Move, Eat, Learn

These are worth watching.  All three.  Either via the embeds below, or directly through their Vimeo post.

3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand miles, an exploding volcano, 2 cameras and almost a terabyte of footage... all to turn 3 ambitious linear concepts based on movement, learning and food ....into 3 beautiful and hopefully compelling short films.....

= a trip of a lifetime.

move, learn, eat

Rick Mereki : Director, producer, additional camera and editing
Tim White : DOP, producer, primary editing, sound
Andrew Lees : Actor, mover, groover

MOVE from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.


LEARN from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.


EAT from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

Good Reading

Good reading is something I only wish I had time for these days.  Thanks to my wife, there's no shortage of it.  Thanks to my current position, there's no time for it.

I think I can only survive this particular job for so long.  I think being a Dean is not supposed to be like this.  I think you're supposed to have time for reflection, to pursue ideas to improve the school for everyone, maybe even to do a little research on a project or two of your own.  Always Hemingway comes to mind: "Isn't it pretty to think so."

But some of you who read me have time on your hands, so let me offer a few discoveries from an evening of catching up on my lovely wife's blog, and pulling on a few of the strings dangling from its edges.  I've added these to my own list of "Daily Reads," which once upon a time lived up to its name.  These days it's merely an ambition; not even that really--more like a fond wish.

So for those of you with time on your hands to surf and to read . . .

Try A Passing Glimpse.  A worthwhile mix of words and photography, and either worth the visit for its own sake.

After that, mosey on over to 80 West, where it's more about the words, or more accurately, about the mind behind them.

Finally, around dinner time, drop into E.A.T. for some ideas on what to do with nature's bounty on a very local scale.  I know more than one of you to be a fellow foodie.  You won't be disappointed.

Life with a "Foodie"

Being married to a self-proclaimed "foodie" is a beautiful thing.  I hardly know where to begin.

Eating Out
It's a given that we overfeed ourselves in America.  If I were up to full blogging speed, I'd attach one or two links to that statement as proof.  But I flash-blog these days, so you're on your own.  You know it's true though.  As did the authors of The 9-Inch Diet, (which I pretty much read cover-to-cover standing in Barnes & Noble one evening).

Anyway, the beauty of life married to a carnivorous foodie, is that we can split almost anything when we're eating out.  I can't think of anything that one of us loves that the other doesn't as well--with the possible exception of blue cheese, for which I've yet to develop any sort of real enthusiasm.  So, knowing that most restaurants tend to overdo portions, we split a lot of main courses.  Result: we enjoy more food in the long run.  We start with two appetizers instead of one, and almost always have room for dessert.

But eating out isn't what inspired tonight's post.

Eating In
We both love to cook.  And on occasion, we even collaborate.  Take tonight for instance.  Take the turnips.  Yes, turnips.  At least two months ago, my better half introduced me to a vegetable that I'd never actually seen on the table.  Sure, I used to pluck one fresh from the field now and then, out quail hunting with Dad and my Uncle Floyd or Cousin Roy, and bite into it raw like an apple, but I don't recall turnips ever making an appearance on the dining room table when I was growing up--growing up smack dab in the middle of fields of turnips, I might add.

I would reach the half-century mark before first seeing them at the dinner table.  Oddly enough, the turnips in question would come from my father's garden.

Whole Foods
I should take a moment here to note how lucky we are to live close enough to my Mom and Dad to see them once a month or so, and to carry back to Richmond, on a regular basis, the fruits of their labor.  In the summer it was tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, potatoes, and some of the sweetest watermelon I've ever eaten.  With the advent of fall, it became pecans and turnips.  Back in late December or early January, I brought home a larger bag of turnips than I thought we could possibly eat, in part because not having grown up eating them, I couldn't imagine exactly how we would eat them.  But Laura does a better job of using everything in the pantry or fridge than anyone I've ever known, myself included--and that's saying something.

She had no more idea what to do with turnips than I, but that didn't stop her from preparing an absolutely delicious dish of them the first week we had them.  I think she baked them.  I say, I think, because by the time tonight rolled around, she could no longer remember.  We just both remembered that we really liked them.

