There was nothing exceptional about the meal, but the experience was truly invigorating. Only six miles from our St. Elmo home, Dave’s Modern Café is in Tiftonia, a place very few people have any reason to go, unless you’re getting on the interstate, having glass cut at the Ace Hardware, or looking for a local hotel that accepts multiple dogs.
Modern Dave’s is plywood, literally, yes, but also figuratively—a piece-meal of old retro-modern booths from some long-gone diner, a waitress who may or may not have ever travelled the ten miles to downtown, Christmas lights, and a mauve toilet circa ‘85. In spite of all this, Modern Dave’s has a feel—perhaps it’s legitimacy, perhaps it’s just the dim lighting.
Chris’s dish Pork, Turkey, and Beef Penne utilized the smoke-house meats not consumed the evening before. And its smokiness deepened the red sauce to create a different flavor entirely. But what I truly loved was the recycled concept, the owner-chef mentality of it all. The rest of the food was good, satisfactory, but the experience—and the fake raccoon made of authentic unspecified pelt—will pull me back.
A few years ago, for a lone lunch, I went to a French restaurant located in a strip mall. The owner—in her eighties and wearing Bridgette Bardot’s eyelashes—offered me melon because it was good that day; she sprinkled it with freshly-ground black pepper. She also demanded that, after my quiche, I enjoy her Chocolate-Chambord cake; I had no choice. What I didn’t eat I was instructed to take home for my husband.
No matter how shabby or ill-located, restaurants like these have a certain intimacy that speaks of a simpler mentality—the sort of mentality that Chris and I try to live by but seem to forget when we leave the house: eating what is good, in season; utilizing what’s left over; making do. And maybe the magic of these places is that they make you feel like you’re eating in even when you’re eating out.
4.28.2008
4.04.2008
Shame Food
As I painfully admit in my SCRATCH draft, there are two particular foods I am embarrassed not to like: blue cheese and yolky eggs. My aversion to eggs is limited: I will happily mix and enjoy homemade aioli; I’m more than pleased to sneak finger-fulls of raw cookie dough; and I eat scrambled eggs—ketchup-dipped, lots of pepper—with great delight. And cheese of any sort except blue is good-grub (as are fungus foods like mushrooms and kombucha; fermented foods like sauerkraut and yogurt).
But here’s the part that stings: millions of non-foodie, taste-challenged plebians who can’t whip together a vinaigrette love these foods. I see them everywhere: ordering black-and-blue burgers for lunch; gobbling Maytag fondue with sweet potato chips at the bar; dousing their toast points and bacon in glistening yolk for brunch. Shame on me!
But there are foods I’m embarrassed to love as well—Peeps, for instance. Last week, half-price at $.49/package, I tried to hide four packages—two pucker pink, two anything-but-natural green—among my carrots, spinach, and celery and sneaked around avoiding A.) Anyone with dreadlocks B.) Those who would recognize me as the local spice artisan. Bingo! I gleefully decapitated two pink peeps as soon as I got in the car.
Peep love is simple: I do like my Peeps stale, but I never have them around long enough to get a good, chewy one going. Instead, I embrace the contrast of the neon sugar’s grit against the fluffy nothingness of peep-body. And I will not accept bunny, snowman, jack-o-lantern, or any shape other than true Peep. It’s in the way the tail curls, the i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your-body crease at the chin.
I’m coming to grips with my shame foods, from chicken-to-be to chicken-like-marshmallow. Share you shame foods, and we’ll offer a nice thanks-but-no-thanks together.
But here’s the part that stings: millions of non-foodie, taste-challenged plebians who can’t whip together a vinaigrette love these foods. I see them everywhere: ordering black-and-blue burgers for lunch; gobbling Maytag fondue with sweet potato chips at the bar; dousing their toast points and bacon in glistening yolk for brunch. Shame on me!
But there are foods I’m embarrassed to love as well—Peeps, for instance. Last week, half-price at $.49/package, I tried to hide four packages—two pucker pink, two anything-but-natural green—among my carrots, spinach, and celery and sneaked around avoiding A.) Anyone with dreadlocks B.) Those who would recognize me as the local spice artisan. Bingo! I gleefully decapitated two pink peeps as soon as I got in the car.
Peep love is simple: I do like my Peeps stale, but I never have them around long enough to get a good, chewy one going. Instead, I embrace the contrast of the neon sugar’s grit against the fluffy nothingness of peep-body. And I will not accept bunny, snowman, jack-o-lantern, or any shape other than true Peep. It’s in the way the tail curls, the i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your-body crease at the chin.
