Hereunder

Flyover Foodie

Gentle visitors, your humble Contributor resides just outside of Flyover Country -- an uncharted place that is as mysterious as it is foreboding as it is amusing to such people as frequently enjoy decaf soy latte macchiatos.   These macchianistas only look down upon this vast land and its denizens as they jet from one coastal metropolis to another, sipping and making plans to conquer it one day.  Although one can find no definitive map of this Country, it's boundary becomes apparent on the ground in just a short drive from the Household, as the uniformly unpretentious structures and inhabitants of the land come into view along the road. 

It was there -- on the frontier of Flyover -- that your humble Contributor stopped for breakfast early Sunday morn at the fabled Yorkshire Restaurant.  While mean in appearance, so great is it's nobility that it has own coat of arms -- it's moniker harkening back to the white rose of the royal House of York and the heraldry suggesting a line of bold knights in search of hearty food. 

We pulled in, just short of the gun shop and smoke shop, and find a parking spot in front of the thrift store -- now under new management-- and alongside a beauty parlor and appliance repair concern. The Yorkshire, not to be contained, has apparently expanded into a now defunct eatery with a prominent wagon wheel theme.

The menu at the Yorkshire includes the usual selection of high-caloric, high carbohydratic, and high-cholesterolic delights commonly found in Flyover Country.  Six varieties of breakfast meats alone, all apparently derived from parts of the same unfortunate barnyarder whose cartoon equivalent is aptly named "Porky."   The final meat, scrapple, as the name suggests, gathers up what is left over from poor Porky into a sturdy, friable loaf, and the liquid leavings find their way into a gravy, which might used to anoint a generous portion of biscuits.   The chef helpfully offers this flavorful ointment in either a small bowl or a large bowl.  All in all, it is a place of nourishment.

A waitress -- who herself appears well-nourished -- attends the diner diners, addressing us as "Hon,"  apparently since, though strangers, we are dear to her.  She appears and reappears, checking on the status of and satisfaction with vittles and offering further hot libation, which, while more than sufficient, would not meet the standards of the macchianista barista just ten miles hence, beyond Flyover. 

When the meal is finished, we push back from the formica table, sated and ready for action or inaction, as the circumstances of the day may require.  The waitress presents us with a parchment scribbled in Flyover hieroglyphs, which we must take to the cashier, who deciphers the glyphs into an amount representing the fare for the fare.  As we depart, the cashier bids us farewell and invites us to return soon, and, by the door, a transparent bubble further invites us to purchase, for a few coins, a gum candy slightly smaller than a billiard ball.

From this short trip, it would appear, that the denizens of Flyover Country have failed to comply with the new diktat that expeller-pressed oils and organic arugula must replace eggs and bacon.  How sad, says the macchianista, that they continue to cling to past things, in their bitterness and ignorance.   How foolish that they believed their forebears and even their living kin fought for liberty, rather than for the benevolent autocracy that progress now requires.

But, take comfort, gentle visitors -- when the soy-infused tyrants fully and finally invade Flyover Country, the citizens will likely take up the arms emblazoned in the Yorkshire's herald and clung to these many years, fortified by a good breakfast.

 

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A Tupper Before Supper

Gentle visitors, a time came -- a year or so ago, if memory serves (as it still does, albeit with some prompting) -- when your humble Contributor had nearly despaired of finding his own favorite ale, Tupper's Hop Pocket, again.  It seems that the brewery, under whose authority the Pockets were so carefully stitched, was acquired by a global conglomerate of fermentation, and Dr. & Drs. Tupper -- true artists at heart -- had gathered all of their hops and dreams and taken them elsewhere.   Hence, the space on the shelf where Tuppers had for so long made its happy home was filled with a lesser, dysfunctional draft. 

 Then, on Mardi Gras -- the penultimate of penance amongst the Romish and others -- a wonderful friend handed your humble Contributor a package of this blessed nectar, revealing that it yet flowed, only under new arrangements.  It mattered not that he had given up such libation for Lent: it was enough to know that the bottles awaited on the Paschal feast.

