A TASTE OF HONEY (food, article)


HONEY AS SWEET AS SOUTHERN SMILES

The grande dame of delicious and sweet, of timeless and flavorful, of our flowers and the bees this my all time favorite sweetener: Honey. Honey comes in as many flavors as there are flowers. Honey has no shelf life as proven by the recovery of jars of honey from the Valley of the Kings in the North African desert. The tombs of Egypt have taught us many things about the ancient world that reflect upon our lives today from architecture and painted languages (hieroglyphs) to grains, sweets and the fermented drinks that followed. Honey was a favorite among my more vulgar ancestors as molten cup of courage by the name of mead. Mead is a fermented honey beverage that is a predecessor to beer and ale though higher in alcohol content. The Roman armies used honey as a salve to increase healing of open wounds. Honey is seen as a nice way to thwart allergies as well. I eat a lot of tulip poplar honey because tulip poplars surround my house. Does it make a difference? I really don’t know but it does taste great. Honey, like wine, reflects the soil, the weather and the flower. The nuances and flavors in honey is one of those wonderful things in the food world. In my house right now there is: blueberry, wildflower, sour wood, buckwheat, orange blossom, tulip poplar and star thistle (many in the area), tupelo, Hawaiian white honey, leatherwood from Tasmania and a crazy fireweed honey from Alaska. It is actually spicy. So here we go honey, there’s a lot to learn.

Eighty percent of the honey in a batch must be from a particular source to be named as from that source. Bees that make honey in America have had a tough time of it over the years due to pesticides, weather, population explosion and our attempt to cure a bee “cold”. We should have let nature run its course on that one. A hive will kick the queen out of the hive if she is not reproducing. If a hive becomes disorganized then they will kick out the queen as well. The hive is only as good as the queen. Hive collapse is widespread in the U.S. but we can help them along with proper husbandry and control of pesticides.

One third of all crops are pollinated by bees. Honey is not vegan because it comes from an animal. Honey should not be heated above 140 degrees as the properties change and it loses it’s honey flavor and value, and honey should not be chilled below 55 degrees because it will crystallize and become somewhat firm or solid. Bee trucks are driven through agricultural regions so that the crops can be pollinated, like the almond and hops groves in the Central Valley of California. Bees make honey, bakers make bread, and me, I’m a chef and I make things with bread and honey! What incredible things yeast and honey are, and the way that each appears throughout our diet is just as amazing as the fact that honey lasts forever and that yeast is a living organism.

Honey orange butter for plain white French bread, whipped wild flower honey with rosemary and lavender for creme brulee (custard dish with burned sugar on top), honey and Makers Mark glaze for arctic char, lemon and truffle honey for thyme roasted chicken breasts, blue cheese and brie with honey, mint, raspberries and cashews, figs and almonds roasted with honey, orange blossom honey ice cream, honey muffins and honey breads, honey on granola, granulated honey rubbed into a slab of ribs before smoking, honey in black and green teas as well as herb teas and a spoonful of honey does help the medicine go down, honey and peanut butter on Kava wafers and so it goes. Honey is good anywhere it appears. How do we even begin? How can I really grasp what honey is in a few paragraphs? Probably not, but we can at least explore how to taste and use the flavors in this bounty of the bee.

My personal from the hive favorites are orange blossom, Hawaiian white (rare, expensive), granulated and sourwood. My favorites to make by infusing the honey are truffle, licorice (REAL licorice root), lavender and sichuan pepper. We will make honey infusions so don’t worry. Best all round honey in any class is clover. Most of the honey you find in pantries across America is wildflower. Wildflower honey is a durable all purpose honey whose value as a sweetener should never be overlooked. Granulated honey is high up as my favorite powdered/granulated sweetener because of it’s earthy yet slight flower sweet, and that it can be sprinkled in on hot or cold dishes/liquids without worry of it sinking to the bottom of the container or being overly sticky. You can’t stir honey into a cold glass of tea but you sure an dissolve granulated honey in that same glass. Granulated honey can be found in all grocery stores that specialize in Korean products and in most large chain grocery stores.

INFUSED HONEY

Honey does not have to stay the way it is after  you bring it home. You must treat it with care or else it will crystallize. If it does do this then a few seconds in the microwave will return it to liquid status. If you don’t have a microwave then heat the bottle over steaming water and that will loosen the honey up as well. Storing at room temperature is fine as long as don’t live in an ice house or a home over 100 degrees!

You can add corn syrup or brown rice syrup to the honey you are infusing. Generally, honey used for this purpose is all purpose wild flower. Generally. If you are making an rosemary honey then orange blossom is perfect. If you are making a rosemary lavender honey then wildflower or lavender honey will do the trick. Truffle honey is best made with sourwood or buckwheat because the deeper flavors then do not act against each other, they compliment and lift the earthy, mineral sweetness to the sides of your tongue when tasting or eating it with strongly seasoned meat.

Tasting honey. People who hate food will say that there should not be method to tasting. They will also be the ones who say that food must be bold and fatty to satisfy them. This is OK, there is room for everyone in the world, but don’t rely on them when developing menu items or when cooking for a group of people that you want to impress.

Tasting, as an exploration of flavor is in essence, how we taste things. The tongue of course has different areas that identify and react to different flavors or primary ingredients such as hot, sour, salty, sweet and umami/savory, right? BUT NO! The flavors are experienced all over the tongue, the specific areas is more or less that they are more sensitive. How about that? It was once believed that the front, sides and backs were THE regions, but this is not the fact, we taste all over. I like that because it gives credence to the technique of tasting that involves blowing air across your tongue with mouth closed.

For the sake of gustatory history though we will acknowledge that the flavors are tasted from front to back as: sweet, salty, sour, umamai/savory, bitter. Makes sense in a way, doesn’t it? When I was researching this one article instructed that honey is to be tasted from the tip of the tongue and then moved around to the back of the tongue. It is also of note that umami is to the back side closer last edge of the mouth where there is a good bit of saliva action going on. Umami is that sensation that makes the mouth water, which in turn makes it easier to taste things. Chocolate, green tea, red wine, sea salt, sea weed and fish in the mackerel family (tuna) and grass fed beef have this ability to increase our ability to taste, hence umami. Think about this for a bit and then do your own taste tests with our honey examples, with chocolate, unfermented teas and sea salt.

Wine tasting is a good example of tasting all over at once, then the after taste echoes that arise once the wine has been swallowed is one of those wonders of life. This blowing pushes oxygen over the liquid/solids and allows the taste receptors to be opened even more to allow saliva, air and food to be fully tasted. Enemies to food will argue and have argued that if a technique is required to fully taste something then there must be something wrong with the food. These are the same people who never got past simple sentences, burning hot flavor, the knowledge that the world is round and man landed on the moon. Avoid them. Life is for the living.

Never heat your honey over 120 degrees when infusing. Never. Smokers have dulled papillae (the little “buds”) due to the constant deadening by tar products. Never trust a smoker when they try to tell you about how things taste as what they taste is always “smoked”

TRUFFLE HONEY

Take one of the most expensive things you can find and add it to the sweetest and there you have truffle honey. Don’t bother with saffron honey, I have tried making it but could never get it to that perfect spot between plastic and floral. It is just too expensive for the experiments. The truffle can be whole, shaved, fresh or canned. Fresh gives you the best flavor while using the least amount. Canned is more available and at a lower price. You can use dried porcini or dried Chinese black mushrooms as well in order to get that dirt basement aroma. Come on, you know you love the smell of root cellars, caves and dirt basements.

4 ounces buckwheat honey

1 ounce brown rice syrup (Korean and health food)

1 teaspoon truffle shavings

a very few grains of sea salt

Combine and heat at 90 degrees on the stovetop for 15 minutes. Do not let it get over 100 degrees. Do not stir. So not shake the pan. Best thing for this is stainless steel or copper. Remove from heat and store in a sanitized glass container. This honey is perfect with blackened meats like beef filet or any fish in the jack family. A little bit on roasted lamb really does charm the fat right onto the fork!

If you are preparing some really spicy hot foods then use a bit of truffle honey on one part of the meat and leatherwood honey on the other. You will be amazed at what flavors are suddenly awakened.

LAVENDER AND ROSEMARY HONEY

We are making this with the assumption that you do not have lavender honey readily available. This kind of infused honey is one that I keep mainly for desserts but is also great with lemon-garlic roasted chicken. Think about it, can you imagine the taste?

Not so good in drinks, like truffle honey, it is designed for cooked foods. This would be nice drizzled over sliced oranges and Texas grapefruit though, wouldn’t it?

Paint this on the top of creme brulee after it cools so that when it is time to burn the sugar on top it will be even more glassy textured and flavorful.

4 ounces orange blossom honey

2 ounces light karo corn syrup

½ teaspoon fresh rosemary leaves, this is 24 leaves

10 blossoms lavender, find them dried

Combine and heat at 100 degrees for 15 minutes. Do not stir. After 15 minutes remove from heat and let it sit until the temperature goes down to 78 degrees. Strain. Store in sanitized glass container in pantry where the temperature remains stable.

LICORICE HONEY

Yes, you will never understand why there was ever a chewy black licorice whip after trying a little bit of this nice stick of flavor. Licorice is a bush. The dried wood is what WAS used to make the candy in years gone by. Licorice can be bought in many places on line. A little goes a long way. I keep one jar of sugar with a broken licorice stick and one with a vanilla bean. There is always flavor. Granulated honey is nice with a stick of cinnamon in to season it. Small containers with differently seasoned sugars and honey granules makes dessert time and spicy food dinners all the more pleasurable because of the surprise of such great flavor with so little effort.

1 stick licorice, this is about a 1/3 of an ounce

1 cup fireweed or clover honey

No  need to heat this, just bust up the true licorice stick and store it in the honey jar, also can be stored in container with mix of granulated cactus honey and turbinado sugar. Licorice honey is very good drizzled over chocolate mousse, grilled figs and roasted dates stuffed with feta and pistachios. I have even added a small amount of licorice honey granules to ceviche to add a sense of mystery to an already simply complex small set of ingredients. Mystery as in “what kind of seaweed is this”?

If you have never had licorice freshly grated onto your palm so that you taste what it really is then come by the restaurant and I’ll turn you onto this aromatic wonder called licorice. You’ll be mad that imitation has been forced upon us all for so many decades. Actually, you should be mad about all the imitation foods that are marketed to us day in and day out. Tasting what is real can never be matched by buckets of white sugar, fat, salt and vegetable oil with flavor enhancers and saw dust thrown in to bind the  flavor profile into something identifiable as “food”.

CASHEW BUTTER

One of my best peanut butter memories was white bread with whipped honey and peanut butter sandwiches. I think it was somewhere in the third or fourth grade that this was fed to us at Tucker Elementary School. I was forever impressed. Food memories are great things. Let’s put together a variation on this theme so that as adults we can swoon over our little sandwich with a nod to the truth that fat and sweet just go together well. Nuts as the fatty, honey as the sweet and the bread as a little bit of both.