I’m coming to grips with my shame foods, from chicken-to-be to chicken-like-marshmallow. Share you shame foods, and we’ll offer a nice thanks-but-no-thanks together.
3.29.2008
Bar Life & Lobster Looping
In the past weeks, I’ve had the chance to visit my two favorite bars. Zeno’s, in State College and below street-level, is tobacco-toned, beer-rich, and faultlessly pub-like. Zeno’s makes you feel like you have something interesting to say—maybe to yourself, maybe to the forensic anthropologist beside you—or it makes you feel that you have nothing to say at all, because taking it all in seems more intelligent still.
The Flora-Bama on, you guessed it, the Florida-Alabama line is wholly other: an encampment of shacks, tents, and stages sutured together on the white Alabama sand. Bras drape the rafters, high-alcohol Bushwackers abound, and there is no reason to think about anything except the Royal Reds, the honky-tonk cover band, and the few perfect moments eked out amid the Flora-Bama’s grit and grime.
To add to the raucous perfection, the Bama has installed a new attraction: two you-catch-‘em-we-cook-‘em Lobster Zone machines, modified versions of the stuffed-animal claw game. For two bucks, you get one try to position and drop towards a tasty crustacean—some with a $10 bill rubbed-banded to one delicious claw. I chose the lobster in the front, right corner and looped him, but, sadly and somewhat expectedly, he wriggled from the giant grab.
My husband always defines his favorite bars as places where judges are sitting with janitors—at either of these, you likely to find table-fulls of wild match-ups and wild stories to boot. At the Flora-Bama don’t be shocked if the judges are the ones in bare feet!
The Flora-Bama on, you guessed it, the Florida-Alabama line is wholly other: an encampment of shacks, tents, and stages sutured together on the white Alabama sand. Bras drape the rafters, high-alcohol Bushwackers abound, and there is no reason to think about anything except the Royal Reds, the honky-tonk cover band, and the few perfect moments eked out amid the Flora-Bama’s grit and grime.
To add to the raucous perfection, the Bama has installed a new attraction: two you-catch-‘em-we-cook-‘em Lobster Zone machines, modified versions of the stuffed-animal claw game. For two bucks, you get one try to position and drop towards a tasty crustacean—some with a $10 bill rubbed-banded to one delicious claw. I chose the lobster in the front, right corner and looped him, but, sadly and somewhat expectedly, he wriggled from the giant grab.
My husband always defines his favorite bars as places where judges are sitting with janitors—at either of these, you likely to find table-fulls of wild match-ups and wild stories to boot. At the Flora-Bama don’t be shocked if the judges are the ones in bare feet!
3.05.2008
Funds for Food Writing?
As my first draft of SCRATCH is complete, I am applying for an artist’s grant from Chattanooga’s Create Here to work on its completion. I feel confident in my project and asked two great resources—my fellow-MFA, editor Danielle Ibister and my former professor, celebrated poet Julia Kasdorf—to read my manuscript and offer references for the grant application. They both agreed!
With these great reference-writers on board, I am now considering my needs in relation to the grant and find myself somehow stumped by the requested budget list. For what, specifically, am I requesting the money? What are the tools of my trade? Unlike visual artists, I don’t need a kiln, paints, or photo-processing chemicals. But I do need a new range. The stove/oven in our kitchen—my studio—is irregular, problematic. The oven is off-temperature and the burners are touchy and flicker off when asked to offer low-flame; I don’t have an age on the unit, but I would guess that it’s thirty years old and certainly not easy to construct accurate recipes by. Still, a range seems an odd artist’s request, somehow, and, even more odd, to list grocery items.
My more standard requests: I need a good printer/copier/fax unit as well as funds for accompanying food photography—juicy, hot pictures. Lastly, I have an artist in mind—a friend of my sister—who I would like to create some scratchy-cool food illustrations—my Ralph Stedman.
I am terribly optimistic regarding the grant, believing that I offer a significant and interesting project. And I certainly stand behind in my from-scratch-for-all premise. Hopefully, mid-April, I’ll get cookin’ on perfecting my recipes—on a shiny, temperature-accurate range!
With these great reference-writers on board, I am now considering my needs in relation to the grant and find myself somehow stumped by the requested budget list. For what, specifically, am I requesting the money? What are the tools of my trade? Unlike visual artists, I don’t need a kiln, paints, or photo-processing chemicals. But I do need a new range. The stove/oven in our kitchen—my studio—is irregular, problematic. The oven is off-temperature and the burners are touchy and flicker off when asked to offer low-flame; I don’t have an age on the unit, but I would guess that it’s thirty years old and certainly not easy to construct accurate recipes by. Still, a range seems an odd artist’s request, somehow, and, even more odd, to list grocery items.
