Carrot Top

I was just about to head out when I saw your post, tautog. I don't *do* destination dining anymore, having gotten tired of it some number of years ago. So divey Dockside Daves in (ha, ha!) "Mad Beach" (?) sounds just about right for me. I'm not fishing this time, but do tell about this Htai place you mentioned. What did you catch last time, and where is the place? Might do it next time. . . (P.S. Never saw a tautog in FL. . .used to catch them on City Island (NY) in a fishtrap I built out of chicken wire that I hung off the side of the boat we lived in then. . . )

I just had dinner here, at the Mangrove Grille (it supposedly won some sort of "best" award from someplace this year, and it happened to be outside the door, and I am tired of getting lost driving around. . . . Anyway, it was pretty decent. Got to see the sun set over the water. . the conch chowder tasted almost exactly the way I used to make it when I used to chase my own conchs down for chowder the year I lived in the Keys. . .the server admitted that all the fish offered was not *fresh* but *fresh frozen* (with a smile) so instead an enormous grilled pork chop with good seasonings and toppings and enough fresh vegetables to feed four was placed before me. The orange blossom pie was the sort of thing that one can eat in about two minutes flat no matter what. Nothing spectacular, but undemanding, good food, made by someone who knows how to cook well. Also got a tip from the waitress that "the only place she knew" around that actually *does* serve fresh never frozen grouper is "Dockside Dave's" (whatever that is ) so if we don't end up in Ybor City tomorrow, that might be a place to try.

I literally start to fall asleep when I read the science of cooking. I've had the McGee books and the Wolke books which are similar. My eyes start feeling heavy lidded and I feel like running away from home or falling asleep forever, having to read the "whys" of what I know how to do from experience, which is how to cook. A person can learn to cook from experience and from a visceral see and feel of the thing. The explanations of "why" are great if you love that stuff, or if you *want* a reason of why things happen so you can explain it to other people or just "know", yourself. . . I never wanted a reason - I wanted to *do* and to eat. I prefer a bit of mystery, magic, as to why this or that happens. The mind is free to wander into mythology then. Perhaps an egg white whips up because it has the soul of an old gleeful dragon within it. . .that sort of thing. So much more fulfilling than chemistry (to me) in the long run. I read the 1971 edition of Larousse from cover to cover when I first wanted to learn about food. Now *that's* fun reading. Really. It's a liturgy.

One is Science the other is Religion.

I've decided that the thing that bothers me about the "holidays" is mostly the glut. So much, too much. A celebration of excess when already *I* feel as if I live daily with more than enough. This year we made some changes. I didn't reduce the number of the children's gifts, but started the holiday last night, pretending to find them around the house and saying that Santa must have dropped them early by mistake. (Yes, they are old enough to know who Santa is. . ). They adore stuffed shells, so that's what we had for Christmas Eve supper last night. We ate our dessert first, though, which was a caramel-apple pie. No good reason, except we wanted to. Why wait for dessert? Why? Today for the "big" dinner we started the same way. Dessert first. Fresh pineapple and some chocolate eclairs. Then we felt like more sweets so we ate some frozen strawberry fruit bars. Soon the next part of "Christmas dinner" will happen. Veggies. Roast acorn squash with cranberry filling. . .asparagus with hollandaise. . . .a cucumber salad. . .portobello mushrooms sauteed with scallions and marsala. . .some endive spears just plain. . .roast red peppers with garlic and oregano. On the table, set to nibble. For a while. For whenever one is hungry. Inbetween we putter and open gifts and do things and be lazy, and some dishes are washed etc etc. It is very relaxing, and quite different from trying to pull the whole thing together in a certain way at a certain time all at once. Later, we'll have some turkey cutlets milanese with italian sausage-apple stuffing. If we're still hungry. That might be pretty late. Maybe a movie inbetween. A glass of wine for Mom. . . The day will end, of course, with more desserts. Start with dessert, end with dessert. It's the best way to be. Chocolate laced zabaione, anyone? Why not. There are no Pilgrims around here, nor those fellows from the painting of The Last Supper. Here, we can do what we please.

