What's a Southern Boy to Do?

Note: The original text was translated from the King's English to formal redneck jabber. Transcripts of the original text can be obtained at the behest of the author. All elongated vowels and unsubstantiated conjugations are intentional and relevant. Please enjoy.

Lemme ask ya'll a question. Where in all of God's good graces did all this damn ol' snow come from? I'll tell ya'll what: people ain't made for this ridiculousness. As a gentleman of southern distinction I pride myself on worldliness and moral fortitude. But I gotta say this here weather's got me more fired up than a frog in a dynamite pond. It just ain't right. I mean, who am I to question the Good Lord Almighty in any matters meteorological? And yet I find myself pondering His infinite wisdom. Why Dear Lord did you decide to subject your loyal adherents to such adversity? It don't make no damn sense. You surely do work in mysterious ways. I ain't seen such unsure footin' since Buzz Armstrong made that whole big deal 'bout ambulatin' all over the moon. And I ain't even positive that shit was for real. I s'pose what I'm tryin' to get at is despite all your glory I still got cold feet and wet socks. I surely ain't one to question things of any ethereal nature, but you got me all convoluted and perplexed. In summation, Lord I give praise to your majesty, but can we please get a thaw? As you well know I ain't built for this shit...

(picture courtesy of Google and God's wrath)

Barbecue, Brooklyn Style

The Southern Support Group has officially moved from simple food blog to full-on ideology (and yes, there is plenty of bluegrass involved.) We can't count on finding quality soul food anywhere in the wilds of Brooklyn so we'll just have to take care of ourselves. It may seem odd that someone who cooks for a living five days a week would want to spend their entire day off in their own kitchen. What can I say? You don't get to choose your passions. You either accept and embrace them or let their absence slowly chip away at your soul. Plus, the feeling of satisfaction one gets from a friend truly enjoying your culinary creations is not to be taken lightly. As noted in an earlier entry, without some sort of wood burning apparatus it's hard to impart that thick smoky flavor on a cut of meat. Espresso rub is my current solution, in this case applied to a pork butt, topped with blueberry BBQ sauce (a recipe I am willing to devote my entire life to perfecting.)



On the side are smoked gouda corn muffins, and red cabbage slaw with saffron vinaigrette. This was also my first attempt at making both Brussels sprouts, and apple and blackberry crisp. As for the sprouts, there isn't any vegetable i've found so far that isn't better when cooked with bacon and finished with heavy cream. The crisp has a walnut and oat topping. Thanks to Christina, Savannah, and Brett for providing the adult beverages and great company. Here's to the start of a new tradition!

A Cure for Depression...

... or at least deep-seated disappointment. Old man winter hasn't been formally invited in for the year, and yet he continues to knock on the door. Last night the freezing rain that frequently falls on St. Mark's Place began to crystalize. As witnessed by my own two eyes snow intermittently floated on the icy wind at on odd contrast to the almost marble-sized raindrops. Amidst inclement weather I also learned that the Florida Gators suffered their only loss of the season at the hands of Alabama, during the SEC championship no less. All the prayer in the world couldn't help Tim Tebow, whose one-man offense crashed and burned. So long dreams of another national championship. And good riddance to Tebow. All the tears and bible verses in the world won't change what you are: a big fat ball-hog. At least the rain cleared out by this morning leaving a beautifully clear and crisp December day. Perfect soup weather. Pictured above are Tomato Bisque garnished with goat cheese, and a bitch-ass little crybaby.

And For the Breakfast Minded...

... the same meal from the last post retrofitted to brunch specifications. I made a lot. I'll be eating it for weeks to come.

South meets FAR South

New York is a melting pot. Or perhaps a stone soup. Every ethnicity and nationality in the world are strongly represented with one noticeable omission. Where have all the Cubans gone? Were they ever here in the first place? We have Puerto Ricans, Dominicans and Haitians, and even the occasional Jamaican. Why then does the Caribbean's largest island represent the smallest population? Is 90 miles as far from their home country as they dare stray? Is the nearly tropical climate of South Florida too tempting to leave? We may never know the answer to this and life's many other ponderables. I do know one thing however, Cuban and Southern cuisine go together like beans and rice. Here is "Cuban Chili" with ground pork, and black beans, seasoned with cilantro, cumin, and lime. Oh yeah, that's a little slice of Jiffy Mix cornbread hiding in the back. Take that back to Havana, Castro!