My more standard requests: I need a good printer/copier/fax unit as well as funds for accompanying food photography—juicy, hot pictures. Lastly, I have an artist in mind—a friend of my sister—who I would like to create some scratchy-cool food illustrations—my Ralph Stedman.
I am terribly optimistic regarding the grant, believing that I offer a significant and interesting project. And I certainly stand behind in my from-scratch-for-all premise. Hopefully, mid-April, I’ll get cookin’ on perfecting my recipes—on a shiny, temperature-accurate range!
Shitake Success
Yesterday
We had our first growth on our shitake log! I’m thrilled! After waiting (and waiting, nine months of waiting) for a sign of life, Chris moved the log to a location where it would get more rain water. Presto! Mushrooms in March!
I love the growth of mushrooms—from stub-ling to substantial overnight. Perfect for the impatient. And one of my favorite foods to boot. Tonight, assuming their caps have popped, I will harvest the first of them and sauté them in butter.
We had our first growth on our shitake log! I’m thrilled! After waiting (and waiting, nine months of waiting) for a sign of life, Chris moved the log to a location where it would get more rain water. Presto! Mushrooms in March!
I love the growth of mushrooms—from stub-ling to substantial overnight. Perfect for the impatient. And one of my favorite foods to boot. Tonight, assuming their caps have popped, I will harvest the first of them and sauté them in butter.
Today
The caps had, indeed, popped to parasols on many of the shitakes, so I harvested them with a paring knife (is this the best means?) and proudly carried them to the cutting board in a kitchen towel. It was serene, somehow, to harvest and eat them within the same hour.
Unlike our local grocery’s shitakes which are often tough, these Chevalier shitakes were extraordinarily tender and more subtle in flavor, soft all-around. See them here in the skillet and, following, plated with our meatloaf, Dijon mashed potatoes, and peas with bacon and shallot.
2.18.2008
Dollars & Sense
This morning, in the Times Free Press online, I found that the Chattanooga Market will not re-open for its seventh season. This news follows at the heels of news we received about a month ago, that Mia Cucina—Chattanooga’s only cooking store—would close its doors.
In neither case am I the least bit surprised. A weekly grand production of music, art, food, and event deemed Sundays on the Southside, many Sundays the majority of sales seemed to be vendor-to-vendor. Where were the customers?
And Mia Cucina’s closing, in the shadow of a great personal tragedy in the owner’s life, seemed inevitable as the store donned sales strategy after strategy—from cooking demos and on-staff chef; to high-end ware sales; to celebrity-chef, open-and-use foods; to catch-as-catch-can cooking-related gadgets—in an effort to afford mall-area rent.
After a dark few decades of ever-more-processed foods, the 21st century seemed to promise enlightenment. The message organic is normal, organic is what once was—before the innovation of chemical pest-control and commercial farming—pierced the consumer with conviction. The artisan food producer pulled out of the shadows and was plastered on the walls of Wholefoods. But the age of food enlightenment is deterred greatly by the economics of the American checkbook.
When we started Alchemy, I had full faith that folks would pay for what we offered. And they will—if they can afford it. But so many can’t, as Chris and I would-but-can’t afford to shop at the very groceries that carry our products. Yes, many people want to partake of organic, artisan foods, but so many cars need new starters, so many husbands need button-up shirts for the office, so many wives need a good haircut, and so many just need a weekend night-on-the-town to blow off the stress of finances and work and politics.
John Kessler of the Atlanta Journal Constitution offered an article entitled, Tenderloin’s a steal, but at what moral price? which outlined his dilemma of purchasing a superstore’s $34.99 five-pound beef tenderloin, knowing that the tenderloin from an organic, humanly-raised cow would cost $27.99 per pound. Ultimately, the thought of an affordable dinner party was too sexy to pass up, and Kessler received a tongue-lashing from readers in regard to that decision.
Perhaps I’m muddy-ing basic black-and-white ethics with dollars-and-cents, but if this food artisan can’t see the organic apples for the orchard, how might we expect our American families to sink their bucks into heirloom Spitzenberg’s when their kids need school supplies?
In neither case am I the least bit surprised. A weekly grand production of music, art, food, and event deemed Sundays on the Southside, many Sundays the majority of sales seemed to be vendor-to-vendor. Where were the customers?
And Mia Cucina’s closing, in the shadow of a great personal tragedy in the owner’s life, seemed inevitable as the store donned sales strategy after strategy—from cooking demos and on-staff chef; to high-end ware sales; to celebrity-chef, open-and-use foods; to catch-as-catch-can cooking-related gadgets—in an effort to afford mall-area rent.