I might do that, Miriam. It really was just an excuse to bump up the thread (plus the monk's face made me giggle a bit when it popped up before me) but it seems like a very nice thing. Wish I had some now. Right now. Jolly holidays, all!

It was not my intention to *focus* on racism, at all. Nor to say that it existed more in the South than anywhere else. Anyone that has read my previous writings on the South might realize that, but more than that they might realize my very deep and very warm feelings about the place (and, as the place to me is the people, the people). Moreso even, the people that most "outsiders" might not ever get a chance to meet, those who do live and who have lived in the rural pockets of the South that maintain more of a certain personality or culture of individualism, possibly, that those who live in cities or suburbs, as in those places there are many transplants that shift the sense of the place, bringing in their own ways of being and doing. In particular, if you read this piece you might find in it more of a cultural defense of the South as a final result than even a discussion of Gourmet magazine. *But* I was having a feeling about two things that made me write what I did. First, the repetition of the phrase that the boundaries of the War were what should define the South. Personally, I think one can *always* find more positive boundaries than a War to define any area at all, unless one wants to focus on the War every time the place is thought of. To me, there are so many better things about the South than that war. I've had wars of sorts in my own life, and I don't choose to define myself by them, either, for in ways they seem to make me lesser rather than more. They are part of me, a big part - but *not* what I want to be remembered by. That is my own way of wishing to be. Just my opinion. Other's mileage may vary. It also seems to me that sugar-coating or pretty-ing up of things, romanticising them beyond their means, might be dangerous in a long-term way to anything. The culture of manners is a marvellous thing in the South, *but* to make it seem as if it were everywhere at all times might lead to *expectations* for those that do not know the South well. . .and when they do visit, if those expectations are not met for whatever reason, disappointment could follow. Better, I think, to say that a glass of water (to use the metaphor) is a magical yet true part of the culture that one *might* find, rather than promise that they will find it. Then, that truly wonderful gift that is given in times and places that happen when they happen, will be a real gift, not an expected prettiness, not a tap-dance done for those who wait to see it. I delved into rhetoric further when adding my two cents to Maggie's comments. I do agree with the *general idea* of her post (while knowing that of course there are certain foods that say "the South" to most people at all times and places), but more than that I was trying to make a point. Making a character out of oneself or out of one's culture, though manners and foodstuffs, is a two-edged sword. It can backfire when done too insistently, for human nature will rebel at the continued insistence of a theatrical sort. In hopes that this leaves my intent clearer, Karen (who has lived here ten years now and who yet will never be considered a "Southerner", most likely, unless a whole lot of moonshine happens to confuse someone for a brief moment or so. . .)

Probably The Decadent Cookbook by Medlar Lucan & Durian Gray.

I am seriously considering, in this moment, making some Mead from the Monastery. Sante!

A healthy breast of veal well trimmed and filled with cooked short grain rice, slivers of onion, chopped spinach, any sort of cheese you like, and maybe some prosciutto or country ham bits, browned then braised in white wine with aromatics is something that might be considered a food of the angels. Or the devils. Whichever seems right to you.

I love Gateau St. Honore, which of course is filled with chiboust. My favorite recipe for this simple classic comes from Lenotre. Interesting history notes to be found here on the origins.

I think of Marinetti as being someone who clearly and purposefully set out to express a philosophy through food, but of course he had a lot of words attached.

One of my favorite poems that has food in it is about a boy who eats a bug, and finds that not everybody thinks that is "okay". The pages are illustrated with watercolor/line drawings of big flying bugs and teachers who sprout wings of their own to disabuse the boy of any idea that he should eat these things.