So tonight, two months later, after a really great day of getting things done around the house and in the study--a day that began with an almost three-mile walk with Sydni and finished with a hour at the park with the kids--we tackled dinner.  I say we, but really, I was just the sous-chef.  She'd been thawing chicken most of the day and was busy prepping it for the oven when, digging through the vegetable drawer for a lime I needed for the margaritas I was about to concoct, I came upon the second half of that bag of turnips.  Sure they were two months old, but turnips are one of those foods you can store in the ground itself through the winter months if need be.  These had been in our fridge since their arrival from Mom and Dad's garden, and the elapsed time from ground to veggie drawer, as if it mattered, was probably less than six hours.

From Red Clay to Tawny Port and Cream
"Shall I slice up the turnips for dinner?" I asked.  "Sure."  So I sliced while she tried to remember how she'd made that dish we loved so much, now more than two months into the past.  Drawing a blank, she'd settled on sauteing them.  One Google search later, I confirmed that she was on the right track, and so she started them with a little butter, a little olive oil, some salt and a lid, and set them to simmer.

Now I'm more than a little bit sensitive about anything I'm cooking, and figuring that she is too, I didn't want to mess with what she had going, but as everything neared readiness (there was a pan of green beans simmering in just a little water and a lot of vinegar to round out the colors of the meal) I couldn't resist a little experimentation with a small portion of the turnips.  So I spooned a few of the now tender slices into a smaller omelet pan and added a splash of Tawny Port and another of half-and-half and a little more salt and waited to see what would result.  (I'd have used Madeira if I'd had it, but this was the first time I'd missed it since our arrival here, and the Port seemed a near enough substitute.)  After it had simmered enough to reduce the cream and port to a mere hint of something clinging to the turnip slices, I took the chef de cuisine a bite to sample.  From that bite came blissful blessing to dress the rest of the turnips in the same fashion.

The result will be a staple around here, and the next time we're offered a whole armload of turnips from the overflow of Mom and Dad's garden, instead of taking just half because of not wanting to waste food we're not sure how to prepare, you can bet we'll find room for all the turnips they can spare.

Life with a foodie
The baked chicken was mouth-watering and the green beans, well, let's just say that thanks to me, they had enough vinegar in them to keep the mosquitoes at bay well into July, but I liked them.  All in all, that mirror over the dining room table makes more sense every day. ;-)

So much for flash blogging. ;-)

Josh's on Union Square

This one is for Jay, a brother foodie.

My wife and I took some time this weekend to just kick around san enfants. Lunch on Sunday was nothing short of exquisite. In fact, unless I'm ever treated to a five-star brunch for free, there's little danger of the exquisite-to-price ratio of Sunday's brunch ever being exceeded.

We stumbled onto Josh's on Union Square entirely by accident. I've never had a better brunch, and I never expect to have one half so incredible for twice the price.

Check out the brunch menu: I started with a Bloody Mary and the Smoked Salmon, moved on to the Eggs Benedict, and finished with the Bourbon Pecan Pie and coffee. Across the table, she had a Mimosa and Fried Green Tomatoes, followed by Shrimp and Grits, and finishing with the Creme Brulee.

If you ever make it through Hickory, NC, at mealtime, GO HERE. I promise you won't be sorry.

Green Travel

Are you racked with guilt over your carbon footprint on mother Earth? Well, for tree-huggers and recovering Catholics (for whom guilt never fully recedes), United Airlines (whom I used for at least half of my recent trip west) has set up an online confessional of sorts. You can visit their Carbon Offset Program, and there you'll find a convenient Carbon Offset Calculator to quantify just how much guilt is appropriate. You can then decide whether bearing it is something you can live with, or you can select from a variety of available indulgences, allowing you to travel guilt-free, or at least as nearly so as possible.

For my recent roundtrip from ATL to COS, for instance, the suggested donation to International Reforestation to offset 0.4927 metric tons was $5.91. Instead, I rented a Prius and drove nearly 300 miles on less than five gallons of gas. I found the overall effect of the Prius rental to be so environmentally sound that I felt compelled to offset my carbon offset by spending the $5.91 on a Venti Iced Mocha Latte at Starbucks just to take the self-congratulatory edge off. Thing is though, the buzz from coffee grown using environmentally sound methods is only serving to make me even more smug. I may just have to go out and crush a dandelion before anyone can stand to be around me. I can barely even stand myself.

Starbucks Meets Hooters

On a day when I was explaining to someone how I have no TV service nor newspaper anymore, and get my news almost entirely online, I find this article in a USA Today I picked up at lunch, and I wonder what else I may be missing. My favorite line: "I think it's kind of like Starbucks meets Hooters."

