A Relaunch

I’ve let this blog go stagnant for a while, and I do regret that. I’ve pinpointed the reason why I haven’t cared to write much: my day-to-day life really isn’t that exciting! So dammit, let’s find something that *does* excite me.

I had an epiphany of sorts, so I’m refocusing this blog in that direction. Food has become a hobby of sorts for me. I’ve spent years in (mostly bad, in hindsight) restaurant kitchens. I love to cook at home. I enjoy finding new restaurants with delicious food. I take the occasional cooking class. I love watching anything with Gordon Ramsay in it. And I’m a subscriber to Bon Appetit.

Food is a passion for me. Bearing in mind that over 90 percent of the money that Americans spend on food is spent on processed crap, and that we have an obesity epidemic, I’ve decided that my blogging efforts will be put toward promoting good, fresh, reasonably healthy food. All killer, no filler.

I think what pushed me toward this change, however, was the events of spending Thanksgiving with my parents. Thanksgiving is probably the one time of year when all Americans cook an honest-to-goodness meal from scratch. The turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and other accoutrements are typically made from fresh food. When I arrived at Chez Mom & Pop, I was exhausted from my 10-1/2 hour drive and starving. Lo and behold, when I looked in the fridge, there was barely any fresh produce, yet the entire freezer was stocked to the gills with boxes of frozen, processed shit. I share this not to knock on my folks, but as middle-agers who complain about gaining weight, they need to eat better, and I let ‘em know it.

I’ve found that my peer group of young professionals has a growing interest in eating fresher and healthier. I’d like to be able to share my culinary talents and discoveries, and have you share yours right back. I believe that if we talked more about food, as the Italians do, we would have a greater appreciation for what we’re putting in our bodies.

So, let’s open the discussion. I intend to share with y’all my experiences with food here in South Carolina. What’s fresh? What restaurants are good? What new recipes am I trying? What’s seasonal? How do you find what’s in season, or a quality purveyor, or an odd ingredient, or an appropriate substitution? I want to get back-and-forth discussion going, so please leave questions and comments at any time, and I will address them as honestly as I can.

In this vein, I’m relaunching this blog, much as Gordon Ramsay relaunches failing restaurants on Kitchen Nightmares. This is about cooking from SCRATCH. It’s for people who believe that food comes from farms–NOT from boxes, cans, packets, pouches, mixes, bags, freezers, and other needless packaging.

As I once heard from a friend, “One hundred years ago, people had a name for natural food. It was called ‘food’ “.

Another Reason to Love South Carolina…

…or, the Meat-and-Three Reprise.

Today, I had to make a site visit outside of Hartsville in the Pee Dee region, about 25 miles south of the North Carolina state line. The City of Hartsville itself is one of many tiny little towns that dot the Palmetto State, with a downtown consisting of about 3-4 blocks. I thought Hartsville had a dot on the map, but it turns out, that was just a coffee stain.

The area used to be a big-time tobacco-growing region, back when every office in America resembled an episode of Mad Men. They still grow tobacco in these parts, but cotton, soybeans, and hay have increased in importance. They grow the occasional trailer park as well (real-life ironic trailer park name: Plantation Park. Nice touch with the magnolia trees, by the way–you’re not fooling anyone!). It was cool to drive down the highway and see the beautiful old plantation homes. It was downright creepy to imagine dozens of slaves toiling in the fields alongside the same highway–you don’t quite get that imagery when driving through rural Ohio.

The site I had to visit was located in a rural area a few miles north of town. The property owner was an elderly woman (she said she was 89), who was incredibly nice and was happy to share neighborhood gossip. I swear she talked more than my grandmother. Nothing personal, ma’am, it’s just that my client doesn’t pay me to sit and swap stories with you. The kind old lady did make a recommendation for lunch, though: a local hole-in-the-wall called Miriam’s Kitchen. She said not to worry about being a bit dirty–farmers eat there all the time. I think she meant “me” being dirty. At least I hoped.

I found Miriam’s Kitchen alongside a two-lane country road. The building was a tired little two-story concrete-block structure, with two gas pumps in front, an awning half-falling off, and a confused but friendly man behind the cash register. To the right of the building was a small grocery, with the restaurant occupying the remainder.