Once when Henry Kissinger came to lunch, lunch had been plated and served for all of the twenty-seven people there. As he was the guest of honor, nobody wanted to pick up their fork first to eat. He kept rumbling on to the guy next to him in that marvellous deep voice of his, not too worried about eating apparently. The rest of the people were vaguely fidgeting and looking nervous and vaguely skinny even if they were fat. Finally he picked up his fork and so did everyone else, quickly. Problem was, now the food was approaching being cold. First the most critical guest summoned a waiter and asked for a fresh hot plate of food. Then, of course, not to be outdone, others followed suit. Some even asked for different items than they'd had before. Servers running hither and fro, round the table, in and out of the kitchen, fresh plates popping here and there while the people at the table still stared in admiration at Kissinger and grated their teeth at the servers. Silly.

I wonder if anyone is preparing for this sort of festivities this year. . . My favorite is roast goat.

I daresay we might see him someday on a television ad for some sort of comfy shoes.

Mmm hmm. Except Marlon's showy upper arms were even more well. . .whatever it is that they are supposed to be. Darn it all, but if it weren't for the health code laws we might get to see him in a chef coat designed like a wife-beater? (I hear that horn necklaces are back in style too ).

I would have responded to the towel question, but since I wasn't a line cook but rather an executive chef for a longer period of time, I forgot what it was like. Thanks for the memories, though. Karen

I'm not a "dieter" but once upon a time, because I wasn't feeling too great overall, I tried some of the ideas that are encompassed within what you are talking about. Started by eliminating dairy. That was a positive thing for me - may I say I was less snotty? Probably not. But anyway. You get the idea - a positive physical reaction occured. White sugar was eliminated next, to be replaced by honey or other sweeteners. May I say that I was less aggrevating? Probably not, but it made a small physical difference in how I felt over the course of a day. Caffeine was next to go, replaced by water and herb teas of choice. This was not too hard for me, for during two pregnancies, I had lost the desire for coffee and did without it, so knew it could be done, and might be even a kind thing to do for my physical constitution. May I say that I became a Zen warrior, able to smile at all and bite at none? Nope, but anyway, there might have been a little less intense heart-beating moments due to drinking the stuff as if it were the food of the gods, which I can tend towards doing. Red meat followed in the exodus. I didn't really long for it for there were many other good things to eat that replaced it, spicy delicious ways of cooking things. May I say that I became fascinatingly gorgeous and always able to answer the doorbell without needing to fluff my hair or check that indeed I did look okay without lipstick? Guess not, but there was less of that tired feeling after eating a meal that *did* include red meat. These are all good ideas, excellent ideas, for someone who wants to try a different way of eating in order to possibly feel better (which of course does lead to looking better ). If one already is completely pleased with the way they feel or the way they look, then obviously there would be no need for these ideas. But if one is *not* (anyone out there? nobody? hmmm ) completely satisfied with the way they look or feel, then these ideas are good ones to try, IMHO. I'm glad to hear of the good things that the several different "eating adventures" did for you, K8memphis. Best of luck with your most recent entry into adventure, and I will (metaphorically) raise a beansprout to your success!

