racheld

We never found Dreamland in Atlanta---I was just going by a Google and word-of-mouth on this and other food sites. JR'S did, however, have a prominently-large chalked-in "Nanner Puddin'" just above our heads, along with Cherry Cobbler and ice cream. We'll be doing a "BBQ" for some visiting Brit friends in August, and desserts will feature Banana Pudding and Brownie Pie, along with watermelon, of course. I so badly wanted to do a lawn tea for their visit this year, but they've been craving Chris' wonderful mesquite ribs. We're down to about a tenth of a rick of the kindling-sized pieces, from a pickup-load brought up by Daddy from Texas the year before he passed on.

Anybody in the Nashville area who hears me say, "It was just like walking into UNCLE BUD'S," will know what I mean. We had been told of a place called "Mike's Catfish" in Murfreesboro by the people at our hotel a couple of I-65 South trips ago. We had stopped in with all the grandchildren for a very late lunch, and found the place almost empty at that time of day. Chris always goes for the whole catfish, and he was MORE than happy with the plate he received. He'd ordered a platter of "Catfish Chips" for the table, and even the little ones enjoyed crunching on the crispy, thin curls of sliced fish, dredged in a flavorful meal-based coating and deep-fried. The platter came out hot and sizzly and seemed enormous, looking like a three-inch pile of golden leaves. The children, of course, most enjoyed forays to the big tank to watch the two "freshwater sharks" swimming their eternal dance with the bubbles. One lone little goldy-striped fish lurked amongst the plastic greenery, whether pet or companion or lunch, and was still peeping out from its hidey-hole when we left. And then on last weekend's trip, it was just Chris and me, on the way home from a visit to the kids in Atlanta---again a late lunchtime, not too great a crowd. This time, walking in was a tiny jolt of nostalgia, for the black-and-white checked oilcloths, the silly "kountry" signs on the walls, the fragrance of fish and hushpuppies from the kitchen and surrounding tables---all quickened the anticipation, for the late, lamented Uncle Bud's Catfish of years gone by. We sat, and further authenticity presented as a smiling waitress thumped down a bowl of white beans, a bowl of mayonnaise slaw, and a basket of hushpuppies with a still-audible fryer-hiss rising from their beautiful brown roundness. We looked at each other, hoping and remembering---and it was just the same. The exact flavors, the same onion-slice-and-pickle-wedge presented on a tiny plate, the same fat squeeze-bottles of tartar sauce with the tips shorn to accommodate the thick sauce. Chris ordered "two whole" and I ordered a cheeseburger---I'm not at all a fish/seafood person, but I'm delighted to watch him enjoy it. It's the same with his fondness for sushi---I'll sit and watch the beautiful, colorful ballet of the knife, and enjoy his enjoyment. I appreciate the art of it, and don't have to taste it. Burger was the usual for me---mustard, pickle, onion---a juicy, thick patty with a toasted bun and a cheese slice fresh from the plastic, drooping its corners properly over all. His fish was perfect. His first criterion is crispy tails, which he snaps off and crunches while they're still at their peak of crunch; everybody at our table at home always breaks off the fishtails and puts them on his plate. They passed muster, and he proceeded to fork-fillet the fish from one end to the other, lifting the whole thick steaming ribbon at once, neatly leaving a polished, shiny bone for the now-empty hushpuppy basket. Refills were forthcoming, though the bowls of beans and slaw were way more than enough for two. In fact, I brought home half my burger, and he just last night finished the last cold catfish with pink sauce, alongside a shrimp salad---it's been in the 90's here for DAYS, and cold supper was perfect. Mike's Catfish is at 1618 NW Broad St. in Murphreesboro, off to the right as we went in from northbound I-65, in a missable gray building which sports a "Pizza Hut" door handle, though the shape and color do not resemble any such building. Our waitress told us that Mike himself was in the house, and that he oversees all the food from start to finish, having been manager of one of the Uncle Bud's branches. I'm glad we found a step-child or a long-lost cousin or whatever Mike's is---it's nice to know it's there.