I Want a Cheeseburger

Hey, I laughed. So I thought I'd give you a funny before I go all serious on you. I'm finishing grades, making another five-state road trip, and moving from one state to another :-D over the next 10 days, so the blogging may be light. But when I return, I intend to begin installments of a very serious story about abuse of power and what happens when the people who are supposed to prevent that are co-opted by an old-boy network and become part of the problem. You won't be bored. More likely, you'll be outraged. I am. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, have a cheeseburger:

Grand Slam Giveaway Revisited

Interesting story on CBS last night about Denny's Grand Slam Giveaway and other similar instances of corporate kindness. Bottom line: it pays to be nice.

But I already knew that. In January 2003, Outback came to Afghanistan. It was the best meal I had during an entire deployment, and the gratitude I felt for it was hard to describe, especially considering that the folks who prepared it had no choice but to live our lives for a few days. For them, I expect it was an adventure. For us, a taste of home and, however corny you may think it, a reminder of why we were there. I still prefer Outback when I want a salad, steak, potato, and black bread. And not needing an armed escort to get the Bloomin' Onion to the table doesn't take a thing away from how great it tastes.

By the way, pay attention to the end of the video to learn when Denny's is going to do it again. Take a friend.

Watch CBS Videos Online

Livermush: Good Eatin'!

It's funny how some things you grew up with seem normal to you, but strike others as strange. Livermush is one of those things. I love it so much my mom usually makes a point of having some on hand to fry for breakfast when I'm home.

I've always known it was a distinctly southern thing, but imagine my surprise the first time I went to the grocery in Charleston and found no one had even heard of it. Not at Publix. (Okay, no surprise. They started in Florida, that geographically separated province of New York and Cuba.) Not at Bi-Lo. (A little more surprising, since this is a chain more restricted to the area of the south I think of as home.) But most surprisingly, not even at Piggly-Wiggly, which, really, even if it has spread to seventeen states, you'd think would proudly carry anything made from pig.

For the uninitiated, here's the Wikipedia entry on this "poor boy's pâté":

Livermush (or Liver Mush or Liver Pudding) is a Southern United States foodstuff composed of pig liver, head parts, and cornmeal. It is commonly spiced with pepper and sage. Vaguely similar to scrapple, livermush was most likely brought south through the Appalachian mountains by German settlers from Philadelphia. Livermush is colloquially known as poor man's or poor boy's pâté.

Shelby, North Carolina hosts an annual Livermush Exposition, which began in 1987 to celebrate the unique delicacy. In that year the Cleveland County Commissioners and the Shelby City Council passed resolutions proclaiming that "livermush is the most delicious, most economical and most versatile of meats." Other towns in North Carolina that have livermush festivals include Drexel and Marion. Sonnys Grill in Blowing Rock, NC is famous for its livermush [1]

It is commonly prepared by cutting a slice off of a prepared loaf and frying it with grease in a skillet until golden brown, much like you would Spam. At breakfast it would be served alongside grits and eggs. For lunch it can be made into a sandwich with mayonnaise or mustard, either fried as above, or left cold. As livermush's popularity rises, it is appearing as a primary ingredient in dishes such as omelette and pizza.

And for the literary-minded among you, Wikipedia included a link to a Christian Science Monitor article with this jewel:

Some of its fans enjoy publicizing the unusual meat. Jan Karon, author of a series of books set in fictional Mitford, N.C., has her characters eating livermush in almost every volume.

And finally, for even those who grew up with it, here's a great little video clip from Mark DiCarlo's Taste of America series, on a visit to Shelby, NC:



Bottom line for me? I'll be carrying "home" to Charleston at least a couple pounds of this poor boy's pâté every time I visit Mom and Dad from here on out.

That's all I've got for this morning. Time to go fry some livermush and scramble some eggs. Mmm mmm!

Guest Artist

I remain swamped with teaching and grading, leaving little time for writing here. But I received this piece the other day from a mother some of you know, who finds herself balancing the demands of parenting with those of renewing her teaching certification, finding employment in a job market devastated by Wall Street's implosion, supporting herself and two children, and rebuilding a life devastated by another's deception. The Art History class that she's taking is, thankfully, challenging and rewarding. Having had the pleasure of reading a few of her submissions for homework assignments, I expect the course's instructor is finding this particular student at least as rewarding as she finds the class. In nearly every course, there is always one student, sometimes more, who makes it possible to remember why you liked teaching in the first place. (I've been more blessed in that regard this semester than ever before.)

