard. My mother would put half gallons of moonshine in those sacks. The workers would haul the sacks on the trucks with the lumber. She’d get the money from the sacks. That’s how they made a living in the mountains.<br /><br />They got tired makin’ moonshine in the basement, so they’d put us kids to bed early and decided to make it upstairs using the fireplace. It blew up! My mother was burnt. She went to the doctor the next day. He told her the sparks from the fireplace caused it. She didn’t tell him what they were doing. We didn’t know this until we were much older. We never knew while they were doing this. That’s why my daddy was getting drunk. When your daddy was living we went up toward Relief, but couldn’t get to the back roads that would lead us there.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5xQw6_LXJbobtEx9zhWvw3LPrDZmQtQXCQjpbhagY8HmB-yCauhswH0_vK6cA9xISmzpN0iM-jt-n6h94JaUpmC2N-rTCaAGFBxj7FI7_tOP_QOJY2Ly5PutAwco8TZ4WLcf/s1600-h/scan0010.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101287425101184690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5xQw6_LXJbobtEx9zhWvw3LPrDZmQtQXCQjpbhagY8HmB-yCauhswH0_vK6cA9xISmzpN0iM-jt-n6h94JaUpmC2N-rTCaAGFBxj7FI7_tOP_QOJY2Ly5PutAwco8TZ4WLcf/s400/scan0010.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />At Christmastime my daddy would ride the horse to Bakersville to buy Christmas. He’d buy stick candy, fruit. That was one Christmas. I can remember one time my daddy bought my sister and I a doll. We went barefoot in the wintertime. We were happy to get shoes for Christmas. When we wanted a doll, we’d make our own with tied rags and charcoal for eyes. We didn’t have toys.<br /><br />They’d grow late cabbage. They’d dig a ridge and bury the cabbage heads leaving the roots sticking up. We’d have cabbage all winter. They’d dig holes with straw in them and keep potatoes that way. We’d have Hanover potatoes for all winter. We’d eat birds. My daddy would catch them in a trap, and my mother would cook them in a big iron pot over the wood stove. We’d have gravy from that. They called them snowbirds. We ate a lot of wild meat...like groundhogs, squirrels, rabbits. There were none of the disease back then in those animals. They’d kill sheep, too. They called it “Mutton” meat.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrIt8VSo3BnBwL7PIcx1nV6iOF-SSU-SvAxsksaqP3HAVmv4LSFBsSbhG6wLVV4KTmyJi27unXRUUHtk-u5wYgquqEfdCBSm0-y7Ii8PH5OvxcCanq85_ZVZuKpjOXfNf2BRh/s1600-h/DSC_0028a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrIt8VSo3BnBwL7PIcx1nV6iOF-SSU-SvAxsksaqP3HAVmv4LSFBsSbhG6wLVV4KTmyJi27unXRUUHtk-u5wYgquqEfdCBSm0-y7Ii8PH5OvxcCanq85_ZVZuKpjOXfNf2BRh/s400/DSC_0028a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101344067129884370" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Love Always,<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-66352283731774844912007-08-10T10:36:00.000-07:002007-08-10T10:56:33.072-07:00Let Me Show You Something!After leaving Calabash, we arrived in Carolina Beach - a small and somewhat impoverished beach town with a military base nearby. The town is on an island, called Paradise Island, and is within the greater Wilmington area. This is where we wanted to go for two reasons: the obligatory beach visit and to see carnivorous plants in their natural habitat.<br /><br />The food was secondary on our agenda during this part of the trip, but we did find one seafood restaurant worthy of a visit from the pork mobile called Bowman's. Although it wasn't up to Calabash standards, it was the best meal we ate between a so-so barbecue joint on the island and a mediocre restaurant in downtown Wilmington.<br /><br />This post is all about vacation pictures, so enjoy!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ZRqbQJx9gTZ0IwrHfvl7w-c7X-okuDFzeqdAEXzIXaXdwoxPIqqG6fz1J3hsAbFgh8bWhIjOgdDCXlN4Cuua4BpEcJKaLXtri3L0O-nm8Ol9hDvro1T3Qbs7nYijRWxTwaEU/s1600-h/DSC_0066.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097127808113192402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ZRqbQJx9gTZ0IwrHfvl7w-c7X-okuDFzeqdAEXzIXaXdwoxPIqqG6fz1J3hsAbFgh8bWhIjOgdDCXlN4Cuua4BpEcJKaLXtri3L0O-nm8Ol9hDvro1T3Qbs7nYijRWxTwaEU/s400/DSC_0066.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Tall, Long Needle Pines - Green Swamp, NC</span></em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKrtjsMTpFLfvH1Jx6BBjzM62adQIP2s2jqrW1g3gl7xSLY4DMxjttQStwD8NywOHZr9jIjJAf3urPW3_Z4tN2kzWCcZeE1nXFGUQWDXWAkNzc7ktNg3LCIf70T69UUrFB8s2w/s1600-h/DSC_0070.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097127971321949666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKrtjsMTpFLfvH1Jx6BBjzM62adQIP2s2jqrW1g3gl7xSLY4DMxjttQStwD8NywOHZr9jIjJAf3urPW3_Z4tN2kzWCcZeE1nXFGUQWDXWAkNzc7ktNg3LCIf70T69UUrFB8s2w/s400/DSC_0070.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Sarracenia flava, aka Yellow Trumpet Pitcher Plant</span></em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnsHrL8t-FYzEeO91qy6TPLRwuAlyowaoFzv_JoUQjvNvNu6-fx4kz6KhA8BKpdC9cyqZxlK0_9OoN8UI0x2-1Ig9H69Ujg4I6mZp1l8hr2eXzjZopqaAo8i3ip-dBmF79wAnD/s1600-h/DSC_0095.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097128091581033970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnsHrL8t-FYzEeO91qy6TPLRwuAlyowaoFzv_JoUQjvNvNu6-fx4kz6KhA8BKpdC9cyqZxlK0_9OoN8UI0x2-1Ig9H69Ujg4I6mZp1l8hr2eXzjZopqaAo8i3ip-dBmF79wAnD/s400/DSC_0095.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Venus Fly-Trap</span></em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5AkoAhETs9GJftRbvf5skub5Lok0R73ToohPGbrjUE95yAPuH9uoctqO7JC1YS2VMoAGhA7X4Z6_pb-jb8kIk1EqhOQ1mbz-z2P8JYDww5YC8uWohd-SlsvCdMjmLaPq-DOK/s1600-h/DSC_0105.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097128194660249090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5AkoAhETs9GJftRbvf5skub5Lok0R73ToohPGbrjUE95yAPuH9uoctqO7JC1YS2VMoAGhA7X4Z6_pb-jb8kIk1EqhOQ1mbz-z2P8JYDww5YC8uWohd-SlsvCdMjmLaPq-DOK/s400/DSC_0105.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhfQ4Uwc9o315KYKVjNl8hR2LT94dRlTR2gOYX7uQuZeXkYX5Ft2elWItmEbEJE7MznQjh9eu7cKGo8700hI8Rol-wGmlQJcV3yr7tfeZLhb6_EMhFrERUfBgyluJtAp_EYko/s1600-h/DSC_0149.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097128327804235282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhfQ4Uwc9o315KYKVjNl8hR2LT94dRlTR2gOYX7uQuZeXkYX5Ft2elWItmEbEJE7MznQjh9eu7cKGo8700hI8Rol-wGmlQJcV3yr7tfeZLhb6_EMhFrERUfBgyluJtAp_EYko/s400/DSC_0149.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Common sundew, aka Drosera intermedia</span></em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIbKYDxpR1a2zBZixg3NAFDloNJG7PpsbcJoCuKtmuHqT7TRjDcIYs98xHF2_lV7HTk46vsxZdA5XMNMjwtz-zsbULxkpALzp1cvIfyO32GeiIWxFG-hf6c67jH-hGxg50oFt/s1600-h/DSC_0142.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097128521077763618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIbKYDxpR1a2zBZixg3NAFDloNJG7PpsbcJoCuKtmuHqT7TRjDcIYs98xHF2_lV7HTk46vsxZdA5XMNMjwtz-zsbULxkpALzp1cvIfyO32GeiIWxFG-hf6c67jH-hGxg50oFt/s400/DSC_0142.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKN_AMXG9QCmxBbtu97PbqerCfosPnZdyUIr54EMSeVpqr790-S29ZCBO_3_3Y4fWdGVEmEKc8icvQPzhER2ekKfZWgDMAHYkQ9Fxy_duWhD_HBS3QdaXIweyfUviX_DDUxvbI/s1600-h/DSC_0125.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097128628451946034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKN_AMXG9QCmxBbtu97PbqerCfosPnZdyUIr54EMSeVpqr790-S29ZCBO_3_3Y4fWdGVEmEKc8icvQPzhER2ekKfZWgDMAHYkQ9Fxy_duWhD_HBS3QdaXIweyfUviX_DDUxvbI/s400/DSC_0125.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9zhchW0j8CrwdsRu9VotTfpPXAQi5h5kHb6evN1HFzWCgtN-33hXKwxhaSOSrbU9ayWl1FlWliex8fNhB9RZFYv_GG-Cf8QlcHcW_AxVH7tH4Ye_mhfoBjOR9DuwdVoty59r0/s1600-h/DSC_0003.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097128838905343554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9zhchW0j8CrwdsRu9VotTfpPXAQi5h5kHb6evN1HFzWCgtN-33hXKwxhaSOSrbU9ayWl1FlWliex8fNhB9RZFYv_GG-Cf8QlcHcW_AxVH7tH4Ye_mhfoBjOR9DuwdVoty59r0/s400/DSC_0003.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSl7oiTC91wTDJ2-LeBK1NB99SeA05fYTJf0qPOI54BwJ11tUAzOOM5vFJHzi6xgx2JRGazewY1aP1ybpAIanOteAf-pbc6huiNu7lEVqCgUUSGd7-LdwGOjMJfy9KWyAVK-Y0/s1600-h/DSC_0020.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097129208272531026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSl7oiTC91wTDJ2-LeBK1NB99SeA05fYTJf0qPOI54BwJ11tUAzOOM5vFJHzi6xgx2JRGazewY1aP1ybpAIanOteAf-pbc6huiNu7lEVqCgUUSGd7-LdwGOjMJfy9KWyAVK-Y0/s400/DSC_0020.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U7QLySCO-QUMYpKJ-Filbp0CjzoZlrnYfLzrSJHKzLi6vIzWvgZTuOJ98oK-xlB7AcYvL4S5WXzMipneY-MbM1wROMSDXmMlV0H05sqJ6ECcgWEkw95gDA0daeA_igyYDPvo/s1600-h/DSC_0006.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097129508920241762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U7QLySCO-QUMYpKJ-Filbp0CjzoZlrnYfLzrSJHKzLi6vIzWvgZTuOJ98oK-xlB7AcYvL4S5WXzMipneY-MbM1wROMSDXmMlV0H05sqJ6ECcgWEkw95gDA0daeA_igyYDPvo/s400/DSC_0006.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidhHcwjzBa6c5-riNr-vEHhi0tGaEF7dXIQzeqZyofTHrPeE7QMaguLTEu-GuZ4qvN5ZVgkFbyHi2zuFy1gni8afVXR7NkW5UZnXMJrSpF9NfRA6gIi0am2xXp6EKsVG6n5WJ0/s1600-h/DSC_0068a.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097129672128999026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidhHcwjzBa6c5-riNr-vEHhi0tGaEF7dXIQzeqZyofTHrPeE7QMaguLTEu-GuZ4qvN5ZVgkFbyHi2zuFy1gni8afVXR7NkW5UZnXMJrSpF9NfRA6gIi0am2xXp6EKsVG6n5WJ0/s400/DSC_0068a.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Celebrate the moments of your life</span></em><br /><br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-13954189773507836752007-08-09T11:19:00.000-07:002007-08-09T22:40:59.235-07:00The One True Calabash<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTKJQ__j1e4hfaryiFifir-EnUiKBCfrqIm5vWOEWN8HXNcy4gNgUJxnvMVT48KzjjcWG25gpFzt1p1t608o-d4AIHB3snqu3BPQDCvbY9pRbiOqY0jQs0knxtuVJNiAz9wGg9/s1600-h/DSC_0044.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096772597137944002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTKJQ__j1e4hfaryiFifir-EnUiKBCfrqIm5vWOEWN8HXNcy4gNgUJxnvMVT48KzjjcWG25gpFzt1p1t608o-d4AIHB3snqu3BPQDCvbY9pRbiOqY0jQs0knxtuVJNiAz9wGg9/s400/DSC_0044.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There are two towns in North Carolina that will lead you to believe you have died and are seated at the Pearly Plates.<br /><br />Depending on your religion, you’re either in barbecue heaven (Lexington, NC) or seafood heaven (Calabash, NC). There’s a third heaven for all you fine lovers of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HIpRRxta4w">livermush</a> (Shelby, NC) - but don’t bother telling anyone, lest you feel inclined to sit through the lip curls and squinched faces.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Shelby wasn’t on our itinerary this last road trip. I’ll discuss Lexington later on, but let’s talk about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calabash,_North_Carolina">Calabash:</a> the myth and the reality.<br /><br /><em>Myth?</em> Whachu talkin’ bout Willis?<br /><br />The prevailing myth in the Carolinas is that one can say their cuisine is Calabash without actually being from Calabash. In fact the name, “Calabash”, and the term, “Calabash-style”, has been bandied about by any and everyone serving deep-fried seafood from the shores of the Outer Banks to the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Yet technically, if it isn’t from the town of Calabash, it isn’t real Calabash seafood.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHmxnzpXF7CAmEOfxr6R9aYl9hvEzVeCVfcxintPUI-gPV-sKfQHc-pjQlc-sqxH4xSuxoJghmmK0wK0QSgnCzgb4eg4wgxZgLdZjtsdrR0F_GdmfD1k29eA8pc8w8_LCRWL3/s1600-h/DSC_0016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096772086036835746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHmxnzpXF7CAmEOfxr6R9aYl9hvEzVeCVfcxintPUI-gPV-sKfQHc-pjQlc-sqxH4xSuxoJghmmK0wK0QSgnCzgb4eg4wgxZgLdZjtsdrR0F_GdmfD1k29eA8pc8w8_LCRWL3/s400/DSC_0016.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>"Calabash" Restaurant in North Myrtle Beach, SC</em><br /><br />Why they do so is obvious: Calabash has the reputation for delivering simple, fresh, and delicious seafood (mainly fried, but offered as boiled or broiled as well) with a distinctive style. For a restaurant to say it serves “Calabash-style” seafood conjures up images of nets teaming with fish just hauled off a boat and ultimately delivered steaming hot to your table. Actually, those boats are quite real in Calabash and are literally down the street from the restaurants.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LePSwpai6lkNfT-q8tc-VOc1nCtIasfQ3q04Mg7wfZXZwPfioGaf-gxr2FTpRsct1gpZDkGgi_4aPkh8k96TOT8-8a2U7j3a7BCm4WX0ZtvYE7NYjvP3ROaIRl6x_Oxlg6xz/s1600-h/DSC_0037.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096772438224154034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LePSwpai6lkNfT-q8tc-VOc1nCtIasfQ3q04Mg7wfZXZwPfioGaf-gxr2FTpRsct1gpZDkGgi_4aPkh8k96TOT8-8a2U7j3a7BCm4WX0ZtvYE7NYjvP3ROaIRl6x_Oxlg6xz/s400/DSC_0037.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I’ve mentioned previously my own upbringing as a North Carolinian raised in a food environment that was more pizza than pinto beans; more burgers than barbecue. Like many Southerners of their generation, my parents were products of the last half of the 20th century and none too excited to worship at the feet of tradition. Music-wise, my Dad listened to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Outlaw_country">outlaw country </a>of Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson rather than traditional bluegrass, while my mother distanced herself from her Appalachian roots entirely in the soothing sounds of Chuck Mangione, Anita Baker, and Kenny G.<br /><br />Despite this, my parents were huge Calabash-style seafood fanatics. Being in the mountains, we often got our fix from the only two fish camps in the area – one in the boonies near Leicester and another sitting on a lone highway between Swannanoa and Black Mountain; neither of which are still in business.<br /><br />My parents not only loved (still love) seafood, but their love of the ocean and all things associated with it left an indelible mark on me; so much so, I’ve lived by the sea since I left home.<br /><br />My parents weren’t perfect (neither was I), but they tried. One thing is clear: they <em>done right </em>the minute they set me down in front of that red and white-checked plastic tablecloth covered table and introduced me to the deep-fried holiness of popcorn shrimp, deviled crabs, and hushpuppies.<br /><br />For me, coming to Calabash was not only a great stop between Charleston and the Wilmington area, but it was also a pilgrimage to a culinary shrine and a tribute to the tastes and loves of my parents. I won’t deny that there was also a quest for authenticity – to say I had been to the source, to experience “the real”, and to judge it for better or worse.<br /><br />It’s a helluva weight to put on such a small town. It’s an even bigger weight to put on one restaurant in said small town, and yet something tells me the <strong>Calabash Seafood Hut</strong>, much like Atlas balancing the weight of the sky on his shoulders, is use to such challenges.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NFTCD4v0oE6uS5w-I9bkkPjLfEsj_6OXNHyns1BHop3rUk3pOv7I9s9qztT_ezXdMOxTvbkJCQxjvAEPTZo-NcjJP5cqeYAEgaWnzgbIsH-fxqqNPxB9nU80xGdyoDAXpQqQ/s1600-h/DSC_0033.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096771793979059602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NFTCD4v0oE6uS5w-I9bkkPjLfEsj_6OXNHyns1BHop3rUk3pOv7I9s9qztT_ezXdMOxTvbkJCQxjvAEPTZo-NcjJP5cqeYAEgaWnzgbIsH-fxqqNPxB9nU80xGdyoDAXpQqQ/s400/DSC_0033.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We rolled into the town of Calabash shortly before noon, stopping at the first second hand store we saw. After browsing through the dusty old clothes and even dustier old books, we asked the clerk where River Road was. Oddly, she had never heard of it. Two older women who were shopping overheard us and we asked if they were local. When they said yes, we asked them: “where is River Road?” They seemed stumped and asked us where we were going. When we said the Calabash Seafood Hut, it was as if all of a sudden the clouds opened up and a beam of light shone down.<br /><br />“Oh, just go up to the stop light and turn right! You can’t miss it! We’re getting ready to eat across the street from there.”<br /><br /><em>So much for Mapquest.</em><br /><br />After disembarking from our pork mobile and entering the restaurant, we seem to arrive between the fishing boat captains leaving and the “spending our grandkids’ inheritance” crowd following behind us. Our waitress gave us a moment to look at the menu while she brought out a basket of hushpuppies to start with.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMLke3i-uoVm_vSYYcXDI9JWYvO-wsLDvEK8PyyfZ5LB-3H3-LpKzQsu2C1g17KQRjQ3ttMILQ39enAzXv1UigqvdVWrfh182McLuSbCnfPlXjni0Ps47aJoktK6m3fjc6NyM/s1600-h/DSC_0032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096771390252133762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMLke3i-uoVm_vSYYcXDI9JWYvO-wsLDvEK8PyyfZ5LB-3H3-LpKzQsu2C1g17KQRjQ3ttMILQ39enAzXv1UigqvdVWrfh182McLuSbCnfPlXjni0Ps47aJoktK6m3fjc6NyM/s400/DSC_0032.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>Important Side Note:</em> You know, in the Carolinas someone is always making a big deal over who’s barbecue is the most authentic or tastiest. And yet, <em>consider the lowly hushpuppy.</em><br /><br />Hushpuppies vary wildly from region to region, cuisine to cuisine. Sometimes they are perfectly round, sometimes they are oblong, and sometimes they look like a Ferran Adria experiment gone wrong. Some have onions in them, while others do not. Some are savory and some are sweet. Some are mostly cornmeal, some are partially corn meal, and some are mostly flour.<br /><br />I’ve noticed that hushpuppies served with barbecue tend to consist mainly of corn meal and contain no sugar, while hushpuppies served with seafood tend to have more flour and contain some sugar. These bits of fried bread are dense and soft on the inside while crunchy and slightly sweet on the outside.<br /><br />If you ask me, that’s a damn delicious combination, dangerous for any diet.<br /><br />When it came time to order, Bruce and I basically ordered the same platter; a platter loaded with deviled crab, shrimp, oysters, whiting, cole slaw and french fries. Bruce, not an oyster fan, substituted scallops instead.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_10cXgJlwtklawj-ytTUnZL7_Zd1TQnEvTLtWl1gbkjjI6-t97VJr8xwCoOzJlQvYjtMeJShfv9nuHdhzBKQUicSdARl1_roRtvqNAcl-qXqwxum43oHS0LGSY-DmV0YAL9a/s1600-h/DSC_0026.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096771136849063282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_10cXgJlwtklawj-ytTUnZL7_Zd1TQnEvTLtWl1gbkjjI6-t97VJr8xwCoOzJlQvYjtMeJShfv9nuHdhzBKQUicSdARl1_roRtvqNAcl-qXqwxum43oHS0LGSY-DmV0YAL9a/s400/DSC_0026.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Our plates of food arrived not long after we placed our order, along with a pitcher each of sweet and unsweet tea. Sitting on the table were bottles of ketchup, cocktail sauce, and Texas Pete hot sauce – not that I needed to use much of anything with seafood this good.<br /><br />In fact, things weren’t as good as I remembered: <em>they were better.</em> And why shouldn’t they be? Here I was in Calabash having real Calabash seafood and it was rocking my world! The seafood was lightly breaded, crisp, and hot. Each bite was a clean, fresh, succulent, and rich rebuke to all pretenders and challengers to the throne.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfkoIyXD2SWHtbbYPTfO-LhLW8odz5lhyD5ZSZpEw5ZNijtMb-lq9kuq3QgZtT9semykRR8_-7LXDUExVO7IEYJ20kGpZxYitdggLJBxPWf8CzBEnMFy3GNKqIMpReuJ5_4YO/s1600-h/DSC_0023.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096770952165469538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfkoIyXD2SWHtbbYPTfO-LhLW8odz5lhyD5ZSZpEw5ZNijtMb-lq9kuq3QgZtT9semykRR8_-7LXDUExVO7IEYJ20kGpZxYitdggLJBxPWf8CzBEnMFy3GNKqIMpReuJ5_4YO/s400/DSC_0023.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The best part of this whole experience was sharing my love of deviled crab with Bruce. Deviled crab was definitely a favorite of mine growing up. I ordered it, along with boiled or fried shrimp, every time my parents and I stopped by the fish camp. Deviled crab is definitely a specialty of this region and I honestly don’t think it’s available in California (though I could be wrong). Naturally, Bruce was hooked.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Zj7LDfr07v0hK5L_AyIT72Qr_yMYy3mUGqiRHbrYvsSV-uDz-AumDKtjMJ514eUxi18q82AAMaOaI13P_0D5mYfnoWAAgXMofzPJPn7asQpboUbtvvoM-KMgyz6n9xEwiIXi/s1600-h/DSC_0027.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096770707352333650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Zj7LDfr07v0hK5L_AyIT72Qr_yMYy3mUGqiRHbrYvsSV-uDz-AumDKtjMJ514eUxi18q82AAMaOaI13P_0D5mYfnoWAAgXMofzPJPn7asQpboUbtvvoM-KMgyz6n9xEwiIXi/s400/DSC_0027.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In general, deviled crab is blue crab that is cooked, stripped of meat, that meat is added to bread crumbs and spices, it is all stuffed back into the shell, and then it is deep fried. Not only a cool presentation, but OOOHH so good.<br /><br />So good, in fact, one doesn’t have time to truly appreciate its beauty before it’s all gone.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11-EnNCAD6l5lOJL0jmBE5vGAvRK-CRjAIyB1_ZUnO6q4KOcXPrv9yUP4hFe9V-OtqtMPXMCK2E4MC5yz-F6-OPX-S7JafTVnfcw1AiGEaSRpoCokf_hrZ7QExJ2yoACNebq7/s1600-h/DSC_0028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096770071697173810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11-EnNCAD6l5lOJL0jmBE5vGAvRK-CRjAIyB1_ZUnO6q4KOcXPrv9yUP4hFe9V-OtqtMPXMCK2E4MC5yz-F6-OPX-S7JafTVnfcw1AiGEaSRpoCokf_hrZ7QExJ2yoACNebq7/s400/DSC_0028.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In a way, I’m glad Calabash seafood isn’t available where I live. First of all, watching my weight would be damn near impossible (it’s already difficult having <a href="http://divefood.blogspot.com/2006/07/little-lucca-sandwich-shop.html">Little Lucca</a> just down the peninsula). Second, I appreciate having to travel for good food. I don’t want everything to be everywhere, and often is the case where some dish I enjoyed in one place (such as a Cuban sandwich) is brought to another (San Francisco), and those who make it never get it right. I just end up disappointed and wanting to travel.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHYJ7Gg_pC9Rhkbtb2CEZB1glPE-r1H8leQnhd8HE6HAex-Ed7K5ccqtSqVRCRKX4JXsoJERgZSELrugnUBJ8HZzYczJf95IZMfagnnkoH48F6qxfrWfDCZ6yWu5bjFInpUjp/s1600-h/DSC_0029.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096770445359328578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHYJ7Gg_pC9Rhkbtb2CEZB1glPE-r1H8leQnhd8HE6HAex-Ed7K5ccqtSqVRCRKX4JXsoJERgZSELrugnUBJ8HZzYczJf95IZMfagnnkoH48F6qxfrWfDCZ6yWu5bjFInpUjp/s400/DSC_0029.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I guess the lesson here is that good food waits for you. It stays in one place, welcoming you to come back for more.<br /><br />You just have to know where to go.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-9174557001974309502007-08-03T20:07:00.000-07:002007-08-03T20:19:50.822-07:00I'm Cranky and Gassy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFEpWul0WnQbK5cA_a8AQP49kyHh8d2yYCrjpRYHm4H54E_xfAkNh_6C8aQ9UVB08n3jyokPDmo0_VD3E-bFHEgDD6JJop09p6OUthfekHsYkHpJuPY0GNdYj0PZr-tRB8KYE/s1600-h/P1020975.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFEpWul0WnQbK5cA_a8AQP49kyHh8d2yYCrjpRYHm4H54E_xfAkNh_6C8aQ9UVB08n3jyokPDmo0_VD3E-bFHEgDD6JJop09p6OUthfekHsYkHpJuPY0GNdYj0PZr-tRB8KYE/s400/P1020975.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5094677473436249378" /></a><br />It's been a hell of a week.<br /><br />I was watching Dr. Phil the other night instead of writing for this blog and I think I have something explosive in me. Not from the beans, but anger management stuff. Actually, I'm not getting enough sleep and I think it's making me cranky. Added to that, I just haven't had the time to do what I love to do: like take hikes, such as the one I took above in Morgan Territory near Mount Diablo about a month ago.<br /><br />Or even write about food!<br /><br />Well, I promise I'll have something for you next week, if not sooner.<br /><br />In the meantime, be sure to check out some of my other writing that goes more in depth about my quirks, temperaments, and deeply disturbing family issues. You can read it all <a href="http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=RnOt4aN2uyc">HERE.</a><br /><br />Chek u latr, playa hatr<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-75474851973353681942007-07-27T18:04:00.000-07:002007-07-27T23:06:50.985-07:00Simple Food<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTN8z2VnsGgJN_YlMTL0wnAcAUETocBeuQ6hKQYQe2cI76XE_3BaPriYiCblkTOVpbS5RquzshmXuzXDW89pJgnaBHETpsl_8M0UNJagO_CLV114A2bmQsH0OrGEnNTu6sPGM8/s1600-h/P1030089.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTN8z2VnsGgJN_YlMTL0wnAcAUETocBeuQ6hKQYQe2cI76XE_3BaPriYiCblkTOVpbS5RquzshmXuzXDW89pJgnaBHETpsl_8M0UNJagO_CLV114A2bmQsH0OrGEnNTu6sPGM8/s400/P1030089.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092056443874061586" /></a><br />Don’t be <em>fooled</em> into thinking I’m an expert on Appalachian cuisine.<br /><br />No...I’m an expert on Big Macs, sweet and sour pork, and pepperoni pizzas. Appalachian cuisine is something I’ve had to learn about in adulthood, and in San Francisco, despite having grown up <a href="http://www.google.com/maps?q=Asheville,+NC,+USA&sa=X&oi=map&ct=title">where</a> I did and having grandparents born and raised in the deep, dark <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&q=Relief,+NC,+USA&um=1&sa=N&tab=wl">hollers</a> that blanket the region like a patchwork quilt of red brick churches, apple orchards, and moonshine stills. <br /><br />The few carry-over foods from my grandparents to my mother to me, I abhorred. Pinto beans and string beans were about as bland and uninteresting as you could get to a young boy use to plates of meatball-topped spaghetti and “barbecued” cheeseburgers. So, I’ve had a lot of learning and unlearning to do, especially about foods I eschewed in favor of <em>Generican</em> (generic American) food. Why I do so is complicated and conflicted; I am a motherlode of neuroses for any therapist or preacher to mine.<br /><br />Have you heard of <strong>shucky beans?</strong> Or <strong>leather britches?</strong> Well, me neither until recently. String beans I have heard of. In fact, I spent many summer afternoons stringing them only so my mother could throw them in a big, dangerous pressure cooker and have them ready for Sunday supper.<br /><br />Well, shucky beans or leather britches are string beans – what most people out here call green beans – that have been dried. Actually, string beans are hard to come by in California. Most of what we get are those ubiquitous <a href="http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1216/is_n4_v196/ai_18285074">Blue Lake </a>beans; a stringless variety developed in Oregon in the early 20th century and once only popular amongst canners. Nowadays, Blue Lake beans are the <em>de facto </em>green bean of both the supermarket and farmers’ market shelves and, frankly, the lack of variety annoys the hell out of me.<br /><br />Oh sure, sometimes you’ll find Romano or Kentucky Wonder beans for sale at the farmers’ market. I saw some last Tuesday at the Ferry Building for <strong>$5 a pound.</strong> You’ll also see the yellow wax bean and haricot verts on occasion, which I’m sure are lovely in their own way.<br /><br />Other than what I’ve mentioned, you will not see in California any bush or pole bean that is a heirloom variety or even a common Southern variety, like the creasy (or greasy) bean. Heirloom tomatoes we have out the wazoo, but don’t expect to see <a href="http://www.heirlooms.org/catalog.html">heirloom green beans</a> – even at the <a href="http://www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com/farmers_market.php">food porn palace.</a><br /><br />I’ve decided to experiment and make my own shucky beans using that lowly and common Blue Lake bean; a gentle $1 per pound. I’m not really dogging it; I do enjoy the flavor of Blue Lake beans. It’s just that I still have the urge to pull off a string and the fact that these are stringless makes me feel as though I’ve been robbed of an important culinary tradition.<br /><br />Is <em>this</em> really progress? That these stringless, uniform beans dominate the market stalls?