6 ounces chunky peanut butter, buy the best

6 ounces roasted cashews

3 ounces clover honey

Put the cashews and honey into a food processor and run it just long enough to crush up the nuts and honey. Then add the peanut butter and run the machine until it is smooth. There ya go! Peanut butter and honey for grown ups. Just add sour dough bread and it’s an afternoon pick me that is all good and all fresh.

I limited the list to infused honey because of the widespread uses that can be had just by a small change in composition. Few things truly are “simple”. Simple is misunderstood. Think of all the things necessary for bees make honey and baker makes bread, that the butcher sees in meat and the chef his next creation. It takes a lot to make things nice, it takes even more for complex and unified. Honey. A taste of honey; and with a taste of honey all things can be romantic.

Saying Yes is the thing

Where living it is even more.

Sometimes love looks a lot like this:

On a stairway leaning big smile and laugh,

On the back porch singing to cicadas and gnats,

On horseback racing along 10 mile beach,

On a table resting looking over a plate of barbecue,

On the bedside whispering about the beauty of the day,

On a sandy dock peeling fresh shrimp at dusk,

On a walk on a bridge on a life together,

On a promise to believe in what is yes.

Ceviche and Poke recipes


CEVICHE RECIPES

Mix cocoa butter powder for all of these if they are going to be served a day later.

SHELLFISH

8                                    fresh in the shell bay scallops

8                                    fresh oysters in the shell

1                                    lime or lemon

1                                    jalapeno, seeded and minced

1/3 teaspoon              sea salt

Shuck the oysters and scallops. Squeeze the lime over the meat, sprinkle with jalapeno and salt.

ANY FISH, SIMPLE AND DIRECT CEVICHE

8 ounces                        sliced between the thin membranes of flesh, thin

1                                     lime

10 leaves                      cilantro

1/3 teaspoon                sea salt

(½ ounce                    extra virgin olive oil, optional for crudo style)

CORVINA AND SNAPPER

8 ounces                        corvina or snapper species, boneless/skinless

1                                     orange

1                                     lemon

1/3 teaspoon                 red aji pepper, ground (New Mexico Red Pepper)

½ teaspoon                   sea salt

½ ounce                       cilantro, leaves and stems

1 ounce                        olive oil, a mild one

1 tablespoon                poblano pepper

1 tablespoon                        red bell pepper

Thin slice the fish between the grains so that you have very thin slices with no membrane or silver skin. Place between sheets of plastic wrap or butcher paper and gently tap with the back of a cleaver, or use a flat meat hammer, gentle. Mash the rest of the ingredients into a paste. Rub a small amount on each slice of fish, let set five minutes and then eat. This is good with fresh fruit or on lettuce leaves.

TILAPIA

8 ounces                        tilapia, cut into small cubes, very small cubes

1 tablespoon                  celery, minced

1 tablespoon                  red onion, minced

1 teaspoon                      jalapeno, minced

2 tablespoons               cilantro, minced

1 clove                              garlic, minced

1                                     lime, juiced

1                                     orange, juiced

½ teaspoon                   sea salt

1 teaspoon                    granulated sugar

1 ounce                        sweet rice or apple cider vinegar

1 ounce                        corn oil

Combine ingredients and let marinade 15 minutes

WHITE MACKEREL

8 ounces                        white mackerel, small cubes, very small

2                                     lemons, juice

6 ounces                        pineapple, small dice/mince

6 ounces                        tomato, no seeds, small dice/mince

1                                    green bell pepper, minced

2 cloves                        garlic, minced

6 stalks                        green onion, thin sliced from root to pale green part

1 tablespoon                        poblano pepper, minced

½ teaspoon                        jalapeno, minced

½ ounce                        mint, leaves

½ ounce                        cilantro, leaves

1 teaspoon                        sea salt

1 ounce                        Worcestershire sauce

5 ounces                        olive oil

Combine ingredients in large bowl and refrigerate. Let chill 30 minutes before eating. Presentation on this kind of ceviche would be nice in a martini glass with shredded lettuce. Also, if you have a mandolin slicer use this to cut very thin spaghetti style zucchini and carrots. Mix them with a little olive oil and coconut juice and then toss with the ceviche, serve as a light appetizer

MAHI MAHI

8 ounces                        mahi mahi, almost minced

4 ounces                        ketchup

1                                     lime, juice

1                                     orange, juice

1 tablespoon                        chipotle

½ cup                                    cilantro, chopped

1 stalk                                    celery, minced

1 cup                                    cucumber, peeled, seeded and minced

1 teaspoon                        sea salt

½ cup                                    clam juice

1 ounce                        Worcestershire sauce

1 ounce                        olive oil

Combine ingredients and refrigerate 15 minutes. Serve with nacho chips or fried won tons. Also, something like this with the ketchup is good with fried plantains or fried sweet potatoes.

RED DRUM OR SNAPPER

8 ounces                         red drum or snapper chopped

3 ounces                        young coconut juice

2                                     lemons, juice

1 ounce                        olive oil

½ cup                                    white onion, diced

1 cup                                    papaya, peeled, seeded minced

5                                    green tomatilla, chopped, par boil and drained

1 ounce                        soy sauce

1 ounce                        cilantro, chopped

1 teaspoon                        coriander

1 teaspoon                        Guajilla pepper

1 teaspoon                        sea salt

Combine and eat within a few hours. Keep chilled until ready to eat. You can eat it right away.

TUNA

8 ounces                        sushi grade yellowfin or big eye tuna, thin sliced into strips

1 ounce                        ponzu vinegar

½ cup                                    seaweed salad with sesame seeds

½ cup                                    macadamia nuts, chopped

1/2 cup                        tomato, chopped

1/3 cup                        red onion, chopped

5 stalks                        green onion, chopped

1 tablespoon                        red chili pepper, chopped

2 ounces                        mushroom soy sauce

3 ounces                        firm tofu, chopped (one of the things for modern poke)

2 tablespoons            tobiko (flying fish roe, crunchy)

Combine ingredients and eat as soon as you can. It will hold overnight, but why wait? Eat this with chilled nishiki or jasmine rice, with pita bread, over lettuces, in a tomato or avocado.

SALMON

8 ounces                        Chinook or sockeye salmon in season (best May to October)

2                                     limes, juiced

1 ounce                        mandarin olive oil (a mandarin orange olive oil)

Combine and set aside.

1                                    mango, peeled and minced

1                                    Asian pear, peeled and minced

1/2 each                        poblano and red bell pepper, minced

1 stalk                                    celery, minced

1 ounce                        cilantro, chopped

½ ounce                        basil leaves, chopped

10                                     chives, minced

½ ounce                        fresh ginger, minced

4 ounces                        white peach puree or unfiltered peach juice

HALIBUT

8 ounces                         halibut, slice very thin, broad cuts into 10 slices

1                                    blood orange, juice

10                                     blood orange wedges, no pith or skin

1 ounce                        Spanish extra virgin olive oil

5 shots                        Cholula Sauce

1/3 teaspoon                        Hawaiian pink sea salt, coarse

10 leaves                        oregano, fresh, chopped

10 leaves                        mint, fresh, chopped

Lay the halibut slices under plastic wrap and gently pound so that the fibers in the meat separate just a little bit. Set the fish slices around on a plate and place an orange on each slice. Sprinkle with the juice, sauce, salt and herbs. All you need are green olives, cucumbers, peppers, artichoke hearts and you have a really impressive array of fresh foods.

TUNA SUNDRIED TOMATO

8 ounces big eye or yellowfin tuna fillet, thin sliced

1 lemon, juiced or two tablespoons juice

1 tablespoon celery, shaved thin with microplane grater

3 cloves garlic, shaved thin with microplane grater

3 tablespoons red bell pepper, shaved thin with microplane

1 teaspoon jalapeno, shaved thin with microplane

1 tablespoon sundried tomato, thin sliced softened in hot water

10 leaves oregano, sliced

5 leaves basil, sliced

5 leaves mint, sliced

1/3 teaspoon sea salt

1 ounce Spanish or Tuscan olive oil

mussels w/lemon grass & tomato, sesame chicken, bananas & coconut cream


STEAMED MUSSELS WITH LEMON GRASS AND TOMATO

DIJON AND SESAME CRUSTED CHICKEN BREAST

WITH VEGETABLES, FETTUCINE, APRICOT AND

SOY SAUCE

BANANAS AND COCONUT CREAM

Please don’t be afraid of buying mussels. Just plan this meal when the grocer gets them in. Make sure they are all closed tightly. Don’t use any that are open, which means they are dead and you really can’t eat them. Place the mussels in cold water with a handful of cornmeal. This will plump them, and they will pass any impurities possibly gathered in the shipping and storing process. You can keep them in the water for at least an hour and as long as overnight. Lift them out of the water under cold running water, throw away any that have opened. Now you are ready.

If, and only if, you cannot find fresh black mussels, then look for the frozen New Zealand green lipped mussels. They are bigger and meatier but the flavor is not as acute. This kind of mussel is a picture of neon drama. They have bright green and black rippled shells, and pale yellow flesh, it fairly jumps up off of the plate.

You will need a pot of boiling water, a cone-shaped strainer, and a large high-sided skillet for this dish.

MUSSELS WITH LEMON GRASS AND TOMATO

20                                                black mussels

1/4 cup                                    pure olive oil (virgin isn’t necessary for this)

2 tablespoons                        chopped garlic

2 stalks                                    green onion, diced up to the deep green

part. Use the green for garish.

1 stalk                                                lemon grass, peeled and chopped

use the first two inches from the

root. If you can’t get fresh, try to obtain

the dried stalk and then grind it in your

mill. Powdered works, but use extra. Like any

powdered herbs the taste is a shadow of what

you’re looking for. Powdered = 2 tablespoons.

2 tablespoons                        fresh ginger. Peeled and minced.

2                                                 tomatoes, seeded and chopped

2 tablespoons                        basil, chopped

1 cup                                                tomato sauce

1 teaspoon                                    salt and pepper mix

Wash the mussels in very cold water and place them into the strainer, lower the strainer into the boiling water and let them cook until they all are opened. Lift the strainer out and set it aside in the sink to drain.

Heat the oil in the skillet on high heat. Add the garlic and onion, then lift the pan off of the stove and turn the heat to medium high. Stir, add ginger, tomato and tomato sauce, heat until it begins to bubble and add the mussels. Be careful at this stage, the sauce may pop if you’re too rough in stirring the mussels and sauce. Stir the mussels so that they take in all the sauce. Add the basil, salt and pepper, and lemon grass. Stir. Let them cook in the sauce for a couple of minutes so that all the flavors blend and incorporate into the mussels. The taste will be deep and flowery, with a hint of citrus.

A splash of lemon juice, red wine or both adds a nice touch to this dish. The lemon or wine will brighten the flavor.  As with all recipes, when you’ve got it down and can replicate the dish, then experiment and build on what you like. Use lime, orange, guava puree, peach juice, pear juice, currant juice, etc.