The assignment was to write a creative essay about one's following of a certain style in art. The students were encouraged to push this idea as far as they could take it. What follows is one result. When one invites creativity from the offspring of English professors, the results are seldom boring. Enjoy.

Over the last two years, I have been a close follower of my son's style of eating. Jackson, also known as The Savage, mastered the fine art of solid food consumption before his first birthday and has since explored a variety of techniques for exploring, testing, tasting, and on occasion, actually digesting the meals provided for him.

His initial suppers served a la high chair always came with the requisite spoon. At first this spoon was used merely as a tool of entertainment or as a missile and his finely minced meats, vegetables and sauces were as finger paint to the palette. Most items designed to journey to his belly were smeared ferociously about the high chair tray, his hair and face in a method most German Expressionist. Jack's direct approach to the deliberate plastering of his food in thick heavy strokes directly mirrored not just his curiosity, but his angst and rebellion with having to follow the traditional rule of sitting quietly while eating.

As Jack's fine motor control increased, so did his desire to control the quality and taste of his media. However, the fervor with which he enjoyed his meals developed a more Abstract-Expressionist quality. Food was dumped from his plate immediately and then flung, spattered, dotted in decided rows of clumps on the floor or in random spatterings on the window behind his chair. Experiments with the translucence of food as a result of smearing or of the effects of layering the various colors and consistencies—such as red beans and rice over applesauce-- became direct parallels to his study of Jackson Pollock prints from time spent perusing my bookshelf. The spoon and fork became more forcefully used instruments to push, scrape and splay tasty material. Even his cup, between being thrown forcefully and retrieved, would be used to practice inking and stamping a circular shape of mashed food, the symbolism of importance only understood by the little artist himself.

In the past few months, however, Jackson's style of consumption has had a massive overhaul and new direction. The spoon, fork, and cup are now used in a more traditional manner and the tasting and digestion seems to have a more naturalistic approach. He executes more restraint keeping his colorful meals on the plate and prefers to keep the colors from touching or blending. Violent heavings of food upon floor are less frequent, as is the aforementioned flying cup. His tray, once heavily impastoed, remains only slightly delineated with crumbs or sauce bits. His face, however, still retains the lean toward the free-food painting of the Expressionist eater. While Jack is not alone in this current trend, his enthusiasm and pervasive public restaurant displays make him a pioneer in this final style, which I call Realist Nouveau.

The styles of Jack's dining have traveled through various courses of exploration, one set of standards building upon the next. One can only guess the duration of his current food study and the progression into a following, unnamed, undecided phase. This critic thoroughly hopes, though, that the spirit of Jack's eat-ability and the joy he brings to table continues to influence not just fellow consumers, but to inspire onlookers to loftier heights of parental appreciation.

Holiday Meme, Continued

[Update: All I've done is change the time on this post to better reflect when it truly hit the air. Seems if I start a post at some point, and eventually go back and finish it, the "post" time is from when it was originally created, unless I manually update it. I'm still learning.]

For the first nine questions and their answers, as well as general background and instructions on this quiz, go here first. If you've already been there, here are my answers to the rest.

9. Do you have a Nativity Scene? No. My ex does. I don't have diddly this year. Even the tree ornaments and lights that I did keep are in storage in Colorado. But . . . thanks to my youngest daughter, I have this great set of holiday Penguin kitchen towels and a little penguin doll and a penguin cup and they're all sort of Christmasy. And when we went to the dollar store tonight, I bought a bow to go on the front of the Jeep. The question was really about decorations, right? So, baby penguins . . . I have baby penguins. And they make me happy, because they remind me of my own child.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? I can't remember the last time I sent out Christmas cards in digits or with digits. Life's been on hold for longer than I care to think about really.