<br /><br />Anyway, shucky beans are made by first washing the beans to remove any residual dirt or whathaveyou and then riffling through them, picking out the misfits and snapping off the ends simultaneously. It helps to have animal oversight available while you do this in order to catch your misses and offer up advice on when the cat box needs changing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3qfuDCATkUN1XclNMkoskLeWHb2HEbawL9S5h1MLlgyKjdeCqbh7t5bbHOqRTcfki507oUTegvnghd4Xu7uIxzFoGPSKb3a2pG1MibHtlR2a5-PkyiT7vdKGLJxHCqNVpMel/s1600-h/P1020998.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3qfuDCATkUN1XclNMkoskLeWHb2HEbawL9S5h1MLlgyKjdeCqbh7t5bbHOqRTcfki507oUTegvnghd4Xu7uIxzFoGPSKb3a2pG1MibHtlR2a5-PkyiT7vdKGLJxHCqNVpMel/s400/P1020998.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092056293550206210" /></a><br /><br />Then you take a needle and thread (I double up the thread) and “string” the beans by pushing the needle through the center of each bean and collecting them towards the end of the string. I find that having a horizontal work surface, like a cookie sheet, to work on is helpful. As far as what kind of string to use: I used both dental floss and polyester sewing thread and didn’t experience a problem with either.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWJ1qllr-OlbojypG7LE85Ajc2cPAx18TQqCMFgZcdAkRz38nFaG4x8SmH54jrnumY_S7waYq51JaU7tHzdlqBsja42fuvPpV3XB1piMjeO5TREO_ccqlsdEw5qGX_XXzXEBg/s1600-h/P1030001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWJ1qllr-OlbojypG7LE85Ajc2cPAx18TQqCMFgZcdAkRz38nFaG4x8SmH54jrnumY_S7waYq51JaU7tHzdlqBsja42fuvPpV3XB1piMjeO5TREO_ccqlsdEw5qGX_XXzXEBg/s400/P1030001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092056156111252722" /></a><br /><br />After about 2 or 3 feet of this green bean garland, tie off the strings at the end and then tie the whole thing to form a loop. It’s now ready to hang and dry.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOiYEBGhypovEnfZCujd3A9B9cL13V6a7GbyxlJv5bt6G3i8vW0c-dWn30vULUwf-NjbvdsylSwKbw54xPsiSXioOxq8_WCyexlHk8RE8EZIwqYEoNtIYv4NieATn9uEOLZbQ/s1600-h/P1030003.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOiYEBGhypovEnfZCujd3A9B9cL13V6a7GbyxlJv5bt6G3i8vW0c-dWn30vULUwf-NjbvdsylSwKbw54xPsiSXioOxq8_WCyexlHk8RE8EZIwqYEoNtIYv4NieATn9uEOLZbQ/s400/P1030003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092055967132691682" /></a><br /><br />If I had a shady front porch that was screened in, I’d hang them there. As it is, I live the dirtiest part of town by a bridge with no protected porch to sit on, string beans on, sing an <a href="http://www.old97wrecords.com/elizabeth-laprelle/index.htm">old ballad</a> on, or even pet my old coonhounds on.<br /><br />Instead, I have a whale rib hanging from my ceiling and a small fan plugged into the wall adjacent to it. This is where I will hang the beans to dry for the next month. A small desk fan I’ve set up near the beans is turned on to circulate the air around the beans so that they don’t mold, especially since I have them drying out of the sunlight.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlCYLyPD_mpxafM87LExXAk6nbYQarUPEs2KKGGsQZTJPkiVg8lHtBZ3e_TnZo27MCMPpmW6welJdFgA8-nHgICHHmwOaXv3PADOmAcXQyRINRcAUmLvg6PoXc334tic0DbFZ/s1600-h/P1030007.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlCYLyPD_mpxafM87LExXAk6nbYQarUPEs2KKGGsQZTJPkiVg8lHtBZ3e_TnZo27MCMPpmW6welJdFgA8-nHgICHHmwOaXv3PADOmAcXQyRINRcAUmLvg6PoXc334tic0DbFZ/s400/P1030007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092055821103803602" /></a><br /><br />My cats are fascinated by the hanging beans at first. And then, like with all things (excluding shoelaces and paper bags), they grow bored and ease back into the jaded, lazy bums that I love so much.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghN2G0mutCnYjhw-1RZbdkTE5bHwlGnV02ZlZRMI9wWRKaRt1GqmjzSGJOmK0DB-5y5tyBdfL2go5EPT3AnnjON1nPwDqJDbKkIo6-q-1LsKYypLK9_wkLfNCtO3NK0YuwRDxN/s1600-h/P1030091.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghN2G0mutCnYjhw-1RZbdkTE5bHwlGnV02ZlZRMI9wWRKaRt1GqmjzSGJOmK0DB-5y5tyBdfL2go5EPT3AnnjON1nPwDqJDbKkIo6-q-1LsKYypLK9_wkLfNCtO3NK0YuwRDxN/s400/P1030091.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092055692254784706" /></a><br /><br />After a couple of weeks, the beans are dry enough so that I can turn off the fan and let them dry for another week or two. Now’s the time to decide whether to put them in storage (a paper bag works well) or to cook some up. Of course I’ve decided to do both!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97ZlDtitxwWa879yBW27wMyzAnpAnePPeDPz91t1LkVTCB62BBwOOuHw90KslN4ngZWgcapZaUOsK-e96OtvlriH0pfmIGD_lSN5O27xPoi8HUfJ5zerMhfg0WHegNW8jYi7q/s1600-h/P1030090.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97ZlDtitxwWa879yBW27wMyzAnpAnePPeDPz91t1LkVTCB62BBwOOuHw90KslN4ngZWgcapZaUOsK-e96OtvlriH0pfmIGD_lSN5O27xPoi8HUfJ5zerMhfg0WHegNW8jYi7q/s400/P1030090.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092055473211452594" /></a><br /><br />Most people will say to soak the beans overnight after you’ve washed them. They also will tell you to add salt after you’ve cooked them and both of these ideas I don’t necessarily disagree with. However, I sometimes <em>suck</em> at following instructions.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_AZC8Y7rOQXa2dqJk7D0fU2RC0k-mAVsJf36wCpyMtqVberuEutfEVjxBWqpzrZT-kheR9HDfMBz2EaGP-80yDayKnH6fiYQwF2UHNNq5pOqV7qD1bzaug0W0F6NrfGedQs6/s1600-h/P1030100.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_AZC8Y7rOQXa2dqJk7D0fU2RC0k-mAVsJf36wCpyMtqVberuEutfEVjxBWqpzrZT-kheR9HDfMBz2EaGP-80yDayKnH6fiYQwF2UHNNq5pOqV7qD1bzaug0W0F6NrfGedQs6/s400/P1030100.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092055219808382114" /></a><br /><br />What I did, instead, was take about 2 cups of dried shucky beans (or 1 string of them) and rinsed them off. Next, I brought 2 quarts of water to a boil and then added 2 teaspoons of salt. Next, I added the shucky beans and let that boil for approximately 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyj8RL6vNCVUQSWBdhIE3HwuV4E4p1mHOQjHDqm1jwrcosvg3As_aMUf_ZkxyiZkaUzz_Er8VGCkB9-jHsN38gbsrha-iNW1w9U4ueWEW4FjaXVMzPCxWbTUDtGtUKCo2XdQ_/s1600-h/P1030102.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyj8RL6vNCVUQSWBdhIE3HwuV4E4p1mHOQjHDqm1jwrcosvg3As_aMUf_ZkxyiZkaUzz_Er8VGCkB9-jHsN38gbsrha-iNW1w9U4ueWEW4FjaXVMzPCxWbTUDtGtUKCo2XdQ_/s400/P1030102.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092055065189559442" /></a><br /><br />While the shucky beans were boiling, I heated a slow cooker (or Crock pot, or whatever you want to call it) on high with half a cup of water already in it. After boiling the beans for 10 minutes, I removed them from the heat, let it cool for a few minutes, and then added everything, plus a country ham hock, to the Crock pot. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqnnZ3l8KuzCLEAnm5fsAGbEFNLKuobL-iY2QtquRCnnvaAAtYM8XWMx-wz7iG0MOoirQ7MxptoX_Lz7uAHceaFAX5pTYLRE_wtjqWU7VvnKrTD_3SwYUYTu0tgbGVQkMXM5X/s1600-h/P1030103.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqnnZ3l8KuzCLEAnm5fsAGbEFNLKuobL-iY2QtquRCnnvaAAtYM8XWMx-wz7iG0MOoirQ7MxptoX_Lz7uAHceaFAX5pTYLRE_wtjqWU7VvnKrTD_3SwYUYTu0tgbGVQkMXM5X/s400/P1030103.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092054884800932994" /></a><br /><br />Once covered, I left it alone to cook on high for 6 hours.<br /><br />After 6 hours of cooking, the beans were tender and rich. They, along with the meat on the ham hock, were soft, tender and rich, as was the broth they cooked in. Perhaps it was the cured flavor of the ham coming through, but everything had a strong <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umami">umami</a> flavor. Drying the beans really does concentrate the bean flavor while also allowing the slow cooking process to work its magic.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRUOnr5EOfUXuBdB0YxLWZco-hts_OQy1VVNxFD0ObBdbvR5ZK-jGyUlfuIY6_Vl8bnvpgDdyJF6_UsT0LTSeAOIkZHA5T5k_b_kT7QbJLrKb2c6K9zFB15dF19OpYyvVHwkJ/s1600-h/P1030105.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRUOnr5EOfUXuBdB0YxLWZco-hts_OQy1VVNxFD0ObBdbvR5ZK-jGyUlfuIY6_Vl8bnvpgDdyJF6_UsT0LTSeAOIkZHA5T5k_b_kT7QbJLrKb2c6K9zFB15dF19OpYyvVHwkJ/s400/P1030105.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092054695822371954" /></a><br /><br />Using a slotted spoon, I removed the beans from the broth onto a plate. The broth I ended up taking to work the next day for lunch. I flaked off the meat from the hock to garnish the beans and that was it – no seasoning necessary. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLuO68uO61CrjNmxWOoSBTBV3daY-TaI9spIW8SSL-0yWzbzw8TX9eqBm7Um33KH0RY0pznebXPuD6KfklRYIxLzNS3MsdSIk4wxXVLPYiBVhYXG2GYIR4UGW0tgFL_onbTy4/s1600-h/P1030107.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLuO68uO61CrjNmxWOoSBTBV3daY-TaI9spIW8SSL-0yWzbzw8TX9eqBm7Um33KH0RY0pznebXPuD6KfklRYIxLzNS3MsdSIk4wxXVLPYiBVhYXG2GYIR4UGW0tgFL_onbTy4/s400/P1030107.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092054524023680098" /></a><br /><br />Of course, what better to go with a side of shucky beans than a sliced fried Country Ham and a freshly made buttermilk biscuit?<br /><br />I’m not one to toot my own horn (<em>or am I?</em>), but I’m pretty sure Bruce and I were the only two souls in this city of 750,000 to have a plate of shucky beans, country ham, and biscuits that night. That’s pretty presumptuous - sure - but I also know this town pretty well, and this type of cuisine and the people who'd serve it aren’t very common here. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfP544xVzCXYSODb_j5xSyf4gThagaJcgv2f832lD5jydcfXRZd-XRFdSgHN8U-aqDkH4uDLl1a-OcoZmxe_li9L06UH0SoFQjigWKJFtB-zeDT5nFoi0Szhzs4cZa1j8qjOy7/s1600-h/P1030113.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfP544xVzCXYSODb_j5xSyf4gThagaJcgv2f832lD5jydcfXRZd-XRFdSgHN8U-aqDkH4uDLl1a-OcoZmxe_li9L06UH0SoFQjigWKJFtB-zeDT5nFoi0Szhzs4cZa1j8qjOy7/s400/P1030113.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092054309275315282" /></a><br /><br />And there’s a certain mix of feeling both special and lonely while enjoying a meal like this – a conflicted feeling.<br /><br />But perhaps I’m just complicating things again.<br /><br />It’s not <em>that</em> complicated.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-40918669185854521752007-07-20T17:05:00.000-07:002007-07-20T17:25:42.693-07:00PleasantvilleIt's funny what a little bit of water between us will do.<br /><br />Everywhere I've been, such has been the case. In Tampa, we joked that St. Pete was home of the newly wed and nearly dead. San Franciscans have some weird hang up about traveling to the East Bay for any reason, but think nothing of traveling 3 hours to Lake Tahoe for the weekend. Jersey isn't really Manhattan and Manhattan isn't anything at all like Brooklyn – just ask your neighborhood <a href="http://religiousmovements.lib.virginia.edu/nrms/hasid.html">Hasid.</a><br /><br />And I'm sure you can go to Charleston and have a great Charleston experience, but I'm really glad we made it over to Mount Pleasant. Unlike Charleston, Mt. Pleasant is smaller, greener, and once off the main highway – actually pleasant. Imagine huge oak trees with Spanish moss swaying in the breeze, large historic homes, friendly locals, and breathtaking views of Charleston, the Charleston Harbor, and the coastal wetlands that surround it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubnsm4f8HP-fRT7UUwzbrgvTXxNgQR1Y1fGqxt-LZw0EZWleS747lWcgL2UxZAbYqjlT4d0edIhC9TOirX1gN75x93x8IqJ_-IeNHwzKvr7yum53VhCNQEoNtVUIE_9Ifb1aq/s1600-h/DSC_0151.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubnsm4f8HP-fRT7UUwzbrgvTXxNgQR1Y1fGqxt-LZw0EZWleS747lWcgL2UxZAbYqjlT4d0edIhC9TOirX1gN75x93x8IqJ_-IeNHwzKvr7yum53VhCNQEoNtVUIE_9Ifb1aq/s400/DSC_0151.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089437510255913938" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eRf-UiIfn_EY2V2ZZDskQ9l1TYw9klksD67ASIeLnlLzZdRXopN9lDeeuO8pykJHwA3zWC5SONYsfE1IT4f70KEnOKGorUJcaY3XgiwVAKaT9DY2PqjBkzz8BtfM4uJPZdhs/s1600-h/DSC_0148.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eRf-UiIfn_EY2V2ZZDskQ9l1TYw9klksD67ASIeLnlLzZdRXopN9lDeeuO8pykJHwA3zWC5SONYsfE1IT4f70KEnOKGorUJcaY3XgiwVAKaT9DY2PqjBkzz8BtfM4uJPZdhs/s400/DSC_0148.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089437690644540386" /></a><br /><br />Back on the highway, Highway 17, one encounters a unique phenomenon – unusual even for the South. Scores upon scores of sweetgrass basketmakers and their makeshift shacks line the highway for miles; most shacks are empty, but a few basketmakers are out selling their wares – or at least trying to. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zyC-JYuDiCBVKFFiPMStSZZlPDsna6HYMoS902Y9e9xZLEl_y3apTxP69WaIep9HvRBCKB7KhX3qEJhyUBGE4rjxfoSuuQI9Av7y0aimNYtnmm3VHo8Qqp2QCAnuh_rFEH8e/s1600-h/baskets-stands.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zyC-JYuDiCBVKFFiPMStSZZlPDsna6HYMoS902Y9e9xZLEl_y3apTxP69WaIep9HvRBCKB7KhX3qEJhyUBGE4rjxfoSuuQI9Av7y0aimNYtnmm3VHo8Qqp2QCAnuh_rFEH8e/s400/baskets-stands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089437128003824562" /></a><br /><br />I imagine prices for sweetgrass baskets aren't as high as what I paid in the Old Market in Charleston, but then again I find it hard to complain. Whether you spend a little or a lot, your money goes to keeping this community of folk artists and their craft alive, so whatever they charge and whatever you spend – it's worth it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoi1mzG8pHGliYoewBa5MZK6if1875mbDI9kIwkWvthafYMFEErRytZpzMS17XfJJdwdfA5LZjZ72ZffQ_EKPf3s62S2G_UnkIQeeMTfnakqRmvV3ew5g9MtFtauwHAdJfVRx/s1600-h/DSC_0074.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoi1mzG8pHGliYoewBa5MZK6if1875mbDI9kIwkWvthafYMFEErRytZpzMS17XfJJdwdfA5LZjZ72ZffQ_EKPf3s62S2G_UnkIQeeMTfnakqRmvV3ew5g9MtFtauwHAdJfVRx/s400/DSC_0074.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089437291212581826" /></a><br /><br />Also worth it: <a href="http://www.gullahcuisine.com">Gullah Cuisine.</a><br /><br />Like Hominy Grill, we had planned on eating here and I'm glad we did. Our dinner at Gullah Cuisine is what dragged us over that great suspension bridge and got us to explore Mount Pleasant. Perhaps Gullah Cuisine should get some kind of recognition from the local Chamber of Commerce, because we patronized at least 3 additional local businesses simply because we were there – <a href="http://www.lowcountryfoodie.blogspot.com/">foodie</a> tourists that we were.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2eneeXQoXtVGxc7sIpCyp6mUkw4oLg9bJsqw_rhYBfHZZd4YxAgrGBt3gblGF9XP4tFz6wnHQ3lzJdhqKdT0Yd8E44KhN814HlOcSz2yB0NTIUcSDGtiw33gCy2ybzElDwxj/s1600-h/DSC_0165.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2eneeXQoXtVGxc7sIpCyp6mUkw4oLg9bJsqw_rhYBfHZZd4YxAgrGBt3gblGF9XP4tFz6wnHQ3lzJdhqKdT0Yd8E44KhN814HlOcSz2yB0NTIUcSDGtiw33gCy2ybzElDwxj/s400/DSC_0165.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089437901097937906" /></a><br /><br />Despite what you may have heard or read, the <a href="http://www.charlestonblackheritage.com/gullah.html">Gullah/Geechee</a> culture and language is very much alive and flourishing. While the culture is strongest and most prevalent in such places at the Sea Islands or in smaller coastal towns between Charleston and Savannah, its presence in the Charleston/Mount Pleasant area is palpable.<br /><br />And palatable.<br /><br />The cuisine of the <a href="http://www.pbs.org/now/arts/gullah.html">Gullah community </a>maximizes use of regional food resources, namely rice, corn, legumes, okra, and especially seafood. Classic lowcountry dishes like Purloo (a rice casserole), Hoppin' John (black-eyed peas and rice), and Shrimp and Grits are indicative of the culinary creations developed out of the African American experience in the lowcountry.<br /><br />While you can't throw a stick down Meeting Street without hitting a plate of Shrimp and Grits, finding Gullah food cooked by Gullah people for non-Gullah customers is slightly more difficult. Lucky then for two white boys from Frisco there is one well-known restaurant right off Highway 17.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDo6vC5K4kVxbwgD3CFWPH2ocfI6F5cZWLsi9ygkem3td8PBsOh6gemDUYHQxXthDegTBdJdqBF0txSRy9cWxe2kJxBZchw6uJ-qe2TyOwkVMdxO88qwD28l_25CE7RtDcrLFX/s1600-h/DSC_0163.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDo6vC5K4kVxbwgD3CFWPH2ocfI6F5cZWLsi9ygkem3td8PBsOh6gemDUYHQxXthDegTBdJdqBF0txSRy9cWxe2kJxBZchw6uJ-qe2TyOwkVMdxO88qwD28l_25CE7RtDcrLFX/s400/DSC_0163.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089438081486564354" /></a><br /><br />Gullah Cuisine, the restaurant, is housed in a modest, one-story brick building just a few miles down from those basket sellers I mentioned earlier. An awning stretches out over the front entrance and hanging plants dangle from around the periphery of it. Across the dark green canvas are the words "Gullah Cuisine – A Lowcountry Restaurant".<br /><br />The interior is tastefully done in shades of beige and tan with framed paintings hanging on the wall and ceiling fans turning slowly overhead. White curtains and blinds struggle to beat back the late afternoon sun and heat that washes over the front of the building.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg094i2gTet-ds7VAudpQrGIpKPhshHeLW2FiNr0waKKBCxzbq0tbbu00K9bV3uWKDta2-lHh3Uhu1uN2Sguub6cZlZhpteJeKTxBVi6G0PrJoz49wZsOOYeK9fEipcz4zDDe7w/s1600-h/DSC_0166.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg094i2gTet-ds7VAudpQrGIpKPhshHeLW2FiNr0waKKBCxzbq0tbbu00K9bV3uWKDta2-lHh3Uhu1uN2Sguub6cZlZhpteJeKTxBVi6G0PrJoz49wZsOOYeK9fEipcz4zDDe7w/s400/DSC_0166.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089438296234929170" /></a><br /><br />Our waiter is a tall young man dressed in a casual white button up shirt and black slacks. He has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen and for a moment I'm transfixed by them. We're here at a weird hour on a weekend and besides us there is only one couple in the entire restaurant. Eyelashes man and a cook are running the show and our waiter juggles several jobs all at once. Back in the kitchen you can hear plates and pots clash and clang, water shooting out of faucets into metal sinks, and the faint sounds of a garbled radio. The waiter occasionally swings open the rear kitchen door and shouts back questions and order changes to the cook. The cook's response is patient and final.<br /><br />Our appetizer arrived not long after he took our order, along with a small plate of corn muffins. In hindsight, I guess Bruce and I ate a lot of fried green tomatoes on our trip. This didn't occur to me until now, but I reckon we were pretty eager to stay on course in picking what we thought were the most easily recognizable Southern specialties. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you <strong>Gullah-style fried green tomatoes with ranch dressing.</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ33ixEixxuKPQEQKTJjfXkXt0EzHqru0xAclHqmckOGSm_zaj4UxACFQ0xwuAozYlmLvhc-6SGnwIsiG3BXGBqZvYyp1BTc2E4Ht_cS1K0B7jpoRHKMH_RjVWjTgHC8JEp-XK/s1600-h/DSC_0168.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ33ixEixxuKPQEQKTJjfXkXt0EzHqru0xAclHqmckOGSm_zaj4UxACFQ0xwuAozYlmLvhc-6SGnwIsiG3BXGBqZvYyp1BTc2E4Ht_cS1K0B7jpoRHKMH_RjVWjTgHC8JEp-XK/s400/DSC_0168.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089438510983293986" /></a><br /><br />While Hominy Grill takes a contemporary approach to traditional lowcountry dishes, Gullah Cuisine keeps itself squarely rooted in traditional soul food and the cuisine of the Gullah people. Here, green tomatoes are dipped in a thin batter containing various spices common to Gullah cuisine and fried until they are soft and a light yellow-green in color. The tanginess of the tomatoes and spiciness of the batter contrasts well with the cool and creamy dressing. The crisp crust of the batter gives way to a hot and tender green tomato.<br /><br />A tall, cold glass of sweet tea doesn't hurt neither.<br /><br />When our entrées arrive, I wondered why anybody would even bother to eat at those big box restaurants. Why, indeed, when fresh, hot, and authentic food can be found at a locally-owned business such as this. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCn1_dcYawDAkqWFOlWIoh5uajF8OBQfKXSxc9yOrlnM2W5HOzHhhnmglIBtAxe0SBsgtXtUWzHvMufrwC4_B68zQMztb5ie2HRaQdxqhrX1dbDj-6gyGOciq6Ndhbneu5OzD/s1600-h/DSC_0172.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCn1_dcYawDAkqWFOlWIoh5uajF8OBQfKXSxc9yOrlnM2W5HOzHhhnmglIBtAxe0SBsgtXtUWzHvMufrwC4_B68zQMztb5ie2HRaQdxqhrX1dbDj-6gyGOciq6Ndhbneu5OzD/s400/DSC_0172.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089438704256822322" /></a><br /><br />Bruce's plate came with two large <strong>crab cakes, Gullah rice, and fried okra </strong>(came out after the picture was taken). Blue crab is the specialty in this region and 2 weeks after we were there Mount Pleasant was having a blue crab festival. His crab cakes were chock full of crab; more crab than him or I have ever seen in a crab cake. In addition, the Gullah rice was quite tasty, somewhat spicy with the odd shrimp thrown in, and smoky from the sausage added to it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdLVHAYQXWBUjr4GZkYMXTJU2Ny7WwJnccPyyNRo_Mvv10hHPUIdL-yqaxAAsfBt_0l_JqUh9skRgTpulXJZ_6kcUJd12kC5pR680NP5lwnysx-wpHlQaRAQ-ikKUjlL6XEmM/s1600-h/DSC_0171.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdLVHAYQXWBUjr4GZkYMXTJU2Ny7WwJnccPyyNRo_Mvv10hHPUIdL-yqaxAAsfBt_0l_JqUh9skRgTpulXJZ_6kcUJd12kC5pR680NP5lwnysx-wpHlQaRAQ-ikKUjlL6XEmM/s400/DSC_0171.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089438940480023618" /></a><br /><br />My two deep-fried whole <strong>soft-shell blue crab </strong>were battered and spiced with the Gullah spice, which gave them a little bit of a zip. <em>Ummm</em>, can I just say these crabs rocked my tiny, little, insignificant world? Just thinking about them now gives me shivers up my spine. Cooking soft-shell crab is no easy feat: these were cooked perfectly. Along with my soft-shell crab, I had a side of <strong>succotash</strong> (good, but nothing spectacular) and <strong>Hoppin' John</strong>, spiced with the same smoky sausage used in Bruce's Gullah rice. I've made Hoppin' John before, but mine always had a more black-eyed pea-to-rice ratio. I liked the fact that this Hoppin' John was more rice-heavy, but mostly because I regretted not ordering the Gullah rice (I think we have a house specialty here).<br /><br />This being our second fabulous meal of the day (the first being lunch at Hominy Grill), I began to wonder if this day could get any better. After we paid our tab and said our goodbyes, we got in the car and headed up towards that shopping center we saw earlier – the one with the movie theater. <br /><br />We were just in time to catch Spider Man 3.<br /><br />Stuffed, we reclined in our highback movie theater seats; the theater was mostly empty. I propped up my feet on the seat in front of me and waited for the movie to begin.<br /><br />This is what <em>vacation</em> looks like.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-77338311363251709522007-07-18T13:24:00.000-07:002007-07-18T14:08:06.279-07:00Roundtrip Ticket to Hominy Grill, Please<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmlh9uZFKawkJ1YH_vdCFAAX_LktWe5B7FBc99d2Xcdho4d7vpmfTq6fmBM6L8To0lqWqTDfCYY_p-NkymkVejYqPNfnO_rtsXW18kUc38FuL_khx2_jTwC-cgJqbQ4Ho6aGbw/s1600-h/country.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088641626195430690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmlh9uZFKawkJ1YH_vdCFAAX_LktWe5B7FBc99d2Xcdho4d7vpmfTq6fmBM6L8To0lqWqTDfCYY_p-NkymkVejYqPNfnO_rtsXW18kUc38FuL_khx2_jTwC-cgJqbQ4Ho6aGbw/s400/country.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To know the lowcountry, one must see the lowcountry.<br /><br />So, for <a href="http://www.tammyfaye.com/">Tammy Faye's</a> sake, get off of those interstate freeways and get straight onto one of South Carolina's <a href="http://www.sc-heritagecorridor.org/html/r4intro.html">Heritage Corridors </a>– it's the only way you'll ever see those <em>Beautiful Places and Smiling Faces </em>you keep hearing about.<br /><br />We took Highway 78 into Charleston from Augusta, which sent us through some great little towns with fabulous old homes and commerical districts, past swamps and rivers and old graveyards accessible only by dirt country roads.<br /><br />This is the country white European settlers thought they could tame, but was too wild, too tough, and too <a href="http://www.pbs.org/gunsgermssteel/variables/malaria.html">malaria-ridden.</a> The people most suited to this environment were Africans brought over in the slave trade, and everywhere in the lowcountry one feels and sees hundreds of years of black American history.<br /><br />The crown-jewel of the lowcountry - "arguably" would say Savannahians - is Charleston, a city graced (at least for white folks) by a strong, mosquito-hatin' breeze, cool summer temperatures, and a top-notch port and – conversely – cursed with earthquakes, draconian preservation laws, and the world's worst sidewalks (<em>hope you're feeling better, Aunt Patty!</em>)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagjR9WwEWrxvla8m7cmq8HLuboLd_StuQL4xS-9sy3V-vgsrLrwwfsZB06N6oRik-NW1adycQBuYStr6AFuolCoLX-EssNYYR6GC61Lkq8WS25Ldd60XMBsed2MoIZpgptMQW/s1600-h/downtown.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088641497346411794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagjR9WwEWrxvla8m7cmq8HLuboLd_StuQL4xS-9sy3V-vgsrLrwwfsZB06N6oRik-NW1adycQBuYStr6AFuolCoLX-EssNYYR6GC61Lkq8WS25Ldd60XMBsed2MoIZpgptMQW/s400/downtown.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To be sure, Charleston is a tourist town and summer abode for the rich. Grand old homes stretch for many city blocks in the southern part of town and provide for hours upon hours of green-eyed, house-gawking by married women and gay couples. Tourists flock to this area and the areas surrounding the old town, centered on the Old Market, with its numerous vendors – the most interesting and authentic of whom are the sweetgrass basket makers/sellers.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlpyVvYGs40DGnf9ZW6Zc3Fm_2gJZFLFDuxeBSUuuBymFj2EkHDoY94gHTfamHJSQHMRrXi0cTxwGqCx12Tfcx2AyUObmrYJad-pSiufLPPDR8Hmw6W_FMPv2K-vt2XM6W0a2/s1600-h/houses.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088641364202425602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlpyVvYGs40DGnf9ZW6Zc3Fm_2gJZFLFDuxeBSUuuBymFj2EkHDoY94gHTfamHJSQHMRrXi0cTxwGqCx12Tfcx2AyUObmrYJad-pSiufLPPDR8Hmw6W_FMPv2K-vt2XM6W0a2/s400/houses.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cyS9UPYa5MEICDt7w5O9SoxRALoAoUIHgTAST00RNBHZV_K6AjnLg8R2vduO7GAx0LdYkzSTZ4IGmokhI7ZqcYoVpRaXrB0TgTnZW5TZmKKJYv_tRf50_s_CNsZNp6UPzFlF/s1600-h/oldmarket.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088641231058439410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cyS9UPYa5MEICDt7w5O9SoxRALoAoUIHgTAST00RNBHZV_K6AjnLg8R2vduO7GAx0LdYkzSTZ4IGmokhI7ZqcYoVpRaXrB0TgTnZW5TZmKKJYv_tRf50_s_CNsZNp6UPzFlF/s400/oldmarket.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But Charleston is also home to many students, military families, and other working class folks – some of whom live in dilapidated 150-year-old homes in the northern section; homes which are too old to tear down and too expensive (and mired in bureaucratic red tape) to improve. This, actually, was one of the most interesting sections of Charleston which we found driving into town by way of Highway 78/King Street.<br /><br />It was in this part of Charleston where we found perhaps one of the most exciting and distinctive of all restaurants in the New South. That restaurant is called, simply, <a href="http://www.hominygrill.com/">Hominy Grill.</a><br /><br />Hominy Grill is located in an old, stand-alone building that formerly was a barber shop. Separated by distance from the tourist area, it survives and thrives on reputation alone. Judging from the quality of their food – at least from our experience – that reputation is well-deserved, and then some.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDpwggYHuuVw5fahgBkmke7m03exoOTu2epZU_yzDwjZ4zlXfj-1gZjxhhzCwMXTo3tBuF8aJTovG0P6VU1myfOjF3lInUaYNa6onthNlC8b1XtsDpa4sYfa1y6R6QxrQsnnQ/s1600-h/DSC_0103.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088640943295630562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDpwggYHuuVw5fahgBkmke7m03exoOTu2epZU_yzDwjZ4zlXfj-1gZjxhhzCwMXTo3tBuF8aJTovG0P6VU1myfOjF3lInUaYNa6onthNlC8b1XtsDpa4sYfa1y6R6QxrQsnnQ/s400/DSC_0103.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It wasn't by accident that we came across Hominy Grill. Even before we left the tarmac at SFO, I had known this restaurant was a must-eats destination in the city of Charleston. However, I did not expect it to be as good as it was.