Slowly, ice melting around the shells,

sleek, black ships waiting,

smell of the sands and tides

rising from the refrigerated air…

and she turns from the mounds

of chopped tomato and vidalia

to the stalks of lemon grass

and deep green fresh basil.

“Come here, peel away the skin

from the base like this,”

and the room filled with the fragrances

of crushed tangerine and lemon leaves

from the single bulb of lemon grass.

And if I didn’t know better I would swear

I was standing in the groves

of the Indian River,

but I wasn’t, it was we in the kitchen

with the greens of Mandalay,

with mussels from the heart of Hudson Bay.

<Note for side panels:> OK, let’s talk about herbs. It’s a known conceit of chefs and gardeners to use fresh herbs as much as possible and we expect everybody else to do the same, and that’s not fair. Granted, we cannot replace the flavor and beauty of fresh, herbs, but we can at least approximate in a pinch. We all have a cabinet full of dried herbs, or at least a few essentials such as oregano, thyme, basil and bay, and now we hope that lemon grass and cilantro are there as well. Here’s what you do to get the best out of the dried stuff: Wash and dry your hands. Place the herbs in your palm, now clasp your hands together with your thumbs opposing, and rub the herbs into a powder. Open your hands and smell. Pretty neat, huh?

The oil from your hands, plus the flavor release from mashing the herbs does the trick. That’s as close as you are going to get to fresh from dried. It’s a primitive version of the mortar and pestle, and that’s not a bad thing, it works. When you try this method do it directly over the dish as you prepare it so that you get the most out of your effort.

The coffee mill. This thing is great for quick grinds and the powdering of peppercorns, dried lemon grass, coriander seeds, kosher salt, chilies, et al. Use and wipe out with a dry cloth or paper towel.

The mortar and pestle. Marble or wood. Use this and use this often. It is as old as food. Some prefer the wooden variety for its earthy feel and texture. I like the clink and clean sound and feel of marble. They are most useful for blending herbs and seeds, for curries and compound spice mixtures. Just put your coriander or cardamom seeds in and mash them around with the pestle. Inhale, yep, that’s what dinner smells like. It’s nice to use when two are cooking together, which is what this book is all about, because you can blend herbs and talk and move around in the kitchen without getting in the way if you are the one doing the grunt work, uh, being the assistant.

<End panel note.>

The next dish is a stir-fry and I recommend that you use a wok. Otherwise use a very large, high sided skillet. You need even heat for optimum cooking.

The wok: Use a carbon steel, stainless steel or copper-bottomed

wok. Carbon steel is the best because of its ability to evenly transfer heat. Season by rubbing with corn oil and rock salt and heating it on medium heat for about thirty minutes. Maintain by cleaning with warm water only, no soap. If it rusts then clean with an abrasive cleaner and soft sponge. After you have cleaned it reseason the pan. There are non-stick woks on the market now that are pretty good, you don’t have to worry about acidic reactions staining the pan. The choice is yours, authenticity or modernity that actually works.

The hottest part is the bottom. The sides are where you push the parts of a dish that require less rapid cooking, or when a sauce is reducing and you don’t want the particular ingredient to overcook. An average wok will hold about a gallon and a half of liquid. They require very high heat for the best results. Even heat is essential; this helps you to cook an entire dish in one place with speed and control over the process.

Always oil the wok before cooking in it. Don’t use virgin olive oil, as it will catch fire. The oil with the highest resistance to burning is corn oil. Use corn, peanut, vegetable or a blend of olive and canola, or a blend of olive and corn or peanut oil. If you are using butter then add it late in the stir- fry. Once you are used to using a wok you will find it difficult to just use a regular sauté pan. The wok, like the iron skillet is essential to a well-rounded kitchen. The iron skillet holds heat longer. The wok returns to high heat faster. You blacken Cajun dishes in an iron skillet, you sauté in a wok.

As the book progresses and your skill increases you will more fully understand how the wok works. Experience and, trial and error teach more than any volume of literature can.

SESAME AND DIJON CRUSTED STRIPS OF CHICKEN BREAST SAUTÉED WITH MIXED VEGETABLES, APRICOT AND SOY OVER FETTUCINE

1/2 cup                                    all purpose flour

3 tablespoons                        butter

1 tablespoon                                    sesame oil

10 ounces                                    chicken breast sliced thin into 20 strips

2 tablespoons                        brown mustard

2 tablespoons                         honey

1 cup                                                sesame seeds

Dust chicken in flour.

Coat chicken in honey mustard mix. Roll chicken in

sesame seeds so that it is completely covered. Set

aside on plate.

VEGETABLES

5 medium stalks                        asparagus sliced long and thin

2 medium                                     carrot peeled and very thin sliced

1 medium                                    yellow squash cut in 4ths and sliced thin

1 large                                    yellow onion cut in 4ths and sliced thin

SAUCE

3 tablespoons                        apricot preserves

1 teaspoon                                    prepared horseradish

1/4 cup                                    soy sauce

1 tablespoon                                    brown sugar

1/3 cup                                    apple juice (optional)

PASTA

8 ounces                                     fettuccine (will yield 12 oz cooked)

<Note for side panel> If you have access to fresh pastas, then by all means be experimental and buy them. Just remember that cooking fresh pasta is quite different from the cooking methods for dried. Just drop it in boiling water for about a minute or two, stir it around and immediately mix it with the sauce. A flavored pasta such as tomato, lemon or orange would go well with this dish. Otherwise, stick to the recipe until you feel more comfortable with branching out which we will do in later chapters. <end note.>

Cook the pasta, rinse in cold water and set aside until ready to mix with entree.

In a large skillet or wok, sauté the chicken and onion in butter. Stir with care, you don’t want to burn or dislodge the sesame seeds. Add sesame oil. Add the vegetables, turn up the heat and cook until the asparagus is shiny and just crisp. This is the very definition of stir-fry.

Add the juice and horseradish and cook until it begins to boil. Add apricot, soy and sugar. Stir. Reduce heat to simmer. Taste. Adjust if necessary.

NOTE Is it to your liking? Does it need anything?

This is the part where you have the chance to design the dish to your personal tastes. If you are happy with it then by all means continue, if not, then think about what you have added and what you might like more or less of. If more, then add, if less, then add more liquid to cut the flavor. Maybe you like ginger or garlic, basil or cilantro. This is your moment and no one else’s. Both of you taste it, that’s what this book is all about, cooking together for your own happiness and pleasure. END NOTE.

With the pasta still in a colander wash it under very hot water, then shake off all the water and drain.

Turn heat on sauce up to high. As it begins to boil add the pasta, and stir so that it is all mixed together and hot. Remove from heat and divide between two plates. Eat.

BANANAS AND COCONUT CREAM

You are going to make more than you can eat in one sitting for this dish. Why? Because you will freeze the leftovers and make milkshakes with it for a later menu. YUM!

4 cups                                                coconut milk. Shake the can before you

open it so that the milk and cream mix.

2/3 cup                                    sugar

1/4 cup                                    honey

1 teaspoon                                    salt

2 pounds                                    bananas, firm. If red bananas are

available use them and cook longer,

they are great for cooking.

Place everything except the bananas in a medium saucepan and bring to a low boil, simmer and stir occasionally with a whisk for about ten minutes. There should be no lumps and it will be slightly thick, just enough to coat a spoon with a thin film. Don’t let it rise to a hard boil, this will separate the milk and scorch the pan!

Peel and cut the bananas in two-inch long slanted slices. This is called cutting  “on the diagonal.” It looks like an oblong circle. Add to the mixture and stir with a spoon until it returns to a low boil. Simmer two to three minutes.

Remove from heat and pour into small bowls. You may eat this warm or at room temperature.

If this seems too unusual and you want to do something to make it a little more familiar, then pour it over thick slices of pound cake. It’s good either way. Freeze the leftovers. There’s a recipe for that later in the book.

So it’s like this, OK?

You cook, I’ll chop,

I’ll do anything,

Anything to be here

Where we are close,

We are doing,

We are in our lives together.

Together. . . through the steam

And color of our finished table

It is just you and I

In a moment shared,

In a moment here.

SILENCE AND DESIRE/BLUE WINDS AND ARTIFACTS FROM US 40 TO GA 78/GUILTY/VENUS


SILENCE AND DESIRE

After the flower,
after the waves,
and after the waiting
when society dies
and ships collide,
the last kiss is dry,
orange winds flow…
It is the sun.

BLUE WINDS AND ARTIFACTS FROM INTERSTATE 40 TO GEORGIA 78
(For Bruce Sehorne and Dan Hart, beloved departed)

Wind, wind, sleek wind blowing,
coursing its way through the last of winter,
bending through the plains, the peaks, the cities,
planting itself in this town between the hills,
where raw silk and T shirts conceal and reveal
all the fleshy confusion about just what the temperature is.
You thought you had me figured out,
what blue jeans go with which linen jacket
and how long it would take for me to miss the rain,
and I’m doing it now, missing all the rumble, the gray spotlight,
the shout of a crashed wave at full moon midnight.
Mendocino County, big waves, big rivers,
true land of the lost souls,
and it was home for a while, for a while until I missed
the sound of dipthongs and southern vowels…so I loaded up and ran,
one love on the horizon, the other in the land itself…
And now I miss the waves?-never satisfied,
always Being-Towards, direction doesn’t matter.
I’ll not go back, but the flight East? This is that:
Choppy drive into town, the windows are smeared
with jellied smoke, tape player fast forwards to Preachin’ Blues,
……a flat road into the swamps, gun across my chest……
Oh, oh yeah, let me tell you something, the journey is art, is life, not just whim, always feel on the road, shout
or a whimper, doesn’t matter, I gotta go, I gotta go now…
and the pine trees shake, shimmy and shake from highway winds.
It’s all a haze, all heat, like that, a hot, wet wind.
……………………..

……………………..……..
A scratchy tango emerges and jerks, ah, Gardel, had enough
of Piazzola, give me the mourning stuff with a whiff
of dance and kiss, I’m filled with romance, with desire,
and yet there is no object, no she, no other, but I am filled,
and it’s called longing, longing for those legendary sweet
winds of late spring, whose touch is the life
of a thousand flowers, a thousand lakes and rivers…..
and here I am on the road: The Road…SouthEast:

dodging time, running.
I wish I wrote songs. I wish I could touch the heart just one
more time. And then the mists roll in, the air cools,
and it’s late winter, late, late winter.
……………………..……………………..…….
Well I’m always digging the strangest weather:
either standing naked on Pacific in Alaskan winds, sleet like
cold arrows when January takes a stand…
Or walking dirt roads in the scorching summer,
tinitis cicada roar…yellow sun so close, unleashed.
And just at that time when cold is too cold
and hot is too hot,
when I swear I can’t keep on in extremes the rains come, thunder breaks the shell and the land fills with the winds,
the heavenly winds, moderate, soothing, and always on time.
It’s all about romance. Go figure.
Of course the metaphor is change¬¬–isn’t it?
Great winds and charged ions.
Sometime in the Sixties St. John Perse leaned back on a rock
beneath the Savannah sun and thought about this,
but I’ve never found anyone who wants to talk about that,
so the scenes are solitary moments reaching Spirit, never flesh, never.
……………………..……………………..…………….
Catalogues and roadsigns flipping by, who really wants
the forced dialogues about spending money?
Desire is better than that. Meaning erased, the bad side of our times laid bare in images that do not relate. “Catch ‘em alone
on the road where all they can do is think.”
Oh man, don’t give me the hermeneutic for Bill Gates and a Sunrise,
don’t, please don’t interpret big tits and a car…
yeah desire, better long for what is thought, my thoughts, my fetish
for what is felt, for things felt: and the secrets of economy
wash away by the fast roadside, I don’t want to buy anything,
I only want to feel………. breath, cool streams, a wave,
anything but the bibles of this fin de siècle science
where Sex and Self express through purchase.