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Think I'll pass on this one. I've never received a gift that didn't make me happy to have been thought of.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? Whichever one I get to watch while listening to the laughter of my daughters.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Generally, the day after grades are in for the fall semester. Up till then, I'm usually just trying to survive.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas Present? Not exactly. The closest I've ever come has been getting a bottle of some really good adult beverage taken from me more than once at those holiday parties where you draw numbers and when your turn comes you can choose to take a gift from under the tree and open it or you can shark someone else's that's already been unwrapped. Then I learned that if you open the bottle the minute you unwrap it and take a big swig while everyone is still watching, you can really cut down on the number of people willing to shark your bottle of Gentleman Jack.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Barbeque has to rank up there. Used to be, my dad would have all my aunts and uncles over one night just before Christmas. He'd buy a whole barbequed pork shoulder from Gary's, in China Grove, and chop it all himself. Dinner was barbeque sandwiches with cole slaw, chips and dip, and coconut layer cake or chocolate pound cake he would make from scratch and lock in tupperware on the cold back porch. The pound cake would go "sad," i.e., the bottom half inch or so would become this rich, moist, almost fudge-like layer. My oldest daughter remembers it as one of her favorite things about Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa's. I guess, really, I do too.

16. Lights on the tree? Yes? As opposed to no lights? Candles? Yes, lights. White preferably.

17. Favorite Christmas song? "Carol of the Bells" ranks up there, because I remember loving singing it so much in Men's Chorus, under the direction of Frances Cowan, the greatest gift many of us ever received during our three years at South. Lately though, I think singing "Baby, It's Cold Outside," with my youngest daughter has to take first place.

18. Do you stay home for Christmas? Where's home? I know I may be wearing this particular tune out, but I'm going to resort to Edwin McCain again:

So I raise a toast to family
Put thanks in my glass
In the arms of your loved ones
It's the only home that lasts

So, yeah, I stay as close to home as I can, wherever that is.

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer's? Well, no. But I did remember there were eight of them, and I could remember six without any trouble.

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Definitely tree top; I can't reach a star, and if I could, no one would be able to see it there anyway.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Yes. My family's tradition was always Christmas morning. But one tradition we adopted from my ex-wife's was that of opening one present on Christmas night, and that present was always a new set of PJ's, usually worn for the first time on Christmas morning. Of course, there was that one time when my mother-in-law gave us all bright red cotton PJs. By the end of the next morning, her beautiful white couches were a sad shade of pink from everyone sitting around on them during the festivities. I'm pretty sure she got a new set of couches out of that. The couches weren't much older than the PJ's, and that really shouldn't have happened.

Funny thing, remembering that, and remembering Christmas in my in-laws house brings back a flood of memories, mostly good. For a moment there, I could smell Christmas. Funny how that works. I hope their holidays are joyful.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? Being too busy to enjoy it. The rhythm of an academic life is such that the busiest time of every semester comes near the end. For the fall, that means that when I'd love to be shopping and sending out Christmas cards, I'm usually writing finals and grading essays. That annoys me. One of these days, I'm going to find a way to beat it.

23. What theme or color are you using? Well, red and green, of course. Duh.

24. Favorite food for Christmas dinner? I'd have to say my mother-in-law's prime rib, and black, pitted olives, and sweet midget pickles. I'm easy.

25. What do you want for Christmas this year? I want to spend it with people that I love. That's all. Really. And I intend to.

I'll be away from my daughters for only the second Christmas since their births, but this one will be far better than one spent in a tent in Afghanistan. I'll miss them, but I'll expect them to have a joyous day with their mother, and I plan to find great joy in my day as well.

26. Who is most likely to respond to this? I would have said maybe Buck, or possibly Jay or Phil. Their blogs are personal enough for something like this to feel at home. But the fact is, the answer is already in: Buzzard sent me a response in e-mail yesterday. You are the man, Buzzard.

27. Who is least likely to respond to this? Of people subscribed to this blog, I'm going to say Mom and Dad. They'll read and enjoy. That'll be enough.

And that wraps it up. Have a great holiday y'all. I hope nothing above was too shocking. Now you know me a little better.

Reunion

I'm writing this quickly on Thursday night, because my life is about to pick up pace for the next few days. My daughter arrives in Charleston from Colorado Springs on Saturday (the day this should post, if I get this right).

We have cars to look at, movies to see, colleges to tour, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins to visit, feasts to enjoy, tattoos to discuss, beaches to walk, and general catching up to do. If I could, I would stop time on Saturday and just bask for a while in her presence. Our sons and daughters grow up way too fast. And you can tell a young parent, "You're gonna miss this," until you're blue in the face. Until that time comes, they really have no idea. So, rather than missing anything, I plan to enjoy every second of the next week, until I put her on a plane back to Colorado the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

I've been good lately about posting something every day. If I'm not so good this coming week, I hope you'll come back. With luck, I'll have plenty stories to tell by then. Just in case I don't make the time between now and then, I say up front, I hope everyone out there has a grand Thanksgiving in the company of the people they love most.