<br /><br />On our visit, we lucked out and missed the lunch rush literally by a few minutes. It had just finished clearing out when we were seated at the window box seat next to the front entrance. Bright difused light from the tall plate glass windows flooded the main dining room with its high ceilings, flat white vertical wood slat walls, and decorative tin ceiling tiles. Dark exposed wooden floors and tan-stained wooden furniture offset the stark brightness of the walls and centered the gravity of the room towards a comfortable middle. Bluegrass music played quitely in the background, perhaps a wink and a nod to those who would define "classical" music another way.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eBdB22pCleP6jadtVT1BgDtHni0kR1rhWwVC8XYhYRziRIkos0kJMDD_EScqYM0OXKR0KgNjJmoMgzL6OByt38lI4-o6uy-Uis74SSxY3eq0_AuEGJDS1bdy3L8TbDsN9FIG/s1600-h/DSC_0079.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088640612583148738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eBdB22pCleP6jadtVT1BgDtHni0kR1rhWwVC8XYhYRziRIkos0kJMDD_EScqYM0OXKR0KgNjJmoMgzL6OByt38lI4-o6uy-Uis74SSxY3eq0_AuEGJDS1bdy3L8TbDsN9FIG/s400/DSC_0079.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Right away we were casually greeted by a hostess and then seated. Soon after, a young waitress with the most charming Southern accent – and perhaps being a college student herself – introduced herself, informed us of the specials of the day, and took our drink orders. I guess I should mention that, at this part of the trip, anything other than sweet tea for me was out of the question. Bruce, being a true Californian, insists on drinking his tea unsweetened – partially out of taste, partially out of regional chauvanism (<em>I kid</em>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6mu-4rQ3JCk6x55-WidXBL38Rc9Lb6WOeoU6qz4imoON9X00sIsqKHBpT_emAfD5fEbdsdixQtwvs2w92SYAyyAqft_hbWsJGP5tzHg9dVhPf60Xu2Urx_fk-gKX9zffki8XA/s1600-h/DSC_0078.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088640771496938706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6mu-4rQ3JCk6x55-WidXBL38Rc9Lb6WOeoU6qz4imoON9X00sIsqKHBpT_emAfD5fEbdsdixQtwvs2w92SYAyyAqft_hbWsJGP5tzHg9dVhPf60Xu2Urx_fk-gKX9zffki8XA/s400/DSC_0078.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Despite many of the wonderful things on the menu to choose from, I had made up my mind ahead of time to try the <strong>Country Captain</strong>, a "sauteed chicken breast in a tomato-curry sauce with currants and toasted almonds over jasmine rice." I had made country captain before (<a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2007/02/captain-goes-down-with-ship.html">remember?</a>) and wanted to see what the competition was serving. Plus, Hominy Grill was the only lowcountry restaurant I could find serving this classic lowcountry dish (yeah, I know – <em>what the ???</em>)<br /><br />Another classic lowcountry specialty was the <strong>Shrimp Purloo</strong>, which is what Bruce decided to order. This dish is a sort of a gullah rice casserole with chicken, andouille sausage, and jumbo shrimp.<br /><br />Before we got to the main courses, however, we've gotta talk <strong>She Crab soup</strong>, which is a wonderfully rich, buttery and creamy soup pureed with fresh blue crab meat and (what some call) the crab butter blended in, plus with a noticeable little dab of sherry eased in. Now, for some of you who don't drink and are terrified (as I often am) of consuming anything with alcohol, let me put your minds at ease. This soup is safe – but then, we all have our tolerances, so if having soup with a touch of sherry is going to psyche you out, it's better to go without.<br /><br />But you should see what you're missing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfpXY_PCIVNHzjppVEZWAxi5CJ-jlhN0xYzQ8KJnJQ1htlTpXN4i1e-31AFucniv19AjX4ixodzHaSkDSgO4oU9vGQerzRExIbDe-HMLU1HJEZ0LJyhyphenhyphenYk6dR64UpPMTKTK0x/s1600-h/DSC_0081.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088640286165634226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfpXY_PCIVNHzjppVEZWAxi5CJ-jlhN0xYzQ8KJnJQ1htlTpXN4i1e-31AFucniv19AjX4ixodzHaSkDSgO4oU9vGQerzRExIbDe-HMLU1HJEZ0LJyhyphenhyphenYk6dR64UpPMTKTK0x/s400/DSC_0081.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The other appetizer we enjoyed were the <strong>fried green tomatoes</strong>, which were fat slices that were uniformly breaded and quickly fried in oil, hot enough to brown the outside while just warming the tomato without overcooking.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii51xtTNPemEoLnf6GbutNDiXmlpHqXszl4LeWMA5XzYjh5JElnT-S-3fOGRLZDQeay80-_OY3i7jfzphdoM5EeuSdjxnAgSZAV5TnKDJH-kFkqH1cnrYa4h3mPVrlmLIecU8-/s1600-h/DSC_0084.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088640161611582626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii51xtTNPemEoLnf6GbutNDiXmlpHqXszl4LeWMA5XzYjh5JElnT-S-3fOGRLZDQeay80-_OY3i7jfzphdoM5EeuSdjxnAgSZAV5TnKDJH-kFkqH1cnrYa4h3mPVrlmLIecU8-/s400/DSC_0084.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Tradionally, fried green tomatoes are cooked at lower temperatures and they develop that tangy, almost citrusy, cooked flavor. These were left as close to their natural state as possible and is exactly what "putting a twist" on traditional Southern cuisine is all about.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2137O9Rn7MnSFCRBpdNdY2Sp3yfusXBVwZpm4yma-Mazr4WzfHV8EPqyIX0rAPHChXdfsHYOP_20MaM4UdaLsQkP-4mmPNZnnZAI17gpd_fSw-eHgjlepB0UYpql5WK_gtTTo/s1600-h/DSC_0087.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088639985517923474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2137O9Rn7MnSFCRBpdNdY2Sp3yfusXBVwZpm4yma-Mazr4WzfHV8EPqyIX0rAPHChXdfsHYOP_20MaM4UdaLsQkP-4mmPNZnnZAI17gpd_fSw-eHgjlepB0UYpql5WK_gtTTo/s400/DSC_0087.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To some of the purists, this might have seemed as odd as the homemade ranch dressing that accompanied the slices, but I'd like to think of Hominy Grill as a place were the old and the new are allowed to interact – while also creating some wonderfully good food.<br /><br />Don’t' think Bruce and I held back – there's one more appetizer I need to mention, and this one really takes the cake! The <strong>shrimp and okra beignets </strong>with salsa and cilantro-lime sour cream were, literally, to die for. No, seriously, I felt my nipples harden as I took one bite of these hot, rich morsels. The combination of cool and warm, of savory and sweet, of heavy and light, of tangy and rich: it was all represented in just a few bites.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHX_l0IV_DLaVykK6ibaibgRo8hMd7-8bMEyvT3fOtwgF8ghH7oi0OR4gFN1XIHsIt869ulC3CovlBTgUODzVb9dCr11j9gII7izcI96wcDBRqVVfO7nvOtAKKggoi4HB0N8MA/s1600-h/DSC_0085.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088639667690343554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHX_l0IV_DLaVykK6ibaibgRo8hMd7-8bMEyvT3fOtwgF8ghH7oi0OR4gFN1XIHsIt869ulC3CovlBTgUODzVb9dCr11j9gII7izcI96wcDBRqVVfO7nvOtAKKggoi4HB0N8MA/s400/DSC_0085.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Let me show you what a bite of one of these can make one do:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMH5mFIwTFj-gBhQL-lBMPHGntryvs0AceYitP0u6Y5BNXmEjEmyVnl40FaSuKmyk8SAL5q37RJNSpL1t5ka7B5Naq0BI06DWsbDQwHDeTI6e5TP-RNanBC2vapl61Wn5k4Dvo/s1600-h/DSC_0101.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088639508776553586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMH5mFIwTFj-gBhQL-lBMPHGntryvs0AceYitP0u6Y5BNXmEjEmyVnl40FaSuKmyk8SAL5q37RJNSpL1t5ka7B5Naq0BI06DWsbDQwHDeTI6e5TP-RNanBC2vapl61Wn5k4Dvo/s400/DSC_0101.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Scary, isn't it?</span></em><br /><br />Emotionally, I was just warming up to the main course. Our plates arrived quickly from the kitchen and it was one of those times where arriving at the tail end of the lunch rush really pays off. Hominy Grill's Country Captain, I'm proud to say, kicked my country captain in the ass – and I'm still taking lessons. The chicken pieces were tender, but it was the sauce which really stood out. Dark and rich, it was sweeter and less spicier than your typical curry house dish, while the almonds and currants seemed to drive this dish down a road nowhere near Brick Lane.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpa6aYc7bA5ZIWSWxOXpSTbdqj-eEE81FGbB65CBWJlAyQGv0DgUB18l0wEj9MYrCANZySAw_qS-Jr-1eRRCoOlQTdOtiTWMD-zNdSUYcsi6amjkclRKFLyrhkUqHBXazvHvWM/s1600-h/DSC_0089.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088639324092959842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpa6aYc7bA5ZIWSWxOXpSTbdqj-eEE81FGbB65CBWJlAyQGv0DgUB18l0wEj9MYrCANZySAw_qS-Jr-1eRRCoOlQTdOtiTWMD-zNdSUYcsi6amjkclRKFLyrhkUqHBXazvHvWM/s400/DSC_0089.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The shrimp purloo was hearty and satisfying; the smokiness of the sausage, combined with the chicken, shrimp and rice, spells out in flavor the wonderful mix of cultures and ethnicities that makes the lowcountry such a unique place in America. Surround that powerful concoction in a bright and spicy tomato-pepper sauce and you have the foundation of what makes a restaurant, like Hominy Grill, so important and so necessary.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrSNF6Lpojkvs5mLgwTvEmMBi-wbTULvrDrIQvVz3DBRzKhxfV6xgev4pJsuOSrMCy_M5oKjN3QXoNPwMQZmhuXSVtXEh8eInOivDnkVNa8-QBmQqARVAFhU8m54YbX2MXHTN/s1600-h/DSC_0090.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088639143704333394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrSNF6Lpojkvs5mLgwTvEmMBi-wbTULvrDrIQvVz3DBRzKhxfV6xgev4pJsuOSrMCy_M5oKjN3QXoNPwMQZmhuXSVtXEh8eInOivDnkVNa8-QBmQqARVAFhU8m54YbX2MXHTN/s400/DSC_0090.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Enjoy this food. Enjoy it with every bite. Don't worry about making room for pie. <em>YOU WILL</em> make room for pie, cake, or whatever you damn well like.<br /><br />Generally, I look down upon dessert. Too often, dessert attempts to be the <em>piece de resistance</em> of a spectacular meal, only to be the Hershey's kiss of death. For me, I want my meal to culminate in a fireworks-exploding climax centered around the main course.<br /><br />But y'all (lower chin quivering – eyes watering), you have got to try this damn pie. This is how I want dessert. This slice of <strong>buttermilk pie </strong>takes all of the love, all of those days spent walking together on the beach, and wraps it in its cool, soft but solid arms and holds you steady - giving sweet kisses on your lips. And then getting kind of freaky with the whip cream, but it's all good.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-if5UPdpCKOBjRa5TSpzTKxi6Ln3auWXNT0CEklwtGUNu2Jrwjjm7UwvAsr7mgqF6LkbvSQcpRS3rhwws0TAwZ3sbUlKA0ClwW9I_CZ2VIhZmuyuOBKOoO4pfUhQwblkajVF/s1600-h/DSC_0094.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088638980495576130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-if5UPdpCKOBjRa5TSpzTKxi6Ln3auWXNT0CEklwtGUNu2Jrwjjm7UwvAsr7mgqF6LkbvSQcpRS3rhwws0TAwZ3sbUlKA0ClwW9I_CZ2VIhZmuyuOBKOoO4pfUhQwblkajVF/s400/DSC_0094.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Equally as tender, loving, and a sheer joy to behold is the excellent <strong>coconut cake.</strong> I will say this: I grew up eating some of the best coconut cake in the world and this is definitely up there. Everything that should be in a cake is here: moist, rich, not too sweet, not too overpowering with just enough coconut flavor, you have to wonder which came first – the nut or the cake?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfsmEwpD7K7waFHRDPJEQdhEUeOEK32DOM-2cWFFtLsIygCOdhoN6qETq0s6WAQQjgj8J1VjK0ChpxJjSZ5Z0LkUHJo3xHQ_fsU-Rjt6bePYFrOvuz9IxSNYLYG9SVTWEUoTYf/s1600-h/DSC_0098.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088638800106949682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfsmEwpD7K7waFHRDPJEQdhEUeOEK32DOM-2cWFFtLsIygCOdhoN6qETq0s6WAQQjgj8J1VjK0ChpxJjSZ5Z0LkUHJo3xHQ_fsU-Rjt6bePYFrOvuz9IxSNYLYG9SVTWEUoTYf/s400/DSC_0098.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It would be a shame to spoil this moment by bringing up the subject of cost, but I think you'll be happy to know that this moment of dining pleasure and enlightenment won't enlighten your wallet or purse. Hominy Grill, for the quality and service, was so affordable Bruce and I seriously discussed flying back to Charleston in 6 months just to eat at Hominy again.<br /><br />It was that good.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZNKvw1rflG9usqbpt49WOHyDTly9-OSCYymuCwGgJza7NwGzOeoTqwNdTEQYFZtn5V97OcYgEdN1MpF7JpJ2HNhdBYFJAe4ldnpC7_LRKxsFVwvgLjQasmFJMDo-CEv_dyTa/s1600-h/DSC_0105.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088641802289089842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZNKvw1rflG9usqbpt49WOHyDTly9-OSCYymuCwGgJza7NwGzOeoTqwNdTEQYFZtn5V97OcYgEdN1MpF7JpJ2HNhdBYFJAe4ldnpC7_LRKxsFVwvgLjQasmFJMDo-CEv_dyTa/s400/DSC_0105.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-13274283807735909692007-07-16T13:52:00.000-07:002007-07-16T22:17:55.773-07:00Rambling 'Round<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqJd8j9oCpg94exoZn2GbB2cexEZu02K4yWYT2tNLaUYXuq-VMRDWh7q_VyhIua-9hujrE5BqNiemCM5UgSEsRSmgS1RfEb58kmWPflKauInB2JHAJAhYiLIlukofI1MdN-us/s1600-h/P1030052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqJd8j9oCpg94exoZn2GbB2cexEZu02K4yWYT2tNLaUYXuq-VMRDWh7q_VyhIua-9hujrE5BqNiemCM5UgSEsRSmgS1RfEb58kmWPflKauInB2JHAJAhYiLIlukofI1MdN-us/s400/P1030052.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088028184606477346" /></a><br />I think I've found my calling.<br /><br />Frankly, the idea of pickling peaches sounded weird. However, I was unprepared for how good these weird sounding peaches actually were! While I didn't grow up eating pickled peaches, I became interested when I started to learn more about Southern cuisine and saw several mentions of them - along with recipes.<br /><br />I have to say: it's highly unusual for me to can sweet things, or even can at all. I've canned cucumber pickles and sauerkraut, but never really sweet things like jam, preserves or fruit packed in syrup. However, after my first try with pickled peaches, I think I may be on to something.<br /><br />If you are preserving or pickling peaches, you better do so while they last. Right now we're in full swing of the season and peaches can be found in abundant supply at low, low prices - especially here in California, where we actually grow more peaches than the state of Georgia does.<br /><br />For my first attempt at pickling peaches, I used the common round, yellow-flesh, clingstone variety you can find almost anywhere. While these peaches are visually more appealing, I decided the second time around to use the white-flesh Saturn or Donut peach one can find in Asian markets, mostly since they are flat and can fit more easily into a quart jar without having to cut in half.<br /><br />Right now, you can find these peaches from anywhere between 79 cents to one dollar per pound – if you know where to look. It should be noted that the peach is native to China and didn't really become popularized in America until the late 19th century.<br /><br />It should also be noted that I would like to now burst into song:<br /><br /><em>"The peach trees they are loaded,<br />The limbs are bending down.<br />I pick 'em all day for a dollar, boys<br />As I go ramblin' 'round."<br />As I go rambling 'round."<br /><br />"Sometimes the fruit gets rotten,<br />Falls down on the ground,<br />There's a hungry mouth for every peach<br />As I go rambling 'round, boys<br />As I go rambling 'round."</em><br /><br />That was two verses from an excellent <a href="http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/wwghtml/wwgessay.html">Woody Guthrie </a>song written from the perspective of a migrant farmworker. Peaches are a big business in California and the work of harvesting them is grueling, hard work. <br /><br />Bruce worked picking peaches one summer when he was in high school. First, you had to be at work in the field by 5AM in order to work during the coolest part of the day (in the Central Valley it can get well above 100 on an average summer day). Next, you have to wear layers upon layers of clothing, not because of the weather, but because the peach fuzz - if it were to get on your skin - would cause such irritation it would drive you insane.<br /><br />We can never overstate the sheer endurance and strength it must take for farm workers to do their job, day in and day out. Every time I eat a strawberry, a peach, or an apple, I try to think of the agricultural worker and thank them for doing the tough work so I don’t have to.<br /><br />Not that canning peaches is a piece of cake, mind you.<br /><br />It’s time consuming and requires that you concentrate on the work at hand, but thankfully it’s easy enough that anyone can do it. First you start off with the peaches.<br /><br />By the way, the recipe I used for my pickled peaches came from the <a href="http://www.boiledpeanuts.com/">Lee Bros Southern Cookbook</a>, which I recommend not only for this recipe but for so many essential down-home recipes either in their pure form or, to the tsk-tsk of a few, kicked up a notch. So they put cream cheese in their pimento cheese spread – big deal!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2lIuB2B-zAXDu1FDnVe2R0CLj2orhvMjICdjpiq6fbsSlQiYFah22fyQbgPrvGx1-jMozheTHx-H3wQDpZnRAvh6tniXRCQDHxZVroc_5WS1dZvdTzJsNpczXBUt1fW5sSVH/s1600-h/P1030035.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2lIuB2B-zAXDu1FDnVe2R0CLj2orhvMjICdjpiq6fbsSlQiYFah22fyQbgPrvGx1-jMozheTHx-H3wQDpZnRAvh6tniXRCQDHxZVroc_5WS1dZvdTzJsNpczXBUt1fW5sSVH/s400/P1030035.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088027815239289874" /></a><br /><br />I started with 10 pounds of washed Donut peaches and they filled 5 quart jars. By the way, you want to make sure your canning jars and lids have all been washed in hot, soapy water and thoroughly dried before you begin. That way they are ready to go when you are.<br /><br />We begin by skinning our washed and cleaned peaches in a pot of boiling water. By the way, you want your peaches to be uniformly firm and without a lot of soft spots. You can skin a group of peaches all at once in a large pot, but I prefer to work with one peach at a time. If I had help and we were doing a lot, I’d do multiple peaches in boiling water at once.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKRyKP_aPdfChYsorNvKUU3DaHL0Ndn1HCeJx7NQGlRNpj0DeZq0rfxOkRa1AjpeyaHfHoxur6W5XNYM20MV4KHTZkQyzENjqHfC-GOJ8mq5MRhKm2aOmczHYa00ImA6Ru7UF/s1600-h/P1030036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKRyKP_aPdfChYsorNvKUU3DaHL0Ndn1HCeJx7NQGlRNpj0DeZq0rfxOkRa1AjpeyaHfHoxur6W5XNYM20MV4KHTZkQyzENjqHfC-GOJ8mq5MRhKm2aOmczHYa00ImA6Ru7UF/s400/P1030036.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088027673505369090" /></a><br /><br />When the water is at full boil, dunk the peach (or peaches) in and boil for 1 minute. Have ready a bowl of ice water and a large enough container to hold the skinned peaches in when you’re done. After 1 minute in boiling water, dunk the peach in the ice water and then remove. The skin should slide off, but if it doesn’t go ahead and use a knife to peel the rest of the skin off. Reserve the skinned peach to a container. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyplDE454hEjo4-NWdPwvmmHnkiLGoNCqecntdfU82uZoacX2HVuhT88iJhXByxk4WI9QuWev-5BpgOskJSdzqGRylCXI2wFt6yUEqLSgnh_N1Q3m45uAhygsBwpvOV7LkLxel/s1600-h/P1030037.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyplDE454hEjo4-NWdPwvmmHnkiLGoNCqecntdfU82uZoacX2HVuhT88iJhXByxk4WI9QuWev-5BpgOskJSdzqGRylCXI2wFt6yUEqLSgnh_N1Q3m45uAhygsBwpvOV7LkLxel/s400/P1030037.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088027510296611826" /></a><br /><br />By the way the peaches I used didn’t brown after they had been skinned and sat a while, but if you are worried I’ve heard you can add salt to the boiling water bath and that minimizes the browning on peaches (or you could rub them in a mixture of lemon juice and water).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5toDA6B_AwcEHJmUD-Zg5n8CHFKu3NVGUpMAxSYiW2iAmEbPgVqUCdfeSlyNs9OlxDmiMibCLbAfstcQT5XaQvpMxDyrRLoYffQUReYQpbGCQS6bd2NctaHdM8rq9pdVcqZtO/s1600-h/P1030038.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5toDA6B_AwcEHJmUD-Zg5n8CHFKu3NVGUpMAxSYiW2iAmEbPgVqUCdfeSlyNs9OlxDmiMibCLbAfstcQT5XaQvpMxDyrRLoYffQUReYQpbGCQS6bd2NctaHdM8rq9pdVcqZtO/s400/P1030038.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088027269778443234" /></a><br /><br />Once you’ve skinned your peaches, start the syrup in a large pot. The syrup consists of 6 pounds of sugar, 6 cups of apple cider vinegar, 3 tablespoons of cloves, 3 tablespoon of chopped crystallized ginger, and 6 – 10 sticks of cinnamon. By the way, you’ll have plenty of syrup left over after canning your peaches. If you want, you could save it and use later in sparkling water drinks – like you would using Torani syrup.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEk4DUH0WLZ5hev9WqdY7xIcqUuXmnWanz8ibBMYDaIm8hDfqCYmHb9DL6f3NUy8Db_-Z0CucBbzG2H0b-_f6Z28TIsDVtTu6DDg-cTcn03XFbpAmIb0PxRbeB1Ks_dcneLDJz/s1600-h/P1030041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEk4DUH0WLZ5hev9WqdY7xIcqUuXmnWanz8ibBMYDaIm8hDfqCYmHb9DL6f3NUy8Db_-Z0CucBbzG2H0b-_f6Z28TIsDVtTu6DDg-cTcn03XFbpAmIb0PxRbeB1Ks_dcneLDJz/s400/P1030041.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088027145224391634" /></a><br /><br />Stir the syrup ingredients together and turn the burner up to medium-high. When the syrup comes to a boil, reduce the heat to medium or medium-low and continue to cook on a low boil for 20 minutes.<br /><br />Next, add peaches in batches large enough to just fill the surface of the pot and cook for 8 minutes over medium-high, making sure to roll them so that they cook evenly on all sides. When they are done, reserve them to the quart jars you will use to can them in. Grab some of the cinnamon sticks and put those in the jars as well.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHa_81Sw7TD1TxqAOGt0JKZzEY9B14WMSNbu0QWkJ1vNeA7aqB4Z1z3xtVTGM0nNxF90zfr1j1jAcEKyPJtgSAkBaPlN5m7EOepKTWNMj0xhwKXHTHYl83sJNLMaH6edlnmrof/s1600-h/P1030042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHa_81Sw7TD1TxqAOGt0JKZzEY9B14WMSNbu0QWkJ1vNeA7aqB4Z1z3xtVTGM0nNxF90zfr1j1jAcEKyPJtgSAkBaPlN5m7EOepKTWNMj0xhwKXHTHYl83sJNLMaH6edlnmrof/s400/P1030042.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088026986310601666" /></a><br /><br /><br />While you are cooking the peaches, you will notice that the peaches you have reserved in the jars have sunk down and have released some of their juice. Keep that in mind since you will be able to add more peaches to the jars. Try to minimize free space in the jar as much as you can while keeping the peaches whole and not completely smashed down. You may also cut some of the peaches in half to fit more in.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtTDA1Q_VkQDSlsUqIbzf_2X7AsAPVBXieVFFFVmZRshVpKXg9uOvVqk7cByoUcwIKP4_mJaqeqVvBnOyQ7F9wGbZyVHLZpIB32eFY7hGvAM68jah-E3iS2zEpxiiB6tjspHz/s1600-h/P1030045.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtTDA1Q_VkQDSlsUqIbzf_2X7AsAPVBXieVFFFVmZRshVpKXg9uOvVqk7cByoUcwIKP4_mJaqeqVvBnOyQ7F9wGbZyVHLZpIB32eFY7hGvAM68jah-E3iS2zEpxiiB6tjspHz/s400/P1030045.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088026595468577714" /></a><br /><br />Once you have filled the jars, ladle in the syrup and cover – leaving 1/2 inch of air space at the top. Wipe the edges of the jars with a clean, damp papertowel, then seal and screw on the rings, but do not tighten. In a large enough pot that has very hot (but not boiling water) in it, carefully add the jars of peaches and then cover with more water so that there's at least a half-inch to an inch of water above the top of the jars. Bring this to a boil (it could take some time). Once it is boiling, be careful to watch that it doesn't over boil and process for 15 minutes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfHVJ954xObgmlGrdzmkn5zp66Xv3NxIRhNI87MOEUq9mPU8EQamvc7mjz6Tx4LeDJu8zqUO43oBjU09KV6XbfrKiVbZQNMlkYiYiTpYjmiccer8QjFBNcyCmeJP2QREeFGrv/s1600-h/P1030048.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfHVJ954xObgmlGrdzmkn5zp66Xv3NxIRhNI87MOEUq9mPU8EQamvc7mjz6Tx4LeDJu8zqUO43oBjU09KV6XbfrKiVbZQNMlkYiYiTpYjmiccer8QjFBNcyCmeJP2QREeFGrv/s400/P1030048.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088026440849755042" /></a><br /><br />After time's up, remove the jars with a jar-lifter by pulling straight up and gripping the middle of the jar rather than the top. Always lift straight up and down. Let the jars cool on wire racks and carefully wipe off the water from the tops of the jars.<br /><br />As you'll see, if you haven't really packed the jar with fruit you'll have a big gap at the bottom that's just syrup while all of the fruit is sucked up near the top. You'll have that gap anyway, but if you've done a good job packing the fruit in, it shouldn't be too wide.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvK1OgPsFN9fvM_jRbtj3xCFy7Xdq-_Bd8Mvwh4i5Uk4N93V9grLev4BfNlRcMrya-2d-bx_UAZsdqzOLSFETBZiykNB27meGKIUCNHPKlnNDVJt0MQAjLeUntc_C6v4PBFQJd/s1600-h/P1030050.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvK1OgPsFN9fvM_jRbtj3xCFy7Xdq-_Bd8Mvwh4i5Uk4N93V9grLev4BfNlRcMrya-2d-bx_UAZsdqzOLSFETBZiykNB27meGKIUCNHPKlnNDVJt0MQAjLeUntc_C6v4PBFQJd/s400/P1030050.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088026294820866962" /></a><br /><br />After the jars are cooled, you can make labels for them – or not. What I did was I took leftover paper fake money Bruce bought in Chinatown a long time ago and, using a spare lid, traced around the lid and cut out the shape.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh8cP9wif1poNl4HajS9Zx8_Z3mrzjPgUhbC7LUoReD6D_W_x3vmIQ_DAhKQfsOHqQfgtdc7tBDun3pbnM4Iz_lmjgf5ZPLaH3m3mizVfbHUUbEPqwnGqCgsssvAQaxrqNDhU/s1600-h/P1030068.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh8cP9wif1poNl4HajS9Zx8_Z3mrzjPgUhbC7LUoReD6D_W_x3vmIQ_DAhKQfsOHqQfgtdc7tBDun3pbnM4Iz_lmjgf5ZPLaH3m3mizVfbHUUbEPqwnGqCgsssvAQaxrqNDhU/s400/P1030068.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088026157381913474" /></a><br /><br />Then I unscrewed the rings, placed the round pieces of paper on the lid, and then screwed back down the rings. Pretty cool, heh?!<br /><br />This is about as fancy as I get, y'all.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnd79Qda08tsyg9azQPLY0XcpE9CYTpSSYAKqabSr8572YaQnZGItSp1Ho2PSrarXFQc6tf3Cstm34psrLtvnAK_9Pc-xCLi9PamGaFcxFLm4dzjE_AMgZxhyphenhyphenuGZTzhRNR-ts/s1600-h/P1030074.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnd79Qda08tsyg9azQPLY0XcpE9CYTpSSYAKqabSr8572YaQnZGItSp1Ho2PSrarXFQc6tf3Cstm34psrLtvnAK_9Pc-xCLi9PamGaFcxFLm4dzjE_AMgZxhyphenhyphenuGZTzhRNR-ts/s400/P1030074.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088026037122829170" /></a><br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-67389499627371769362007-07-13T10:22:00.000-07:002007-07-14T13:26:35.249-07:00More Than Meets The Eye<em>"When you can do the common things of life in an uncommon way, you will command the attention of the world."</em><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Washington_Carver">-George Washington Carver</a><br /><br />I see that the <a href="http://summerredneckgames.com/index.html">Redneck Games </a>just happened in Georgia, and along with the customary bobbing for pigs feet, a horseshoe throwing contest using toilet seats, and the grand belly-flop in the mud contest, many a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flags_of_the_Confederate_States_of_America">Confederate Battle Flag </a>adorned the bodies and hoopty mobiles of the event participants.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpkrV59BUhX344bSfimFO_i8DiqdJCe4ooterZ2AIoRxdg_U3e4tc2c15lLTJsY-yp3mCKcEkzmHAW3LtEE5kmDRzG8Ii7i4OXEQSg_ECfg9w-vX8pumtYOklxcy4ljuuKA_6Y/s1600-h/152115817_b51131c69b_o.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086736808199654098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpkrV59BUhX344bSfimFO_i8DiqdJCe4ooterZ2AIoRxdg_U3e4tc2c15lLTJsY-yp3mCKcEkzmHAW3LtEE5kmDRzG8Ii7i4OXEQSg_ECfg9w-vX8pumtYOklxcy4ljuuKA_6Y/s400/152115817_b51131c69b_o.