Black Beauty

There's a new love in my life. I don't know her name yet, but I'm sure I will soon. She has already inspired me to write two new bluegrass/country songs. I'm going to cuddle with her tonight. I'm going to tell all my friends about her. I'm going to introduce her to my family as soon as I get the chance. I am smitten. My fingers are raw and yet my heart yearns for more...

Bacon, Egg, and Chi

I'd like to think that there's a strong brunch contingency in Korea. Not in North Korea obviously, where brunch is regarded in the same mindset as freedom of speech and nuclear non-proliferation. However, I still hope that there's a little soul left in Seoul. If not I'd like to extend an olive branch, or perhaps a rosemary sprig, to the people who mastered the art of spicy pickled cabbage. You have done for Brassica oleracea what Sartre has done for existentialism, what dinosaurs have done for oil, what Cupid has done for love, what the moon has done for the tides, and what gravy has done for mashed potatoes. Humanity is forever in your delectable debt. To that extent I must offer my sincerest apologies for what must be an unforgivable, yet delicious, impasse. Brown sugar bacon, eggs scrambled in the aforementioned renderings, ghetto-ass American cheese, and the coup-de-grace, kimchi. It takes a sick mind, and an even sicker stomach, to come up with such concoctions. All I can say is don't knock it until you've tried it, so long as you try it after 4 am...

The "God Help Me" Meal of the Week

Life is funny sometimes. Not in the traditional "ha-ha" sense (although it occasionally manifests itself that way.) It's usually more like the drunk uncle that gives you a solid indian burn knowing full well that your fair Irish skin has been scorched by the unforgiving Florida sun for the past week. A wiser man, or a possibly more ignorant man, than myself once said, "if you can't laugh at yourself then who can you laugh at?" Clowns have never done it for me. Mimes quite frankly creep me out. Homeless types just get me all bummed. To that extent here's a little bit of light-hearted self-deprecation. There are two things in life that are more obnoxious than going to bed hungry; too much hair on my head, and the obsequious beeping of the battery-exhausted smoke alarm in the hallway. While the beeping will drive me to an early grave, the hunger and hair are easily taken care of. For your viewing pleasure I present 'still-life with reverse mohawk', and 'bodega burrito.' Neither will quell my distaste for humanity, but at least they will help me sleep a little better. Here's to gravel gut, sandpaper head, and a heart of stone!

The Massacre at Fette Sau

The scene plays out like this: barbecue served a la carte and by the pound. Worthy appetites only need apply. Pictured here is the aftermath of pulled pork, roasted ham, beef brisket, short ribs, handmade sausage, baked beans, cole slaw, German potato salad, rolls, and equal parts beer and sauces. This was Custer's last stand. This was the Gettysburg Address of dining. This was the last supper Jesus wishes he had. While my mind may be going soft from the mandatory flu shot I received today, exacerbated by the near freezing temperatures and unrelenting rain of October in New York, I will fondly remember this meal as an apt tribute to my southern roots. Swayed by vaccine I am tempted to vote Republican, justify the war in Iraq, and engage in some good ol' fashioned nation building. And even though the CIA may be moments away from activating me into assassinating some foreign dignitary at least the taste of slow-cooked pork is still sweet on my lips. Regardless of the fact that my existence will circumstantially be denied by the country I call home, I will die a happy man.

What's in a Name?

Brunch is the illegitimate love-child of breakfast and lunch. The two met over Bloody Marys and Mimosas in the early afternoon to discuss the events of last night and the hangovers of today. One thing led to another and all I can say is I absolutely love the resulting little bastard. But what then do we call the clandestine affair that goes on all too often when dinner hasn't been faithful and begins devilish flirtations with breakfast? It is dirty. It is wrong. It feels so right. In this case the torrid rendezvous consists of blue potatoes shown here in two stages. First, brown sugar and cracked black pepper bacon were seared in the cast iron skillet saving the rendered fat to cook the potatoes. Fresh rosemary, garlic, onion, and crushed chipotle peppers complete the seasoning. Add to that saffron eggs served sunny-side up and you have the culinary version of a long weekend spent in vegas with your best friend's wife.