So I raise a toast to family
Put thanks in my glass
In the arms of your loved ones
It's the only home that lasts
--Edwin McCain

Peace ya'll.

Slàinte an Rìgh, na Bàn-righinn, 's an teaghlaich rìoghail!

Or, if, like me, you need that translated: Health to the King, the Queen, and the royal household!

I'm behind and likely to stay that way in my reading of friends' blogs, but I took a moment over cappuccino this morning to catch up a little, and I learned that good friend Jay, aka "The Piper," celebrated a birthday a few days ago. I promised him a toast today, and in fulfillment of that promise, I here submit the proof: my glass sitting on the pier that projects from my abode into Shem Creek, across the harbor from Charleston.


The quality's not so good, having lost my real camera on the trip west with my daughter back in May. But you get the point. Jameson, on the rocks with a twist of lime. While pipes are decidedly Scottish, I've reason to believe that the "King" in this instance, prefers his whiskey Irish, and has the good taste, I think, to lean toward the distillery who's work is melting the ice in that glass.

Were it high tide, all that marsh grass would be awash, but such is not the luck at my morning and evening walks just now. Give it a week.

I was trying to explain to a friend (in the flesh) the other day how remarkable it feels to now consider some of my best friends to be folks I've never actually met in the flesh. Such is the blogosphere. But Jay, I have met, and his family. And I'll have to concur with Wayman Tisdale, a fine family it is.

Happy Birthday, Jay. Better late than never.

Cheerwine: "The Nectar of North Carolina"

I managed, in a 27-yr Air Force career, to be stationed in or next door to North Carolina for ten of those years. The other 17 were split between Colorado and California. During the 10 years in Colorado, I used to get my "southern fix" in a couple of different ways, largely with the help of my Dad. Sometimes he just made sure when I was packing up to drive back from a visit that I wasn't forgetting essentials. Other times, he would ship those essentials to me. Essentials, in this case, translates to cases of Cheerwine and gallon jars of Duke's mayonnaise--two of the first things to enter my fridge in the new place here on the SC coast.

So, I thought it worth noting that there were two articles in the hometown paper Thursday about the soft drink I grew up considering a natural part of the world. The first regards "a new branding, packaging and marketing campaign" and the second tells us that, "Cheerwine has taken a foothold in New York City."

I couldn't help but smile at both of these. I could smile because it doesn't sound, for now at least, as if the company is trying to make itself into anything new. Rather, it sounds as though they're wisely attempting to do a better job of marketing what Cheerwine has always been. The article's quote from the company's CEO pretty much nails it: "Those who know and love Cheerwine have always connected the brand to simple and relaxed times, hanging out, eating Southern barbecue and being laid back." So long as they don't mess with that, I don't expect too many people will get bent out of shape about new packaging. It's changed before.

And that image of what Cheerwine is really all about is why I also had to smile at the second article. I recently had a series of conversations with several friends about the difference between Yankees and damned Yankees. You can't really fault a person for the geography of his or her birth. But you can sure fault them for their attitude, blue and grey alike. I have good friends who are Yankees; damned Yankees give me a fairly wide berth.

Here's why. Throughout my sojourns into over a dozen foreign countries through the years, I've tried, everywhere I've gone, not to be the obnoxious American (I'd have said Yankee here, but it might have muddied my point, despite the upsetting behavior being pretty much the same in either case). I've tried to make it clear that I've been interested in learning about the culture of the place I was visiting, in occasionally immersing myself in that culture, in appreciating it for its own values and pace. I have tried, studiously, to avoid giving any impression that I expected that culture to conform to my values, my pace, my concept of the shape the world should hold. I have tried, tried consciously, carefully, consistently, not to be a "damned Yankee."

I've noticed, especially now that I'm back here in the land of y'all somewhat permanently I hope, that some of these people are noticeable before they say a word. They wear an expression much as if someone had just waved a teenager's unwashed sneaker under their nose a good month into gym class. They hate it here. The pace irritates them. The culture we treasure, they revile. They cannot understand why, if the North won the war over a century ago, the South should remain so utterly foreign a place to them. They want quick service, they don't want to know how you're doing, and would rather you didn't ask about them. Their desire, their expectation even, is that we should have been just like them by now. On the whole, they are a good example of the very things that make the stereotypical obnoxious American abroad obnoxious. They are, if you think about it, a good example of some of the most misguided features of American policy abroad: the inappropriate drive, not to thoroughly understand a foreign culture and work within it to emphasize the better qualities, but to reshape it wholesale toward an American model. I'm well aware that we don't always get it this wrong, but on the whole, I think we far too frequently do.