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Photo by Flickr user </span></em><a href="http://flickr.com/photos/27447665@N00/152115817/"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">xthylacine</span></em></a><br /><br />I, along with most people, take it for granted that it's all in good fun – we see it as poor white Southerners poking fun of themselves. The inclusion and widespread display of the battle flag at the event, however, is interesting on many levels, since it is a real and powerful cultural and political symbol. After all, here is the flag that for many Southerners represents "heritage" and "pride", despite meaning the exact opposite for millions of Southern black and white descendants of slaves and Union soldiers/sympathizers.<br /><br />Here is that heritage, in all of its pride and glory: sunburned, drunk, and face down in a pool of mud. It is perhaps one of the most artistic displays of mass social commentary to occur in the United States on an annual basis – a sort of trailer fabulous <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dada">Dadaist</a> movement for the Bubbas and Britneys of the finger-lickin' good set; unwitting progenies of Marcel Duchamp all.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSFHDK-euT_Lq8LBq1LhgWevUtg0IWHuXpbBvhJ1jJHKuu0Ubu38QN1vr8w1qxEKW4juh0mxkz1SA1VbEdeKlhahmzAkCvKfrbXpwayY0aHLt4v0hluUjW0L6TWP2bg-MhZE3/s1600-h/152115822_8629778b26_o.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086740484691659602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSFHDK-euT_Lq8LBq1LhgWevUtg0IWHuXpbBvhJ1jJHKuu0Ubu38QN1vr8w1qxEKW4juh0mxkz1SA1VbEdeKlhahmzAkCvKfrbXpwayY0aHLt4v0hluUjW0L6TWP2bg-MhZE3/s400/152115822_8629778b26_o.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Photo on the left by Flickr user </span></em><a href="http://flickr.com/photos/27447665@N00/152115817/"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">xthylacine</span></em></a><br /><br />To the prim and proper (read: <em>rich</em>) Sons and Daughters of the Confederacy, it is no doubt an embarrassment; Dixie's muddy laundry for all the world (read: <em>Yankees</em>) to point and laugh at. To this end, the landed - and yachted - gentry have taken up the display of the Stars and Bars, as opposed to the battle flag, to distance the trash from the treasures of Southern heritage.<br /><br />And of course, to many black and white Southerners who find the battle flag and all that it entails to be an ugly reminder of slavery, racism, and the lost cause of the plantation owners, here it is – <em>yet again </em>– broadcast to the world straight from the heart of Dixie. The battle flag of the Confederacy: which is illegal to desecrate as a political statement in the State of Louisiana, but whose "pride and heritage" it purports to symbolize was noticeably absent when poor (and mostly) black <a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2005/09/they-need-our-help.html">refugees</a> of that state were <a href="http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=05/09/16/1223207&mode=thread&tid=25">left to die </a>after Hurricane Katrina struck.<br /><br />To ignore the battle flag and its legacy would be wrong. However, when viewed through the lens of the Redneck Games, the battle flag is transformed and reclaimed into something distinctively unusual and, even more, distinctively Southern. Disassociated for one day from its political and social history, the sun and sweat-soaked flag – clinging to the bodies of "rednecks" (another term for white undesirables) - becomes a symbol of Southern "make-do with what you've been given"; an affirming philosophy that transcends race and class in the South and is the true legacy and pride of all Southern people.<br /><br />You and I both know that adaptation is a common, but remarkable, human trait, but Southerners have always been so dang good at it – most especially, the poor people of the South.<br /><br />And that brings us to <strong>Boiled Peanuts.</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlG52W52VHh0Ij8OSPQ3hc6qFyQh_5SecnWelYYfB_F1vwwepDY-hV1SIAdWUG0ZK_xE9QFq9QkcRaWxmoZuXtOyFoxLrWcY_EWFXPX7cO7tXB0Qnx2SEzU05fk5cAe2jGZ6T/s1600-h/DSC_0062.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086738959978269506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlG52W52VHh0Ij8OSPQ3hc6qFyQh_5SecnWelYYfB_F1vwwepDY-hV1SIAdWUG0ZK_xE9QFq9QkcRaWxmoZuXtOyFoxLrWcY_EWFXPX7cO7tXB0Qnx2SEzU05fk5cAe2jGZ6T/s400/DSC_0062.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Slavery introduced the peanut to North America and, most importantly, the American South. It was brought with the West African slaves who previously acquired it from the Portuguese who brought it from Brazil. And it was an African American man, George Washington Carver, who popularized the peanut's properties in revitalizing depleted soil where unrotated cotton crops once grew.<br /><br />Peanut farming, in addition to hog farming and sweet potatoes, was not only instrumental in sustaining the agricultural economy of the South, but it became an important cash crop for former slaves and other poor Southerners who relied on subsistence farming. For these reasons, it has sustained a strong foothold in Southern culture and cuisine, especially in the cotton growing regions of the South.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFHNdR_mDGa9ADE38_AyRCghugY5D_-N4y7qaHRPPT8EoNeZo-v5rWg7Q4XXrz0jEP4ZIwYkaITUuRyL_aMCrCMEbdT-iQmzc6j2-Tzg4OagC1yXQWtVHTvMsywD2Nl_Z8vxG/s1600-h/peanuts001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087148682678438754" style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFHNdR_mDGa9ADE38_AyRCghugY5D_-N4y7qaHRPPT8EoNeZo-v5rWg7Q4XXrz0jEP4ZIwYkaITUuRyL_aMCrCMEbdT-iQmzc6j2-Tzg4OagC1yXQWtVHTvMsywD2Nl_Z8vxG/s400/peanuts001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It was in these regions where I first encountered the famous boiled peanut. Often, it was when my family drove through the coastal plains and lowcountry of the Carolinas from our home in the mountains, on our way to the beach. Boiled peanuts still remind me of white sand, long pines, and suntan lotion – although not necessarily in that combination.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-h3uN-0kmLihZD3ENoan87cNv49IZVo0kMq8L4TdtZYwzm7v2Pt51PLqgqsyZC1UfsH2Q5a2IAF-IrutwbbvKSV47h_m6wG4er6knDeIgcy49qNTo4OhjIl4GNbNqb8bzi0Xm/s1600-h/DSC_0011.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086737804632066818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-h3uN-0kmLihZD3ENoan87cNv49IZVo0kMq8L4TdtZYwzm7v2Pt51PLqgqsyZC1UfsH2Q5a2IAF-IrutwbbvKSV47h_m6wG4er6knDeIgcy49qNTo4OhjIl4GNbNqb8bzi0Xm/s400/DSC_0011.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It's good to see that peanuts still provide a living to many people in the area. Granted, selling "p-nuts" from the side of the highway won't be the road to riches, but it sure beats being a wage slave at the local WalMart.<br /><br />Boiled Peanut stands are certainly a highlight of any trip to the South. It use to be that one only encountered such stands closest to the coast, however that one - <em>being me -</em> has discovered boiled peanuts as far inland as the mountains of north eastern Georgia.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMs9_4Xqjrs4mKB_a25CNTfrSvTTwyrSS6nQO301SDwqskxfJ6bGlufRCK77UV4TLPShTXB2qgqtw4dC_Z2C5taik-369CEUWwG-KGsAK3MA3pukTa20TjxNc0TfyhtF4vdtqr/s1600-h/DSC_0146.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086737207631612642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMs9_4Xqjrs4mKB_a25CNTfrSvTTwyrSS6nQO301SDwqskxfJ6bGlufRCK77UV4TLPShTXB2qgqtw4dC_Z2C5taik-369CEUWwG-KGsAK3MA3pukTa20TjxNc0TfyhtF4vdtqr/s400/DSC_0146.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Each vendor has his or her own specialty – which means unfortunately I have seen "BBQ P-Nuts" for sale. On our way to Charleston, on Highway 78 outside of Summerville, we ran across <strong>Poppy's P-Nuts </strong>stand, ran by a lovely older lady known simply as "Nana" (as in grandma). I could see her little Viking trailer from the distance - a small baby blue dot that, as we got closer and could read the sign, beckoned our stomachs (at least mine anyway) to stop and sample the wares.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEChkchNKvDrUrjQDHBBC_8vC2qYTfNxsw8O37aCRJ5v1OxyT_QOgeoT2rwVAgNoGhfDRn7XZbqFtg3_CWBcd1Nim0XLY2saEIF0vXgWAI0I8V7zuiy_Sbl0vUnoAlzNOD0z8/s1600-h/DSC_0059a.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086738092394875666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEChkchNKvDrUrjQDHBBC_8vC2qYTfNxsw8O37aCRJ5v1OxyT_QOgeoT2rwVAgNoGhfDRn7XZbqFtg3_CWBcd1Nim0XLY2saEIF0vXgWAI0I8V7zuiy_Sbl0vUnoAlzNOD0z8/s400/DSC_0059a.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Visually, everything about Nana's boiled peanut trailer is everything you could ever want in such an operation: compact (yet spacious), portable, and hella tight with that funky-funky retro look about it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNcM-fG_XDSrP1IVCR0sSaaQK0wKVtk498056iKF1KVqvfwymT6Ctg6pLukoEvvdXflehpDzud67vOBc7BpsAG-4TDnFm1dLZXMOvywUqMJiMsWLXlXrZhxE1IUjePpfNOdCY/s1600-h/DSC_0058.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086738272783502114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNcM-fG_XDSrP1IVCR0sSaaQK0wKVtk498056iKF1KVqvfwymT6Ctg6pLukoEvvdXflehpDzud67vOBc7BpsAG-4TDnFm1dLZXMOvywUqMJiMsWLXlXrZhxE1IUjePpfNOdCY/s400/DSC_0058.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Nana was even cooler than her trailer and we spoke at length about her, her daughter in Bakersfield, and Southern California in general – which she described as <strong>"H – E – double L"</strong>. I have to disagree with her on that point – SoCal has a lot of beauty and nice people – but she is right in saying that Californians have worse manners. As a resident of this state for the last 14 years, I rarely hear someone say "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am", and let's not even bring up driving, okay?<br /><br />Anyway, Nana was dishing out the peanuts while shooting the shit with the locals who'd stop by (and us as well) and by the way, you didn't hear it from me…but have you seen a certain someone's new boyfriend? <em>Girrrrll!</em><br /><br />If I lived in the area, I'd stop by Poppy's everyday just to hear what was going on!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgajMvUSg7oj1SGw9dJInjT5D5Til7HgGb_mwMWGMAD3gKQvLEaTAAbuTIlA_Xg0ZrOmAhXxTEoInGsNmv_xt4YlBeyOlRftZfNbB9_V0kOgUf7FVrFisMiyayDUTvNxbhsByeM/s1600-h/DSC_0060.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086738706575199026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgajMvUSg7oj1SGw9dJInjT5D5Til7HgGb_mwMWGMAD3gKQvLEaTAAbuTIlA_Xg0ZrOmAhXxTEoInGsNmv_xt4YlBeyOlRftZfNbB9_V0kOgUf7FVrFisMiyayDUTvNxbhsByeM/s400/DSC_0060.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Boiled peanuts are such a popular snack food in the South that one can often find a steaming pot of them next to the pickled eggs and "fresh brewed" coffee in most convenience stores and gas stations. However, I prefer to support the smaller stands – it just feels right.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJTH0dLgSS9tZOd4J9rRGybAfTxSwueDWr3yb1E2v42GPIYHFeDW3JOE990h6ONS6iV3q4tVIxm9yp9AMOHNGx88f7jUsr8Rzbbmkq49alil858taL-9BQgjtpUXztRO2excn/s1600-h/DSC_0103.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086737491099454194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJTH0dLgSS9tZOd4J9rRGybAfTxSwueDWr3yb1E2v42GPIYHFeDW3JOE990h6ONS6iV3q4tVIxm9yp9AMOHNGx88f7jUsr8Rzbbmkq49alil858taL-9BQgjtpUXztRO2excn/s400/DSC_0103.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I trust the flavoring more in smaller stands. Despite not really knowing what "K-Jun" flavored is suppose to mean, I trust that Nana's K-Jun boiled peanuts are better than most and hasn't a huge amount of toxic ingredients (perhaps this is where faith overrides better judgment?) I know for sure her ham-flavored boiled peanuts are safe, but I went with the plain, all natural ingredients (salt), regular boiled peanuts – just peanuts, water, and salt.<br /><br />Boiled peanuts generally are sold by the pound and won't set you back too much ($2.25). They come to you warm and slightly hot and when you peel one open and suck that warm mushy salty peanut out with its juice it's like crawling into a warm bed on a cold night. Umm-umm, I think I've died and gone to heaven!<br /><br />Adaptation never tasted so good.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-40870903469220079712007-07-11T17:23:00.000-07:002007-07-11T20:08:42.218-07:00That's Not Cooking, That's Shopping!Manners will get you places money can't.<br /><br />Nevertheless, <em>it will </em>cost $86 to have an aged country ham sent from East Tennessee to your home in Northern California.<br /><br />And that's Ground. Figure in $10 to have it sliced by one of the few independent meatcutters around who'll risk the fine the Health Department will impose if caught and you're looking at almost a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Usdollar100front.jpg">Benjamin</a> to enjoy some of the finest country ham money and manners can buy.<br /><br />Oh, I almost forgot.<br /><br /><strong>Look what came in for ME today!</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKyH4JaVhBB8z2h8TtLoVKNzFdpk-a5psAw6pufiVRnP_Hi9_sTvA8NjpZVK4NpYoYTZmfLhTRNE7VnN6Z5_9iEZ_d8aQmtcRvO5ERTqM3KYx4UoK5yPkgXG1ylELRDA8Zq0t/s1600-h/P1030010.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086137814880684738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKyH4JaVhBB8z2h8TtLoVKNzFdpk-a5psAw6pufiVRnP_Hi9_sTvA8NjpZVK4NpYoYTZmfLhTRNE7VnN6Z5_9iEZ_d8aQmtcRvO5ERTqM3KYx4UoK5yPkgXG1ylELRDA8Zq0t/s400/P1030010.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>Go Kevin! It's your birthday! But not really! Squeal anyway!</em><br /><br />This 14-pound beauty is a smoked country ham aged for 13 months - made with love, care, patience and a whole lot of skill by the fine folks at <a href="https://bentonshams.com/order/index.php">Benton's Smoky Mountain Country Hams</a> in Madisonville, Tennessee.<br /><br />Benton's was first recommended to me by Mary Beth Lasseter of <strong>Southern Foodways Alliance</strong> when I had inquired about non-Smithfield country hams. Then, when Bruce and I were dining at <a href="http://cookingwithamy.blogspot.com/2007/07/early-girl-eatery-restaurant.html">Early Girl Eatery </a>in Asheville, North Carolina (a review is in the works), I couldn't stop ranting and raving about their country ham – which had been the best our whole time in the South. Turns out, <em>they</em> were serving Benton's country ham!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-aP_VgAlzeMA3TKtaHlX-Tdz3h4uGaXzksDAUVRkALfHwHjQsJ6D7YL38npsQH06Nr4I4kKbjktHFFVe90BtyYABABCacjGNum_VsVIaFv6-1mEYExm81yV-rmKuXChruRyi/s1600-h/DSC_0015.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086137535707810482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-aP_VgAlzeMA3TKtaHlX-Tdz3h4uGaXzksDAUVRkALfHwHjQsJ6D7YL38npsQH06Nr4I4kKbjktHFFVe90BtyYABABCacjGNum_VsVIaFv6-1mEYExm81yV-rmKuXChruRyi/s400/DSC_0015.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Country ham and biscuits at Early Girl Eatery - early May 2007</span></em><br /><br />Frankly, before our Southern Fried BBQ Road Trip (yes, <em>I can </em>say that with a straight face) it had been a little difficult trying to convince Bruce to go in with me on a whole country ham. Of course wouldn't you know that, while on our trip, Bruce ordered country ham - and seconds, and thirds – at every opportunity he got!<br /><br />When it came time to place our Benton's order, it was like "Bruce, I was thinking about ordering..."<br /><br /><strong>"Okay."</strong><br /><br />Two weeks later and BAM – in walks my UPS guy; him and I, we're like this (crosses fingers).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ys81B-cgE7qFJiivHNVdiPXv05ei9_bvluub_khJFRsGdJYLkyLx7Tz7iWdobNt9rE8DseuC_Xm6LxAI8ZHIMKMcGu4tjrXL2XJSWTLTe6SzCO1kDzr7VknK5kXhhzEsHDqk/s1600-h/P1030008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086137419743693474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ys81B-cgE7qFJiivHNVdiPXv05ei9_bvluub_khJFRsGdJYLkyLx7Tz7iWdobNt9rE8DseuC_Xm6LxAI8ZHIMKMcGu4tjrXL2XJSWTLTe6SzCO1kDzr7VknK5kXhhzEsHDqk/s400/P1030008.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As I mentioned earlier, good luck in finding a meatcutter/butcher who'll run the risk of slicing your whole ham for you. Honestly, I'd love to tell you who cut mine and shamelessly plug their business – they deserve it – but occasionally THE MAN tunes in here...<em>what up, Mang!</em> However, I would recommend inquiring with the smaller, more established meatcutters in your city or town – especially those who normally service a specific ethnic clientele.<br /><br />I had my ham sliced somewhat thinly (about 1/4") to fry, with the end pieces left in larger chunks for stews, pinto beans, collard greens, and leather britches (dried green beans). I contemplated bringing a biscuit cutter along with me and having the guy cut the ham into slices that would perfectly fit on each biscuit, but I didn't want to seem pesky.<br /><br />Anyway, they were so nice to take my money – and I mean that in a completely non-snarky, snarkless, asnarkful way.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRyDfryOTfWokmg-gbizkluqDnBQKKLoNx6q-nlNz2LDgxDtZwhB93iLVL6uFO-zlFVzRmNFyHMf5DhgiV6cPKiLI4-rdY8G3GJe0AEw-G5psWDfPH-pzppbSQcFEdIyNB2qk/s1600-h/P1030012a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086137213585263250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRyDfryOTfWokmg-gbizkluqDnBQKKLoNx6q-nlNz2LDgxDtZwhB93iLVL6uFO-zlFVzRmNFyHMf5DhgiV6cPKiLI4-rdY8G3GJe0AEw-G5psWDfPH-pzppbSQcFEdIyNB2qk/s400/P1030012a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Getting the ham home was the easy part, despite having to carry 14 pounds of smoked pork on my back down the <em>Walled Corridor of Death By Human Trampling </em>– aka the western sidewalk side of Sansome between Bush and Sutter. Following the advice on the suggestion/recipe sheet that came with the ham, I'm keeping the ham covered in canola oil and stashed in the fridge. Apparently, this will preserve the ham for up to a year – but we'll be lucky to have any left by the end of August!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2DhTFdBNCiTvlmau1Fx-Rrmby3IQOHzEMVOgk780EDGjPswf0eLo5-DZ-FtvPaNRhowmFjvVvIWYWZVvF-cORZ0mv2SJmGdHmr7Nr_lDSHb2UmzXshuN0OQcoHSjz9zJvGVY/s1600-h/P1030022a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086136788383500930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2DhTFdBNCiTvlmau1Fx-Rrmby3IQOHzEMVOgk780EDGjPswf0eLo5-DZ-FtvPaNRhowmFjvVvIWYWZVvF-cORZ0mv2SJmGdHmr7Nr_lDSHb2UmzXshuN0OQcoHSjz9zJvGVY/s400/P1030022a.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">I love these gallon-size plastic containers! They're actually recycled pretzel containers.</span></em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWwTUgIcj-1ftfvhl7bdzU72wx6Eljt-CfbqZv4cxglpv-shALR5GfklNW1IwQwGkVk-1TH3f3Nm3jPfh71p8n5N0QfhFRgPhRxfKJTD_Wkn7oteFKJ7bCcRq87VCH7xAsyUT/s1600-h/P1030028.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086136599404939890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWwTUgIcj-1ftfvhl7bdzU72wx6Eljt-CfbqZv4cxglpv-shALR5GfklNW1IwQwGkVk-1TH3f3Nm3jPfh71p8n5N0QfhFRgPhRxfKJTD_Wkn7oteFKJ7bCcRq87VCH7xAsyUT/s400/P1030028.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Now, if you will excuse me: I have more important matters to attend to.</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRoC_z4pC_PiXmE0uerV6bq3CkiEb6X1j9dqF-sIyEEID9jJlVQz1abQfV3r33_VbbJtRE_MwSW5TCIIJ_8y3BwX0dYCQzajYkMSmHZLWHnOUE_Xvi3D9VL6BWmzMgFew-sco/s1600-h/P1030030a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086136440491149922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRoC_z4pC_PiXmE0uerV6bq3CkiEb6X1j9dqF-sIyEEID9jJlVQz1abQfV3r33_VbbJtRE_MwSW5TCIIJ_8y3BwX0dYCQzajYkMSmHZLWHnOUE_Xvi3D9VL6BWmzMgFew-sco/s400/P1030030a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-62507769371671440832007-07-03T21:50:00.000-07:002007-07-04T07:30:33.653-07:00Dogma Personified and I Will Not Cotton To Your So-Called "BBQ"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4-YZjnCNfr7il4jTNW49CkGMKYI-bhmZqmvpxwwgA94fUb1jjDVQ_bXnalVf5UWL0Grpk0qmOK-DCt-GvZ-1XQtK9T9ncxA2yzVWdK7wYDuoxV_WUvKMDQe8QPJ_hyphenhyphenunjrMX/s1600-h/DSC_0025a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083203767962107314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4-YZjnCNfr7il4jTNW49CkGMKYI-bhmZqmvpxwwgA94fUb1jjDVQ_bXnalVf5UWL0Grpk0qmOK-DCt-GvZ-1XQtK9T9ncxA2yzVWdK7wYDuoxV_WUvKMDQe8QPJ_hyphenhyphenunjrMX/s400/DSC_0025a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Being Southern-born and bred does not automatically make one an authority on barbecue, bluegrass, the Civil War, or Hee Haw.<br /><br />I do, however, loves me some Hee Haw.<br /><br />I thought I knew more than enough about all that when, in fact, I didn't know squat – especially when it came to barbecue. I guess I'm like (or was like) the majority of Americans who believe barbecue is something you do, not something that just is. What barbecue means to almost everyone I know is to whip out the Weber charcoal or propane gas grill and "barbecue" hamburgers and hot dogs. Or perhaps it means to take pieces of marinated or dry-rubbed meat and grill them directly over a hot fire (or a hot broiler) until it's smoky and charred.<br /><br />Then drench it with a thick and spicy tomato-based sauce which is super-sweetened with brown sugar and that's "barbecue" or "Bar-B-Q" or "barbeque" or "BBQ". With such fast and loose criteria every fair-weather, backyard, dottering fool is a barbecue pit master.<br /><br />Tomorrow, on the <strong>4th of July</strong>, there will be lots of folks "barbecuing" but most will not actually be serving barbecue. That's because, despite the misappropriation of the term, true barbecue is meat (notably pork) slow-cooked for hours over indirect heat and over hardwood coals, preferably hickory. Especially in North and South Carolina, barbecue means pork and pork only, and it's never marinated or coated with spices beforehand. In fact, North Carolina has a law which states anything packaged and sold as barbecue must be pork slow-cooked over hardwood, otherwise it must be sold as "cooked pork".<br /><br />If it sounds as though I'm being inflexible and dogmatic with a touch of butt-ache well, that's because I am. As all new converts to any religion would be - because, friends, I have been to the mountain top (literally). I have made my pilgrimage to the barbecue holy land and I've come back to share the good news with you.<br /><br />That news is: barbecue is Slow Food. It is a tradition and skill, not to be messed around with. It is a way of life upon which reputation and family honor is at stake; a heritage and art form passed down from generation to generation. To equate the work and cuisine of people like the late <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WK1vXs9-Bj0&mode=related&search=">Wayne Monk</a>, <a href="http://www.ncbbqsociety.com/trail_pages/wilbers_large.html">Wilber Shirley</a>, or <a href="http://www.hollyeats.com/SkylightInn.htm">Pete Jones </a>with your average backyard griller or, worse, some obscenity calling itself "Korean BBQ" is nothing less than defamation – and it shouldn't be tolerated by anyone who remotely thinks of him or herself as a "foodie".<br /><br />I'm sorry, but I won't budge on this.<br /><br />Grilling is not barbecue. Barbecue is not a verb.<br /><br /><strong>Damn.</strong><br /><br />Only in Georgia is barbecue a radio station – <a href="http://www.wbbq.com/main.html">WBBQ</a> to be exact – which is what we listened to traveling down that long, green, tree-lined corridor on our way to Charleston, stopping in Augusta for lunch. Originally our plan was to stop at <strong>Hot Foods by Calvin</strong>, which looked promising as we approached the restaurant and discovered it was in a run-down part of town; many fine restaurants often are. However, upon pulling up to the front door, we discovered to our disappointment that it was closed for renovations.<br /><br />The convenience store beside Hot Foods By Calvin did have a bathroom we could use and more pickled eggs and boiled peanuts than you could shake a health department violation at, but we decided to keep looking. We were, after all, guided a magical plastic pig.<br /><br />After passing through Augusta, with its quaint downtown and downhome adjoining neighborhoods, we were back on the road and just crossing the South Carolina border. It was Sunday afternoon, so not much was open in the way of restaurants. It was then that we noticed a large and welcoming restaurant on the side of the road called <strong>Bobby's Bar-B-Q Buffet</strong>, and it was open.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Osw5Kv7gDLsCaRJzGWgRArhXnlStWTXDM8g8oWyahVCjMv8V9kdCjWxA9_mM3UT8hP2g_FkqS_B5-dIZcQ1IhhV1VlpOYBA0iPjEE1PfrxbdpdhA-Sln69A6cYsCX3feHdla/s1600-h/DSC_0041a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083202513831656802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Osw5Kv7gDLsCaRJzGWgRArhXnlStWTXDM8g8oWyahVCjMv8V9kdCjWxA9_mM3UT8hP2g_FkqS_B5-dIZcQ1IhhV1VlpOYBA0iPjEE1PfrxbdpdhA-Sln69A6cYsCX3feHdla/s400/DSC_0041a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Should we stop? <em>Please</em> – you had me at "buffet".<br /><br />I have to admit, I was a little nervous at first. Here we were, two wayfaring strangers, about to enter this huge log cabin looking restaurant in which the only diners seemed to be very old, very white, and very conservative looking senior citizens. They could've wheeled the corpse of Strom Thurmond out of that place and I wouldn't have batted an eye.<br /><br />Of course, it all made sense once I found out Bobby's has a special discount for churchgoers – just show them that day's program schedule from the church of your choosing (Seventh Day Adventists welcome on Saturdays.)<br /><br />Bobby's Bar-B-Q is a large and clean establishment. The pig theme is in full effect here, as is the Southern habit of ancestor worship as manifested in the Confederate War Hero shrine which greets you upon arrival.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjiIL46BhL4kTrPgRXS-vpMLGOmbnZgwD1U0YR0JLeDiwofuWYHMsSOF6-jRKqzDPmWOK9JFwDUBCRfmOfFZOZSyLUabzDxLHMOkTMHT_KRKA2KNmqmZXqrcvqhm1fAseVWwb/s1600-h/flagpig.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083201878176496962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjiIL46BhL4kTrPgRXS-vpMLGOmbnZgwD1U0YR0JLeDiwofuWYHMsSOF6-jRKqzDPmWOK9JFwDUBCRfmOfFZOZSyLUabzDxLHMOkTMHT_KRKA2KNmqmZXqrcvqhm1fAseVWwb/s400/flagpig.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Because it's a buffet, you pay what is essentially an entrance fee ($8 or so) which buys you a sturdy styrofoam plate, a plastic fork and spoon, and all of the food and sweet tea one can possibly consume without exploding – although some leakage may occur.<br /><br />I was way in over my head here. Bobby's had more pig on a buffet spread than I've ever seen before and/or since. We're talking ribs, cracklins, fried pork chops, chopped barbecue, pulled barbecue, and things I never even knew existed and, hell, I'm a regular diner in Chinatown!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7cehvGGyTVo7wTS_f35XRES58ul84NJSrdSc6ZLuFQeMw0KnyiJLzyDpjP9zLzShJywu1KjfxMyhifurYI9IqKqEnk2A0aFsnG19X44Kcvu6NZ1LV-8aNDfWAS6FjaoTpHOX/s1600-h/DSC_0026a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083203587573480866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7cehvGGyTVo7wTS_f35XRES58ul84NJSrdSc6ZLuFQeMw0KnyiJLzyDpjP9zLzShJywu1KjfxMyhifurYI9IqKqEnk2A0aFsnG19X44Kcvu6NZ1LV-8aNDfWAS6FjaoTpHOX/s400/DSC_0026a.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Hushpuppies, fried pork chops, pork ribs, chopped barbecue, cole slaw (hidden underneath pork chops), collard greens</em><br /></span><br />They also had the best hushpuppies, which had more of a true corn flavor than most of the hushpuppies we would have later. In fact, Bruce says they were the best hushpuppies of the entire trip.<br /><br />The fried pork chops and ribs were good, but nothing memorable. Same applies to the collard greens, mac and cheese, and baked beans. The fried chicken was excellent – to my amusement. I never fail to get a chuckle out of restaurants who promote some star attraction while the real attraction, often something as simple as a side order, goes completely ignored by everyone but the customers.