Desire is better than that.
Moving forward, the purpose of evolution is to go UP the ladder.
……………………..……………………..………………
Continuing on in the clutch of highway winds:
resting in the desert where the hills push back
the roar of truck and caravan, sounds like a storm,
feels like Santa Anna, the road, how strange, walked
a hundred yards out in shade of the red mesa, still the din
and blow bounces in Mahler rages of ambient disaster,
but the sky just sits and radiates blue, blue contradiction,
blue envelope around a petri dish gone wild,
I don’t like it, it’s creepy, back in the car I drive
a little bit slower. I don’t wanta contribute, I don’t wanta
be a part of this great hoax and horror, but I am,
and with sound and split winds I barrel out I-40
pushing my own storms agenda on the naked earth beside me.
……………………..……………………..………………
Sometimes it seems a signature is the last flourish we have that says “I”
in the world. Rush me something grand and changing,
a release from the ordinary, the stereotypes,
pick it up and throw it out, toss away the mass,
the character trait that is always expected.
I remember arguing Dasein, that perhaps objects couldn’t have IT,
now I disagree, now I see, yes, empirically,
that the winds do have Dasein, so much more than these
soul stripped dreamings I am left to lead on wandering ground.
Scene: March Lion breathes heavy in the tall grass…
I heard a catamount scream in the September night,
no one – no thing can chill like that.
Everything stopped.
Wind=Vehicle.
So as I signed the credit card slip at a convenience stop
in the Christmas tree peaks of northern Arizona,
I thought about my name on the page,
the difference between pronouncing who I am
and that of the feral I wish I was.

……………………..……………………..………………..
Alive in a place where the pain originates,
still thinking in terms of id, ego, yeah libido too,
sad because I can’t connect, can’t breach the space
between word and contact, where history
muffles the need of pronouns to posses,
and language as meaning is abandoned, moves off track
from intention to action, and that’s the pain,
the source, like a subway turnstile locking and unlocking,
a recognition…not a cure…we understand what we want,
and damned if the best wind blowing up out of this tunnel
is that of a freon blast from subterranean lungs.
Yeah, I’m running, hell hound hound hound of heaven
on my heels…..
the legendary image fading in my rearview mirror smiles.
……………………..……………………..……………….
Oklahoma in a flash:
Yield, a warning sign: Prairie Fires Will Kill You.
Tiny heat waves ripple steam through the dust.
Yellow smoke pierces the high white clouds.
Grand motions sweep, small images swirl,
the cottonwood and sage blossom, yet the winds
still roll with cold thunder and the challenge of light.
Detour, I wanta go home. Right now everything just seems
…but how?…and that’s the note,
the trill that signals Change or Die. Sudden lime horizon:
I see a tornado blaze across the sky.
Touch me, I’m afraid
the rest is a blur.

……………………..……………………..……………………..………………..
Black black deep black hair and jewel like almond eyes.
High cheek bones and a smile. And her skin shames even
satin, laughter and a smile, but there is no Beatrice, no Goddess Of Mercy, and I want, I snap time by the miles, friends by the gesture,
and I want this road to kick aside daydreams and let me love,
let me trust and to believe again in the force of love and intellect….
I don’t like driving through parts of Tennessee.
……………………..……………………..………………
And I move on towards the gentle Appalachians.
Pale white steam rising from the Roosevelt reservoirs,
those hills, those ancient sway backed, wet green hills,
green I cannot number, shades I cannot name, but home, yes,
green home and soft earth. And when I have reached
the high lakes and gotten out of the car, tossed the keys
into the laurel, I will be home. Cool, cool evening,

a season of peace in these breezes, and I swear I saw Garbo
out on the lakescapes, pure Deco beauty out of place
but fitting in, and that’s alright, the four winds gather in,
and yet another destination waits, another storm,
another life building in the kaleidoscope eye of the sun.
And I feel the winds, sleek winds blowing off the hills…

GUILTY

Stretched out from reaching out
in a feather world.
So light, so not, so little of everything.
I break the wounds and open up.
Guilty.
Shallow flesh. Shallow needs.
Burnt paper words, a flow of ash.
Throwing away my magicians hat,
and giving in to a belief in the thing of things,
yeah, the thing that shows what is never mine.
This is conversation.
This is meaning.
This is what it is when I speak too soon:
She nods and looks away.
Thus it ends.

For now anyway.
For now anyway it’s just another
choosing to misunderstand even
the bravest of gestures,
even the purest of intent…..
She nods and looks away.
Thus it seems to always end.

BAREFOOT MOONLIGHT

Forbidden splendor in a black dress,
barefoot on the wooden floor,
she stood like moonlight,
light in the shade of winter,
moonlight and mist,
the soft shimmer of treasures
mysterious and known…
she was surrounded
by beautiful women…
but I didn’t see a one,
all I saw was her light,
her smile,
black dress,
barefoot on the wooden floor,
all I could see was her,
she so cherished,
so wild,
adored.

VENUS

Every letter perfect memory
sweeps across these blue hot days.
Steamy early mornings
and humid, moon burned nights
move into the moment
where she is:
Confectionery perspiration’s
on her lips and limbs,
honey and salt in her gaze
as presence to absence
from her eyes to mine…
A loose fold of skin curling
round her knit waistband,
a rising line into her small breasts,
tender, pink, new,
but still a delicacy well involved,
known in these and other rooms
too long for the innocence,
the youth claims,
the awkward beauty.

ALONE/COYOTE/ZEN GIRL


ALONE(SCHOOLTOWN, DOWNTOWN)
Lying in bed with the sound of rain on a tin rooftop,
space heater churning blue flame and little heat,
the sour smell of night sweats on a paisley bathrobe,
Chopin nocturnes escorting Night into her bedchamber.
Dawn sleepily moves across the landscape, and with this
the day breaks upon the city, day breaks upon the already
melting snows. Blue sky and cardinals, green pines shrugging
the cracked ice off, and bend, bend, bend, creaking,
seems it’s me not the trees creaking, leaning towards
the kitchen and all the ways of waking that are waiting there.
Funny, the way the voice shakes in a hushed stage whisper
as it moves in pitch towards the bellow and shout,
towards the un-muffled, the hallelujah yeah that says
this is the moment: a place I’d like to stay.
Step outside on the warped pine front porch, well, well,
the eyes start to focus through espresso steam and Camel smoke,
and it seems out here all the roads connect
on a downtown trek that’s ever and always leading somewhere,
and I look and look and look at the streak of wires
suspended and swaying beneath the weight of winter winds,
they too are going and they’re not coming here…
And for this minute the dawn tastes good, it tastes like life.
Yellow sun rests on the wet roofs and lawns, gleaming, awake.
A car door slams, a car shifts gears and slides to a stop,
a car rushes round the curve and hill, sounds a whole lot
like late for work and I’m glad I’m not, then a truck rumbles,
a train howls and grinds, screams through birdsong
and soft morning thought, and reawakens the knowing
that commerce has no home or heart, it just roars,
tears down wall and reconstructs, full throttle, full throated.
These are the sounds when the city wakes up, with sounds
like this, with iron gates crashing. Sleeping,
the beast is beautiful with it’s neon crown,
it’s candent towers, fuzzy halo and steady hum. And then,
the city wakes up with all the subtlety,
vulgarity and calm of Moloch rising after the feast.

COYOTE

Yeah, and the night limped around like it was trying to go somewhere,
like out of Carrol County, but it didn’t and neither did I…
so it’s just me and the street lamps downtown cowtown 1 a.m.
Not a star in sight and nothing’s open all night but there’s some
eggs at Casa Huddle, been waiting all day by the week-old bacon
by the grease geyser and a tarnished Maxwell pump.
Home is sounding better by the minute, out there, self bound,
out there by the pines where the stars always shine
and the insects call and chant to the night.
Yeah, like this never happened before and the phone rings on time.
Let the darkness rain down on the rascals and rogues, on the land,
on the caverns of the coyote prince; I have tasted the clay,
chewed upon the sunrise in a dozen cities and found nothing
so sweet as the southern summer moon.
As though baptisms were not pure ritual,
as though I’ve lived this course in southern mysticism past,
yet past the prime of indecision into action and desire.
Me, alone with my solipsism and a thousand constellations,
where animal heart is an echo growing stronger in my lungs,
growing out of the chronic dreams of misalliance and master races,
seeds sown in the groves of neophytes and fisher kings, suicide kings
where the world is nothing but reflections and fear…fear…
yeah, fear keep’em all from climbing.
In the black hour those owl wise swoop down on the bell ropes
and burn in the light of the dying mirror sun. Better to burn on
the wing than stooped upon the ladder with some Moloch prince
in a three piece suit, better to screech in the storms
with a new vision of life, alive with all that lives in the treetops
and shadows, in gulf stream and prairie, forest and hill, yeah,
dreams of the beasts on the edge of extinction, they come.
They cry. Dreams of the coyote prince seconds before the snare snaps.
Naturalist, rattling the cages of a language that’s forgotten salvation,
when animal rhythm passes so shall we,
asphalt concrete glass and steel…poof! memories of the land…
a getaway from the lights, from engines’ rhythms, blood in the sand
for a moment before the buildings rise and it’s all just city,
but never open all night. And the dirt roads shine.
Well, the night limps around kinda faded and gone,
bird calls in the dawn and the distant combustion howls,
cities rise and fall in the dust, but out here,
out here in the backroads, my heart, all red clay, pines and springfed
really is open all night, is the one direction unadorned with death.
Loving the land and the hammer that nails it down.
Loving the Rising when our own mortality strains,
pulls upon the bellropes and begs for mercy.

ZEN GIRL

Late arrival,
window shakes as the front door slams,
covers pull up against the coming light,
then a sweet voice flows across the dust…
and in your little room you squint and shake,
see a world alive with breath and whispers,
there’s a woman there you know you love…
yeah, she’s the spice of life.
Like a tickle in your ear:
hello? hello?
And she says:
No lucky charm bounces on my chest,
no crucifix, no ankh or star,
just a flash of red, a hearts fire contained.