Can you tell me more about the onion "paper"? What is it? What does it taste like? ← My first thought was that it would be like one of those little Listerine strips placed on the tongue, but wisping in the most delicate, ethereal essence of a sublime vegetable. There, and then gone, but remembered well.

Does it crumble? Can it be cut into squares? Does it have a sugary feel in your mouth or crystally between your teeth? Intriguing.

What a fun thing to know---I'll look for some in our favorite Asian market. Thanks!! (And if they turn out to be the too-hard ones, we'll just have a tournament in the back yard. I bet I can still outspit Chris!)

Pooh.

We were in Atlanta for a hurried weekend of family visiting, and seemed to drive for hours in rush-hour traffic in pounding rainstorms. Scary. We also drove in search of Dreamland Barbecue, which DS had seen "somewhere" along one of the Peachtrees. I had, by coincidence, Googled it because of something someone mentioned in the Birmingham/Tuscaloosa area, so I was game to try it. We gave up and settled for (operative words) a place called J.R's Barbecue. Well, it had a good whiff of real smoke in the parking lot, and the heavy-wood booths were appropriately grimy. Our server was an obviously new hire--a young woman named Reeka, whose eyes disappeared up into her skull when the guys mentioned "on tap"---she struggled to name them, deep high eye-roll between each as she slowly quoted "Corona" and "Michelob Light" as they marveled that a so out-of-the-way-place would have Corona on tap. She corrected herself when they questioned. A little arm waving toward the neon, and a "that's what we have---it's all in bottles, but you CAN have any of it in a glass." No pulled on the menu, but of sliced and chopped, they recommended chopped. So we ordered: Order of dry ribs for Chris, beans and slaw. Half order of Lion Ribs for DS; Brunswick and fries (he'd told us before we went that they had the "best Brunswick in Atlanta." Child's plate of chopped, fries for Gracie, with a teensy dipping-bowl of sauce on the side. She daintily pierced each tiny piece with just the far-left-tine of her fork and dipped gingerly, each and every bite. A chopped sandwich, with sides of slaw, beans and potato salad for me. It came with two, but I always like to taste the three standards. Sandwich came in a foil-backed paper wrapper---flashback to Elementary School, with the same wrapping, same wafting of the scent of long-wrapped burgers and Sloppy Joes in the bright-lit cafeteria. Opening the packet revealed a very soft bun, misshapen from its cocooning and spilling little chunks of pork with a very red coating. Very red means danger in more places than CNN---a bright barbecue sauce is the Kiss of Death. It needs the depth of the smoke and the long-cooked tang of good vinegar and a bit of brown sugar and some roasty peppery additions. Bright red is for Ketchup Ribs, of which there are legion up here and from which I flee in anguish at the waste. I forked on slaw, maneuvered the soggy item, took a bite. The pork was tender, but could have been turkey or tofu, for bright sauce carried the day, obscuring everything but its Heinzy beginnings. The beans were anointed with more of the same, with no discernable additions of onion, peppers, meat, but they HAD been baked/simmered long, into that unctuously thick lumpy gravy which passes for baked beans late on Saturday night. The slaw was a vinegary sort, but very yellow, and not in the good way that Smokehouse slaw is golden and rich and sweet and mysteriously wonderful, despite its common beginnings. The potato salad, however, was another story. It showed the wispy skins of freshly-cooked baby reds, with just a nip of minced onion and good rich mayonnaise---a dish worthy of any picnic, family reunion or Church Supper anywhere. The guys' ribs were wonderful---smoky and richly porky, with a wonderful mouth-rip as you bit, and the little torn shreds evident on your tongue. Fall-off-the-bone is WAY over-rated---that happens when even pit-smoked ribs are confined under foil and steamed in their own heat, let alone those travesties STARTED in the oven. You should have to work a little on good ribs---a gentle rip bringing the bites loose, having to maneuver the last shreds from the bone by baring your teeth and doing a little mouth-work, as age-old a ritual as the first stick-and-a-fire kitchen. We'd been told that Dreamland offers RIBS and nothing but ribs. J.R.'s should have such a a reputation---those ribs would do Memphis proud. I wish I'd ordered those instead. And the tea---sweet or not---came in quart glasses. Gracie ordered "sweet" and drank one and a half. I guess she'd missed the South.