But, I digress. My point is simple. The war goes on folks, never doubt it. It's not for real estate now though. It's for hearts and minds. The culture is both the battleground and the prize. And in that war, food is one of our main weapons. So when I read in that second article:

Brother Jimmy's Barbecue, which has six restaurants in New York, has begun offering Cheerwine with its traditional North Carolina-style barbecue and hush puppies. 'We have finally brought the nectar of Carolina to New York City,' said Jim Goldman, an owner and founder of Brother Jimmy's BBQ.

I couldn't help but smile. I had to smile at Brother Jimmy's slogan too: "Put Some South in Yo Mouth." Yeah! Take that ya'll.

Bhut Jolokia; Gotta Get Some of 'Dat

Foodie Jay will appreciate this one.

As I strive to find some sort of routine in my life, I've begun to breakfast in front of the computer, scanning not one paper online, but about eight. Occasionally, something other than a headline distracts me. Like this feature from the Charleston Post & Courier about the Bhut Jolokia pepper.

This pepper has a flowery aroma and taste similar to a Habanero, but the similarity stops right there. Heatwise, the Jolokia, at 1,001,000 SHU (Yes, that's right. That's not a typo.), blows the doors off the typical Habanero, which can muster only a paltry 250,000 SHU. Even the Savina Habanero can put out only 577,000 SHU. The Jolokia's flavor is like a sip of nectar ... with a napalm chaser.

That's what I'm talkin' about.

Sunset Gourmet, Sunset Beach, NC

New Yelp review posted for Sunset Gourmet. Great little place. Sat there for a while this afternoon and worked. Had lunch (shredded, sharp cheddar w Jalepenos, grilled on a ciabatta roll, homemade potato salad, dill pickle; dessert was a chocolate chip muffin with white icing and shredded coconut; beverage was dark coffee you could just hover over and breathe). Great people too. Then sat outside here after they closed and worked until my battery died and watched a few dozen people come up and try the door and go away disappointed. They close at 3, but not for lack of business. Everybody deserves a life. ;-)

New Orleans's Long Road Back

An important step on the road to recovery, from anything, is the ability to face criticism again. So it's worthy of note that New Orleans has reached a milestone of sorts.

From today's New York Times:

New Orleans has gotten its beans back.

These are not the creole red beans that hold a sacred place on Monday lunch menus across the city. Rather, they are the measures of restaurant quality that the city’s daily newspaper awards. Let other critics use stars; The Times-Picayune deals in beans.

In its Friday issue, for the first time since every restaurant in the city shut down after Hurricane Katrina nearly three years ago, the newspaper was handing out beans alongside a formal restaurant review.

Ryan Blanchard, Chef Supreme

Every now and then, I'll mention Plate World Cuisine in a post. I have dinner there during happy hour a couple times a week, or sometimes, just stop in for a beer at the bar and conversation with a friend. I can't ever say enough about the phenomenal quality of the food. Phenomenal.

Ryan Blanchard is why. So here's a link to an article from this past Wednesday's Gazette and a teaser to tell you what it's all about. Enjoy.

Ryan Blanchard is no Emeril Lagasse, at least when it comes to being a bombastic, flamboyant, larger-than-life celebrity.

But he might be every bit as talented where it counts: in the kitchen.

Tonight, Blanchard — executive chef at Walter’s Bistro and Plate World Cuisine — will prepare a six-course lobster-themed meal at the esteemed James Beard House in New York City, an invitation-only gig extended to the top cooks in the U.S.

Few chefs get even one invitation. This is Blanchard’s second in three years, but he’s not one to broadcast the achievement. He’s modest and soft-spoken, and can’t believe his good fortune.

“I was really surprised the first time I was invited to the Beard House,” Blanchard says. “I never thought I’d be invited again, but when they read about my lobster-themed dinners I was doing at Walter’s, they asked if I’d come and do one there. Of course, I jumped at the chance.”