The ladies in the kitchen were tremendously friendly. I think they spotted that I wasn’t a local because 1) they didn’t know me by name and 2) I was wearing a Banana Republic polo shirt. When I told them I had been sent on a recommendation, they were extremely grateful, and thanked me for coming in. People up North joke about Southern hospitality, but I have never felt more welcome in an austere concrete-block building in my life. You certainly don’t get that kind of treatment in DC–they’d just as soon have you leave, so they can continue texting their friends or painting their nails without bothering to stop to serve you.

Lunch was served cafeteria-style, and consisted of cube steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, broccoli casserole, and biscuits somehow all piled onto the same plate. First, let me tell ya how much I LOVE homemade mashed potatoes. Second, I suddenly resented all the canned creamed corn I ate as a kid. Nothing against Mom, considering how hard she worked, but let’s just say Northerners tend to be be more, um, reliant on canned and frozen vegetables, which is ironic, considering how much damned corn they grow in Ohio. The biscuits were flattened, almost like a biscotti, and had a nice crunch to ‘em. For 8 bucks, including tax and sweet tea (of course), how could you go wrong? I was elated, as long as I didn’t pass out while driving home.

I passed on dessert. My fat ass doesn’t need it right now.

Now, if I can just spot a roadside stand with some fresh peaches, I’ll be in business.

An Ode to the Meat-and-Three

It seems that no matter what part of the country you’re in, there’s some kind of informal, inexpensive restaurant that is rather unique to the area.  Chicago has its hot dog stands, Manhattan its diners, Detroit its coney islands, and DC has, um, the infamous ghetto-ass chickenchineseafoodsub carryout joints (which all have the same exact menu, complete with misspelled words).  When I’m back in Cleveland, I make it a point to hit one of the coffee shops that serve the best corned beef sandwiches (yes, even better than New York, for you elitists out there).  In the South, the place to go for an informal, inexpensive, and delicious meal is the meat-and-three.  The following is my sonata to this fine genre of dining institution, as told by my tummy.

Oh, meat-and-three, how beautiful you are.  A step above greasy, sleazy fast food, yet ready-and-waiting with open arms even when I’m broke.  You feed me when I’m too damn lazy to cook for myself.  You are casual, homey attitude who lets me sit wherever I want.

Your menu is posted on the wall, sometimes handwritten.  And best of all, you have no pretentious photos on the menu.  As Gordon Ramsay says:  “If there’s pictures of the food on the menu, get the fuck out of there!”

Affable and amenable, you let me pick-and-choose whatever strikes my fickle mood.  Some days, you are fried chicken.  At other times, you are ham, country-fried steak, fried catfish, beef stew, and on shitty days, you’re meatloaf.  You never complain if I need a minute or two to make a decision.

You are starchier than my shirts after returning from that bastard Vietnamese cleaner in DC.  Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes… Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.  You get me hot just thinking about your mushy goodness.

You have enlightened me to non-vegetarian vegetables.  Blackeyed peas, cabbage, pole beans, brussels sprouts.  What was I thinking for the past 30 years, eating vegetables that were not fried in fatback?

You are cheesy, creamy, diet-fad bucking casseroles of broccoli and squash.  No matter which of millions of combinations I choose to maintain my “beer” belly, you are like a 1980s power ballad, uplifting my spirits and never letting me go.

You are a bottomless glass of sweet tea, whose solubility curve has stumped chemistry doctoral students for generations.

You are homemade biscuits or cornbread of my choosing, or if I’m feeling adventurous, a mix of both.  You are a basket of little butter patties, with which I can slather my hot baked goodness.

Most importantly, at 10 bucks or less to experience all the lovin you have to give, you are cheap and easy, and you come quickly.  Yet I never receive phone calls, e-mails, or text messages from you asking where our relationship is going–or the opposite, telling me that you’re “just happy being single” (which we both know is a lie, anyway).  You know I’ll come back again for you, and although we both know I’m seeing others, you have a special place in my heart.  And wallet.

Meat-and-three, I love you.

Also, I’m pretty sure you won’t give me the clap.  Or herpes.