Jerry, This is really an enjoyable read---your conveyance of the tastes and colors and textures just puts the flavors into such FEELABLE words. I've not been blessed with a palate for wine, but your words, your words. You have a gift for taking a reader right with you, and this has been a sumptuously enjoyable vicarious pleasure---I feel as if I've tasted everything.

Andie---I learned to make the thinnest Melba toast from a nice man who worked for Chris' Dad down South. His greatest conversation gambit was to mention that his Mother had been a cook in the Royal Household of Sweden. And since for such a big gruff guy he knew how to prepare odd little dainty food, I believed him. He would make a slice of toast, cut off the crusts with a serrated knife, then run the knife through the still-soft center bread to make two slices of the one. Then he'd lightly toast it again. But he didn't know what I meant when I said "Melba Toast." It was "Tea Toast."

I bought six jars of Duke's mayo at Publix on Peachtree Blvd. this past weekend. It may be old hat to those of you who are already DOWN there, but it was great to me---Indiana doesn't seem to have it ANYWHERE. (And six was all they had, in regular, though the Light and Sugar-Free were in good supply). Sugar free mayo?? But we didn't pass a single boiled-peanut vendor

I just noticed your fonts of excitement, and am glad to be of service. Well, Didja??? How'd it turn out?

I just stumbled onto this thread and had to add my YUMM and AHHHH and Oh, My Goodness!!! to all the others. I just loved the tour and all the colorful shops and stands and markets. I'm not a seafood person, and the dishes STILL made me want a taste. I hope you're going on another trip soon!!! PS---I wanted to buy some of everything, but what about the watermelon seeds? Are they toasted, salted, what? I only know them for spittin'.

Would it be anything like this? http://www.rubylane.com/shops/hannahshouseantiques/item/5818 This is almost the one we have, from my Mammaw's kitchen. There's no thick platform at the bottom of ours---it's just the two pieces, mold and stamp-handle. This is a little remembrance of the times I was entrusted with the so-important molding chore: I was allowed to pack the drained butter into the two-piece wooden butter mold. A little wooden handle like those on a darning egg had a flat round "stamp" on one end. The handle was inserted through a hole in the bottom of a wooden bowl about 5" across and 2" deep. The bowl was then packed with the soft butter and placed upside down on a saucer, then the requisite time for hardening in the icebox to set the pattern. Handle was pushed, butter emerged from bowl with the nice grooving from the bowl sides, plus a neat raised picture of a cow on top, courtesy of a carving in the "stamp" part. You pack the butter in soft, straight from the straining of the churn. Chill the entire thing on a little plate in the "icebox" and when it's properly hardened, push the handle down to eject the butter. A little knife-work around the edges of the still-attached handle part is sometimes necessary, to give you that satisfying smock of a properly-ejected Jello mold. Smooth off any fingerprints caused by your labor. And a little more cosmetic knife-smoothing around the little nicks you've made, and you're set to invite the Preacher to Sunday Dinner.

Just magnificent. It simply shines off the screen.

There's nothing that fits a ripe tomato slice better than being sandwiched between soft squishy Wonder Bread with a good slather of Duke's or Blue Plate and a sprinkle of salt. Eat with great pleasure and great danger to your apparel. My gasp was occasioned by the fact that the Caprese platter was flanked by a bottle of Ligurian olive oil and a squat bottle of Balsamic that was reputedly older'n ME. I thought it was such a classy arrangement, and THEN they clopped on the Blue Plate.

OHHHH, Klary!! Here's one for you, and it can cook while you watch an episode or two: "Blake's favorite: roast duckling." Prepared by the inestimable Mrs. Gunnerson in her vast kitchen. (courtesy of www.shoulderpads.something) And preceded by "cocktails and canopies" in the living room or on the terrace. So THAT'S where they got their over-inflated sense of their own importance.

I was just trying to think of something elegantly-worthy to eat from beneath those glamourous hats.