A Meal to Save the Soul

On a notably cold and wet Williamsburg weekend we had the distinct pleasure of playing host to one Sarah McPherson. For me, cooking is about more than just providing sustenance. It is a form of entertainment. It is an excuse to sit around the kitchen over a bottle of wine and reminisce about the past. As is to be expected the idiosyncrasies of Gainesville life were well covered. A comment on Bohannan's gas station, run by a family of extremely questionable genetic diversity, had Sam almost choking to death with laughter. Sarah provided a goat cheese and roasted honey-tomato crostini for an appetizer (not pictured). The arugula salad was garnished with yellow cherry tomatoes, fresh sweet corn, cannellini beans, and crushed pecans, dressed with a white balsamic vinaigrette. The main course was a soul-satisfying, albiet coma-inducing beef, pork, and veal bolognese over shells and roasted mixed vegetables on the side. Thanks to Alice for the very flattering photos. You always make my food look so good!

A Tale of Two Soups

As summer reluctantly fades into fall, change is in the air. Weather patterns aside, I have started noticing a change in the available produce in the many New York farmer's markets. I have long had a torrid love affair with the tomato, one that will soon and most unfortunately end for the year. Not one to settle for the artificial redness of the gassed grocery store variety I am savoring these last few days. I was informed by a vendor in Union Square that I have, at the most optimistic estimate, three weeks to enjoy this delectable little fruit. My latest bout of tomato worship came in the form of a peach and tomato gazpacho with fresh mint. I also realize I have little time left for chilled soup. In preparation for the impending cold, and as homage to my Polish neighbors I made borscht made from beets from McCarren Park farmer's market and a little Zywiec for flavor. Who doesn't love food prepared with beer?

Cured Meats Will Be The Death Of Me

This is an all too frequent situation. It's 4 am and I'm dead tired, thoroughly inebriated, and in no shape to be awake, let alone cooking. And yet here I find myself in the kitchen swaying like a slash pine in a hurricane. I'm starving. Enter handmade salami from Emily's Pork Store and a leftover baguette I brought home from Ten Degrees. Oh wait, there's dijon mustard from last week's barbecue sauce and the rest of the smoked gouda from the corn muffins. And what's this? Sam bought turkey and alfalfa sprouts. It's now 5 am and I have a gourmet sandwich. I'll most likely wake up at the kitchen table with half of it stuck to my face, but the sense of satisfaction makes it all worthwhile. A side note, In the background of the picture is a gas bill that, at a meager $10.08, has gone unpaid for at least two weeks. We even have the money to pay it. What is wrong with us?

Have Smoker, Will Travel

In Brooklyn, a good wood-fired smoker is only slightly less elusive than the ghost train of Alachua County legend, that haunts moonless summer nights with its lonesome whistle's cry. On occasion I find myself pointing a nostril to the sky, hoping for a faint trace of hickory or mesquite on the afternoon breeze. Unfortunately, the only smoke I smell is either from a nearby garbage fire, or from the Virginia Slim chain-smoking Polish octogenarian living next-door. Since erecting a brick pit on the fire escape seems ironic at best, and criminally negligent at worst, I have been forced to come up with this compromise. Espresso rubbed spare ribs; seared in a cast iron skillet, finished in the oven, and topped with a blueberry barbecue sauce. On the side is a chipotle and smoked gouda corn muffin, and lemon-garlic asparagus. Thanks to Sarah for the inspiration for the sauce and Alice for the photo.

Breakfast of Champions...

...or hangover helper. I'll let you decide. 10 Degrees, my current place of employment, has an extremely limited menu and thus an extremely limited number of ingredients to work with. I'll take that challenge any day. Yesterday morning I brought myself back to an almost human existence with this 3 egg omelette with cherry tomatoes, Beeler Gruyere, and homemade basil pesto. On the side is a mixed green salad with balsamic vinaigrette. I threw in a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and my metamorphosis from beast back to man was complete.

Memoirs of a Southern Transplant

We Southerners have to stick together, especially here so far above the Mason-Dixon. As the marrow-crushing North Wind looms closer and closer by the day I reach out to the intentionally displaced. Why have we strayed so far from home? For me the answer is simple: "Let's get these people fed." The search for sustenance can be one of either brutal monotony, or, in the eyes and heart of the gourmand, a reason for living. So, with this mantra in mind I give you my humble contribution to the blogosphere. I will start with a blast from the past. Consider it a peace offering to all cultures and lifestyles very far detached from my own. I give you Polynesian style pulled pork, Mango and red cabbage coleslaw, and Caribbean black beans and rice. All I ask in return is the name and location of a cheap but awe-inspiring BBQ restaurant within 45 minutes of my home. I doubt that's too much to ask. And as for Dante's, you will never know what you passed up... Eat your heart out!