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJi8iYidgY_ROQgah7KS8WoejHirMfRqNdpFFtjuji9Xjcfi2LCjjiEtWnu6eXhfIqpsKTDMElqwCxWTW2TwbApHD-G4ZTX_0sThst_8B58gyNv1V6Qn3dUk-LPaap75yU7ITn/s1600-h/DSC_0030a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083203286925770130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJi8iYidgY_ROQgah7KS8WoejHirMfRqNdpFFtjuji9Xjcfi2LCjjiEtWnu6eXhfIqpsKTDMElqwCxWTW2TwbApHD-G4ZTX_0sThst_8B58gyNv1V6Qn3dUk-LPaap75yU7ITn/s400/DSC_0030a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In contrast to the fried chicken, which was crisp and savory, the slaw was soft and sweet – and I do mean sweet. It was to be the first of many sugary-sweet, bright bright green sides that go for slaw in these here parts. To some, this type of hypersweet cole slaw may seem odd but trust me, it works well as a counter-balance to the more heavier foods like the fried chicken or barbecue.<br /><br />Barbecue-wise, the contender was the fine chopped 'cue against the South Carolina-style, mustard heavy, pulled pork. Clearly, the mustard-sauce pulled pork immediately won me over, despite being a little dry.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcT2TXZDnpxAcmpwbrNVaD15Kr7JQ4QdL6yaXiYoFqZGFw8awrGLNMc7WDAyLmpcnnbIq2W9XKoqbtgVAqqSBaR5wrExLk1AxlHEk8bj1XxR_KK6nxBLCSWu5xf73jLsePriPO/s1600-h/DSC_0029a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083203054997536130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcT2TXZDnpxAcmpwbrNVaD15Kr7JQ4QdL6yaXiYoFqZGFw8awrGLNMc7WDAyLmpcnnbIq2W9XKoqbtgVAqqSBaR5wrExLk1AxlHEk8bj1XxR_KK6nxBLCSWu5xf73jLsePriPO/s400/DSC_0029a.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Baked beans, fried chicken, a pork rib, hushpuppies, pulled pork (South Carolina style)</em><br /></span><br />Lucky then that a bottle of extra mustard sauce was sitting at the table, alongside a bottle of Texas Pete hot vinegar sauce that no self-respecting barbecue restaurant goes without. Other table accoutrement included the customary roll of paper towels for napkins, which made us feel right at home.<br /><br />We are not complicated peoples.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFDtxBQpWGKqGu-XnDgkB91vbOcNRqW565ZgWwhF8mr0wsVXjFr475GfVqOTgB5DaXcnCTS-Eo9euDii05H9QmpEPuWB6uIpbFuF5jssI-_WmoRt3rboKK82ozpSh4xskTIr7/s1600-h/DSC_0033a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083202805889432946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFDtxBQpWGKqGu-XnDgkB91vbOcNRqW565ZgWwhF8mr0wsVXjFr475GfVqOTgB5DaXcnCTS-Eo9euDii05H9QmpEPuWB6uIpbFuF5jssI-_WmoRt3rboKK82ozpSh4xskTIr7/s400/DSC_0033a.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Banana pudding, pulled pork, chopped pork, hash</em></span><br /><br />The other winner here was what I thought at first was Brunswick stew but turned out was hash. Hash is a specialty in the upstate part of Georgia and South Carolina and is a thick stew made with finely chopped barbecue and/or beef. Some of that mustard sauce goes into the hash along with the meat and what you essentially have is "barbecue" stew. Hash is cooked in huge pots for hours, developing a deep, rich flavor – slow food for the hungry mass of churchgoers and those rank strangers among them.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaRXPF-3ft_XBG4l-ncxy2A8BLvoP7NiXGQreZHtWVgqh0GyuPIvTzNvvUfl1odchcFAWJ4VndL_nzIOAnSAYkZZtfe2Dl__tcyxGgRp4Dhbv4cVRc-GWybVlhRrFSxiEKeoR/s1600-h/DSC_0031a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083202243248717138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaRXPF-3ft_XBG4l-ncxy2A8BLvoP7NiXGQreZHtWVgqh0GyuPIvTzNvvUfl1odchcFAWJ4VndL_nzIOAnSAYkZZtfe2Dl__tcyxGgRp4Dhbv4cVRc-GWybVlhRrFSxiEKeoR/s400/DSC_0031a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />By mid-afternoon this place was clearing out; bellies full, waistlines extended, Holy Spirit called for - often in vain. Me, on the other hand, I've yet to finish my second cup of banana pudding: the Southern man's Creme Brulè.<br /><br />I've decided my diet is over.<br /><br />And I need another plate.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-65008642286870651912007-07-02T17:23:00.000-07:002007-07-02T17:43:43.233-07:00Praise the Lord and Pass the Biscuits<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SP8lZ-BorA7F3c3jo9HGllYHOixKuKx30KhZX8sObHi1rA6XpJJG4VSY-qfTUjaCoLuR3GFEgvPBVbhMzYTaDsfSHEloAKUWE7EHvhJbB6XN519mQRrzHmKz5yFUtMlsr7SZ/s1600-h/DSC_0012a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SP8lZ-BorA7F3c3jo9HGllYHOixKuKx30KhZX8sObHi1rA6XpJJG4VSY-qfTUjaCoLuR3GFEgvPBVbhMzYTaDsfSHEloAKUWE7EHvhJbB6XN519mQRrzHmKz5yFUtMlsr7SZ/s400/DSC_0012a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082761626848787762" /></a><br /><br />It's hard to get a feel for a city when you're only staying there overnight.<br /><br />It's even harder when that city spreads out 132 square miles, with a metropolitan area four and a half times larger. Nevertheless, our stay in Midtown Atlanta was surprisingly pleasant; downtown and urban, but within close walking distance to large, palatial homes with large, old trees swaying in the Southern breeze. I say "surprisingly" because we didn't actually pick the location of our hotel based on its reputation or environs of the surrounding area, but rather how close it was to the Silver Skillet restaurant.<br /><br />In fact, staying in Midtown was convenient for both dinner at the Varsity and breakfast at the Silver Skillet, especially if you happen <em>to be paying </em>the mortgage on one of those large and palatial homes – you may just have to eat there come the first of every month!<br /><br />However, consider this a blessing in disguise since the Silver Skillet was and is everything I hoped it would be and more. It is what we Californians (who know the difference) often refer to as a "coffee shop" but what others often refer to as a diner. In fact, the Silver Skillet, in all of its pride and glory, is the Southern cousin of every fine coffee shop I've stepped into in my travails as a bona fide dive connoisseur. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cyL7VaBx7FZXTuPWm2Q1OH12m_i8IaQScfG_ExBCuS6JsaOJD1bs2RLURKY6PR9IxuBygcfJACXCvegbdYr1NffAjq5rPRxzONLOfJbzagkCYg3IWwavnC5TtWjlz1C4R0XT/s1600-h/DSC_0011a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cyL7VaBx7FZXTuPWm2Q1OH12m_i8IaQScfG_ExBCuS6JsaOJD1bs2RLURKY6PR9IxuBygcfJACXCvegbdYr1NffAjq5rPRxzONLOfJbzagkCYg3IWwavnC5TtWjlz1C4R0XT/s400/DSC_0011a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082760870934543618" /></a><br /><br />It's appeal isn't lost on the locals. On a bright and early Sunday morning, when many fine citizens of Atlanta are still praising the Lord and passing the collection plate, you'll find Atlanta's other fine folks praising the lard in the pecan pie crust and passing the plate of butter here at the Silver Skillet. Not that the church folks don't stop in afterwards – that lard and sweet buttery goodness isn't lost on them neither.<br /><br />Finding the Silver Skillet was easy as pie, especially when guided by our psychic pig/trip mascot whose divination powers in finding pork or pork products borders on the miraculous and <em>just plain freakish</em>. That little plastic pig hanging from our rental car's rear view mirror pointed us in the general direction of the restaurant and, despite getting distracted by the occasional whiff of bacon in the air, guided us to the shiny-car-filled lot of the Silver Skillet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qtgyuQ_diwUwjVbwMWftIo9sLZLg8VNg7-Zic-r74kGZv5JIIH0jMGPddHYYMJNQSwFVbSU55f1xReAXB6NDLQEAwoU_uvmKgDWuVRjqJMXc3qTxAhH2z9Ptt-PtRbdqsrZt/s1600-h/skillet1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qtgyuQ_diwUwjVbwMWftIo9sLZLg8VNg7-Zic-r74kGZv5JIIH0jMGPddHYYMJNQSwFVbSU55f1xReAXB6NDLQEAwoU_uvmKgDWuVRjqJMXc3qTxAhH2z9Ptt-PtRbdqsrZt/s400/skillet1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082761424985324834" /></a><br /><br />Once seated, the choices were daunting. I praised my higher power that we were seated in a booth, otherwise sitting at the counter would've placed us by the signs and menus hanging near the kitchen beckoning us to try the Fried Catfish, the Ham Steak, the Country Ham Steak, the Roast Beef Sandwich, the Fruit and Ice Box Pies, and something curiously called a Dutch Salad which, at least in San Francisco, could mean anything you might imagine and everything you'd <em>never ever </em>want to.<br /><br />There are greater hazards in life to consider when curiosity gets the better of you.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfeLK4jcC1CvreNpBCrG27Rp-rD6EowouY0g6EPFaMzCxW1mWQv-iUHrbvpUkz9ZZIWRiseyGNJpu659FoEYXFj-55UG9Sr0gnrfdEw1zd7Lgh1vJ2fjxPkdWt3eylo3RtTPp/s1600-h/DSC_0006a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfeLK4jcC1CvreNpBCrG27Rp-rD6EowouY0g6EPFaMzCxW1mWQv-iUHrbvpUkz9ZZIWRiseyGNJpu659FoEYXFj-55UG9Sr0gnrfdEw1zd7Lgh1vJ2fjxPkdWt3eylo3RtTPp/s400/DSC_0006a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082761223121861906" /></a><br /><br />One of those hazards could be the actual act of dining at the Silver Skillet if you're a supporter of Jesse Jackson, Senator Hillary Clinton, or anyone or anything to the Left of, say, Justice Antonin Scalia (<em>who says there are no Italian fascists left?</em>). Nothing, unfortunately, says you have arrived in a certain pocket of the Deep South better than these, <em>ahem</em>, choice words posted near the front counter, alongside a picture of Senator Clinton's head crudely pasted onto a dairy cow proclaiming her the first case of "mad cow" in New York:<br /><br />"Women do not belch, women do not snore, women do not fart – therefore they must bitch or they will blow up."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tUwHLHni55kdLyztAGCZ_MnuXEuBKJkGuamDlLEBMYj97mL0YUZgGkOA99-5BUKO8eIi3RJ0mf19u5eLpN9ZxuaqmhL_tCPdLozke3ebEXdrFjjSVUUHC88SRQ0oZiT4uCzA/s1600-h/DSC_0009a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tUwHLHni55kdLyztAGCZ_MnuXEuBKJkGuamDlLEBMYj97mL0YUZgGkOA99-5BUKO8eIi3RJ0mf19u5eLpN9ZxuaqmhL_tCPdLozke3ebEXdrFjjSVUUHC88SRQ0oZiT4uCzA/s400/DSC_0009a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082760540222061810" /></a><br /><br />Perhaps it just seems ironic to me that at the Silver Skillet, all of whom one sees doing the work are women – women who, according to this tasteless attempt at humor, are little more than bitching nags. It also doesn't escape my attention that, with the exception of one couple (a man and a woman), everyone in here is white – despite the fact that Atlanta is majority black. Could it be that Jesse Jackson is <em>actually respected</em> by the majority of black people in the South and, perhaps, still hated by the decaying old stalwarts of racial segregation?<br /><br />But I’m not here to judge the politics of the owners or the people who eat here. However, I will say this: In the South, I think one of the reasons one doesn't see as many political bumper stickers on cars is that, for the most part, politics is "don't ask, don't tell." Or rather, "don't ask, don't offend." Running across something so opinionated here at the Silver Skillet seems to me to be an oddity of some sort, almost as odd as the retro feel and look of the restaurant itself.<br /><br />And yet, for what it's worth, this is what makes the Silver Skillet <em>not</em> ordinary. Frankly, ordinary is boring.<br /><br />It's definitely not a gourmet experience, but the Silver Skillet has what one needs in a solid breakfast, namely the Four Food groups: carbs, protein, fat, and hot coffee. Bruce and I basically ordered the same: eggs, grits, slices of country ham with red-eye gravy, and biscuits. He passes on the red-eye gravy, which is a thin sauce made by deglazing a skillet with black coffee.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqRWRjPVCbFLZNm6uqk7CU7lGLISUa28WpqdSU_rKFBgiErh4ZUKCr3IHj_SWUZOWq7JHxDHlCtgofVavnHhX8b_WwclH-WL042N4pOHLbelRPRhG7sbAi2Ax6Juq5C3v1YIO/s1600-h/DSC_0001a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqRWRjPVCbFLZNm6uqk7CU7lGLISUa28WpqdSU_rKFBgiErh4ZUKCr3IHj_SWUZOWq7JHxDHlCtgofVavnHhX8b_WwclH-WL042N4pOHLbelRPRhG7sbAi2Ax6Juq5C3v1YIO/s400/DSC_0001a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082760342653566178" /></a><br /><br />The biscuits here are otherworldly. If you missed church to come here, you may just find Jesus between the butter and the biscuits. They are that good – fluffy and tasty and scrumptious in a way that is hard to describe, and why bother – <em>can I just have some more please?</em> All of the things we know about, which foods to avoid for example, if you want to live a long happy life – all of that stuff just flies out the door here. <br /><br />Silver Skillet: just another two words for "nothing left to lose"?<br /><br />Yes: you are going to have grits, and you're going to have them with butter and sugar. They're going to accompany your highly salty country ham, which you're going to eat with your non-certified, <em>pretty damn unfair </em>trade black coffee gravy or perhaps sandwich in between lard or Crisco-saturated, highly processed white flour biscuits. Please don't forget the cholesterol-rich eggs from chickens who've never seen the outside of a massive hen house, because they'll coat the lining of your stomach when you've decided to down yet another cup of that strong black coffee.<br /><br />Right about now you'll start to piece together why there are so many churches in the South, and why at least one is always a hop, skip, and ambulance ride away. <br /><br />The biggest reason: forgiveness.<br /><br />Second reason: Death – and if you've noticed anything about Southern culture you'll notice that "death" tends to be a recurring theme, in particular "death", "sin", "guilty pleasures", "Heavenly retribution" and, most especially, "revenge". Because if the biscuits, grits, and ham doesn't shut you down like a gin joint in a dry county, the pecan pie just might.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglLx5ui61tjmb7nuFa3-vxUopvE4XO1W31N1mL_2enjubUa5M6SVUx4WKXyXyP2urciRlDB-lKQ2LAhiTPZyVwF1qTqxYApFTUqfNLRvytsZfrs3iKwTUzBEkhYp3LF9g_LXTI/s1600-h/food-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglLx5ui61tjmb7nuFa3-vxUopvE4XO1W31N1mL_2enjubUa5M6SVUx4WKXyXyP2urciRlDB-lKQ2LAhiTPZyVwF1qTqxYApFTUqfNLRvytsZfrs3iKwTUzBEkhYp3LF9g_LXTI/s400/food-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082760076365593810" /></a><br /><br />It's true, Kevin: you <em>didn't need </em>that piece of pie, but it was brought to your table with such grace and kindness – how could you refuse? Why, that would be plain rude! And after all, you <strong>did</strong> order it. Admittedly, in the South it's odd to eat pie with breakfast, however I was afraid if I ordered the banana pudding someone might think I was weird, or God forbid a liberal!<br /><br />Indeed, what would've raised a disapproving eyebrow or two would have been demanding Universal Healthcare to go with my slice. <br /><br />But the Lord, He does work in mysterious ways.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-81538399782269555632007-06-29T15:55:00.000-07:002007-06-29T17:03:13.933-07:00Hi-Five Back At Ya!<em>Oh, it's Friday. What the hell.</em><br /><br />INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so:<br /><br />1. <a href="http://blairsboys.wordpress.com/">Blair’s Boys</a> <br />2. <a href="http://harmonia.wordpress.com/">Harmonia’s Cuppa Tea</a> <br />3. <a href="http://vtroom.wordpress.com/">Vaguetarian Tea Room</a> <br />4. <a href="http://sugarandlard.wordpress.com/">Sugar and Lard</a> <br />5. <strong>Bacon Press</strong><br /><br /><strong>Next, select five people to tag:</strong><br />1. Sly Stone<br />2. Jack T. Chick<br />3. Thomas Pynchon<br />4. J.D. Salinger<br />5. John Hughes<br /><br /><strong>What were you doing 10 years ago?</strong><br /><br />Working in a bookstore. Drinking lots of vodka.<br /><br /><strong>What were you doing 1 year ago?</strong><br /><br />Checking out of <a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2006/06/drunkards-dream.html">detox</a> and staying away from authors.<br /><br /><strong>Five snacks you enjoy:</strong><br />1. Dried mango<br />2. Tamari-roasted almonds<br />3. A can of sardines<br />4. Beef jerky<br />5. Hard-boiled eggs<br /><br /><strong>Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:</strong><br /><em>(which one doesn't belong?)</em><br />1. <a href="http://www.smithsonianglobalsound.org/trackdetail.aspx?itemid=41845">I Am A Poor Pilgrim Of Sorrow</a> – Traditional<br />2. <a href="http://www.folkways.si.edu/search/AlbumDetails.aspx?ID=2413">Moonshiner</a> – Roscoe Holcomb<br />3. <a href="http://www.east-asian-history.net/textbooks/480/graphics/ch13/Love_to_despair.htm">Love Has Brought Me To Despair</a> – Traditional<br />4. <a href="http://myspace.com/thetingtings">That's Not My Name</a> – The Ting Tings<br />5. <a href="http://www.google.com/musics?lid=h7wasO9rcEK&sid=R8M_cCQLcFP">Been A Long Time Travelling</a> – Almeda Riddle<br /><br /><strong>Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:</strong><br />1. Crush things. Anything.<br />2. Lucrative investments in Eastern European leopard-print textiles and Asian plastic wrap markets.<br />3. Sit back, watch non-profit fundraisers grovel for money, pit one against the other, touch cold clammy fingertips together and laugh an eeevil laugh.<br />4. Complain some more.<br />5. Buy gun, buy land, buy flea-bitten dog, buy mobile home, act crazy.<br /><br /><strong>Five bad habits:</strong><br />1. <br />2. <br />3. <br />4. <br />5. Procrastination.<br /><br /><strong>Five things you like doing:</strong><br />1. Road trips.<br />2. Vegging out with Bruce, watching a good Sci-Fi movie/show.<br />3. 9 O'Clock pie runs (in theory, as well as practice)<br />4. Cooking for large groups<br />5. This.<br /><br /><strong>Five things you would never wear again:</strong><br />1. Paisley (umm, <em>hello?)</em><br />2. "Unique" body piercings<br />3. Pink bouffant wig with the nun costume<br />4. Split-toe "ninja" shoes<br />5. Bomber jacket (<em>Soooo</em> 90s!)<br /><br /><strong>Five favorite toys:</strong><br />1. Thumb-sucking Moncheechee doll<br />2. Transgender Ken Doll (with accessories)<br />3. Crying "My Lil' Pony" doll<br />4. MUNI bus Transformer (Decepticon)<br />5. Lawn darts.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-69543894725291887392007-06-29T10:21:00.000-07:002007-06-29T10:30:34.713-07:00Why I Hate The Smell of Mario's Baked Ziti<em>(Just a bit of fun. I'll get to the southern food this weekend.)</em><br /><br />I can't believe they ended The Sopranos that way.<br /><br />Nevertheless, I loved the ending. "T", Carm, Ajay, and...<em>that Meadow!</em> Guess what Meadow?? I have trouble parallel parking too!! <br /><br />(I can't tell you how many times I had to back-up, pull-forward, pull-out, and back-in last night! It's maddening! It's enough to make one go all "Cleaver" and stuff.) <br /><br />All of them – together, in of all things: a dive! How frickin' wonderful is that?!<br /><br />But wait! It gets better. They went out with one of the coolest Journey songs ever! "Did he just say <em>ever?</em>" Ooohhh yes I did! Not only is Journey a local band, acceptable to consume as they fall within 100 miles of my music-shed, but they totally rock (in that power ballad, poppy, falsetto, guitar solo way). <em>"When the lights, go dowwwn, in the Cit-tayyy...."</em><br /><br />Tear.<br /><br />Anyway, there WE were, the ______ Street Glorified Crew, all neighbors, watching the last episode of The Sopranos that we'll ever watch together again (excluding re-runs). This has been our <em>cosa nostra</em> thing every Sunday for the last 4 years. Oh! the laughs, the tears, the joys, the federal indictments we've all shared with Christopha, Sil, Adrianna, the evil Janet, crazy Uncle June, Johnnycakes, and the Russian from the Pine Barrens; all over good food, wine, Gentleman Jack, and lately ice tea (for me). <br /><br />For the final episode, I thought we'd go out like we came in – with a big ol' dish of pasta cooked the Italian-American way. Instead of just following my instincts and cooking with the knowledge I've picked up over the years, I decided to consult an <a href="http://eater.com/archives/2007/06/why_i_hate_food.php">Italian-American </a>– or rather, his cookbook.<br /><br />Now don't get me wrong: I like Mario Batali as a television personality. Granted, I don't know him personally but he sure seems like a nice guy (although, historically, the only fat guys who wore brightly colored rubber shoes were clowns, but such are the times we live in). <br /><br /><em>Speaking of</em>, that baked ziti recipe in <strong>Molto Italiano</strong> smells like dirty clown feet!<br /><br />The ingredients sound innocent enough: tomato sauce, béchamel sauce, penne pasta, cheese, breadcrumbs, some mild Italian sausage (disclosure: that's something I added). It looked great in my casserole dish. But on the way over to Laura's, Bruce and I were like: "<em>Dammmnn!</em> Is THAT the ziti?"<br /><br />Truly, it smelled like Mario's unwashed Croc's – with extra toe funk thrown in. Although the ingredients were completely fresh and not out-of-date, this specific combo of ingredients gave the casserole the distinctive smell of something festering past its prime. Could it be the cheese? I only used parm and mozzarella. Couldn't be the sausage, <em>could it</em>? The combo of béchamel sauce and tomato sauce duking it out like Tony and Phil Leotardo over who'd run garbage collection in Newark?<br /><br />I don't know.<br /><br />The good news is that it tasted fine; good even. My neighbors thought it was great, although Laura was a little startled over how heavy it was as she lifted the casserole dish from the oven, where it had finished cooking.<br /><br />Of all people, I realize that often things that smell (<em>hmmm</em>, how should I put this?) <strong>nasty</strong> often taste wonderful and complex. Mario's Baked Ziti is no exception. But perhaps next time I'll omit the béchamel sauce or try a different recipe altogether.<br /><br />In the meantime, I'll have to try Mario's other<br /><br />(roll credits)<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-16365060093592762172007-06-22T10:30:00.000-07:002007-06-22T10:38:00.860-07:00Carbs and CarburetorsRight about now, I imagine most of my loyal readers – all 5 of you – are pretty damned pissed and are basically like "what the F?!" that I seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet, never to be seen nor heard from again. <br /><br />As you should be.<br /><br />I don't know what happened. Well, <em>actually</em>, yeah I do. <br /><br />It's taken me a while to feel comfortable writing again and being in the headspace to do it. A lot has been on my mind lately – stuff that has nothing to do with food. Okay – and then there are things, like watching my weight that has everything to do with food – but not in the way that I feel needs to be shared with the blogosphere.<br /><br />There <em>is</em> such a thing as Too Much Information. (I know you'd never expect to read those words from me!) <br /><br />Lots of internal introspection, lots of soul searching, and oh: I bought a car. It's an old VW and it's the first car I've owned in 14 years and I've been just a <em>leeettle</em> obsessed with it. My last car, which I'll call "Precious Baby 1", I sold before I left Florida and took a Greyhound bus out to California. I haven't owned a car since, so it's kind of weird to use the phrase "my car" with the actual word "MY" in front of the word "car". I usually do a double-take and then ask myself if I just had a Matrix moment, a senior moment, or something similar.<br /><br />Such...is life? You can see why I haven't been too concerned with writing about food. There are more important things – things like low carbs and carburetors; a 36 year old body that needs some interior work, a few parts replaced, and a tune up – and a 34 year old body that needs roughly the same, plus an injection of dark chocolate every now and then (purely for the antioxidants, y'all.)<br /><br />I've got a big weekend coming up (if you're <a href="http://www.kron4.com/global/Category.asp?c=103430">watching</a> the parade, look for me in <a href="http://www.rainbowfund.org/">contingent number 86!</a>), but afterwards I'll be back to my normal – or normal for San Francisco – self. And yes, I do plan on telling you all about my trip, starting with Charleston and the Lowcountry.<br /><br />Just hang in there.<br /><br />I promise I'll come through for you.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-38439964279246000692007-05-23T08:29:00.000-07:002007-05-23T08:34:40.387-07:00Got R DunGreetings Lovers of Pork;<br /><br />Or pork-related products; <br /><br />Or pigs in general;<br /><br /><em>Or not.</em><br /><br />We landed at SFO last Saturday and boy are my arms tired. I'm not joking: carrying luggage for what seemed like 5 miles through the mega-sprawl that is ATL can be exhausting, especially when you get stuck finding a gate that isn't accessible by people mover or by tram. In addition, the whole trip back I had a freakin' killer headache, my stomach felt like shit, and it felt like someone smacked my ears with the palm of their hands.<br /><br />I was beat.<br /><br />And going through pork withdrawal.<br /><br />I'm better now and once I get into the hang of actually writing again, I'll be posting each and every glorious detail of Bacon Press's Southern-Fried Bar-B-Q Roadtrip 2007. Even though I'm a little out of practice with this writing thing and it feels like there's way too much information swimming around in my head, I feel inspired by my trip and hope to share some of the food and places I enjoyed while careening in an economy rental car through the South with Bruce, a plastic pig hanging from our rear-view mirror, and a Piggly Wiggly potholder beaming out our rear window to those people I cut off outside of the Asheville Mall parking lot.<br /><br />Before I start with the food, some observations:<br /><br /><strong>1. The flying experience:</strong><br />Okay: I just hate flying. I also hate hospitals. Flying is like the equivalent to being stuck in a hospital where upon arrival some orderly sticks a finger up your butt and rushes you through the door before you've had a chance to regain your composure. As with hospitals, I'm eternally grateful that the people with whom you most often come in contact with also happen to be the most disgruntled, lowest paid, and with the biggest fucking chip on their shoulders both sides of the Mississippi. That said, at least we're "safe" – the elimination of the customary airplane meal alone has saved countless lives from food poisoning.<br /><br /><strong>2. The Dirty South:</strong><br />My KINGDOM for one simple, ordinary PAPER towel in the men's bathroom in South Carolina and Georgia! Instead, I get these infernal electric blow dryers. Guess what? I frickin' hate those things! I know it seems more environmentally friendly to do away with paper towels, but those dryers drive me <em>bat-shit crazy!</em> It's not like I use a whole lot. Just one (1) to dry my hands – and with that one (1), I use to open the door with, promptly throwing in the closest trash receptacle as the door is closing behind me. I never get my hands dry using electric dryers, no matter how fast or how hard I rub them. I just end up wiping them on my clothes. And then I have to touch, with my freshly clean and bare hands, the same door handle someone who just left without washing his nasty-ass greasy grubby paws after God-knows-what business he's been up to, thereby contaminating MY hands with billions of virulent, microscopic germs...!!!<br /><br /><em>(Please Jesus make it stop.)</em><br /><br />God help me, I will mow down a pristine old-growth wilderness corridor just to avoid having to touch that goddamn door handle after washing my hands!<br /><br /><strong>3. Pawn Shops and Liquor Stores:</strong><br />People of the South: <em>What is your obsession with pawn shops?</em> And really – how many do you actually need in one square mile? Is <strong>5</strong> enough? How about 10? Are your asses really that broke that you speak with more regularity to the pawn shop owner than to your own baby's mama? I have seen more pawn shops on one small stretch of highway to last me for the rest of my life. "Mega Pawn", "Patriot Pawn", "Beach Pawn", "Everyday Pawn", "Pawn Pawn": Please, <em>give it a rest</em> and just keep your stuff. What gets me is that you guys advertise your dirty laundry with all of the pawn shops…and then try to hide the words "liquor store" from public view. But every Bub from the lowcountry to the high knows what "ABC" stands for and if he can't read, South Carolina makes it easy with those big-ass red dots covering the building. Why, that aint nothing but a booze bulls-eye!<br /><br /><strong>4. "Git R Dun"</strong><br />Actually, I kinda like it – and my cousin Joey cracked me up saying it. But it doesn't look as cool on your truck's rearview window as you think it does.