After a dark few decades of ever-more-processed foods, the 21st century seemed to promise enlightenment. The message organic is normal, organic is what once was—before the innovation of chemical pest-control and commercial farming—pierced the consumer with conviction. The artisan food producer pulled out of the shadows and was plastered on the walls of Wholefoods. But the age of food enlightenment is deterred greatly by the economics of the American checkbook.
When we started Alchemy, I had full faith that folks would pay for what we offered. And they will—if they can afford it. But so many can’t, as Chris and I would-but-can’t afford to shop at the very groceries that carry our products. Yes, many people want to partake of organic, artisan foods, but so many cars need new starters, so many husbands need button-up shirts for the office, so many wives need a good haircut, and so many just need a weekend night-on-the-town to blow off the stress of finances and work and politics.
John Kessler of the Atlanta Journal Constitution offered an article entitled, Tenderloin’s a steal, but at what moral price? which outlined his dilemma of purchasing a superstore’s $34.99 five-pound beef tenderloin, knowing that the tenderloin from an organic, humanly-raised cow would cost $27.99 per pound. Ultimately, the thought of an affordable dinner party was too sexy to pass up, and Kessler received a tongue-lashing from readers in regard to that decision.
Perhaps I’m muddy-ing basic black-and-white ethics with dollars-and-cents, but if this food artisan can’t see the organic apples for the orchard, how might we expect our American families to sink their bucks into heirloom Spitzenberg’s when their kids need school supplies?
2.07.2008
Chattanooga Justice or That Crazy Man with the Hair Bag
Jerry, my husband's father, took Chris and I to lunch at Sugar's Big Time Barbeque this afternoon. Sugar's rotisserie chicken is good; the grilled onions with a sprinkling of kosher salt are great. And I appreciate that the restaurant's fleet of lawncare specialists also eat corncobs, wilted heads of cabbage, and nearly anything else you offer--though they snubbed their little goat snouts at the corn bread that I threw into their pen. My only dislike of Sugar's is that they use all disposable serving ware--forks, knives, cups, and plates; it's time folks realize disposable really isn't.
But a break from food for a second: this morning I had to appear in court to "testify" against a guy who stole my license plate. I didn't see him steal my license plate, so I really had very little to offer; however, I was surprised to find that the thief walked only a few streets from his home to steal my plate. What's more, he was caught on February 1 drunk off his ass--slurred speech and his third DUI--driving on a revoked license at twenty-five mph, with a pocket full of marijuana, and sporting my license plate!
That said, perhaps it's just my recent court experience, but there are particularly blurred lines between right and wrong around here. One locally-known and obviously-crazy homeless man--the one with the hair bag--appeared today in court for loitering in the library. The judge asked, "Were you looking for something to read?" Then he sentenced the man to, "Stay away from the library." Meanwhile, Chattanooga's sheriff was arrested last Saturday, caught, hot-handed, holding 22 lbs. of cocaine and distributing weapons to drug dealers.
When Chris and I left the courthouse today and collected the parking ticket from under our wiper--it took two hours before my plate-thief could ask for an extension--I suppose it felt good to know that our eleven bucks would help fund Chattanooga's impeccable justice system which is about as good as throwing our eleven bucks to the trash with our plastic forks or feeding it to Sugar's lawncare crew.
But a break from food for a second: this morning I had to appear in court to "testify" against a guy who stole my license plate. I didn't see him steal my license plate, so I really had very little to offer; however, I was surprised to find that the thief walked only a few streets from his home to steal my plate. What's more, he was caught on February 1 drunk off his ass--slurred speech and his third DUI--driving on a revoked license at twenty-five mph, with a pocket full of marijuana, and sporting my license plate!
That said, perhaps it's just my recent court experience, but there are particularly blurred lines between right and wrong around here. One locally-known and obviously-crazy homeless man--the one with the hair bag--appeared today in court for loitering in the library. The judge asked, "Were you looking for something to read?" Then he sentenced the man to, "Stay away from the library." Meanwhile, Chattanooga's sheriff was arrested last Saturday, caught, hot-handed, holding 22 lbs. of cocaine and distributing weapons to drug dealers.
When Chris and I left the courthouse today and collected the parking ticket from under our wiper--it took two hours before my plate-thief could ask for an extension--I suppose it felt good to know that our eleven bucks would help fund Chattanooga's impeccable justice system which is about as good as throwing our eleven bucks to the trash with our plastic forks or feeding it to Sugar's lawncare crew.
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