Five Easy Pieces, Gunther Toody Style

To be completely honest, I don't know that I remember a single thing about the rest of this movie. To be even more honest, having just watched the trailer to jog my memory, I don't really believe I've ever seen Five Easy Pieces in its entirety. I will see it soon though--not because of all the awards it was nominated for, but because Buck recommended it, and I've yet to be steered wrong by most of my blogging friends (we'll just pretend Idiocracy never happened, Barry). But somewhere along the line, quite some time ago, before there was a YouTube, I did see the diner scene, and I remembered it.

I remembered it well enough to employ it one morning a couple of months ago when I woke up on a weekend craving biscuits and gravy. I make a pretty mean gravy. Mean enough that I'd rather make it myself and just have it on toast than order it out. But the "uncured" bacon in my fridge had become rather furry, so I headed out to Gunther Toody's. Unfortunately, I arrived about five minutes past eleven, just outside breakfast hours. Problem.

"Sorry. Biscuits and gravy is a breakfast item and we just stopped serving breakfast," said Toby.

"Really?" Jack Nicholson to the rescue. Without hesitation, I said, "Tell you what. Can I order a side of biscuits?"

"Sure."

"And you serve Elvis Fries all day, right? Aren't they smothered in gravy?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, bring me a side of biscuits and an order of Elvis Fries, except bring the gravy on the side. Can you do that. Or, if you really want to be a pal, put that in as the order and charge me for it, but put the biscuits on a plate and pour the gravy over the biscuits."

The kid just grinned at me. "You got it, sir." He'd never seen the movie. I asked. So, he thought I was a genius, and I just tried not to shatter the illusion. He brought me the biggest plate of biscuits and gravy I've ever tried to eat.

It didn't work out so well for Jack Nicholson's character, but that scene has to be one of the all time classic examples of thinking outside the box. I clearly never forgot it. Thanks Jack.

Robert Galloway Kirkpatrick Jr.

In the course of attempting to find the proper term for the phrase, "These aren't the droids you're looking for," Barry (over at Enrevanche) and I discovered a common friend in our past. Friend, teacher, and mentor. Robert Galloway Kirkpatrick Jr's name appears on the title page of my bound MA thesis in the library of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill because if there is much value in it, he is largely responsible for it. And I have to say that he is largely responsible for more than that in whatever I may ever have contributed to any classroom in which I sat facing students.

Barry happened to witness our old teacher in what wouldn't even have been an atypical moment, as his quiet good sense reduced Bill O'Reilly to not much more than sputters. He was, in my recollection, one of the finest examples I've ever seen of the effectiveness of simply allowing the truth to do its own work against falsehood and wrong-headedness. The transcript of that exchange is available here, but I'll warn you that the hosting site is, rather sadly, on the side of O'Reilly, and posted the transcript by way of rebutting a Washington Post article (the link for which seems to have expired) that itself is written in admiration of Professor Kirkpatrick's exchange with the talk show host.

One of my own favorite memories of the man (and there are plenty to choose from) comes from a conversation we had one day, over lunch in the shaded courtyard of his Chapel Hill home, during a pause from the detailed attention he gave my thesis from start to finish. We were talking about the wonder of children's acquisition of language and he used a recent example from his own life to illustrate how idioms work, being constructions whose meaning is markedly different from what the literal meaning of the words might imply to a non-native or very young speaker.

The example centered around a recent train trip he had taken with his family, and while I'm sure I won't remember it perfectly, I think I can convey the gist. As the time to board the train approached, he had sensed the growing nervousness of his young son. He reported that when he finally pressed the young man as to the cause of his growing apprehension, the answer created one of those indelible memories that form the center of family stories to be told and retold, and also gave him an important insight into the nature of idioms. "If we're going to ride on the train," his son asked, "how will we get up there and what will keep us from falling off?"

I was deeply saddened to hear of his passing three years ago. 64 seems young to me now. If there is one thing abundantly clear in the recollections of him published in the faculty newsletter and the campus newspaper, it is that he touched every life he encountered with a depth that was rare and very nearly universal. I wouldn't even be surprised to find that, after a little time, the professor's words sank in through even Bill O'Reilly's professionally thick skull. Quiet truths, meticulously laid out and supported, have a way of doing that. And that, in itself, is probably one of the most important things I ever learned from Professor Kirkpatrick.

That, and how to make a really, really good tuna salad sandwich.