We just got back from a whirlwind trip to visit with the Georgia clan. Had some barbecue (so-so) and picked up six quarts of Duke's. The first Publix had the Light version and the Sugar-Free version, but no regular. The second one, and last resort on the highway out of Atlanta, had six jars on the shelf---no cases to be had. It sells WELL, I take it. They had L and SF versions, as well. Sugar-free?---I never heard of adding it in the first place. But my tuna sandwich at lunch tasted like Old Times. And our Brit friends will be here for their bi-annual trip next month. They always request a "Southern Barbecue"---cookout with ribs on the grill---so the potato salad and slaw will be perfectly authentic with their addition of Duke's. Maybe I won't gasp as much this time as I did at the last party, when a guest put a big clop of mayo on his serving of Caprese.

Chad, I'm enjoying this repartee immensely, and REALLY enjoyed the book. My tastes in the knife department are a bit plebeian, but that doesn't color or hamper my enjoyment of the descriptions and the lessons, or my admiration for your perseverance in research and knowledge of your subject. And thanks for all the follow-up---it's quite interesting, as well. rachel, who is vastly enamored of adjectives, herself, as if you couldn't tell

I love that clean house/afternoon nap bit, though the person who does the cleanup is mostly me, with a lot of platter-clearing and plate-scraping from the family. And it was always just perfect---we had Chris' birthday brunch on Superbowl Sunday for several years, when they had it the last week of January. That was nice, because we're not really sports people, and every one had usually cleared out by three or so to go watch the game at home or somewhere else. Then they moved the game, and we still have the brunch on the same weekend in January as we always did, but for the last two years, people have still been here at six o'clock.

We have been twice; report to follow once I finish up with all of the graduation parties I have "catered" (IMHO, catering is a term applied loosely -- I think it implies that you are paid for more than the supplies...). ← I eagerly await this year's reports---they respond to my forever longing for Camp in Maine, or a Northwoods cabin, or just whatever you have in that magical, mystical place of the shussssshing trees and the moonlight lake. The catering thing reminded me of a years-ago trip to a friend's cabin on a local lake---probably a twenty-mile drive from where we lived. She and I both looked at it as "no matter how close to home, it's NOT home; therefore it's a vacation." It coulda been right down the block---we didn't care. It was getting up at daylight to carry the first cup out onto the deck over the water, and going to sleep with the sounds of the night-frogs and the whispery wind. One time, she had "catered" her son's graduation party at home, working for weeks to get the garden and the house and all that food just right. She was exhausted, and so several of us packed up coolers and boxes of snacks and wine and soft drinks and met her there. One of my favorite memories of our friendship is sitting out on that sunrise deck, with the sounds of the day just beginning, the water at our feet, drinking strong percolator coffee from our big mugs and munching on the dozens of pecan tassies left over from the party. I'll never taste another one without smelling lake air.

Sis has twin DW's in her huge Texas kitchen, facing each other. One is to the right of the sink, the other in the island beside the smaller produce/bar-type sink. I have only one, which is plenty for us. I LIKE washing dishes, and so all the too-big items are hand-washed to a good book on the Bose. I WOULD, however many I had, see to it that they're situated beneath the upper spice or grocery cabinets, and not just below the shelves which hold the dishes. Lotsa back strain, or two separate operations with a lotta reach-around if you have to unload past the open DW door, putting into cupboards just above. Or you could, like my late FIL, wash ALL the dishes by hand, because the DW is where all the saved-up Country Crock tubs live.

AHHHH!! (where is the astonished gasp smiley?) Rosie Jetson has been out misbehaving herself, has she? What's the tot's name? And, owing to our long and cherished relationship on Saturday mornings, is there an address where I can at least send a onesie?

Awwwww, Toby!! Come to our house---we're all good cooks. And we'll let you pour.

I'll say And I'm Sorry, eGullet. I didn't know about the percentage. I used my 20% at Borders before I saw this. And I originally didn't know it was YOU, Chad. I attributed the title to another member, until I read the review the day before I bought it. And you and I do stick together---we both know the plural of y'all is all y'all. I'm not much of a tools person, but I can discuss handles and tangs and angles a LOT. I don't like anybody to sharpen my knives but me.