Gluten Free “Flour” mix list


Version:1.0 StartHTML:0000000191 EndHTML:0000032251 StartFragment:0000003062 EndFragment:0000032215 SourceURL:file://localhost/Users/hlamarthomas/coyote/ewb%202008/glutenfreebaking.doc

General Baking Mixes
Simple Substitute makes 1 cup 1 cup brown rice flour
General Baking Mix #1 makes 2 cups 1 cup rice flour

1/2-3/4 cup potato starch

¼ cup tapioca starch/flour

General Baking Mix #2 makes 9 cups 3 cups garfava bean flour

2 cups potato starch

2 cups cornstarch

1 cup tapioca flour

1 cup sorghum flour

Original formula makes 3 cups 2 cups rice flour

2/3 cup potato starch

1/3 cup tapioca starch/flour

Four Flour Bean makes 3 cups 2/3 cup garfava bean flour

1/3 cup sorghum flour

1 cup cornstarch

1 cup tapioca starch/flour

Featherlight makes 4 cups 1 cup rice flour

1 cup cornstarch

1 cup tapioca starch/flour

1 Tbsp. potato flour

Specialty Mixes
Pastry mix makes 1 cup 1/8 cup potato flour

7/8 cup Ener-G Foods©

rice flour

Cookie mix makes 2 cups ¼ cup chickpea flour

1¾ cup sorghum flour

¼ cup sweet rice flour

Bread mix makes 2 cups 1 cup brown rice flour

½ cup potato starch

½ cup sweet rice flour

1 Tbsp. unflavored gelatin

Raw And Vulgar (poem, passage and eulogy)


RAW AND VULGAR (for Dan S Hart and Bruce Sehorne)
I
One by one hundred I just keep on singing, chewing time and killing meters,
Piling stars across the night, stripping pieces of this intolerant flesh
And laying it all down into an American song, a suburban pastoral
Of eulogy …
Counting stars and humming along as best I can. The night is a sonnet.
Yeah, song strummed on vapor trails, beaten through granite dust,
Sung along tree lines, blackberry patches, creekside in the rhododendrons,
Where up by the road this hydra headed plantation just keeps on building,
Keeps on killing all in the name of beauty and the South
And keeps on killing every beautiful thing about the South
The land that I see embedded in my skin in my voice and in my eyes
This land that is me that is falling bit by bit to the torture called
Subdivision, mixed used and expansion, this land that is dying
To be saved but nonetheless succumbs, that is the verse on my lips
A creation eulogy, a moment grasped on the dark walkway,
A stab at cityscapes and visions of malls and shopping districts,
So why is it all poetry is eulogy, why is that I walk not for me
But for sake of preserving a conversation or two shared between friends,
Ah hell, rip language sausages and fry me a river, this ain’t the South,
All dried up and filled with constructions that represent nothing
But bad architecture and childish business models, where a pure
Vowel stretched is an unrecognized dialect, a voice of nature
That is Georgia by the hills, but a suit can’t hear it and dollar
Can’t buy it, but there it is, spoken, sentences, long dipthongs
Uncorrupted by politics or northern aggression, I speak this, proudly.
It is my dream: My dream to be completely who I am.
II
Turn back and read, a day later it all looks childish.
I see the English ivy crawl up, devouring, eating pine and oak,
The suburb dies a little and the county tells me that easement damage
Is cost from my pocket book, my money county thief, mine.
Here is the test of the phrase “sins of the father” cause none of this
Is my doing, none of this is because of me, in fact it is in spite of.
III
Symbolic emails and one sided conversations collide and repose
As roadmarks to my evolution, pen-wise and keyboard enabled.
I want to forget who I am and drive the devil down. I love narcissism.
IV
A rain shower stands on plateaus west of here; steady, wanting to feed,
rain down on this water absent region, mighty and thick it sits and wails,
The Middle Oconee River limps currents below and then turns creek,
Just a creek where the bridge crosses beside a forest and a field. Just a creek.
Open land. Forest. Twin beauties. Heavy. Twins marked to be crushed.
And then end of the year floods came, tricky dead wood gathers,
Water, wind and a leaky roof cut smiles off my face like falling razors.
The development begins. Orange flags map and mark,
Signifying ends, and beginnings. I hate these things.
I hear the thistle weeping.
V
Muffled, trying to walk like light on mist without touching a thing in sight,
Without even being here I walk around the narrow dark path,
Steam pounds upon the beech bark, deer breath, crow, hawk and crazy squirrel,
Even my own clean lungs expire like oil into the pristine world around me.
Songs from Don Chambers tangled in the ferns and dangling in the magnolias,
His voice captures the mossy breath that lumbers over a cemetery, lumbers
The same way that it glides through song poems Falling Off The Edge Of The World, Strange Faith,
And I’m singing this elegy, singing Conjuring A Dead Rabbit,
In the song, in the moment here, in this moment now I see the veins
Entering my wrist, pumping, infused with this life and mystery forest.
Fear. Desire. Lust. Danger lurks. Passion speaks and I can’t hesitate.
And the horseman comes back around again beneath the eaves
Of a two trunked chinaberry, this again the pale green white vapor
Imitating form, horse high shadow and a vengeful snort laugh to anger,
I’ve never been less a man; I’ve never crumbled so fast under pressure,
But fall you bet, and I fall harder, fallen, a horse hoof rises between
Burgundy red wide eyes, “why’ve you come back, why did you come again?”
Circle me. Hooves, ‘chush, shushck, shush’ on pinecones and needles.
Circle trees and trample tender blue Sweet William, barely rising through the soil,
Lost country flower torn between barnyards and cornrows, around stoops
And front porches, lost in a stand of condemned trees, trying to find a way
Out into sunlight and hedgerows, and then it’s gone. I gotta fight.
WELL OF COURSE IT’S SCRATCH at the crossroads. The name is life and death.
That we live is the miracle and that we live on in question is the anti-miracle.
And in the garden of Southern mysticism a mirror is the answer to everything.
Break.
VI
3 a.m. the dogs leave the room to guard in a quieter night.
Talking about Elvis, the albums and the photographs,
The way his records were all picked up and auctioned off by RCA.
Raked through and sold by a thousand hungry hands,
Greedy hands, an iron broom separating songs
That should have never been released, the Kings throwaways
Bringing down the dollars, more in death than his voice ever could alive,
A living set of lungs and two walking legs. This man never sleeps.
Uneasy in death, unable to stay down, looking for other
Southern souls to wake and to warn from danger and wrath,
Yes, even Elvis still courses through dreams. holds his hand
To the heart and mind, sing a bit, even frighten and shake,
“Veer away from death old soul, veer away, AWAKE!”
And the unsteady 3 a.m. howls and gurgles up from my throat,
I lay sleeping and choking on the night itself, shake, shake,
Shake awake out of the shadows and I lay there waiting,
Really being pulled to the end of the bed, a shade laughs.
Trying to untie the muscles in my throat to scream, but I cannot,
Just a howl, just a prayer on the mist, just a man closer to god.
Pulling down an eleventh veil in the three o’clock hour.
Wandering spirit just wants to be known again and not lost,
When a wandering Southern heart just wants to rest awhile
And leave a message, “don’t let them forget, don’t let them hurt”…
3 a.m. this crazy 3 a.m. will never let go will always come back
And tell me yes there are passings here in the early morning,
Here where icon and a lilith fight it, tussle out over flesh
And leave me sweating over what does it mean. I hope it’s over.
What does it mean? What?
V
Uncomfortable. The sweet lonely swell of wind,
A scent of old coffee, charred and bitter,
But I can’t name it now, can I? Coffee.
There isn’t a better lament than the one
Of reaching for the pot and finding it burned,
Useless,
Bastard dark water gone into the morning,
My darling sultry tonic out of the dawn is gone, going, gone.
And you know, I wanted the warmth, the palm sugar oiled,
Taste the black rush of Costa Rican shady grove. Ah, what the hell.
Is this what the day brings? After haunts and haints fight
Over my pale night heart and dreams, me, is this it, me?
The mirror fades.
Why can’t I pass over and just say Hello to the day?
The mirror is gone.
Windows open.
VI
Salsa smooth salsa swinging in on the stereo
And I wish I could climb down off the ladder and dance.
Dance
That step forward forward sideways back sideways forward
And shimmy shimmy push and shake head bobbing down up up.
Dance little sister dance sings magic Santana band.
Aztec lizard gods descend and shoot smoke epistles to the land.
Corn grows and the tomato crops are looking healthy.
A strawberry bursts in the heat.
Language and growth,
So this is what dance is all about, huh, so I’ve been doing
It wrong all along, like so many other things, wrong all along.
Growing older much past the rebellion age,
Much past the point when I should know better
This thing about the dance hits me,
I never passed the stage where excuses were no longer necessary,
I never came to see that what I say and do announces,
That I do not need to always justify.
Just like the dance, learn the steps, learn the body language
And then the movement is enough.
The body always spoke in ways that I could not.
Salsa breathes.
Salsa and samba, the old Hustle and Pony, poems alive,
And the long passion of epics is realized in Tango and Waltz.
I can’t get past the Twist. Mash Potato, do this Patti Smith, boney maroney.
Do this thing where the emotions stagnate and yet fight to grow.
VII
Static snow on the clover and dandelions,
A clear, cold stream races over black slate and fools gold,
Jarred and smacked against the car door,
Jumping water and hitting the black tar once again,
This little truck of mine does OK some of the time.
Buddha on the dashboard, Mickey Mouse in the ashtray,
Goofy and a stegosaurus wrangle for shotgun,
And behind the wheel I sing and drive on,
Singing in the car, singing alone, fun Southern drive
Singing off key singing nothing like the song on the stereo,
Singing “it ain’t me babe, no no no, it ain’t me…”
“It ain’t me…so I break on through to the other side
day becomes the night night becomes the day week to weak
hour to hour break on through to…American girl raised on
Dreams and promises…break down and give it to me now it’s alright,
It’s alright…running down a dream runnning down a light”,
“in the shadow of the cage around the 40 watt light”
And after Dylan, Doors, Tom Petty and Drive By Truckers
The static claw finger hits a sharp banjo:
“I can waltz though my hands are tied I can hold you close
And whisper lies”, and so D. Chamber chants down the moon.
And by the time I’m at the service it’s obvious to me
That something is breaking, something is breaking inside of me.
Snow ices up on the window and I can’t see a thing.
VIII
I’m sick of all the killing and death. Sick of all the theft.
God gives and takes. Buddha laughs.
Great gods of murder, calamity and sorrow all come together
And have a laugh on us. Thanks for nothing sister Shiva,
Thanks for nothing, you Ego freeing beast, thanks for nothing.
Friendships become harder the older I grow. I want to capture
Daylight and hold them all close a little longer,
But that’s not gonna happen.
Looking out past tear and salt drowned eyes,
Hugs and handshakes don’t compensate,
And yeah, I march around all tall and red faced, the ground my bulls eye,
The brakes in my mind get lost on trails of tales of wild spotted deer,
Of nights driving home through fog and mist, through sweet alfalfa,
Through fields laced with yellow wheat, with rolled bales of tall rye grass.
The road to Oglethorpe County was a lot of woods and pasture,
Horse fence and dirt roads, roads pine lined and blackberry guarded,
These pulsating roads were the ones we raced,
The ones we drove every night,
Home from the rock and roll mecca, Athens, Georgia.
And home we drove in Dan’s beat up maroon Volvo.
To the dark, dark inner country roads, part pebble, part asphalt,
Where a Church stood, where three tattered white crosses guarded the lawn,
This church dedicated to snake gods and white flowers,
To dogwoods and the book of Jeremiah, to marching into glory with a song.
How many girls stood in the crossroads at 1 a.m and promised lazy love
Into legend, who promised to each steady standing star that poem was all
And we were just a stanza.
That’s the story I want to tell. The one I try to set loose
And yet every second I breathe an ocean bursting,
Call it what you will I call it emotion.
Not a dry cheek in the amphitheater.
We hold each other now to hold onto Now.
When a mother loses a son and a wife her husband, a daughter her father
And the rest of us just stand and wonder, someone tell me
what of mother, husband and father? So I have to speak……..
I must but I can’t I have to speak to eulogize to say something that will comfort.
“When Napoleon met Goethe he paused and held up a hand and said:
Here is man.” (in French of course but here it is the importance of phrase)
Not here is a man or here is some man or the man, no, he said Here Is Man.
This is how I feel when I speak of my friend, that here is man,
An example of the life lived for us all. Daniel S. Hart truly was Man.
But this is the thing, the Kantian thing that is there, the thing is that,
And that is us, we are each man and woman,
and we are each A man and A woman.
And we are as well as are not.
I am. You are. We are.
I. You. We.
I am.
I against I? Hell no. I am.
Water spirits leave.
I know this ice melts and all love evolves.
IX
So tell me why when dark clouds know my name and the crows know my name
That with each wind and crackling loud ka kaw!
I am not comforted I am not calm. Call my name!
Shadows press into the window, up against the wall,
Shadows even know my name,
Yeah, marching straight time down wet and hilly streets,
Marching so I can find me, find me a maze to circle in and around,
Go down by the water in the gulley by my house,
Go down like Moses to the slow and sludgy ripples, go down and dig the bones,
Dig under the stones, dig under the fallen leaves,
Dig at the base of dogwood and maple; dig ‘til you can tell me
I’ve dug down far enough, dig until the answers stand taller than the sun,
And then, then tell me that the crows don’t know,
That the crows and thunderbirds have forgotten who I am, I have.
I have given up the hunt, handed over desire,
I want to know so I can be calm so I can sleep.
So who will comfort when the herd stampedes and all you can see is dust and sun?
Will the rains really do this, will the rains wash away or just push,
Push the trash Deeper in? I want a bucket to throw up in.
I want a Western saddle and a gun. I want to ride.
GO!
“Open up the gates, I’m coming home” sang the goat.
X
And I wrote. In sadness and loss the page becomes me.
There were many things including this, and the one that was carved in stone,
The poem that was born from his death, as memorial for his wife, Beth,
His daughter, Zoe and to his parents Marvin and Orlene, to any who
Would see in the Brandywine Valley this six foot tall polished and gray
With arched top stone, granite, so hard and ever lasting, granite,
And it was there, and I was humbled more than ever, G-d looks upon us,
And we read the Kaddish and I wore his bar mitzvah cap,
We held hands and read these words, so Southern yet Jewish, so Universal,
Words to praise a life, words to grant peace, words, adoration and comfort,
This is the eulogy, my last song to friendship, to my dear friend, Dan:
My life lived so fast, full and pure,
Brimming with energy, desire, curious for more,
One dream to become completely who I am,
One love and one child my heart became alive,
And with all these things I was happy,
Happy to be amongst you, happy to be a man,
Happy to have flown, fished and found,
To have found this life just what I wanted
Just what I loved: To be a man,
A father, son and husband to the world.
H Lamar Thomas