<br /><br />Especially parked outside of a pawn shop.<br /><br /><strong>5. Total miles driven:</strong> <br /><br />1,805<br /><br /><strong>6. Total number of Waffle Houses actually seen from the road (not counting how many off-ramp locations actually passed):</strong><br /><br />44<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9uoTmLnFKiKv7eb19Cx8VcCvfLykDtsP9TPT8Px4yFJ01GPHlpap1LwLopSzC96whxqAc7PzAImI3jnz7CnXinYCmWTXGrhGbLY2vVgS1CiwpBNGRToZAonJPQC3lrJLnczpx/s1600-h/DSC_0053.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9uoTmLnFKiKv7eb19Cx8VcCvfLykDtsP9TPT8Px4yFJ01GPHlpap1LwLopSzC96whxqAc7PzAImI3jnz7CnXinYCmWTXGrhGbLY2vVgS1CiwpBNGRToZAonJPQC3lrJLnczpx/s400/DSC_0053.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5067779195666180914" /></a><br /><br /><strong>7. Rough number of pounds gained by Kevin, mostly from sweet tea and biscuits:</strong><br /><br />3 - 4<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-37877911438760300152007-05-09T15:13:00.000-07:002007-05-09T16:51:16.363-07:00Tour Diary - Wilmington, NCGawd!<br /><br />We are moving really fast through the South, but not so fast that I feel like we're missing a whole lot. First, I'd like to take back what I said about Southern drivers. They're not slow or bad. I think that was just a bad experience in Atlanta. If anyone is slow, it's Bruce and I. We've been following the letter of the law when it comes to driving since we'd hate for the pork wagon to land n hot water. Speaking of, we'll be in barbecue country tomorrow and if you see this vehicle parked in the area -find us and chat us up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblJhyphenhyphenfT2ZN8Kp3dFdDhOt7NLiMe5k3PQnMMQLv3DjStVJ-i8wbQqt304Z6yI0VRsv2Iok-cqXw2vQcxbl8KYAWjd4RfdaAAy5sXXnI7flu8XVLKxPzCOZM4CES4qTQ39URuW3/s1600-h/DSC_0019.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblJhyphenhyphenfT2ZN8Kp3dFdDhOt7NLiMe5k3PQnMMQLv3DjStVJ-i8wbQqt304Z6yI0VRsv2Iok-cqXw2vQcxbl8KYAWjd4RfdaAAy5sXXnI7flu8XVLKxPzCOZM4CES4qTQ39URuW3/s400/DSC_0019.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062710711912163346" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXgvkiDe3gwpAJqvZcwShbObQi2r3Bf4qO8_JZ3YiOdLWQshq1trvQtOyMmX4mSEzry55avR7a_9UGz_FXjDVP7Fwv_Bg0EhoN5fhgEA4Af0qPSZ7kZ_ziydOVCydn_r_oNsU/s1600-h/DSC_0048.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXgvkiDe3gwpAJqvZcwShbObQi2r3Bf4qO8_JZ3YiOdLWQshq1trvQtOyMmX4mSEzry55avR7a_9UGz_FXjDVP7Fwv_Bg0EhoN5fhgEA4Af0qPSZ7kZ_ziydOVCydn_r_oNsU/s400/DSC_0048.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062710716207130658" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-e3CRtor__uKgaaElsUvKVK50YJMd8PBW40rKLPd5yPORk95sQlimhG6RhJY9VT00MDBv4KJIp_0zs2S1m311Jj-91EZ78pvMr1y4909RErPTjJIsVlM9eJze4YiQ6adEHizF/s1600-h/DSC_0049.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-e3CRtor__uKgaaElsUvKVK50YJMd8PBW40rKLPd5yPORk95sQlimhG6RhJY9VT00MDBv4KJIp_0zs2S1m311Jj-91EZ78pvMr1y4909RErPTjJIsVlM9eJze4YiQ6adEHizF/s400/DSC_0049.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062710716207130674" /></a><br /><br />I should start off by saying that there's no way I can do justice writing about any of the places we've eaten or been while I'm on vacation. It will have to wait so that I have time to think about the places and write about them fairly and in my usual style. As it is now, we're staying at lot of places without wi-fi and we're going at line the various cafes we can find with free wi-fi. By the way, thanks to Port City Java in Wilmington for letting us use the wi-fi!<br /><br />I want the whole country to have free wi-fi NOW! Come on already! Instead, Bruce and I are braving hurricane-like weather to bring you this check-in...which shows you how dedicated I am to my readership.<br /><br />I love yall!!<br /><br />Speaking of hurricanes, we've had weird weather ever since we arrived on the coast but it has made for some interesting adventures. Today we went hunting for carnivorous plants deep in the Carolina State Beach preserve and literally had to run from the middle of a savannah back to the visitor parking lot before we were caught in the middle of a heavy thunderstorm. And while Charleston was GORGEOUS, it was also windy as hell and colder than a witches tit.<br /><br />By the way, Charleston *is all that* - and a bowl of grits.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgh4TGCaTOzhyphenhyphenMJgKA-XbwRk9p579b0_gdpUgZGc7sNVl_2CT1ankQ46Pskf8SM_pmXQvGKVuhLg7M9RY3oajmhid8Aiy7ELhRiiJN2iHY61HFxWattA-ruepaU-R-9wHwkaN/s1600-h/DSC_0066.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgh4TGCaTOzhyphenhyphenMJgKA-XbwRk9p579b0_gdpUgZGc7sNVl_2CT1ankQ46Pskf8SM_pmXQvGKVuhLg7M9RY3oajmhid8Aiy7ELhRiiJN2iHY61HFxWattA-ruepaU-R-9wHwkaN/s400/DSC_0066.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062711712639543410" /></a><br /><br />It's a beautiful old city with tons of character and friendly locals, like Sean at City Lights Cafe on George Street. Stop by if you're in town and grab a cup of java - you'll be glad you did! <br /><br />Also, Bruce and I have decided that we're to fly to Charleston each day from San Francisco to have dinner at the Hominy Grill. Despite eating phenomenal food since we've landed at ATL, the Hominy Grill really stands out as one of the best places we've eaten thus far. This place rocks!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdg5lCcsEjAqzqULPkJaDEiuCdtTk_sdlUy77A80vZU1ucp29_daM0brSzYIZCPjQC8pW6WTeHQF_I307UbBHCb8CR01oGm-_s51U6gljqVThevs5nFw-bTGedcjfIfc_06A1j/s1600-h/DSC_0090.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdg5lCcsEjAqzqULPkJaDEiuCdtTk_sdlUy77A80vZU1ucp29_daM0brSzYIZCPjQC8pW6WTeHQF_I307UbBHCb8CR01oGm-_s51U6gljqVThevs5nFw-bTGedcjfIfc_06A1j/s400/DSC_0090.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062711828603660418" /></a>Shrimp Purloo at Hominy Grill<br /><br />But besides the excellent Lowcountry cuisine to be had at the Hominy Grill, we've eaten high and mighty on the hog at:<br /><br />= The Silver Skillet in Atlanta - awesome grits, country ham with red-eye gravy, gooey good pecan pie, and biscuits so sinfully delicious one bite will make your head spin and say things to a priest that'd make Linda Blair blush.<br /><br />= Bobby's Bar-B-Q - We stumble onto this place outside of Aiken, SC after we got all the way to Hot Foods by Calvin in Augusta and found it closed for renovations...Ahhh! Nevertheless, I'm sorta glad it was since Bobby's was truly a unique experience. The short and skinny: actually no one was skinny in that place - this was South Carolina mustard-based barbecue buffet heaven. Highlights include pulled and chopped bbq pork, kickin' hushpuppies, banana pudding, cracklins, Brunswick stew, soft-serve ice cream, and fried pork chops.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZNRkVF9Iw6Sq4OwWswgezkTAiXAg2gNsLUtyS0lM55mcBFinW2BSsGOQISVufZhD7rZRDo-WaxINepA6m9MSfFXsFiSmWqD56vQEUywpK-jn505Q345rXkGb0qSc2Ld98N2X/s1600-h/DSC_0030.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZNRkVF9Iw6Sq4OwWswgezkTAiXAg2gNsLUtyS0lM55mcBFinW2BSsGOQISVufZhD7rZRDo-WaxINepA6m9MSfFXsFiSmWqD56vQEUywpK-jn505Q345rXkGb0qSc2Ld98N2X/s400/DSC_0030.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062710982495103042" /></a><br /><br />= Nana's boiled p-nuts stand - side of the road Highway 78 outside of Summerville: Say hi to nana and her daughter in Bakersfield, CA. Stop by and get some hot boiled peanuts in 3 different flavors: regular (just salt), cajun, and ham. By the way, all you Californians could stand saying "yes sir" and "yes mam" a little more often in Nana's opinion. Just sayin'....<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUbExAocTKcs8PKK3sb6E6zF5fS83plFjU-2bypmS61-o2ZRguM5cnwZT2X0P0gvX325457e1HDcZFIoqC7Iv87Gmq3ZwP09gnS-l7nMqs37Bm5EDylBuEyvP7SrUK538U6-M/s1600-h/DSC_0059.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUbExAocTKcs8PKK3sb6E6zF5fS83plFjU-2bypmS61-o2ZRguM5cnwZT2X0P0gvX325457e1HDcZFIoqC7Iv87Gmq3ZwP09gnS-l7nMqs37Bm5EDylBuEyvP7SrUK538U6-M/s400/DSC_0059.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062711553725753442" /></a><br /><br />= Hanks Seafood in Charleston - Yummy she-crab soup, tasty shrimp and grits, roasted grouper on lobster/rock shrimp/leeks/sweet corn risotto, fried shrimp and calamari.<br /><br />= Hominy Grill - Love this place! High, high, highlights include fried green tomatoes, rockshrimp and okra beignets, shrimp, chicken and sausage purloo, country captain(!), and the best slices of coconut cake I've ever had and the best slice of buttermilk pie I've never had.<br /><br />Oh yeah: and I'm sweating sweet tea at this very moment. I think I've finished off 3 gallons so far. In fact, we stopped by Piggly Wiggly and you can buy sweet tea by the gallon there.<br /><br />= Gullah Cuisine in Mt. Pleasant - A very cool place with a very friendly waiter; definitely a place to visit if you're ever in the area. Bruce had the crab cakes with gullah rice and fried okra and I had the BEST friend soft-shell blue crab with succotash and Hoppin John. At this point, I think I'd kindly trade the citizens of Charleston/Mt. Pleasant our dungeness crab for some of their blue crab...at least for a little while.<br /><br />= Calabash Seafood Hut in Calabash, NC - Crisp and lightly breaded fresh and fried seafood at its best! Shrimp, oysters, sea scallops, whiting, and deviled crab to die for; all made the better with a basket of hot fried hushpuppies and homemade seafood cocktail sauce with a great horseradish bite. Loved this place!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKth-AG4tIbWrn9eLMJwmyifA8cebOpDpPrRxu45cn9Lwc-gdL2gL0mgBM91Dy31o5x3wXPw0tTVMqD_xSw3qG2Vfb6CltWhD3LlgFiRmdpawhkgTCR3nnnxcexxfs_Day3XS/s1600-h/DSC_0027.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKth-AG4tIbWrn9eLMJwmyifA8cebOpDpPrRxu45cn9Lwc-gdL2gL0mgBM91Dy31o5x3wXPw0tTVMqD_xSw3qG2Vfb6CltWhD3LlgFiRmdpawhkgTCR3nnnxcexxfs_Day3XS/s400/DSC_0027.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062711330387454034" /></a>Deviled Crab and friends at the Calabash Seafood Hut.<br /><br />= Bowman's Seafood in Carolina Beach - Fish...again! We're going seafood crazy while we're here on the coast, but that's (mostly) why we're here. Bowman's was recommended by our motel manager and it was a great choice. Not as great as the Calabash Seafood Hut, but then those are pretty high standards to live up to. By the way, I think Bruce is hooked on deviled crab. I don't blame him - it's always been my favorite as well.<br /><br />= A&G Barbecue in Carolina Beach - Okay, so I lied. We're here at the beach and we had to have barbecue. A&G is near where we're staying and it's a great local barbecue spot. Straight forward Eastern Carolina style barbecue, although not cooked over wood on a spit as some of the better places do. Nevertheless, it's the beach and this is probably the best place for barbecue in the area. Great Brunswick Stew, cole slaw (made with sweet pickles as an ingredient), fried yellow squash and okra, and chopped and sliced barbecue.<br /><br />Okay! Does it seem like we've gone hungry?!<br /><br />Yeah, we basically are rolling from one town to another on our full bellies. We're leaving the Wilmington area tomorrow and we're not sure where we're going tonight. Probably seafood...although there are lots of interesting restaurants in Wilmington.<br /><br />I'll try to check in sometime this weekend or perhaps next week. Stay posted and I promise I'll do a proper review slash write-up slash blog post when I get back to the bay area.<br /><br />In the meantime, can someone please hand me a paper towel? <br /><br />I haven't seen one in the men's room since we landed!<br /><br />(I guess I should be more eco-friendly - but I'm a total germphobe.)<br /><br />Over and out.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-56460273247197340202007-05-05T23:01:00.000-07:002007-05-05T21:11:46.127-07:00The Dirty Dirty South<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3a485h7NpkqphEi7uF_xwiTtmmvcLpZkJvk67AYVT-hIxcJYiQRxxZAPFNLqS0ii2nCTW_iQ27w6lpEiSbLZdVUdBXYz_vNOrSCwSANtnxDPH_8olo3a6YNCn17s18Uj246R/s1600-h/DSC_0019.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3a485h7NpkqphEi7uF_xwiTtmmvcLpZkJvk67AYVT-hIxcJYiQRxxZAPFNLqS0ii2nCTW_iQ27w6lpEiSbLZdVUdBXYz_vNOrSCwSANtnxDPH_8olo3a6YNCn17s18Uj246R/s400/DSC_0019.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061292217358280594" /></a><br /><br />Okay, so the plane ride wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. <br /><br />It's late here in Atlanta so I won't go through all of the stuff about the airport other than it was disturbing. We have a very disturbed method of transportation via air in this country and I don't doubt people are noticing and flying less...which is why my roundtrip fare on United from SFO to ATL was roughly $250.<br /><br />As soon as we left the airport in our rental car (newly christened the "pork wagon" until we come up with something wittier) the level of nervousness and stress diminished as we headed through downtown Atlanta on Peachtree Street. First of all, Wow! Everything is green here! <br /><br />Summers in the South are green, which I forgot after so many summers in dry, yellow California. And there are lots of trees in Hotlanta, which is actually mild and warm-lanta today. The air is balmy here and electrified with far off thunderstorms. People drive slow...but bad, like California on Xanax. Are the buildings taller than in SF? Or do they just appear that way from being more spread out?<br /><br />Well, enough chitter chatter...I'm hungry!<br /><br />We're off to the Varsity!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliwRErPRCzk7MZwyb6t96McPmslpDTWsaU3Bnzl8rIEZIX-V9TiK1hSonsh6Q5er4VY_zkfUXPicX3bZHvl2b2KSuq81jnZXRk1I1gG0XPgQcdHoQ8ps3r8Qx82E0LzeLfEGW/s1600-h/DSC_0030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliwRErPRCzk7MZwyb6t96McPmslpDTWsaU3Bnzl8rIEZIX-V9TiK1hSonsh6Q5er4VY_zkfUXPicX3bZHvl2b2KSuq81jnZXRk1I1gG0XPgQcdHoQ8ps3r8Qx82E0LzeLfEGW/s400/DSC_0030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061292500826122146" /></a><br /><br />This place was better than I expected. Okay, let me rephrase that: the food is just okay, but the atmosphere is great and the constant sing-song call of "what'ya have, next please, what'ya have??!!" was more classic than the Coke signs that tower over this part of town. <br /><br />I knew the Varsity restaurant would be big, but they could erect a movie screen in their parking lot and show double-features on this lot. It, weirdly enough, also seems to be quite the Saturday night hangout spot for horny white teenage couples and the odd shitkicker looking for a staredown contest. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8D3kgqK7Gd9HElxfE_p7LP50lMAgLuU7h67fxOu60fLEAF2JTg7Xj7flPrtUoI6JllaI-GEuie-UVE08hXt-xBi-slf_VZ7GnqQ6vPlZhutBWIr0dV_YSdNypF6NPAGs6hBD/s1600-h/DSC_0018.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8D3kgqK7Gd9HElxfE_p7LP50lMAgLuU7h67fxOu60fLEAF2JTg7Xj7flPrtUoI6JllaI-GEuie-UVE08hXt-xBi-slf_VZ7GnqQ6vPlZhutBWIr0dV_YSdNypF6NPAGs6hBD/s400/DSC_0018.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061294081374087122" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNoUSEd0U7PQAFTMZI8nCudOHCGm9jztS6dWSbBxnfKc6Mux2DxB1ekJpq2PZN_X_VBAYXFRpOFs8s_QLJjB77mCde-uorPHfYH6odu4ilN7NupHc5vNF28of3NnYHruHmjJqN/s1600-h/DSC_0032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNoUSEd0U7PQAFTMZI8nCudOHCGm9jztS6dWSbBxnfKc6Mux2DxB1ekJpq2PZN_X_VBAYXFRpOFs8s_QLJjB77mCde-uorPHfYH6odu4ilN7NupHc5vNF28of3NnYHruHmjJqN/s400/DSC_0032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061294081374087138" /></a><br /><br />The thing about Atlanta is that there is room to spread, and the Varsity spreads its customer seating out in huge rooms here and there. There's a cool section of the dining room built over the parking lot that harkens back to 60s moderne (don't quote me on that).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6D8Ll9jbko-FGcq1hy74FXmgQzSeHE0n3e1J8fhMRg-0r08kT2wmERhHBr04DLcA_GMxLvjtjy9-Nyq6dXjUi_ePrnCuEpVSHlN2lMjemynbs5h4RtoxHo40cGv1Sgs2c731D/s1600-h/DSC_0033.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6D8Ll9jbko-FGcq1hy74FXmgQzSeHE0n3e1J8fhMRg-0r08kT2wmERhHBr04DLcA_GMxLvjtjy9-Nyq6dXjUi_ePrnCuEpVSHlN2lMjemynbs5h4RtoxHo40cGv1Sgs2c731D/s400/DSC_0033.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061291616062859122" /></a><br /><br />This place does bill itself as the world's largest drive-in and they could very well be right. I've been to a lot of drive-ins and nothing I've been to until now has been this stadium-like. Things in America are bigger as a matter of virtue, but this is just reeedickulus. This place has the staff of, like, 20,000 or something.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsVDeiBGMGJnC_ErdC5AYwxiCkYcffahukzjEutZXTFzeHEoVzlPZVgvaF9sC0fPmN7UqIRtyOPS2-T2_zOK38pPet4lPLdBsf2OC_o9WILEr2BljfplVCQI7W-AnxIanBmNU/s1600-h/DSC_0027.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsVDeiBGMGJnC_ErdC5AYwxiCkYcffahukzjEutZXTFzeHEoVzlPZVgvaF9sC0fPmN7UqIRtyOPS2-T2_zOK38pPet4lPLdBsf2OC_o9WILEr2BljfplVCQI7W-AnxIanBmNU/s400/DSC_0027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061292698394617778" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-s2Xd8KBRw13RIyzAUgKXYtTP2lcR3mpyGT8qd2Y4B2zLLa0ZcJB6iyrlblKs53eePXgSNpTmLvW7vPVpXlSB-UXpr3WD3PXw-gV-Vbx8ktplBg-aIsJd-DsZu6oB2j2O47Lf/s1600-h/DSC_0029.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-s2Xd8KBRw13RIyzAUgKXYtTP2lcR3mpyGT8qd2Y4B2zLLa0ZcJB6iyrlblKs53eePXgSNpTmLvW7vPVpXlSB-UXpr3WD3PXw-gV-Vbx8ktplBg-aIsJd-DsZu6oB2j2O47Lf/s400/DSC_0029.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061295112166238210" /></a><br /><br />On the flip side, the actual portions aren't that large. I started off with a chili cheese slaw dog, a cheeseburger, and a large sweet tea. First of all, I loved how the sweet tea was so sweet it was just...just...SWEET. No tea about it, just sugary sweet - which actually was what was needed to cut through some of the grease of Bruce's onion rings that I kept stealing. In addition to the onion rings, he had a double bacon cheeseburger. At one point, still giddy from the sugar rush and being here at the Varsity, we both decided that this wasn't enough, so I went back to get more.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFkq-YIZCV3fg9Zo1WESgfNkwSI8QTNKg6kz3hjqjeBUwpkPyRS_Deh4RaXrx0wN072AZwhxXuQIHUbMplNttK0FVAyNXBFeYwK_7kIjoMSL8M2pC32Hhu05z32vL-5Lr_c6g7/s1600-h/DSC_0013.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFkq-YIZCV3fg9Zo1WESgfNkwSI8QTNKg6kz3hjqjeBUwpkPyRS_Deh4RaXrx0wN072AZwhxXuQIHUbMplNttK0FVAyNXBFeYwK_7kIjoMSL8M2pC32Hhu05z32vL-5Lr_c6g7/s400/DSC_0013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061292934617819074" /></a><br /><br />Varsity Round Two: Barbecue pork sandwiches. At $2.80 each, these were a little too small and the pork wasn't especially interesting. Kind of like the stuff I remember from High School. Of course, I went to high school in North Carolina so I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad thing. I think as long as you have a cigarette afterwards anything's good in NC. Oh, did I mention the onion rings and hot fried apple pie? These were the (greasy) bomb!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfb9AIZ6MWkQMVOkz_iZ86OsK80mmv3KJ04W_Sh27CfGi5el1vmYbnHOz287KLSuYK7Y-0zlVcU_rQXvI4BQB0rZZPDSr8DbqbCJqh30VGmW5Tdt2wwNpKyaP-PWm5z5uCkeRK/s1600-h/DSC_0024.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfb9AIZ6MWkQMVOkz_iZ86OsK80mmv3KJ04W_Sh27CfGi5el1vmYbnHOz287KLSuYK7Y-0zlVcU_rQXvI4BQB0rZZPDSr8DbqbCJqh30VGmW5Tdt2wwNpKyaP-PWm5z5uCkeRK/s400/DSC_0024.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061291762091747202" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyWwkO1624Aff0JGJsiJqdu5uIW7u9oCfd0GJoZmtyxsrr1F6HkkZVzbNuAw4WScscF2mUFBXnJY8cc23ZOKM5Su8ZWYAApBEmQr0fztWQgvRzni8nq8UyZPllL9vONxG47Qxn/s1600-h/DSC_0025.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyWwkO1624Aff0JGJsiJqdu5uIW7u9oCfd0GJoZmtyxsrr1F6HkkZVzbNuAw4WScscF2mUFBXnJY8cc23ZOKM5Su8ZWYAApBEmQr0fztWQgvRzni8nq8UyZPllL9vONxG47Qxn/s400/DSC_0025.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061294940367546354" /></a><br /><br />BTW, the pork wagon smells like a damn dirty ashtray and I'm waking up at the buttcrack of dawn tomorrow and spending as much of my vacation money on whatever amount of Febreeze it takes to exterminate that god-awful stench.<br /><br />After the Varsity, we headed over to Krispy Kreme on Ponce de Leon Street which was totally happening at 10:30 on a Saturday night. Lately I've been running into a lot of Californians who say they don't like Krispy Kreme. Maybe this is a regional thing. The people in Atlanta: they like Krispy Kreme.<br /><br />When I was a teenager, Scott, Tony, Patches and me would lay out of school, bring along a cold 12, fire up a J, grab a dozen glazed Krispy Kreme donuts and innertube down the Swannanoa. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Op6YigLWteghjayxrWblK9a-kmX5hzGGvC-iBMbfxTCfVtyT4T8md74q-1MGk1gzsMO6oKNUXJRKcUAPXpXTThHj30xK9sS-M-seqEJKx-Bj3QE4ZqqIOoMvvLCncT9seq2a/s1600-h/DSC_0041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Op6YigLWteghjayxrWblK9a-kmX5hzGGvC-iBMbfxTCfVtyT4T8md74q-1MGk1gzsMO6oKNUXJRKcUAPXpXTThHj30xK9sS-M-seqEJKx-Bj3QE4ZqqIOoMvvLCncT9seq2a/s400/DSC_0041.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061291019062404930" /></a><br /><br />At this Atlanta Krispy Kreme, I have no reason to believe these folks aren't blitzed out of their freakin' minds.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJaFqbrfd2Ob7ztEVLXpsW4Oq18EiwT3faJUyuG-YYbVEuplBeC5Eiy_XJkWaBqQkpsDzkLqhptrv5bqCv49G4kJ8rloyLyWcbKDNnnX9pRDYEmQdpVgvna6XnOzLCmnAywQr/s1600-h/DSC_0040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJaFqbrfd2Ob7ztEVLXpsW4Oq18EiwT3faJUyuG-YYbVEuplBeC5Eiy_XJkWaBqQkpsDzkLqhptrv5bqCv49G4kJ8rloyLyWcbKDNnnX9pRDYEmQdpVgvna6XnOzLCmnAywQr/s400/DSC_0040.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061291019062404946" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy999j7QjTNz1arSjE4_hBib9tobbD1hyphenhyphenA4KTZdbvBuqCBbolrijJbnkTgp3Ve6vOVLDgozNMxRsgVw_GpIbCQBeLGNx4_6LJD9FeyCap3WXnTQiWZg0tRmUx-oX4TtKffSbbX/s1600-h/DSC_0038.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy999j7QjTNz1arSjE4_hBib9tobbD1hyphenhyphenA4KTZdbvBuqCBbolrijJbnkTgp3Ve6vOVLDgozNMxRsgVw_GpIbCQBeLGNx4_6LJD9FeyCap3WXnTQiWZg0tRmUx-oX4TtKffSbbX/s400/DSC_0038.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5061291023357372258" /></a><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-43935211046454551662007-04-25T19:25:00.000-07:002007-04-26T21:33:20.089-07:00Bacon Press's Southern-Fried Bar-B-Q Road Trip 2007<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglYzdHImuzUMPSsnDq8-Yzdg60demcvriKFigNiwbXAXzohuFuScFFHzM69wzqOKHf9OuTlwY_kG0eDLtQl4DJmdd3nSs0v9djq1qtWvLsBjcXZkDaewO4WCpmuOsMdM0FHt8E/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglYzdHImuzUMPSsnDq8-Yzdg60demcvriKFigNiwbXAXzohuFuScFFHzM69wzqOKHf9OuTlwY_kG0eDLtQl4DJmdd3nSs0v9djq1qtWvLsBjcXZkDaewO4WCpmuOsMdM0FHt8E/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057577358410049330" /></a><br />I've been practicing my Southern accent. <br /><br />Sort of.<br /><br />There are so many, but the one I'm practicing now is slightly twangy, not heavy, and for the most part generic. I'm also trying to speak more slowly, which is hard for me to do. I can't help it: I speak fast, eat fast, walk fast...and type a little too fast, which might explain why some of my past blog posts seem to ramble on and on without nary an end in sight.<br /><br />In this respect, I am the king of Too Much Information.<br /><br />I'm not sure what all of this is suppose to accomplish. I mean, whose good graces am I suppose to fall in to? My family loves me regardless of how I speak. And I stopped doing things to please my mother long, long before I left Asheville, North Carolina. <br /><br />Heck, I can't walk past 10 people in downtown San Francisco without some of them looking at me like I ain't right, so <em>you know </em>I won't be blending in with the local Good Ol' Boys and them fine Southern ladies. I imagine they'll be casting a suspicious eye on me the second my foot hits the ground because, like Jesco White, I am the devil hisself, but with a hybrid California accent.<br /><br />Whatever.<br /><br />This is America and I don't have to blend in or conform to anyone's standards. Remember? "Rugged Individualism"? I'm gonna wear my white tube socks at dinner and my tight thrift store polyester blends and freak you out with the tattoos on my hands, arms, and legs – and I'm gonna talk fast with my worldly ways, cuss on Sunday and bulge my eyes, and if that gets your goat then it's been brought.<br /><br /><em>Kiss the goat</em>, Dixie. I'm touring the South with a vengeance only a prodigal Southern freak can deliver. Bruce, with his full beard, olive skin, and that black cap he wears looking like a Muslim, is coming along and with him as my co-pilot it will be <strong>the Freak and the Muslim </strong>puttering from town to town in a fuel-efficient economy-sized car. Let's <em>just hope </em>we're not the inspiration for the sequel to Mississippi Burning.<br /><br />First stop:<br /><br /><strong>1. Hotlanta!</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69yuRH_j5316jl0QbrGtJls8PJL06KPuQnqzi4Sgb9Q5xDPsBkrkKaflnan3S5fDqJRvdWiABjEz1KRB8dS4RpJwzt_DRW3ZWf3edZW06GD1eBtBvF7l3buKAwFLhPyvq2rxw/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69yuRH_j5316jl0QbrGtJls8PJL06KPuQnqzi4Sgb9Q5xDPsBkrkKaflnan3S5fDqJRvdWiABjEz1KRB8dS4RpJwzt_DRW3ZWf3edZW06GD1eBtBvF7l3buKAwFLhPyvq2rxw/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057577182316390178" /></a><br /><br />Nostalgic stop number one. I can't believe how many times, through snow, rain, and freezing temperatures, I drove to Atlanta when I was a lonely punk rock teenager in search of <em>my people</em>. I use to park my VW beetle behind some building in <a href="http://www.l5p.com/">Little Five Points</a> and attempt to sleep in the back (it's then, and only then, that one truly realizes how small these cars are). Many sore backs later, I never really found <em>my people</em>, but I did see a few great bands like the then-unknown <a href="http://weasels.littletype.com/">Screeching Weasel </a>(only 14 people showed up) and the Exploited. <em>Jesus,</em> there was so much <strong>Aqua Net Super Hold</strong> in the hair of that audience a stray match could've blown the building off its foundation.<br /><br />The difference between then and now: my hair isn't green and Punk, actually, <em>is</em> Dead. Believe me - it is. The Internet killed it (I'm not lamenting this). Also, my eternal search for what makes me happy has shifted from my ears to my stomach.<br /><br />It's there that the spirit of punk lives, menu locked in clenched fist – stage diving it's way from one meal to another, and often landing smack dab in the center of the pit. If punk had a menu, it might look something like what you'd find at <strong>The Varsity</strong> or the <strong>Silver Skillet</strong> – two of the places we're checking out for our brief first night in ATL.<br /><br /><em>"Whad'ya Have?", </em>as they're fond of saying at <a href="http://thevarsity.com/">the Varsity</a>, is music to my ears and I'm liable to say <em>"give me everything!"</em> if I'm not careful. Chilli cheese dogs, slaw dogs, and the best onion rings in Atlanta are all to be found at the Varsity, and like any good punk rock club, it's open past midnight and it's all-ages. After being treated <em>worse than a prisoner </em>and a subhuman terrorist by the staff at SFO and the airline industry – a fact of life for any American who must travel by air in the United States – I'll need a slaw dog to take the edge off.<br /><br />In the morning, <a href="http://www.thesilverskillet.com/">the Silver Skillet</a>; which I'm guessing will be one of those classic American coffee shops/breakfast joints. Judging by the photos I've seen on their website (luckily the Internet hasn't killed dives), it could pass for the <a href="http://divefood.blogspot.com/2007/02/golden-coffee-shop.html">Golden Coffee Shop.</a><br /><br />And then we hit the road. We're taking a leisurely drive through the Peach state and passing through Augusta, where you'll find us experiencing the Southern/Soul goodness that is <a href="http://www.studio2g.com/hfbc/">Hot Foods by Calvin</a> for lunch.