I remember writing something several years ago in another thread about the South, about the manners of tall glasses of water and please thank you sir and ma'am - and being met by surprise by at least one person who was a born and bred Southerner (uh, yeah, of course y'all know I'm not - Yankees being a thing that as someone said above they could *definitely* recognize ). I think it was Dignan who said it, though it was a couple of years ago. He was surprised at what I described for it was more like the South of his youth - he said you "couldn't hardly find that sort of thing anymore". There's a certain romanticism that occurs in the idea of the South. I've lived in parts of the South where really, there were no glasses of water ready for anyone - be they the next door neighbor that hailed from "another part of the South" or, that thing one stretches the smile a bit to be sure it's pasted on in the right manner, a Yankee. Southerners and their foods share some parts of a common heritage, particularly the food that emerged that was grown in these areas. Yet this thing of being Southern as defined by manners might be something that might be harder to find in some areas more than others. I found this idea of the South expressed as a reality (the tall glass of water idea) in a rather untouched rural area that I lived in. Even there, though, there are plenty of human beings who do *not* ascribe to the idea of tall glasses of water offered to whomever passes by. People from the South are as individual as the rest of the world, and as subject to their likes/dislikes/inclusions and exclusions of other people. Yankees, Horsetraders and the Unchurched in particular being things that the glass of water does not come out to quite as immediately or quite as willingly perhaps. I do know that the idea of defining the South as the Confederate States solely can make some Southerners skin crawl (and not in a pleasant fashion), based on their own background. There's the tall glass of water on one side here, and some facts that do state otherwise in reality on the other side here. If the tall glass of water were to be made real, in every part of the South for every person and *from* every person, then I'd agree with it as a definer. I wish I could think of it as definer - that would be so wonderful. So, for me, I can't agree with the "tall glass of water" as definer and *won't* agree with the idea of the Confederate States as definer, for I think that idea of definer starts with some important exclusions of people that did live there then as being included as equal partners and that bothers me. 'Course I'm just a Yankee so none of this really matters. The South is a romantic idea. A great thing when you can find it. ................................................................................... Back to the food as singular focus, I have to say there's a lot I agree with in what Maggie wrote in an earlier post:

You bet. Especially with an endorsement from former colleague Janet Theophano, author of "Eat My Words: Reading Women's Lives Through the Cookbooks They Wrote," on Amazon.com. We all know that The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook is really an autobiography, but it looks like there is a growing body of literature examining how cookbooks and related guides actually communicated a lot more than the instructions on how to prepare food. ← Just finished the book, and it was fascinating. It covers women stuff, ethnic stuff, redneck/white trash stuff. . .("stuff" yeah, intellectual word there). . .race stuff, all within the parameters of the cookbooks written. I'll have to think about where these old Gourmets might fit into these concepts of looking at the thing from these aspects. It's not immediately apparent to me. (Surprise, surprise. ) ...................... I did, however, just get the new Gourmet holiday issue and am extremely pleasantly surprised. Something good is going on here, moreso to my mind than in perhaps several years past. I stopped reading it entirely for a while there due to extreme boredom with whatever it was that it was doing. This issue does not bore me at all.

A tall glass of water is what's offered if the intention is to hopefully clear off that front porch right quick without being straightforward rude. A cold glass of sweet tea means, sit on down for a spell, honey. ............................ Never did see any of those Southern women that were supposed to resemble shrinking violets, either, though I kept my eye out. Not a single one to be found, anywhere.

I miss Woolworth, though the last one I remember was on Fulton Street in downtown Brooklyn, which was a Place Unto Itself entirely. A super-Woolworth of sorts. Two floors even, with an escalator. And with quite an exciting lunch counter. I miss the end of winter with a shallow brook hidden in the barren woods out behind the house, where the ice would start to crack into small floes that were just large enough for a not-too-large child to climb onto and try to balance while pushing oneself along down the "river" with a broken tree limb, thinking either of Wind in the Willows or maybe punting on the Thames. . . (Always, always, soaked ice-cold feet encased in dreary wadded socks as the boots would never be quite tall enough to keep out the water when one fell into it. . .!) And I stray dangerously close to sacrilege, as my tourtieres are made all enclosed in a (toothsome to me) cream cheese pastry. Very nice story, Maggie, with its sense of a chill world outside, a warm hearth inside. A Joyeux Noel to you, too.

In the past week I've heard two great songs that made me think of this story and thread: "Pick Up The Pieces" by Average White Band "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay" by Otis Redding The first is the best song in the world to add energy to the kitchen. The second is the one to run and turn off real quick unless you want everyone heading for a beer (oh excuse me I mean a bottle of water of course) and some good old hanging-out time outside the kitchen door. . .

I think I might want to use the words due "to being shaped a certain way by the larger culture they lived within" rather than "due to oppression", though.