Hence, this evening, your humble Contributor sits on the patio of his temporary lodging, enjoying same beverage in all of its kräusened goodness.  The head is ever genuine; the color ever amber-gold; the nose ever aromatic; the taste ever bitter and gently floral; the result, ever vescent.  One's palate is challenged and rewarded, while one's disposition is mellowed, so much so that the view from the patio -- a parking lot -- now seems a beautiful glade.

The great heat of the day has passed, and, on the horizon, the sun is engaged in a good-natured colloquy with the clouds, in which both shine.  Soon, your humble Contributor will repair to the table to partake of whatever fare the other Householder has prepared this evening.  Then, we will give thanks to God for the small but generous gifts: viz, Tupper & supper.

Sowing Wild Oatmeal

Gentle visitors, it has been rumored for some time that your humble Contributor regularly takes his bowl of oats and that this partaking, above all else, accounts for his noted zest and bravado.  It is true that, on a Sunday, he might fry a rasher; however, during the week, when he needs every bit of his vim and wit, oats it is to break the fast.

Some find this odd or even outrageous, given the humble grain's reputation as humdrum and, literally, run of the mill.  But, these same grumblers would put their faith in a collection of sugar-coated flakes.  Even the otherwise sound Dr. Samuel Johnson defined oats as "a grain which in England is generally given to horses but in Scotland supports the people".  But, this was not news even then:  everyone knew not only mares eat oats but does eat oats (and, that little lambs have other dietary preferences).  Moreover, Dr. Johnson, who famously traveled among the Scots, probably never savored a fine, oatmeal laden haggis or joined in singing it's praises.

The health benefits of oatmeal have been well documented, but, then again, your humble Contributor believes that an overzealous pursuit of health can, itself, be unhealthful.  No, the true, and perhaps least known, benefit of oats is its sustenance of a life of action.

Imagine, for example, a fit and bronzed Mediterranean gentleman, just after taking his morning porridge (dotted with the finest fruits of the Italian vine rendered to raisins) on his villa's terrazzo overlooking the Amalfi Coast, descending to the beach and reclining there, shirtless and cooly shaded, in apparent repose, when, suddenly, an attendant comes, long-corded device in hand, announcing, "Signori, telefono."  Our man, retaining his composure at all times, effortlessly takes the receiver and engages in a brief conversation, ending as the unseen communicant on the other line is heard exclaiming, "Presto, Signori! Presto!"

Our man then quickly dons his shirt, tips the attendant, and bounds up the rock-carved stairway, neatly leaping into his Alfa Romeo, firing its ample (if temperamental) pistons, and pealing off toward some new adventure.

Need we say more, gentle Visitors.  All this, and regularity too, await you in a heaping, hardy serving of these steel-cut wonders.

Bacon For Breakfast

Gentle visitors, one must wonder when it was that the phrase, "bringing home the bacon", made its sad transition from the literal to the figurative.  No doubt, it coincided with the first stirrings of the health bolsheviks, who began by preaching their wild-eyed heterodoxy of "good" and "bad" cholesterol -- as if anything so good could ever be bad, unless it had lain in the larder too long -- and ended by commanding us (the eating petit-bourgeoisie) to eschew such cholesterol-rich items as bacon.

Well, your humble Contributor would rather chew than eschew.  And, so, on a Sunday morn, after having attended the sabbath rituals, he lays several of the fatty strips upon the griddle, arranging them lengthwise -- north to south, though this is an individual preference based upon the belief that a longitudinal presentation yields a more satisfactory result, given polar attractions  -- listening for that first sizzle, watching for that first shedding of grease, and sniffing for the first aromatic release.   

Yes, gentle visitors, all of the senses are keenly involved in the process, -- even, touch for what would these porcine slices be without their characteristic crunch under tooth -- the last and greatest sense of all being taste.  Ah, the taste!  But, do not think that the poor remains of a turkey fashioned into a crude simulacrum could approach this:  smoked meat, crackled fat, and salt sufficient to get the heart started (or stopped, as the occasion may require). 

And, not just bacon.  For, as good as it is in itself, alone it would be like poor Adam forlorn in the Garden with all of his ribs intact.  No, the bacon requires a mate of equal nobility -- and, roughly equivalent levels of cholesterol -- but of a different, though complimentary character.   