DANIEL S. HART
AUGUST 27, 1967 to December 4, 2007

Oh damn, yes that’s my name on the marker,
My name before my calling, that’s my name on the stone in the Brandywine Valley.
I am not ready.
Unblinking green eyed stare.
This land is so beautiful.
I want to create.
I am ready.
And it like this, it is this, knowing friendship and love,
Beloved and warm, chaotic and embraced for all the right reasons,
A better man for my wife, a better friend and a better life.
I am not ready.
Open sesame dammit! Open up and stop being so vain.
Wish I could meet the author of the Song of Songs, of Ecclesiastes and Isaiah.

XI
Bang Bang! The night, bang the cracking limbs in the storms,
Bang! burn down the ragged barns, put up new fences and plant bamboo,
And it does not help to fear or to attack, it does not help to ever give up.
Shouts and shouts and that recurrent Bang! of silence burning down,
And memories run away, inspiration dies at the Bang! but Bang!
It does and I will not give up.
I remember standing beneath the water tower at my house
On the Star Highway, Hiway 1 of the California legends,
Standing by my Malibu station wagon, stand in the night, tired,
Leaning and looking out on the wild succulent grove, moon bright,
Moon alive and smooth, an easy wind curling down the mountainside,
Traveling to my house here near the sea, and then as on cue an owl flies by,
Yes, swoops and hoots, clicks a few times and crawls into the tower.
Native Americans there said the owl is a death message,
Bang! it scared me, but there is always death, just the same as life,
So each night it became a ritual of me standing and loving the stars,
And sister owl just hanging out, raising a family, living the owl life,
Living in a way that makes a mockery of metaphor and fairy tale.
But any way, I hang onto to both legend and truth.
Both have meaning.
I am glad.
The buzz of gnats and a passing choir of dogs howling,
Power and knowledge, acceptance and atonement,
Creation expands from silence,
Creation pops bubbles and smiles Peace inside inferno,
And I know I love. And this is what I know,
In deep water and in dry summer, all thanks, all hands,
There are no more metaphors.
Embrace. I am glad. Glad for all that I have known.

XII

I look on the face of a thirty-year-old pocket watch,
It reads 10:10 and the horses on the silver cover stand in place running,
One nipping the neck of the front steed, left legs rose, poised, racing.
There’s no race.
The engraving says: ONE STEP UP.
Pale etching in old metal; oak leaves and vines on the back, almost filigree,
Kinda cool, it feels soothing on the tips of my heat ravaged fingers;
The wages of a life in the kitchen, delicate yet worn and scratchy engravings
On my own speckled hands, freckle shining, bright blue veins pulsing,
This is a race in itself, isn’t it? The shot of blood always moving, in and out,
A few pints here, a few pints there, paused in the heart holds and parlors,
My own wind up is the wind pushing over Pacific waves, over sand and saw grass,
Cleansing thing, a very nice cleansing thing these bastard lonely waves crashing
Over inside and over again into each other, and then the break, the rush over rock
And cliff side, this is the way the heart must be, bashing and pushing, holding
Buckets of molecules for a moment long enough to shove it back down,
Tick tock, it goes again gaining speed and building momentum, tick tock,
This isn’t it, Wendy, but the crocodile follows all of us, doesn’t it? Tick tock.
Captain Hook isn’t even the problem; the darkness can’t have a name,
The dark stabs and penetrates smiles and hope; the dark is a sharp knife
Held at minute hand’s tip, ticking, stupid tick, not a rhythm not a beat
Just this horrid shining set of angers and discord slung from clocks’ end
Into the world around us.
I want to take one step up.
I want to evolve.
And these crazed Pan references are Freudian old, dead Id old, moldy dead
Vacant slabs of thick paint old, so old I know there is no forgiveness,
No more turning back clocks and memory, I can’t bounce from rock to rock
Or over dunes like I did in the Mendocino days, I kinda walk and wander,
Skip rocks over kudzu patches and wish they were the sea, I wish it was the sea.
XIII
Ballads and bad lads, a slice of night on the specials board, long days hawking
Fresh food for the masses, long hours sweating, living on a nerves edge alive
I press on, cutting, slicing, portioning, thinking, rotating, cleaning, directing,
A shout here and there but mostly speaking, speaking works wonders
When the crew is all love, love and hate for the food. A Chef’s life.
Some days I feel like food, as if I were the garlic, the ginger, the cinnamon stick,
Yeah, like a clove of garlic squeaking, watching Chinese steel
Come down on the bamboo board, being torn apart and then thinly sliced.
Being a part of the picture, a piece in the puzzle or best of all, an ingredient,
True, oxygen kills and gives life, and we fight against oxygen sometimes,
Working fast, getting the ingredients together just in time, just in that moment
Before aging starts to take away flavor, we do it for the flavor, chop and run.
Fresh means something; it means something grand.
XIV
Nightlines breaking like beech trees falling in sudden snowstorms,
Tulip maples and magnolias felled in the roads and backyards of my home,
Fences break, roads succumb and power lines flare up like cherry bombs.
Staring up in the scattering snow, so thick, no form, just a shotgun blast
From 10 p.m. March 1, 2009. Hear the forest killing itself.
The crush of stupid drivers coming down the hill, the spinning desperation,
A slip and a crash. Just go to sleep big Suburban, just go to sleep and stay
Awhile beneath the pines, stay a while and leave your passengers to go,
Let the land drink in this cold display, let the land rest and regenerate.
I got a Huskavara chainsaw chewing it’s way out of the garage,
16 inches of blade, hungry to get going, oiled and gassed,
This is one angry machine, and I am one cold driver, one cold man
In one cold white night, one rich night into an icy dawn, grey dawn.
I am Lonely in the snow. My shoes wet, my toes cold from sweat and melting ice.
Shadow lays itself down upon a broken and dead dogwood.
Lifting the breathing carcass of Rose Of Sharon, or was it Camellia?
To me it’s all pink blooms in winter, and it comes back to life,
Frozen flowers and all, this tender but feisty tree comes back to life.
“I wish I had the power over judgment day”, wish I could resurrect
These few fallen friends, good people downed just like the pines.
I know my heart is sleeping in these ponderosa pines, and I know
My thoughts are tangled like Ledbelly’s heartless love,
I sense a train is coming, I hear the grave stones crack.
No dust rises around my feet and the food I eat is salty and raw,
Man, I want a press pot coffee, Columbian, black as hell and burning.
And the snows take another tree down, down across a roof out back,
A woman comes out screaming, this tree just killed her house.
Death has mercy. I think. I hear the songs my friends used to love,
I hear them laughing as I chug along, I wish dear Bruce and Dan
Were here today, I want to tell them they are loved, I want those
Spirits to be free, the river howls down in the distance and I sing louder,
Louder than the cry of all the birds around me hunting.
I sing loud. I want the devil to know that I am coming for him.
XV
I am the guy in the graveyard holding his breath
Till mortality stops being mortal.
Chinks of stone embed in my palms from holding broken Jesus statues.
I call down stupid demon history and swear these angels
Are nothing but jokes against all things that I believed.
Come down and hold me.
Tell me something is cherished.
I am not done. Am I? I am. . . . NOT DONE.
Quick poet chained with bracelets and charms.
See the alarming happiness and hope silenced.
See this? What does anything matter if it just
Means that again this is tossed out into the wind,
Friends dying and killed, blood, booze, explosions and heroin.
My own vanity can’t even justify this thing that I call me.
This, this life that I believed was beloved.
It is not.
Is it?
It’s all about me. I’m all I know.
The mirror never takes a holiday.
Fuck!
There’s a spray of barbed wire behind every birth.
Mystery slams a hand down and ushers up a smile.
Anyone can do better. Anyone can be more.
We have a choice, to create or to destroy; it always comes around to this,
Around and around, the need is not the question; the want is not the desire,
I have chosen that no matter what I will create and I will build,
I do it all in reverence and love, from laughter to a scream, I do it all with love.
Pure heart comes from a wild life lived.
Justice comes from doing these things in spite of the hate that madness brings.
And yes, as surely as the round Buddha touches earth,
As surely as the Prophet fed the masses,
There is a car waiting to take it all away. Death drive. Life drive.
Just drive on. Drive on. Drive.
This thing that’s on my lips? Beloved goes on, she goes on and says
She wants to get away, it is all she wants, she wants to go away.
She does.