<br /><br />After that:<br /><br /><strong>2. Charleston</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbW7N4BvpErNWwdOXQYj32PANfElNoej5l9tt93ulBVavxVWJ4wh5RVIzV9U5zSgOKrMZgxdo3mEDkOxhonv1Y8sCNa3ktD3Etqcarw-Ntp6XB9f9rntbRe5k6I8K7ViNc4dzy/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbW7N4BvpErNWwdOXQYj32PANfElNoej5l9tt93ulBVavxVWJ4wh5RVIzV9U5zSgOKrMZgxdo3mEDkOxhonv1Y8sCNa3ktD3Etqcarw-Ntp6XB9f9rntbRe5k6I8K7ViNc4dzy/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057576989042861842" /></a><br />The civil war started in Charleston and South Carolina was the first state to secede from the United States. There's a lot of tourism that revolves around plantations and the Confederacy here, but I'd rather skip those as we're here for only two nights and frankly I'm glad the Plantation Owners/Confederates were defeated, <em>because slavery is fucked up</em>. Nevertheless, the city of Charleston is much older than the Civil War and has a rich and diverse history, and of course is a hot bed of regional cuisine, notably Lowcountry and Gullah cuisine. Lots of food to try here but only a limited amount of time. Some of the food I'm hoping to try: She Crab Soup, Shrimp and Grits, Country Captain, Frogmore Stew, Boiled Peanuts, Oysters, Purloo, and other lowcountry goodies.<br /><br />After Charleston, we head up the coast on Route 17, through the town of Georgetown, through Myrtle Beach, and eventually to Calabash where we're having lunch. Calabash is a big gastro-tourist destination, most notably for their fresh, fried shrimp, oysters, and other seafood. This is <em>hushpuppy country</em>. <a href="http://www.insiders.com/wilmington/main-restaurants9.htm">"Calabash-style"</a> seafood is a big draw at the Fish Camp restaurants scattered throughout North Carolina, but here we're going to the source. I can't wait!<br /><br />Next, we're off to:<br /><br /><strong>3. Wilmington/Carolina Beach</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxWXigx-JVGRFIYKWWFUdorIKm6COmAdkfFM980MkCP6g4Dv7inr90Mjbw9-HuEnCVRXlw0jKHqKMIeL6R9bCYg2gBAfcU-P68zqiOE86mYp1P6KJEmztSLITvYwV9Nvxd8Gp/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxWXigx-JVGRFIYKWWFUdorIKm6COmAdkfFM980MkCP6g4Dv7inr90Mjbw9-HuEnCVRXlw0jKHqKMIeL6R9bCYg2gBAfcU-P68zqiOE86mYp1P6KJEmztSLITvYwV9Nvxd8Gp/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057576812949202690" /></a><br /><br />Okay, the real reason we're here isn't the food. But <em>it is </em>about food. Actually, it's about plants that eat insects. We're headed to Carolina Beach State Park to see <a href="http://www.carnivorousplants.org/">carnivorous plants</a> in the wild. These plants include Venus Flytraps and Trumpet Pitcher Plants, which we've never viewed in the wild before (although we own and grow several species ourselves). Again, <em>it's all about </em>going to the source, and the last remaining native habitat for Dionaea muscipula is within 150 miles of Wilmington.<br /><br />As well as being plant geeks for a day, we're going to enjoy the beach and swim in the ocean, which is something we can't do here in SF (too cold). I hope no one laughs at my he-breasts, aka <strong>man-maries</strong>; they're <em>quite embarrassing</em>.<br /><br />There is a barbecue joint near where we're staying, but we may opt for seafood. We're leaving it up in the air at this point. Besides, we're going to be in hog heaven the very next day as we make our way from the Wilmington area up to Goldsboro for Eastern-style barbecue at Wilbur's. <a href="http://www.hollyeats.com/Wilbers.htm">Wilbur's Barbecue </a>is legendary for their "cue" and it would be a shame to be in this part of NC and not stop to enjoy one of the finest representatives of Eastern-style <a href="http://www.hollyeats.com/NorthCarollina.htm">NC barbecue</a>, which is known for it's spicy-tangy vinegar and hot pepper sauce.<br /><br />It will be a real East Meets West challenge that day as we travel through the state, bypassing all major towns and cities in order to make our way to the capital of Western-style NC barbecue:<br /><br /><strong>4. Lexington</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCa-bkAfpQUirzE9AuW59dziHcJeL63Y6cAk_0uQqxcrVMdrKnedV7R0WlXF8qL3nzYQK41xaS5lWIzdCYqOPa7F9WVrEdM4s-vbDPnE9KdBK1niIKtpGEFTsYch8KQEy3HLLD/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCa-bkAfpQUirzE9AuW59dziHcJeL63Y6cAk_0uQqxcrVMdrKnedV7R0WlXF8qL3nzYQK41xaS5lWIzdCYqOPa7F9WVrEdM4s-vbDPnE9KdBK1niIKtpGEFTsYch8KQEy3HLLD/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057576014085285618" /></a><br /><br />There we will eat dinner at the famous Lexington Barbecue #1. Lexington is a real barbecue lovers town, so long as you prefer barbecue in the Lexington style – whole hog slowly roasted and smoked over wood, chopped and served with a ketchup-based barbecue sauce. <br /><br />And yes, <em>we are</em> traveling here all the way from California just to eat <a href="http://hkentcraig.com/BBQ.html">Carolina barbecue.</a> All else is secondary. We'll probably eat barbecue for breakfast, hit the road, and scoot on up to Winston-Salem to check out the old Moravian settlement and that cool-ass <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winston-Salem_Shell_gas_station">Shell station </a>and then eat lunch at <strong>Bell and Sons Cafeteria,</strong> which supposedly serves the best fried chicken, beef stew, and banana pudding.<br /><br />From here it's kind of up in the air whether we'll go through Mt. Airy (and check out <a href="http://www.roadfood.com/Reviews/Overview.aspx?RefID=48">Snappy Lunch</a>), but we'll probably wind up somewhere in Virginia around Galax (one of the stops along the <a href="http://www.roanoke.com/multimedia/crooked/galax.html">Crooked Road</a>) before we head to where we're staying for the night:<br /><br /><strong>5. Shatley Springs</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTejeo-_5XwxvzVQjns5OiF8JKBCdoxoUmI3gePeRvjOOKFRXQLqAx12VKJYB2WEU9UC6iP69NHViTTMOujnqxZgqqBk7YyIKnGU02s03cqI9ThsjQwRKEFX0zRaHqdKsC56XH/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTejeo-_5XwxvzVQjns5OiF8JKBCdoxoUmI3gePeRvjOOKFRXQLqAx12VKJYB2WEU9UC6iP69NHViTTMOujnqxZgqqBk7YyIKnGU02s03cqI9ThsjQwRKEFX0zRaHqdKsC56XH/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057575859466462946" /></a><br /><br />Here, we'll be deep into the Appalachians and surrounded by the Mountain South culture. Besides the dirt-cheap accommodations and cool surroundings, we'll be enjoying the fantastic food at <a href="http://www.shatleysprings.com/index.htm">Shatley Springs Inn.</a> We're talking country ham, biscuits and gravy, and a wide array of Southern home cooking. I think we're going to try and make the live bluegrass show up in Galax on Friday night and then check out the <a href="http://www.townofwj.com/index.asp?Type=B_BASIC&SEC=%7BDF582A69-A015-4E12-9320-9F5DF7502865%7D">farmers' market</a> in West Jefferson on Saturday morning. Expect ramps sightings!<br /><br />For the next two days we'll be seeing my family down in:<br /><br /><strong>6. Morganton</strong><br /><br />And I have these days marked on my calendar as two big black squares. Seriously though, I'll be glad to see my cousins and aunts/uncles and, oh yeah, my Mom and Dad. On Mother's Day I'll be in Hickory laying flowers on my grandmother's grave, and then probably eating barbecue somewhere later that night.<br /><br />After the family stuff, we're headed up to <br /><br /><strong>7. Asheville</strong> <br /><br />Which is where I grew up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyenUU11ROyWREtm_lrvPuvvHiPDwkpQUxhQDH1GUPvWzP7UttL-nIQwsp7YdoWg75qljxiMn94C63ws7WmHGTmuoP90OeJVM5ALPkw2-pBvl1vzxtHcc4w1Xdz0lCivo0bRy/s1600-h/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyenUU11ROyWREtm_lrvPuvvHiPDwkpQUxhQDH1GUPvWzP7UttL-nIQwsp7YdoWg75qljxiMn94C63ws7WmHGTmuoP90OeJVM5ALPkw2-pBvl1vzxtHcc4w1Xdz0lCivo0bRy/s400/SFBBQRT+Map_edited-8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057575713437574866" /></a><br />Asheville's an anomaly in the South in that, being primarily a resort town for wealthy non-Southerners, academic transplants, and <a href="http://www.newfrontier.com/aha/ashv0492.htm">New Age hippy </a>anglo detritis, it doesn’t have a regional cuisine in the way that Charleston, Calabash, Lexington, or even East Tennessee does. Sure, it sits in the mountains and is an urban Appalachian town, but it's never been known for it's Appalachian or Southern cuisine. <br /><br />I grew up eating food from China Buffet, Pizza Hut, Wendys, Western Sizzlin' steakhouse, Long John Silver's and TGIF-type establishments. Ashe<em>villains</em> prefer chains, like the Olive Garden or Joe's Crab Shack, and thankfully for them these places have a smoking section because this is the <em>fucking Tobacco State</em> after all. Bucking North Carolina tradition, beef is favored over pork (I know: <em>shocking</em>; worse than being vegetarian). Those who don't prefer chains prefer what they ate before they moved from San Francisco or Raleigh or some other <em>Vortex</em> town: Burritos, "Irish pub" food, vegetarian con-Fusion, sushi, Thai, Vietnamese, and duck confit – all at San Francisco prices (there's even a restaurant called "Bouchon" – <em>lame</em>). <br /><br />And yet, for a town busy boasting how "with it we are, Man", it is incredibly insular and small-towny, as evidenced by the membership requirements necessary to enter many of the nightclubs and bars. No one boasts of having the oldest restaurant, like a Tadich Grill or Fior d'Italia would, because <em>A)</em> they probably don't see that as a positive attribute, <em>B)</em> no one knows or cares, and <em>C)</em> there probably isn't one older than 50 years, despite the town being over 200 years old. <br /><br />Like most of the South, many of the bars and restaurants are closed on the "Lord's Day" and a just a county or two over it's completely dry. Buying booze means succumbing to the hours of operation of the state-run liquor stores, instead of just moseying on in to Safeway whenever you feel like. And drug testing for jobs that don't require working with kids or operating heavy machinery is common (by the way, drug testing <em>doesn't weed out the alcoholics.</em>) Until the Supreme Court struck it down recently, certain kinds of sex between two consenting adults in the privacy of their own home was illegal in North Carolina (including such liberal bastions as Asheville and the <a href="http://www.researchtriangle.org/">Research Triangle</a>) and those caught doing so were punished as first class felons. North Carolina was also dragged kicking and screaming out of the Dark Ages by the Supreme Court when the high court ruled <a href="http://www.oah.org/pubs/magazine/family/cruz-berson.html">miscegenation</a> laws were unconstitutional in 1967. <br /><br />Only in the South can you have a population that professes to despise government interference but who live, breathe, and beg for it at every hour of every day.<br /><br />And only in easy-breezey Asheville can you have such contradictions as being a liberal Red State town in the middle of the foodie South but without a regional cuisine to call your own. Land of The Contradictions: I once knew a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melungeon">melungeon</a> who was a White Power skinhead. His girlfriend was Jewish. <br /><br />Anyway, foodwise we're winging it here (no, <em>not Buffalo Wings</em>, although I'm sure at least one Asheville restaurant boasts of having the best). We aren't going to Asheville to eat. We're going there because it's a beautiful area and there are lots of things to see and do. Yeah, we'll do the Biltmore House (on whose land I was caught trespassing once) and we'll drive the Blue Ridge Parkway. The downtown is very walkable and they do have a few good antiques stores. <br /><br />After Asheville, we're back to:<br /><br /><strong>8. Atlanta</strong><br /><br />For half a day. There are a few bookstores we've been meaning to check out and I'd like to find a good lunch counter/pharmacy soda fountain before we leave. <br /><br />We leave ATL at 7AM and are back at SFO at 9:30 AM. <br /><br />At that point, I'm heading straight towards the first Chez Panisse glass of tap water, loaf of good bread, cup of dark coffee, plate of chow fun, or glass of unsweetened ice tea I see!<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-33967743016163992632007-04-18T12:26:00.001-07:002007-04-18T18:52:25.114-07:00Delta Blues, Part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TpG3uZEnYt1zZGxroFt2-O-JXeZv2O6XcPv6sGqpRAFWJktKjhOuffNK9IzGHChrgY2_K4jv6SnOJfGzvNJYUNfCK_iQQHzX2eBEPp2i1SygCwQzIBGY2tIMJ1wKJKf8YLEl/s1600-h/P1020629_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054873577989364178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TpG3uZEnYt1zZGxroFt2-O-JXeZv2O6XcPv6sGqpRAFWJktKjhOuffNK9IzGHChrgY2_K4jv6SnOJfGzvNJYUNfCK_iQQHzX2eBEPp2i1SygCwQzIBGY2tIMJ1wKJKf8YLEl/s400/P1020629_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I <strong>frickin'</strong> love the <a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2006/02/delta-blues.html">California Delta!</a><br /><br />It reminds me of Florida and the laid back culture you often find there. Of course, like Florida, there are all kinds of subcultures at play in California. The Delta culture in California is also down-to-earth, slow, laid back, outdoorsy and just a little bit countrified and loose. Could you call it somewhat redneck? <br /><br />Well, <em>yeah.</em> <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepUdApzVXNqL7KYfjO3eAdyTVeUlLyFZgM5owzMSqv4bLlEDf6DqHDl16fHfLx59fhukp2ab9DFqozVlPZ7yG_sZGSr2AmhafoRmfNQX4BApxjHkHfK1i_KG00te4aFXyKIO_/s1600-h/P1020553_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054872693226101122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepUdApzVXNqL7KYfjO3eAdyTVeUlLyFZgM5owzMSqv4bLlEDf6DqHDl16fHfLx59fhukp2ab9DFqozVlPZ7yG_sZGSr2AmhafoRmfNQX4BApxjHkHfK1i_KG00te4aFXyKIO_/s400/P1020553_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Left: Not Redneck, Right: Oh. Hell. Yeah!</em><br /><br />That's probably unfair to some since "redneck" has all sorts of negative connotations, like being as worthless as a broke dick dog. Sure, some folks in the delta are straight-up redneck from the bottoms of their soles to the back of their necks, and that's apparent from some of the floating trailerparks you see ever so often. However, many Delta denizens are neither redneck nor poor.<br /><br />Take for instance <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conrad_Hilton">Conrad Hilton</a>, whose home we dropped anchor outside of and relaxed for a couple of hours a few weeks back. Surely this is one of his many homes – this one in particular is where he has a great spectacular bash every 4th of July which draws many a mullethead and coldneck from the 1,000 miles of waterways that make up the delta region.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pJoNJDjzu43Tn71vN2cfcmjGooHhGNoRfV41MmMmBa-95-T2cOr3_qmEELXNJv8OpJsf0cR7SU0aua7_Tg4Bm4XLJN3JMUQPbKT6_AoATsdRV1LzligIRV2ZiaghTBLpZdEb/s1600-h/P1020602_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054872804895250834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pJoNJDjzu43Tn71vN2cfcmjGooHhGNoRfV41MmMmBa-95-T2cOr3_qmEELXNJv8OpJsf0cR7SU0aua7_Tg4Bm4XLJN3JMUQPbKT6_AoATsdRV1LzligIRV2ZiaghTBLpZdEb/s320/P1020602_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Avoid Arrest</em><br /><br />Or take for instance this guy. Your average Joe Schmoe couldn't afford a bitchin' boat like this – with the snazzy name on the back – working behind a register at the local Stop and Rob. <br /><br />Sugar Daddies don't grow on trees, you know.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrPVQynIh2QqVV4bMr8J1BVTdK9RfKZHbpDOQeeEgjXQbrCG9Xx3pllNKF93NapZl_myNB9A9nV_6AY5ugqLHChnODwcnoOUrp8GaN_hyXyONINkzDHgGo-SXU7vMr-xxA4nc/s1600-h/P1020647_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054872938039237026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrPVQynIh2QqVV4bMr8J1BVTdK9RfKZHbpDOQeeEgjXQbrCG9Xx3pllNKF93NapZl_myNB9A9nV_6AY5ugqLHChnODwcnoOUrp8GaN_hyXyONINkzDHgGo-SXU7vMr-xxA4nc/s400/P1020647_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>A Pussy Wagon on Water</em><br /><br />Bruce's brother doesn't do bad neither. He also owns a boat, which he lives on. It's nice knowing someone who lives on a boat docked somewhere in the Delta. You can go fishing, swimming, or get really drunk and puke your brains out in the water. The best part of all three: minimal clean up.<br /><br />Speaking of fishing, the Delta is a great place to cast a line if you're an angler. Right now, there are plenty of people fishing for <strong>Striper</strong> (no, not <a href="http://www.stryper.biz/media/wallpapers/mikeoz1024.jpg"><em>them</em></a>). Striper, or striped bass, can be caught year round but the best time to fish is in the spring. You can fish for striper in the bay as well, although any striper over 35 inches shouldn't be eaten unless you want to seriously raise your mercury levels to life threatening levels. Striper and sturgeon are both great local fish to catch and eat, but you should only do so twice a month, or once a month for pregnant women and children (see <a href="http://www.sfei.org/cmr/fishmercury/">Delta Advisory Sign</a>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhfPs7HiUPOwnZi-NV9lwHloHmtpG_AVl1pWs-IeIA2qqhE7w4ZGM803a3LOEfllR8z46Vi9xTa272BY0UnKVHNHKEO1mFcxfknVI7c6XgEyt0i7KdXbhuFWydgVsEaZpSHTb/s1600-h/P1020596_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054873234391980466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhfPs7HiUPOwnZi-NV9lwHloHmtpG_AVl1pWs-IeIA2qqhE7w4ZGM803a3LOEfllR8z46Vi9xTa272BY0UnKVHNHKEO1mFcxfknVI7c6XgEyt0i7KdXbhuFWydgVsEaZpSHTb/s400/P1020596_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The day we were in the Delta, we weren't there to fish, which meant no freshly-caught seafood for dinner. Instead, we ventured out in a smaller, single-engine boat to check out a couple of local dives. Boats, large and small, seem to be the preferred method of travel in these parts, and no matter where you go there's a boat hitch convenient to shopping and dining. People around here <em>really</em> live on the water.<br /><br />The first place we checked out was <strong>Happy Harbor</strong>, which boasts of having the "best damn pizza in the West". <em>Umm, yeah.</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1b1UtCPw_wJTJaLY1cbW_uDCH2g5dA0jRyuRJEWeEz7Krv83vdpzcwU6I9Kia3dj-o2rqDNo1_o1ePuJozyznFQVr9UGqZGyWt744XWyU2VOxQK0BrqZZ52wt_TZRqGIpol92/s1600-h/P1020639_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054873419075574210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1b1UtCPw_wJTJaLY1cbW_uDCH2g5dA0jRyuRJEWeEz7Krv83vdpzcwU6I9Kia3dj-o2rqDNo1_o1ePuJozyznFQVr9UGqZGyWt744XWyU2VOxQK0BrqZZ52wt_TZRqGIpol92/s400/P1020639_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Pick Up Dog Poo</em><br /><br />Something tells me that's probably an exageration, even for the Delta. Perhaps it could be that, besides a dirty dog and an even dirtier old drunk, the only other person in the restaurant was the waitress/bartender. Nothing on the menu (hamburgers, sandwiches, pizza) looked particularly good or interesting here (trust me – I'm not picky) so we left.<br /><br />Since that was a bust, we hopped back on the boat and sped over the choppy delta waters to our next destination. It wasn't the most luxurious ride, especially when you have wind and water pummelling you and you're trying to hold on for dear life. However, it is the quickest way to get around and, sure, it's a little fun.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_-GdvvQvdFPBBd_7nWF_gEklAWfhlaYqu96UMMYsUs0Sksy9kg8VG4ujwVED2zbHEtnuVSvcAcG6m-HXVm6HDtUH1n4vMfNVTU_qGkn3Gp0ZdiHL0zdHBpGwhBVvue-cIU4P/s1600-h/P1020651_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054872306679044450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_-GdvvQvdFPBBd_7nWF_gEklAWfhlaYqu96UMMYsUs0Sksy9kg8VG4ujwVED2zbHEtnuVSvcAcG6m-HXVm6HDtUH1n4vMfNVTU_qGkn3Gp0ZdiHL0zdHBpGwhBVvue-cIU4P/s400/P1020651_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Our next stop was Moore's Riverboat. Moore's is a pretty large restaurant with both inside/outside (covered) seating and a bar. I'm sure the bar is a great place to do shots after a long day out on the water, and it seemed to have a regular crowd of Delta characters. If I still drank and lived close by, I'd probably hang out at Moore's on occasion (although, being an alcoholic, <em>I'm not sure that's a good thing</em>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORAup1xjB6t-p8A5xA6FkfGpFYTfr8rdr4eHx4I1b9vUyOOd3mfTG1TLDuaT1nxjxNSU0BhGMxP92o4gyx-ZD1dQ9Im6b8bpnltkomZTsEYXofziMT2JcRaOlLKGLLV80ropj/s1600-h/P1020642_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054872482772703602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORAup1xjB6t-p8A5xA6FkfGpFYTfr8rdr4eHx4I1b9vUyOOd3mfTG1TLDuaT1nxjxNSU0BhGMxP92o4gyx-ZD1dQ9Im6b8bpnltkomZTsEYXofziMT2JcRaOlLKGLLV80ropj/s400/P1020642_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The restaurant had pretensions at being something fancier, but its delta charm (coasters propping up crooked tables) blew that right out of the water. That, and the dead bugs on the wind/spray shield which lines the perimeter of the deck. The bathrooms were clean, which made up for the sticky tabletops.<br /><br />Our waitress was a cute little teenage girl who, <em>bless her heart,</em> just couldn't get anything right...but that's okay! I'm <strong>chillaxin'</strong> on the delta, so it's all good.<br /><br />The one thing that was disappointing overall was the lack of fresh, local seafood both at Happy Harbor and Moore's. The fish and chips at Moore's is heavily breaded (and probably not fresh), while the Dungeness crab and shrimp in my crepe were unrecognizable after being drowned in an ocean of something close to a bechamel sauce. Plus, I've eaten plenty of frozen vegetables in my day, but this green stuff on my plate was <em>just wrong.</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJelmsrZEkGL3WpYaB8uXLr2DS1K12Aok3QY1qa2636swKZwUoTp4OsRGuJO_yRSbaLiGuh-4-7RLzcnwRINzBM7ZkTc4MXM9NXeXYNV78j2RB_EHuxtnM2RgVXsQ76rVjSE9b/s1600-h/P1020645_edited-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054871864297412946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJelmsrZEkGL3WpYaB8uXLr2DS1K12Aok3QY1qa2636swKZwUoTp4OsRGuJO_yRSbaLiGuh-4-7RLzcnwRINzBM7ZkTc4MXM9NXeXYNV78j2RB_EHuxtnM2RgVXsQ76rVjSE9b/s400/P1020645_edited-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Left: Crab and Shrimp Crepe, Right: Chicken "Cordonne Bleu" with Lasagne(?)</em><br /><br />Considering the price of the entrees (most over $14), you should tie up your boat, jump in your car, and drive over to <strong>Al the Wops</strong> for a steak sandwich. After eating in so many city dives (and nicer restaurants), I can tell <em>every single one of you </em>out there reading this now that <strong>you CAN serve better food</strong> at these prices and still have a viable business. Besides, you know places like this make a killing on alcohol sales...skimping on the food is lame.<br /><br />But whatever. The delta isn't a foodie destination (<em>that I know of</em>), but the fishing is great and if you know the right people, like the Hiltons, you can probably scrounge up a great meal.<br /><br />I still love it though.<br /><br />Definitely some of California's Gold (thank God I haven't run into <a href="http://www.calgold.com">Huell!</a>)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRlgUtEWADhxCTznMUlhN5GJU34Xw-o9l-LrylKvaoPNjQ8TKbvL1fLY8DFrDvKxRluzBi9rGTYuRjtjtn9_mdRbxPaNzUJm9Gx8d2rk948_3URlXhzAvL2rHqHOr1crWu0CI/s1600-h/P1020658.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054871619484277058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRlgUtEWADhxCTznMUlhN5GJU34Xw-o9l-LrylKvaoPNjQ8TKbvL1fLY8DFrDvKxRluzBi9rGTYuRjtjtn9_mdRbxPaNzUJm9Gx8d2rk948_3URlXhzAvL2rHqHOr1crWu0CI/s400/P1020658.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-5196092122845154102007-04-11T08:08:00.000-07:002007-04-11T08:17:00.662-07:00Slow Down AheadFYI,<br /><br />Like I just explained over at my <a href="http://divefood.blogspot.com">other blog,</a> things are getting hectic, busy, crazy, and just a little downright scary for my schedule lately. I'll post as much as I can, but it will likely slow down until I'm back from vacation in mid-May.<br /><br />I'm working like hell to accomodate your reading pleasures, but I've got other stuff to do - stuff that pays the rent, stuff that doesn't require a keyboard, and stuff that makes people happy in other ways.<br /><br />I'm scrambling to get "stuff" done all through April and then I take off the first weekend in May to the South. I'll try to check in while I'm on the road, but our <strong>Southern-Fried B-B-Q Road Trip</strong> is going to be a whirlwind tour of 4 (FOUR!) states.<br /><br /><em>Yowwwzaaa!</em><br /><br />Anyway, keep it locked for the next 2 months and I'll post when I can.<br /><br />Thanks,<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-62439064804187890392007-04-05T19:08:00.000-07:002007-04-05T21:13:12.810-07:00On-Ramp(s)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1Ibi2cBTNbOsh8iSok7qxiaAeQQKZv5r6VnttfXwzxFjYXFVex9p0yW1FXMez9UqtPC6e2QRw-qqFdab-99pIRMOe4aqHpQxdXL1agj75vvUQcJZr9PCjtQ41J_fYe9Nbl_s/s1600-h/P1020520.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1Ibi2cBTNbOsh8iSok7qxiaAeQQKZv5r6VnttfXwzxFjYXFVex9p0yW1FXMez9UqtPC6e2QRw-qqFdab-99pIRMOe4aqHpQxdXL1agj75vvUQcJZr9PCjtQ41J_fYe9Nbl_s/s400/P1020520.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050150059666748786" /></a><br />Good news.<br /><br />I got the zit to pop.<br /><br /><em>Let's talk food, shall we?</em><br /><br />You know how, <a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2006_12_01_archive.html">for a period,</a> I was getting all Southern and countrified on your candy ass? Yeah, I guess we all get a little nostalgic for the place(s) we grew up every now and then. Trust me - I never thought I'd look back fondly on the place I left. I left for a reason...I hated it.<br /><br />Okay, maybe hate isn't the right word. Basically, to use an analogy, I'm a tree. I'm a tree that was planted in a small pot, like a bonzai. I had to uproot myself and move to a bigger pot, and then actually to a wide-open field, in order to grow to my full size and be a happy tree. You know, like in a Bob Ross painting.<br /><br />Some trees don't mind the small pots. In fact, some do better in confined conditions than they would out in the open. From the perspective of this tree, those smaller pots have a certain charm about them – but from the inside, it sure didn't seem that way.<br /><br />BTW, I am a <em>master</em> at analogies.<br /><br />Even though I grew up in the Mountain South, I never knew or appreciated the joys of ramps – aka <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_leek">wild leeks.</a> However, I do have faded memories of pulling up wild onions from a field and eating them on the spot. If what I ate were ramps, I'll likely never know - since these are early memories of mine, memories that inhabit the same corner of my brain as knocking down sugarcane with <a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2007/01/pimento-cheese-pals.html">my pal </a>Douglas. <br /><br />I'll be in the South next month, but unfortunately (due to my schedule) I'll be missing the <a href="http://www.kingofstink.com/">ramp festivals </a>that happen every Spring throughout Appalachia. But guess what?<br /><br />We have ramps in Northern California!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgSPJIlEk9buCy7HyiSlFbahEdeAHl2ph2QV8jKOefF24ClkvFRviSn-d6BAN5h3G8YWMaAacOSSivce_8hD04DSUMRh8z9PZvQ_M03WaSN9lAaNOIihUdMKO5tBV4cCtP5GV/s1600-h/P1020372.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgSPJIlEk9buCy7HyiSlFbahEdeAHl2ph2QV8jKOefF24ClkvFRviSn-d6BAN5h3G8YWMaAacOSSivce_8hD04DSUMRh8z9PZvQ_M03WaSN9lAaNOIihUdMKO5tBV4cCtP5GV/s400/P1020372.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050149720364332386" /></a><br /><br />Yeah, they <a href="http://www.hort.purdue.edu/newcrop/ncnu02/v5-449.html">grow wild.</a> I found them for sale at <strong>Far West Fungi </strong>last Saturday. I think I surprised the manager, Ian Garrone, when I enquired about purchasing some. He must have been concerned with how quickly they'd move. According to him, the ramps are foraged in the wild around <a href="http://www.google.com/maps?q=Arcata,+CA,+USA&sa=X&oi=map&ct=title">Arcata</a> and Mendocino County. He also said they just started carrying them and that they should last for a couple of months. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYLdFLo1JOTB2qDqJmyjnAuf6lhfji8lriK0EI3MVowTbpOr2waYBoQlcNcKj6lNlGaY2BRvcc38-HRHtqaM0FXBlY97HjNGzfteRLshlULbUus60rzI78jlfKia4llbj0HrS/s1600-h/P1020526.