Where The Wild Meats Roam (food, article, A Romance With Food)


WHERE THE WILD MEATS ROAM
A Story About Why Roast Pork Butt With Persimmon And Plum

Rod Stewart And Faces had an album, Every Picture Tells A Story, well, for me, so does a recipe. Born of a family going back to the 17oo’s on the same soil, in the same tracts of Georgia land, sharing the same names, church and graveyard, there are tales and legends as deep as any pecan root, and yet also as shallow as the creeks running all around the suburbanized and cemented maze that now stands on that once fertile ground. I will be buried in the same common earth as my first Irish American ancestor, Finn or Sinn, Cofer and Thomas, off of First Street in once tree lined and pasture rich Tucker, Georgia. Before I die I will have to eat a last meal, I hope, and that involves pork. Some want fried chicken, veal chops or carbonara, fat scallops or fried crappie, me, I want pork roast with persimmon and root vegetables.
The Finns, Englands and Cofers settled and fought, farmed and built railroads, general stores and family neighborhoods. The ground gave a lot of produce and tobacco, and then in the Depression it was all taken away, even my grandfather served time for throwing sacks of corn and wheat off the railroad cars as they mounted the hill that was Tucker. The Robin Hood thing was real. When a nation hungers, it hungers for real. The food that arose from these times became legendary, as they were then lost in the era of canned and frozen convenience foods. The Great Depression changed the way that people shopped and cooked. In my hometown we had two butchers, a couple of grocery stores, lots of vegetable stands, and of course Matthews Cafeteria.
Food dominated the cultural landscape. This is the South. This is the Deep South. Ethiopian and Irish, French and German, our foods developed from their kitchens and from their tilled ground. All cultures have “their” food that is often delicious in the place of origin. Learning how to approach indigenous or ethnic cuisines is challenging, and even moreso if it is the food of one’s own ancestors. Many times I’ve coaxed Chinese Chefs to trade the “good stuff” with me by eating Hunan style sweet and sour intestines. Cracks me up, Soul food is soul food all over the world. Wild and fresh killed meat is always good for no matter what part of the body, it is always good.
Plum trees were all over my neighborhood by a nameless creek and the small bream, perch and crappie filled lake below. Maypops, blackberry, pecan, peach, persimmons, muscadines and gone wild watermelons showed up here and there. Our own small yard had three purple plum trees. They were toys to me, things to throw around, to toss at rabbits and squirrels, and of course to play fetch with mix breed beagles that my father raised for rabbit hunting.
My Mother married without the slightest idea of how to cook. She was the bobby sockser, the pretty girl, The Southern Belle of the Cofer/England family. So, my grandmothers and aunts would fix dinner for her and then bring it over before my wild Thomas father came home from the hard labor brick mason jobs he held all over Dekalb and Fulton counties. We ate everything that my grandparents and their grandparents ate. And Mother, well, she became to me the best cook in the world; she learned and she handed it down. We loved her Sunday suppers of beef pot roast, and the yeast rolls that rose by the heater vents while we were at church were the best. But pork, the rest of the week, pork was a food of the people, affordable, high yield, fatty and adapts to just about any kind of preparation.
Buffets were the best part of births, deaths, new homes and marriages, of church socials and Tucker Days celebrations. It was an elaborate and tasty youth. These gatherings are now called “Taste of (insert city name)” where restaurants display their foods. I still envy the ways they handed down, yet much was lost in a land overpopulated and built up to the extent that town halls and mainstreets were to become the “Make believe” property of developers and sell out relatives. I miss the South of community and closeness, safety, and of course great fresh food.
I miss the foods the most. Great thing is that we are now bringing these foods back home in the home as more natural meats and local produce become available. Who would have ever thought that fried green tomatoes would be a restaurant dish? This was something we cooked at home when there were just too many tomatoes growing. Today this is tapas or amuses bouche in restaurants, and that’s cool. You gotta love the food. I keep trying to work out a fried green tomato bruschetta that can pass as a nod to Mediterranean or Pan Asian styles.
Today our South foods come close to what gave the food so much flavor, and I mean outside the family farm, the fresh killed meats, the iron skillets and 200 year old bbq pits, I mean the good love between us all, the setting aside of grief and anger, the lifting up of the love and the song that is a long family history, the worship in the only church around, the Tucker First Baptist (land donated by my maternal Grandfather), the only High School around, Tucker High (some of the land donated by my paternal Grandfather), the whole thing, the hanging out at my Grandfather Thomas’ general store, butcher shop, gas station and lunch counter, going to Matthews Cafeteria because that is where we went to eat out and socialize, not because it was charming and kitschy, but because that was where we went out to eat, period. Well, except for the Dairy Queen or Fountain’s Drugs. We ate together. We lived. The mention that we were quaint or kitschy can piss off landed gentry or two, and sometimes even me. That was the life before Atlanta was again the Phoenix in the late 70s and 80s.
The food has been revived and that’s the beautiful thing, our bloodline lives, our accents live and our food is being revived. Now if only the love and comradery could be resurrected. How can I touch this? By food cooked at home. My wife learned to cook collard greens with ham hock from my niece! Yeah, the family meals follow a twisted path but they always lead back to the family. Rough economies push us back to the family table, a place of conversations and true adoration of the food.
As an American Chef my foods have traveled the globe, my culinary path is the World, but my history, my training and much of my style belongs to what I saw in my Mamaw England’s and Mother’s kitchen, and of course from what Daddy Bill and Gertrud Thomas cooked one strange Sunday in the long ago. Long ago before appropriating the magic and hardships of dirt and clay, pine tree and pecan hard luck life became a marketable influence, long ago when it was real and it was now, when it tasted so warm and sweet. Warm and sweet, cold and sweet, that’s how I remember, that is the South I adore. Fusion began in the South. This stands as a kind of culinary confessional, doesn’t it? But it’s richer than this; the world of food unites us all beyond boundaries and beyond languages.
Why this long introduction to one dish built in so many ways for three hundred years? Why do all these New South restaurants get on my nerves? There is no ‘New’ South; we’ve always been here, welcoming everyone home. The ingredients have changed a lot now that the world is drawn in so close with modern farming, even for the small local there is modernity, this is how we survived, by change, by adaptation, and yet the main thing about the food never changed, the cooking style and the pork.
The variations are many, but persimmon, plums and sweet potato are what it takes for this roast pork butt to be the best Sunday dinner of the month, that’s for sure. And always remember that slow food is not our invention nor is it a novelty act for a hundred same menu farms to table restaurants to espouse. The only places not cooking fresh or natural are the big box chains that tell you they are cooking fresh and natural.
The pig itself is of importance. I use the breed known as Duroc. Berkshire and Ossabow are very popular among pork connoisseurs and rightly so for the rich, fatty flavor, but I like an in between kind of pig and Thomas Jefferson’s pig is a perfect fit for me. If you want Ossabow pork there is a ranch in Georgia that is now producing them so you don’t have to sign up for hunts in South Georgia and the islands there. The name of the ranch is Nature’s Harmony.
Fuyu persimmons work best for this recipe. If you have a persimmon tree then that’s just even more value to the meal. They can be found at Super H and many of the Farmer’s Market’s, organic grocers and Whole Foods.
Plums? What is there to say other than “alright, plums in a savory dish”.
Use the big dark firm slightly sweet ‘n sour Damson ones. If not fresh then just pass this over and use apricots or nectarines, and apples or pears.
PERSIMMON AND PLUM PORK BUTT ROAST
The flavor in a pig is always in the butt, leg, shoulder, bacon and country ribs. Since we cook with electricity and natural gas now instead of propane and whatever wood would fit in the stove some of the details are lost. I was finally able to cook my Mamaw’s fried chicken while cooking on a wood burning stove on the wild Mendocino Coast one home sick lonely long rainy winter. I am forever thankful for a Big Green Egg that my brother, Gary Lyle, gave to me last Christmas. I have learned again how to cook more natural, more to the heart of what I love about food.
Same for this butt recipe except that I was cooking wild boar. Northern California wild boars tend to be Berkshire, good stuff. Something about being away from home that brings home all the more close. So, I learned to cook the foods of my home by being away from home. I love this life, I really do.

6 pound butt
2 large yellow onions, or vidalia if available
3 carrots, chopped
5 cloves garlic, peeled
2 sprigs fresh thyme
3 bay leaves
½ cup fresh mint, or a handful of stems and leaves
2 sweet potatoes cut into medium sized cubes (1 x1 inch)
1 pound plums, Damson, cut in half, remove stone
1 pound ripe persimmons, washed, peeled and cut in quarters
1 ½ tablespoons salt
1 tablespoon ground black pepper
1 cup chicken stock
1/2 cup apple cider
1/2 cup peach moonshine or light rum
1/2 cup sugar, light brown
½ cup molasses
2 tablespoons lard
Day before cooking chop the herbs. Rub the pork down with the salt, pepper and sugar. Mix the herbs with the molasses and rub this over the pork. Refrigerate overnight. The day of cooking preheat oven to 325 degrees. Heat a deep iron roasting pan or clay Dutch oven on the stove top on medium heat. Add the lard. Add the onions and carrots. Stir and let them cook for a minute. Add the pork butt and sear on all sides for a minute each turn. Add the sweet potatoes, plums, persimmons and heat for three minutes. Be careful not to let the herbs and sugars burn. Add the liquids. Simmer for three minutes.
Cover the pot and put it into the oven. Cook two hours. Remove the lid and cook for fifteen minutes. The pork should have a temperature of 150 to 160 degrees. Remove from oven. Take the butt out of the pot and set aside. Put the pot on the stove and bring to a boil. From here you will adjust the seasonings. Add more Damson plums if you need it to be richer and thicker. Simmer to a thin sauce. Strain and pour sauce into serving bowl.
Slice the pork. Serve persimmons, plums, sweet potatoes on the same tray and the sliced pork. Best eaten with yeast rolls, brunswick stew and any kind of cabbage or slow cooked collards or turnip greens.

ROSCOE HOLCOMB ON THE STEREO

So…Did I really think
the sun would shine down in my house out on hillbilly row?
When the rains flowed and fed great fields of kudzu and honeysuckle
I watched my gardens fade and fall, dry and die in the granite mothered

barren soil, and all the bream and bark in the world just wouldn’t
fertilize, wouldn’t hold the sands long enough to seed, but still I believe,
still I try. And when it’s good, on the front porch above the haze

it’s a vision of green mountains and steaming thin rivers cutting
through the gorge, beautiful. And when it’s corn and bean shucking time
I still have the heart to whistle “In the Pines”,

and I hope someone can hear me, I hope someone will shout back
through the woods, maybe even cross over to this plot of land.

Dried flowers, a dusty letter, Japanese figurine, yellow light on the brick
mantel shines, wipe my eyes, look again, and still it shines a cracked
and dingy pastel, and the morning itself seems like a postcard,

a loved memento of the life I’ve had. But waking always brings this pause,
this gaze into the past…wish it was easier to shake away the dreams,
just set them on the shelf beside the light, turn around and go my way.

Sitting in the kitchen staring at the rusty well water in my James Joyce mug,
have a smoke, try to forget those other warmer mornings and fonder beds,
sip and think about how with today I begin again, yes again, yes.

Daybreak walking down the hill, chestnut and red clover line the path,
wild strawberries and may pop vines perk up beneath the early dew,
think about it: this is my life? Here, earthsongs grew and flourished,

and I knew all the talk about whispers on the wind and the life of the wee
folk was more than legend, it simply was. It simply was the way of things.
River rock and Cherokee rose lead the way creekside to the barbwire line
that marked the place grandfather had his still, and there today I see
the blue tagged stake for the county tax man, fresh, deep, weak nonetheless,

and there today I just kick it down and keep on walking, glad this is a place
where I feel and feel, and feel so much the today of it all, just the today.
Strange water, this mountain blood: Black bear heart and Appalachian spirit,

Van Gogh hands given to the land, knowing the light is sweet and giving,
yet the Adam in me still curses anyway, and I pace in and out of the creek
and moss like this here is the one true baptistery, and I do dare it all

to come to pass……….yeah, these Ecclesiastic days will surely pass,
but until then there’s another song waiting, another blues, another hymn
to hard work and struggle, another reason to stomp and wail,
and then another day to fight the silence on the hill.

Pompano Steamed In Banana Leaf (food, article, Lily)


POMPANO STEAMED IN BANANA LEAF OVER VEGETABLES
The first time I had this dish was at the Thai Cafe on California Street in San Francisco in 1980. I literally shed a tear of happiness over this dish. I had never had anything better before in my life. There are several variations of this dish. It is kin to a fish mousse in French cuisine, but, then again it’s not.
4 dried chilies
1 stalk lemon grass
6 large leaves basil, use holy or purple basil
if it is available, for a slight cinnamon or anise taste
1 tablespoon garlic, chopped=2 cloves
1 shallot, chopped
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1 tablespoon soy sauce
10 Sichwan peppercorns crushed
4 tablespoons coconut cream: get this by scooping
the cream off the top when you open the can.
1/2 teaspoon sugar
8 ounces pompano, cut in thin 1 inch pieces
1 banana leaf. Buy more if you’re nervous and it’s the first time.
2 limes, zested on grater, use the zest.
10 medium leaves spinach
Cut and discard the seeds from the chilies. Chop and soak the chilies in hot water.
Use the bottom three inches of the lemon grass, peel away the tough outer skin and slice crosswise as thin as you can.
In your mortar, or food processor, make a paste from the drained chilies, garlic, shallot, lemon grass, turmeric, soy and peppercorns. Remove to mixing bowl.
Add coconut cream, sugar, and the fish. Stir so that it is well mixed and pasty. Set aside.
Cut the banana leaves into 8 X 11 inch rectangles. Cut two more rectangles at 3 X 5 inches. Cut six long thin, string-like strips of banana leaf for tying the packets. Set the large leaves on a cutting board, shiny side down. Place small leaves inside large leaves. Divide and stack spinach on each, then stack basil leaves on top of spinach.
Go back to the fish mix (it is a curry). Stir in the lime zest. Divide the mix between the banana leaves. Fold the edges of the leaves over so that each overlaps in the center.
You will have a tube shape. Now, fold the ends over to close it. Turn each over. Lay the strings down, three per pack on the cutting board. Set the packets on top of the strings.
Tie it up. Not too thick, you don’t want to squeeze out the mix.
Fill the bottom of the wok with water, set the steamer of top of the water. Bring to furious, propulsive boil. Place packets in steamer rack. Cover. Cook ten minutes. No more, no less. At the end of that time, lift the steamer off of the pan and set it aside. With a spatula, and be careful, lift the packets off of the steamer and place on vegetables.

It is also very easy to just lay this on the rack in a high heat ceramic smoker grill like a Big Green Egg.

A Whisper In My Life

Everything is poetry,
there is nothing before
and there is nothing after,
every kiss and every shout,
even when I walk across the dining room floor,
even when I don’t know what It’s all about,
like the waking and the snores,
like a hot shower or hot at work,
everything is poetry
and nothing bores.

There Really Is Only This [poem; passion; Suburban Pastorals]


THERE REALLY IS ONLY THIS
Roaming, running errands in the grey winter afternoon,
thinking of better moments, of more loving faces
than all the frowns in the cars around me.
And the radio plays “It’s A Beautiful Day” and I sing along,
ah yes, it is a beautiful day in it’s own way…..
but it could be better still, and my memories tumble,
roll and materialize with images of heaven, of all beloved.

Warm daylight, she moves across the room
with a bounce in her step,
and her loose black robe falls back an inch
to show her perfect firm tan and welcoming breast,
she turns her head and smiles,
and as she turns her mass of black hair follows,
and cape like it wraps around her shoulders
and rests on her right arm, and she brushes it back.
And me, I sit and idolize her.
And all the lands and loves and places of my past
dissappear in an instant as I see that she is all there is.

I jump to follow her, to hold her in my arms,
to breath her in, to taste the sweat on her neck and cheeks.
And my head fills with the smells of crushed allspice and lemon,
of salt and the aromas of sea winds at night.
In this moment lingering, in this eternity before we kiss
I see the flashing lights behind my eyelids,
and as I open them to see if this is real, if this is true,
I look into her deep sensual, almond brown eyes,
and slowly merge into her vision, into her body.

Soft caress of lips, a touch of our teeth,
and I feel what can only be called an elegance,
an elegant curl of her tongue around mine.
And as we hold and explore, pass our hands over each
others body, press harder and harder our mouths together,
I move her away, so slight and dear,
and with three fingers lift the edge of her gown
to move it down and around her curving waist,
shifting her weight, dropping her arms,
her clothing drifts like feathers to the floor around her feet.

Thin, long and silky, she stands amid the crumpled cotton
around her ankles and folds her arms around my head
to grasp the hair at the back of my neck,
she bends her own head back, and as I twine her around
my wrist she leans into me and nibbles on my Adams apple,
with tiny snapping, and then quick breathing in my ears,
she leads me as she kisses me into the gauze lighted
and intoxicated atmospheres of our bed room.
And as I disrobe with her hands guiding mine
I feel this way, this way of so long ago when love was new,
and the body was unknown, I shiver and tremble
just a little bit, and press her into the mass of blankets
on our unmade bed, press her into the pillows with a force
that exposes my lust and love for her,
and as she lays back and looks up at me, I see her as laughing,
sexy, inviting, mysterious and sensual all at once,
I see her with all my body and spirit,
and her touch, her smells, her tastes and hugs and kisses
rush in and shake me from the foundation up into my heart.
And I think, so this is love, this is really love,
and I feel this is the body this i s the only body,
the only love for me from this day forward for all my life.

Not enough, no it’s never enough, we wrestle and we melt,
and she rolls over to show me the watery curves of her thighs
and hips as they effortlessly flow upwards into her back.
She tosses her head and catches me adoring her,
she catches me smiling at her grace and her beauty,
at her slim hips, at her tight skinned ginger hot flesh
that I so love and that I so cherish with abandon,
and as I lower my head between her legs and kiss her vagina,
and inhale the sweetness of her from all over,
she hums, she quietly giggles, and she fills the room
with a beauty only captured in the lights of the Milky Way,
with a beauty only seen in the form of the mythic Helen,
and so drunk on her flesh, so high on her spirit,
I rise up on my knees and enter her moist world of love and sex.
And as we move I have this feeling that I never want to come,
that I want to be inside her forever, that I just want to feel
her for this moment as a divine moment held in time,
in this place in this green room in this womans grasp,
and she rears up and bounces like a wild mare on the plains,
and I lose myself inside her, inside her where I belong,
where I long to be……………..shoutin

g, heavy breath,
I charge into her, I leap into her, and she just opens and lets
me in, and as I relax and once again press my self onto her,
she exhales, she laughs, she touches me so tender,
my shining loving Taiwaness, and we roll over
into each others arms and hold like there really is no tomorrow,
like there really is no other place to be.
And you know, there isn’t.
There is no place to be but in her arms, her in mine.

And I drive on home from the grocery store,
smiling at the other cars passing around me.
I don’t give a damn. My spirit is full with this woman
of the Song of Songs with this woman of my life.

proletaria

politics philosophy phenomena

Poems for Warriors

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3

LUNA

Pen to paper

Kent Wayne

Epic fantasy & military sci-fi author.

Eclipsed Words

Aspire To Inspire

susansflowers

garden ponderings

RhYmOpeDia

Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart

hotfox63

IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC - Tennessee Williams

Lordess

Welcome to my world.

Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

D.H. Glass

Author. Poet.

Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond)

Poetry, Fiction, Essays & Art by M.P. Powers

proletaria

politics philosophy phenomena

Poems for Warriors

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3

LUNA

Pen to paper

Kent Wayne

Epic fantasy & military sci-fi author.

Eclipsed Words

Aspire To Inspire

susansflowers

garden ponderings

RhYmOpeDia

Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart

hotfox63

IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC - Tennessee Williams

Lordess

Welcome to my world.

Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

D.H. Glass

Author. Poet.

Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond)

Poetry, Fiction, Essays & Art by M.P. Powers

proletaria

politics philosophy phenomena

Poems for Warriors

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3

LUNA

Pen to paper

Kent Wayne

Epic fantasy & military sci-fi author.

Eclipsed Words

Aspire To Inspire

susansflowers

garden ponderings

RhYmOpeDia

Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart

hotfox63

IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC - Tennessee Williams

Lordess

Welcome to my world.

Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

D.H. Glass

Author. Poet.

Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond)

Poetry, Fiction, Essays & Art by M.P. Powers