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYLdFLo1JOTB2qDqJmyjnAuf6lhfji8lriK0EI3MVowTbpOr2waYBoQlcNcKj6lNlGaY2BRvcc38-HRHtqaM0FXBlY97HjNGzfteRLshlULbUus60rzI78jlfKia4llbj0HrS/s400/P1020526.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050149136248780114" /></a><br /><br />Far West Fungi is one of my favorite places to shop in the Ferry Building. In my opinion, most of the shops in the Ferry Building are a bit pricey and unnecessary. However, there are several places I patronize that, while not cheap, are reasonably priced and well worth a visit by people who cook - namely, Prather Meat Co., Far West Fungi, Acme Bread, and sometimes Cowgirl Creamery. Oh, yeah – and the free chocolate samples at Recchiuti are always on my route.<br /><br />Right now, ramps at Far West Fungi are priced at $20 per pound (I know, probably only worth it to you die-hard hillbilly transplants like me). However, as the season progresses, the price will fall to an average of $16 per pound – maybe less. Half a pound of ramps are enough for 2 people, especially if you serve them with eggs, fry them with bacon, and/or serve them with a side of pinto beans.<br /><br />Ramps are a member of the onion family and they, as anyone who's ever eaten one or been around someone who has, are quite strong in flavor and aroma. If you love both garlic and onions, ramps are the perfect vegetable for you. The whole thing is edible, although the roots are usually discarded. They are usually dug up with a special instrument known as a <a href="http://www.richwoodwv.com/ramp.asp">"ramp hoe"</a> who, when not harvesting ramps, is usually found in truck stop parking lots turning tricks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy3lBa0SXD4v8ZYzbO3C2QH7yVDq_0-UOFAWqYXCXox0S_R7vLNYO-X0KAujj7B7jwibdrAco0SgfpLlSrKP3EMlSiAQ5htkAmiMLaIn0ul1ne9nrGyhxZnF6-qhIM-Jni0qKK/s1600-h/P1020374.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy3lBa0SXD4v8ZYzbO3C2QH7yVDq_0-UOFAWqYXCXox0S_R7vLNYO-X0KAujj7B7jwibdrAco0SgfpLlSrKP3EMlSiAQ5htkAmiMLaIn0ul1ne9nrGyhxZnF6-qhIM-Jni0qKK/s400/P1020374.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050148753996690754" /></a><br />Ramps are commonly fried in bacon grease and served with corn bread. They're also eaten with eggs. Ramps, cornbread, pinto beans, cured pork – this is traditional, American <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peasant">peasant</a> food specific to the Appalachian Mountain region. This is the cuisine of my forbearers, which sadly is lost and unheard of to many members of my generation. My cousins, like myself, grew up with McDonalds, Hardees, and Burger King. We, like our parents, often eschewed cornbread and pinto beans for Sweet and Sour Pork, chimichangas, and stuffed-crust pizza – or the dominant pseudo-multiculture of American cuisine.<br /><br />That is why, tonight, I'm cooking up these ramps with a vengeance. Indeed, the South shall rise again – only this time we prefer it does so covered with a sheen of bacon fat, and without exploiting and dividing poor whites and people of color for cheap labor...duh!<br /><br />To prepare the ramps, wash under water very well. The leaves of the ramps often hide little grains of sand and dirt within them, so right when you think you've got them clean, wash once more. Afterwards, cut off the root ends. Next, cut the white parts of the ramps from the leafy green parts and then cut those into 2" pieces. Reserve to a glass or metal bowl.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMQTJ1Kizi5aBNpQN5C6IZ9dfCd_BHeJknTgfloV_aObPsBAhvpjHozPRNn74fwQcw1xmMWfa5XElbHQ7dtGGCwTau7wO_2aOrsms0ATuwTVt5VftD56_MNRIOKYjWRkMBbqa/s1600-h/P1020471a.jpg"><img style="border:none;""display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMQTJ1Kizi5aBNpQN5C6IZ9dfCd_BHeJknTgfloV_aObPsBAhvpjHozPRNn74fwQcw1xmMWfa5XElbHQ7dtGGCwTau7wO_2aOrsms0ATuwTVt5VftD56_MNRIOKYjWRkMBbqa/s400/P1020471a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050148466233881906" /></a><br /><br />Once those are prepared, fry up some bacon in a cast-iron skillet set on medium heat. It could be turkey bacon if you keep Kosher, Halal, or just don't like pork, but if you're vegetarian I suggest skipping this step altogether. I'm cooking up Wellshire Farms bacon bought from Whole Foods. This is a weird brand; their linguica is odd and overly smokey while their bacon has this black edge on it. Fortunately the bacon tastes good, but it's hard to tell when it's done or when it's just burnt.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmWw3f3xBEy9QgcHefrm9zz_eUgffPX_NwjC3-Ak7L_8C-i90XxmHQBMUB566kCXG63osP89kWoP_cVEHGmdWTNBZjVU1r_bulr31W4WJEF55Q37zmda-y25f3H-qcFNxCj0S/s1600-h/P1020473a.jpg"><img style="border:none;""display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmWw3f3xBEy9QgcHefrm9zz_eUgffPX_NwjC3-Ak7L_8C-i90XxmHQBMUB566kCXG63osP89kWoP_cVEHGmdWTNBZjVU1r_bulr31W4WJEF55Q37zmda-y25f3H-qcFNxCj0S/s400/P1020473a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050148260075451682" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, when the bacon is crisp, reserve to a paper towel lined plate. Once cool, cut the bacon into 2" strips and set aside.<br /><br />Using the rendered bacon fat in the skillet, fry the white parts of the ramps. If you're vegetarian, you can substitute olive oil for the bacon fat. Once the ramps have softened up, toss them onto the leafy greens and then raise the heat to medium-high. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvT8y0FJ8kUmU_zTVT50uxLwlrbXvoUou4kecHuviQDCDJB8D67r9_PCsVEyDGMmyrJkeqWXxFjnaFzjr8NxlmeWtrcpmqTTxAs4YpYz9UERjFE2FDgicmLjDkjFMtUswCeRKW/s1600-h/P1020486a.jpg"><img style="border:none;""display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvT8y0FJ8kUmU_zTVT50uxLwlrbXvoUou4kecHuviQDCDJB8D67r9_PCsVEyDGMmyrJkeqWXxFjnaFzjr8NxlmeWtrcpmqTTxAs4YpYz9UERjFE2FDgicmLjDkjFMtUswCeRKW/s400/P1020486a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050148066801923346" /></a><br /><br />When the oil starts to smoke, remove from heat and spoon little by little onto the ramps to slightly wilt the leaves. In the other areas of the Appalachians – like the eastern part of Kentucky - they use lettuce in this recipe and call it Killed (or Kill't) Lettuce.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTLpk90TvfJUp7EMu9a8Ketd1rm9kQuaBT0jSfu-HlZ5HLU46tRLpvL7JIMEU6H-Km7-13lCAX-NpNxjwfkoihIfwO8ntOGfkpINriQ54N10tNDxfz6ZElvNVyLTxrzZLvLRt/s1600-h/P1020494a.jpg"><img style="border:none;""display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTLpk90TvfJUp7EMu9a8Ketd1rm9kQuaBT0jSfu-HlZ5HLU46tRLpvL7JIMEU6H-Km7-13lCAX-NpNxjwfkoihIfwO8ntOGfkpINriQ54N10tNDxfz6ZElvNVyLTxrzZLvLRt/s400/P1020494a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050147821988787458" /></a><br /><br />Using a pair of tongs, mix thoroughly and then season with a little salt and pepper. Mix in the bacon strips and then serve onto plates. <br /><br />What an easy and quick dish to prepare! Once you get a taste of these, you'll see why they have such a strong following. It's surprising how flavorful and assertive this springtime vegetable can be. And it certainly has the ability to overshadow traditional, mild spring vegetables like artichokes, asparagus, celery, and fennel.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdNl1id_BxVioG7xw6hV8Dq2j1uZS7VPti-DO7C0VSeW-lTYdb5uV2h4dqMZidHCbmNdLCDWX_M8erf57bJXCdzpJmJV_T8snUM_noC-kOGEMH0dZ4v43XENZ92o3bkvUSEkt/s1600-h/P1020497+copy.jpg"><img style="border:none;""display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdNl1id_BxVioG7xw6hV8Dq2j1uZS7VPti-DO7C0VSeW-lTYdb5uV2h4dqMZidHCbmNdLCDWX_M8erf57bJXCdzpJmJV_T8snUM_noC-kOGEMH0dZ4v43XENZ92o3bkvUSEkt/s400/P1020497+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050150983084717458" /></a><br /><br />Perhaps the best part is you won't have to tell your friends and family that you just had big ol' plate of fried ramps.<br /><br />They'll smell you coming.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-13081100389361608092007-04-03T11:22:00.000-07:002007-04-05T20:22:27.253-07:00Feeling Blah TodayI'm feeling a little under the weather today.<br /><br />I don't know if it's because I'm really sick or it has to do with the<a href="http://newbaybridge.org/"> bridge demolition</a> happening next to where I live. After 70 odd years, part of the Bay Bridge is being torn down to make way for a more seismically safe structure. In one respect, it's interesting - in that history-in-the-making sort of way. In another, it's a major pain.<br /><br />Who knows what toxic crap I'm breathing in day after day? Not only is this bridge demolition likely hazardous to my physical health, my mental health has been getting quite a work out. Pounding day in and day out has kept me in a constant state of agitation and the only thing that's helped has been staying away.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnT2unrpkIijgU3qbco7IIbmvNc7I3gF31EinoZbXxdH9pH7GACrrQNGIGmTH3QdiZyfAK7vOZUiozxUVVq9TFFW0cRiKflNTot4-NTZZVrpmN6bTaOrpkzQpIuZU7LuNp2IH6/s1600-h/P1020517a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnT2unrpkIijgU3qbco7IIbmvNc7I3gF31EinoZbXxdH9pH7GACrrQNGIGmTH3QdiZyfAK7vOZUiozxUVVq9TFFW0cRiKflNTot4-NTZZVrpmN6bTaOrpkzQpIuZU7LuNp2IH6/s400/P1020517a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050150248645309826" /></a><br /><br />Oh yeah, and I've got this huge zit on my face that's deep under the skin. If it doesn't go away soon, I'll have to take off work, go to the doctor (and deal with his incompetent staff) and pay the visiting fee, only so I can go see a dermatologist, pay another visiting fee, and then who knows.<br /><br />I'm crossing my fingers, washing my face, and moisturizing like hell.<br /><br />In the meantime, I'm catching up on my reading.<br /><br />Have you heard about the US Department of Agribusiness's new regulations regarding organic standards as it applies to small farmers in developing countries? Salon has a <a href="http://www.salon.com/mwt/food/eat_drink/2007/04/03/coffee_organic/">great article</a> on it, basically saying the new regulations favor large plantations (gee, Republican-controlled USDA - go figure) and may discourage smaller growers from becoming certified organic. Basically I agree with the folks who say that the labeling is part of the problem and that cash-strapped coffee or banana growers should consider alternate labeling/marketing methods. <br /><br />I buy my green coffee beans, which I roast at home, from <a href="http://www.sweetmarias.com">Sweet Maria's </a>- who has their own oversight process in determining who they buy coffee from. I still prefer to purchase organic when I can, but I understand that many farmers walk the organic walk, but can't afford to talk the talk.<br /><br />One of the comments on the article led me to a <a href="http://www.nonais.org">great site </a>about the USDA's mandatory ID tagging of all livestock and farm animals. Did you know about this?<br /><br />Apparently, to satisfy the importers of American beef after Mad Cow was first detected, the USDA (working in concert with Big Meat...<em>I just like to say that</em>) now requires that all ranchers, homesteaders, and basically anyone who raises animals for food or as pets (just large animals like horses) must tag their animals with a radio-chip that can trace the farm of origin. The website, <strong>NoNAIS.org</strong>, is written by one of the farmers most affected by this new regulation and provides several examples of how the National Animal ID Program fails to safeguard food from contamination, does nothing to prevent Mad Cow Disease, and works to protect the profit of, ahem, <strong>Big Meat</strong>, while unfairly burdening the small farmer/rancher with needless costs and bureaucratic red tape.<br /><br />There are bigger questions, however, to consider - which is the widespread dependence on <a href="http://www.difrwear.com">"spychip"</a> technology to solve common problems or for financial gain. One of the great things about our country is that the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Privacy">right to privacy </a>against governmental intrusion is written into the Constitution (although it's not absolute). So is the right to be happy.<br /><br />I've always liked that idea: that we have the right to be happy. And part of being happy is that the Man has no right to stick his nose into our affairs whenever it suits him.<br /><br />Those rights we are born with, or gained through immigration and citizenship, are constantly being attacked by the powerful and greedy - or those who wish to be - in this country. It is our duty to protect our nation's physical health when it comes to food and water, but it is also our responsibility to protect our mental health and stand up against those who seek to subjugate us to further their personal ambitions.<br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-48321206096808261782007-04-02T00:00:00.000-07:002007-05-01T08:17:57.420-07:00Beautiful Atrocity<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfRGGNzTcAQIcSN1piwNk2Om5rD9OYhyoIGZcEy6LQWJy_wUnXm7Moh90k5UaxqYHhugq_m5FPKCaQVDNkBOfE7jtHDtsULJaqswQVG1S68CDR8i5aQ5bENg2KAZtf_H-Htlzn/s1600-h/P1020316.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048667957354766530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfRGGNzTcAQIcSN1piwNk2Om5rD9OYhyoIGZcEy6LQWJy_wUnXm7Moh90k5UaxqYHhugq_m5FPKCaQVDNkBOfE7jtHDtsULJaqswQVG1S68CDR8i5aQ5bENg2KAZtf_H-Htlzn/s400/P1020316.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The sun is setting on Dago Mary's.<br /><br />This old-school Italian restaurant sitting on the lonely edge of the <a href="http://www.zpub.com/sf/thepoint/point-h.html">Hunters Point Shipyard</a> is at ground zero for one of the largest redevelopment projects in San Francisco apart from the UCSF campus at China Basin. Unless the restaurant, working in tandem with the developers, can find a way to incorporate itself into the <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/03/27/MNGQ5OSHBO1.DTL">overall scheme,</a> single-family townhomes will stand where this historic landmark does now. And going in just down the street, the new 49ers stadium...<em>maybe.</em> That still remains a pipe dream for the city's establishment.<br /><br />The land on which Dago Mary's sits has been owned by the Lennar corporation for over two years now, yet only recently has there been serious talk regarding Dago Mary's impending demise. However, things haven't been going so great for Lennar as the redevelopment of the Hunters Point shipyard appears to be one big, nasty boodoggle for any and everyone involved – except Dago Mary's. Much of the drama can be summed up in two words:<br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superfund">Superfund Site.</a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfJeIrxYQ4NbaXM-6XzPsd9_zh4baCABhdgkbm6GH-5Xqfns_ecG6Q9KvmfycEi_8_qRBKyvZhfcB6Za9LuX-An_z-So8b8keA7T3TJRDVlmNvmd9jNudGtuULsJ3ePM1LjkE/s1600-h/ba_shipyard_lawsuitfinal.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048667064001568946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfJeIrxYQ4NbaXM-6XzPsd9_zh4baCABhdgkbm6GH-5Xqfns_ecG6Q9KvmfycEi_8_qRBKyvZhfcB6Za9LuX-An_z-So8b8keA7T3TJRDVlmNvmd9jNudGtuULsJ3ePM1LjkE/s400/ba_shipyard_lawsuitfinal.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The problems associated with the redevelopment project are numerous. Compounded with the standard NIMBYism and opportunism disguised as "community oversight" – a trait which the citizens of the Bay Area have mastered - the site sits partially on and next to a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brownfield_land">brownfield</a> contaminated with many decades of <a href="http://www.greenaction.org/hunterspoint/index.shtml">toxic materials;</a> neither the current owner nor previous one willing to take full responsibility for it. The conversation follows:<br /><br />"Are you going to clean it up?"<br />"No, I thought you were."<br />"I'm not going to clean it up."<br />"You made the mess."<br />"It's not my mess now. It's your mess."<br />"Well, how am I suppose to clean it up?"<br />"Got me."<br />"Well, what do you suggest I do?"<br />"For all I care, you could build a football stadium on it. Caveat emptor, homeboy. Caveat <em>fucking</em> emptor."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCexilYH7wgX7lkrdINyH6MKVsSG7zC7dsXxU3iRUfmYZEwFPO1buHgNY-Nrm0USNlmW2whA41yfj7vSvmlWjT-63sooUZeMgJ9zgM8iFy9_pHgnwTwS4kkUEWDpe7An6K7CZc/s1600-h/P1020314.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048666913677713570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCexilYH7wgX7lkrdINyH6MKVsSG7zC7dsXxU3iRUfmYZEwFPO1buHgNY-Nrm0USNlmW2whA41yfj7vSvmlWjT-63sooUZeMgJ9zgM8iFy9_pHgnwTwS4kkUEWDpe7An6K7CZc/s400/P1020314.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Until recently I'd never heard of Dago Mary's. I find this odd considering not too many restaurants are left which use ethnic slurs in their business name. I thought <a href="http://baconpress.blogspot.com/2006/02/delta-blues.html">Al The Wop's </a>in Locke was the only one left in California (other than the sole-survivor of the <a href="http://www.sambosrestaurant.com/">Sambo's</a> chain in Santa Barbara). One would think everyone in San Francisco knew of Dago Mary's, but apparently it remains well under the radar of your average Yelpster – a creature too timid to venture beyond 3rd and Cesar Chavez, but whom feels qualified to be the 240th reviewer of an <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/g9LSMqUK5dkUcmpgTnU-dQ">average sausage counter</a> in the Lower Haight.<br /><br />Dago Mary's began as Mary's Venetian Villa and was quite the swanky place in its day. The decade was the 1930s and "Mary" was Mary Ghiorzo. According to the current owner of Dago Mary's, Joe Ursino, the term "dago" in reference to Mary was one of fondness, rather than disrespect – which, as anyone who knows anything about American history can tell you, not only is likely but one of <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/e/a/1997/07/28/EDITORIAL786.dtl">the peculiarities </a>of multicultural America.<br /><br />Mary was a grande dame and savvy restauranteur, and at the time everybody who was anybody was seen at Mary's. Politicians courted her and were courted by her. Diners would taxi out from the downtown for seven-course dinners that cost less than their cab ride ($1.35). Floor shows were common as bands serenaded the evening crowd. In essence, Mary was the American version of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Duchess_of_Duke_Street">Louisa Trotter </a>– only she was real.<br /><br /><a href="http://webbie1.sfpl.org/multimedia/sfphotos/AAB-1229.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://webbie1.sfpl.org/multimedia/sfphotos/AAB-1229.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>That's Mary, in the center.</strong></span><br /><br />Mary gave the people of San Francisco everything they could ask for in a great place to eat, dance, drink, and hob-nob, and when the opportunity to spruce up the restaurant presented itself in the form of a Peninsula estate auction, she jumped on it. It just so happens that the fixtures she bought in that auction, fixtures which remain in the restaurant to this day, are just a few of what's left of the grand <a href="http://www.sfgenealogy.com/sanmateo/history/smcady_e.htm">Linden Towers</a> mansion, formerly in what is now Menlo Park.<br /><br />Linden Towers was a mansion built by <a href="http://www.sfgenealogy.com/sf/history/hgoe12.htm">James C. Flood,</a> dubbed one of the "Bonanza Kings" and who made millions off of the stock market during the height of the Gold Rush. No expenses were spared as Flood poured money into his white Victorian-era castle. As often is the case with New Money, tacky, gaudy, and overkill are always the new black. Flood's mansion was derided by his neighbors as a "beautiful atrocity", although that didn't prevent the Flood family from raising two generations of children there. Unfortunately for James, he died less than 12 years after Linden Towers was built.<br /><br />Bummer.<br /><br /><a href="http://digitalassets.lib.berkeley.edu/moac/ucb/images/brk00016797_31b_k.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://digitalassets.lib.berkeley.edu/moac/ucb/images/brk00016797_31b_k.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Linden Towers</span></strong><br /><br />After awhile, the mansion fell into the hands of the James L. Flood, upon whose death in 1924 it stood empty and in 1936 its contents put up for public auction. Among the buyers was a feisty little woman from Hunters Point who smelled strangely of fennel sausage and marinara sauce, and who - I imagine - had a mouth on her that could make a sailor blush.<br /><br />Mary embellished her establishment with many of the fixtures from the old Flood mansion (<em>note: not the Flood Mansion on Nob Hill.</em>) These fixtures include a carved marble mantle-piece and exquisite hand-carved wood panels which frame the wetbar, doors, entryways, and windows.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgen3zmy7hzbPuqCHaGZpOj9fcCuACgAOZixr91lzaLve5atQEoJEuNRGfURnw7Tmbe1qINHWZPDOH37qHB2LQLfosA5XSpFRwb39s9WPBDBe9onZrvFaA2WH4248TjvnROdDsP/s1600-h/Untitled-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048666552900460690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgen3zmy7hzbPuqCHaGZpOj9fcCuACgAOZixr91lzaLve5atQEoJEuNRGfURnw7Tmbe1qINHWZPDOH37qHB2LQLfosA5XSpFRwb39s9WPBDBe9onZrvFaA2WH4248TjvnROdDsP/s400/Untitled-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The dining room space is large and open, and suprisingly not too shabby. Despite the location and the unkempt exterior of the restaurant, the table settings and other small details (like the calla lillies) look as if someone has made an effort to make this a comfortable dining experience.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkc9CU8V-6ifXUyL2Qhtqj5vIgi0R4XXRJeJxFeQA7IoQXPYOLlSIWvqYJO12Rob39sAOxXrBE_oNvPuREP2aQi0to-TOvFLWK1IL4EMOAx96wqJmDm-WMNVCmmLZv1O5CK28l/s1600-h/P1020321.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048666372511834242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkc9CU8V-6ifXUyL2Qhtqj5vIgi0R4XXRJeJxFeQA7IoQXPYOLlSIWvqYJO12Rob39sAOxXrBE_oNvPuREP2aQi0to-TOvFLWK1IL4EMOAx96wqJmDm-WMNVCmmLZv1O5CK28l/s400/P1020321.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Perhaps that someone is the guy who waited on our table the night Bruce and I were there. This guy, whom we found out later is the cousin of the owner, began by saying that there was no menu <em>per se</em>, but that the menu was a "verbal" one. He then began to list off some of the dishes he could make for us, something like a sausage and pepper dish with pasta, or if we wanted he could whip us up something with poached salmon.<br /><br />Now, <em>come on</em>: who wouldn't find that just a little bit charming – or at least funny? It was like having a personal chef; "by the way, while you're at it, could you throw in a few mushrooms and maybe some parsley?"<br /><br />Better yet, this is exactly the same personal, makes-you-feel-at-home, service I'm sure Mary was famous for. It's nice that some things haven't changed.<br /><br />However, some things have. Price for one thing – a plate of pasta and sausages was $15.50. That's quite a leap from the 1930s, but considering how much food there was, its hard to complain.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqQijq_vqdVh8vjg5KQtuF1Sb32ThNCtu6PyfluCZOjdeNIgDTjtDVo2pvIfSSo3QaCLcHDtfdnWzm7qVV5zT1PguMolc8LPGxg06CxohyKP3IT00WRR2r9UHuPwGozjbKvBM/s1600-h/P1020333.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048665998849679474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqQijq_vqdVh8vjg5KQtuF1Sb32ThNCtu6PyfluCZOjdeNIgDTjtDVo2pvIfSSo3QaCLcHDtfdnWzm7qVV5zT1PguMolc8LPGxg06CxohyKP3IT00WRR2r9UHuPwGozjbKvBM/s400/P1020333.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Not only was there a generous portion – perhaps too generous for your average person – but the food was exactly what you'd want in a comforting plate of pasta: freshly cooked rigatoni swimming in a thick ragu of sliced bell peppers, chunky tomato sauce, and large hunks of Italian sausage. The parmesan cheese sprinkled on topped wasn't really necessary; it was obviously that pre-shredded stuff. But I don't know...that probably adds to the home-cooked experience for some of y'all.<br /><br />While Bruce drank ice tea, I had a glass of tap water...since it's free. Dago Mary's has always served customers water from the tap, which puts them lightyears ahead of <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/chronicle/archive/2007/03/21/FDGU1OMMT61.DTL">Chez Panisse.</a><br /><br />Besides a young Latino couple sitting behind us, Bruce and I were the only ones dining. It felt a little strange, sitting there in this virtually empty, old place surrounded by history (perhaps, about to be history), looking out through the window across the bay to the Port of Oakland – just underneath the restaurant land scraped and graded for new construction. Old baseball team photos of the San Francisco Seals hung on the wall by the restrooms; many of them brandishing the hurried scribbles of men who have long since passed away.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPTdeOMBwh9w8oxGv3aJiiRhcdgzYwRPjEcmKkycgTelnipGWbG7fnDwfWl1XQn8Anl-GSXu1D99LopU3ndYz6BBdsfIplMbqs6K4YEcG3dMsHOUuBS4kE_PT8ZdNPaU0xCVa/s1600-h/P1020319.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048665552173080674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPTdeOMBwh9w8oxGv3aJiiRhcdgzYwRPjEcmKkycgTelnipGWbG7fnDwfWl1XQn8Anl-GSXu1D99LopU3ndYz6BBdsfIplMbqs6K4YEcG3dMsHOUuBS4kE_PT8ZdNPaU0xCVa/s320/P1020319.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I asked our server if it was true that they were closing at the end of April. He gives me that facial expression – you know, the "what, me worry?" look – and then attempts to blow off the question. "Everything is still up in the air", he says.<br /><br />"But we're not going down without a fight."<br /><br />Somehow, I don't think Mary would either.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_KceoUWNc0h0q8nuR5vhPnUc9tdWWn-enp56f8WXjAxjsc1rzzZg5QQO6xxWKVRakcKafoYBpZOF1AoZD0w6DnToY_2pbnb5ywgTnlUrQffORUs-xrt1RPhkYcGWg6wgvP45/s1600-h/P1020317a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048665290180075602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_KceoUWNc0h0q8nuR5vhPnUc9tdWWn-enp56f8WXjAxjsc1rzzZg5QQO6xxWKVRakcKafoYBpZOF1AoZD0w6DnToY_2pbnb5ywgTnlUrQffORUs-xrt1RPhkYcGWg6wgvP45/s400/P1020317a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />k.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10930819.post-81086826290547917162007-04-01T10:20:00.000-07:002007-04-01T10:50:43.946-07:00Who I Am: Revealed!By the time I've posted this many of you will have already learned of my secret. It's been all the rage on those Hollywood <a href="http://www.tmz.com/">gossip blogs </a>and I think it's time for me to come clean.<br /><br />You see, the truth is, all these years I've been hiding my identity out of fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of approval. Fear of reprisal. And just plain fear of the unknown.<br /><br />My life is driven by the machine of industry. The industry of stardom. An industry that negates the soul and packages human beings as mere skin flash.<br /><br />But there comes <a href="http://www.fsm-a.org/stacks/mario/mario_speech.html">a time </a>when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't take part; you can't even passively take part, and you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!<br /><br />That is why today, my friends - my loyal Bacon Press readers - I must reveal who I am.<br /><br />I am....<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpLdanKQPtnDc5N674tbga1od2iK9-M1eVojsU_eNCud_L5cNsIPwiluLk7GAwfKLRAF4HCAKzQurmonS02vg9v_-qGLjnJq7FZ7h79-W1j7P5yBHoFaGSbpjWX6WbC23G4fE/s1600-h/kevin-bacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpLdanKQPtnDc5N674tbga1od2iK9-M1eVojsU_eNCud_L5cNsIPwiluLk7GAwfKLRAF4HCAKzQurmonS02vg9v_-qGLjnJq7FZ7h79-W1j7P5yBHoFaGSbpjWX6WbC23G4fE/s400/kevin-bacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048518565507309634" /></a><br /><strong>Kevin Bacon.</strong><br /><br />Whew! That feels <em>so good!</em> <br /><br />That's all for now, but I'll keep you posted on how this <em>madness</em> all sorts itself out.<br /><br />Until then, yours truly...<br /><br />k.(b)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0