Thus, your erstwhile Chef, employing the slick leavings of the bacon, taps two shells on the griddle edge and watches the metamorphosis of the pair of poultry precursors from gelatinous globs to sturdy yet flexible vittles in the skillet.  Thence, a quick flip to affect the mode "over easy":  and, how easily they slide onto the plate prepared for them!

Add a few slightly charred fruits of the grain, with an application of churned dairy product and, perhaps, the preserve of apricot and -- viola -- the perfect grand petit dejeuner!  Already we feel the vessels bursting with lipids of the best sort.

And, why not?  We've known for 750 years that Bacon was a great friar.

Amber Enamored

Gentle visitors, soon we'll be off to the beer festival.  Poor waterlogged Palinurus -- much the connoisseur and gourmand in other respects -- has been known to imbibe that which makes our fond bud none the weiser. 

Thus, we will take him along and go in search of something for what ales him, something to make him stout-hearted, something for the working man in him -- the porter, the lager, the pilsner (though not the miller).    We might introduce him to a brown or a blonde -- a tall frothy glass that would make his former drink pale -- or to the mysteries of the Weeping Radish or the Dogfish Head.  Who knows?  We may lead him up a hidden kriek and discover the fabled pulchritudinous pulque. 

Who knows?  But, in any case, we will update this post thereafter, provided we have our wits about us.

*** UPDATE ***

Ah, how grand and vivifying it was.  The Old Dominion brewers at hand; an Old Dominion stogie clenched between the teeth; several men in kilts -- one, sensibly, in cotton (given the heat) but of a clan-neutral tartan.  Go figure -- have the Scots went and gone neutral?

And -- delight -- your humble Contributor had discourse with the Mr. Tupper himself -- a definite, though less rotund resemblance to a Father Christmas (beard and all) with a strong suggestion of microbrew geek.  "God," he said, "Has spoken to me only once -- I mean really spoken -- and he said, 'Tupper:  there are those who taste beer and there are those who make beer.   Tupper, you are the former."  Thus instructed, Tupper and his lovely bride -- who apparently owns a preternatural palate -- went on to taste a few thousands brews to derive their recipes for ale and a latecoming pilsner to be rendered by the hands of those latter-mentioned fermenters of malt. 

We must thank God for speaking to this man.

Cafe Tenebrae

A recent post by our non-fellow fellow Ned, inspires the following melancholic epigraph from the past and prophetic vision of the future.

[circa 1988]

Every office caffeinary who in his breweding sips,
Swallows hard this bitter cup: few percs and many drips.

[circa 2022]

FROM: NATIONAL DIRECTORATE OF HEALTH

FOR IMMEDIATE BROADCAST

****************************************

A message from our Good Leader...

Dear Children –

Some of you are not old enough to remember the days when people actually smoked a substance called "tobacco", which was from the Evil One. Thanks be to the Goddess, we were able to eradicate this social perversion by simply drawing on the lessons of history: many abandoned the practice and, those who did not, came around after periods of re-education and rehabilitation in one of our Health Retreats and with continuing support from our Pharmacological Phriends™ – Little Sarah Tonin & Endorphin the Dolphin.

Without these aids, old habits die hard. We still find confused and misinformed citizens who believe that "family" is somehow connected to mere gamete interchanges and biological precursors.  Of course, we now know this to be completely false. How small a world it must be – how limited! – to not embrace our Great, Global Village and Caring & Nurturing Government™ as our true family! Again, thankfully, recent advances in neural nanosurgery have corrected these anomalies.

Now, you may hear some agitators questioning our caffeine elimination program. The Peoples Assembly has, once again, voted unanimously for this crucial initiative. The Random Science Generator has shown conclusively that those who use caffeine, or anyone who has close contact with them, almost certainly will contract a disfiguring and debilitating disease and will die a horrible death. This in a society where no-one dies! (Except those who choose to enter our Gentle Goodnight™ program or are placed there by our Caring & Nurturing Government.)

Yes, now we know the many lies spread by Big Coffee and Big Cola! Their fat-cat corporate boards were, indeed, chock full of nuts! But, I promise you, Dear Children, that we will grind down them just as we did Big Oil and Big Liquor and Big Religion and Big Fast Foods and, well, everything Big.

Just remember: Caffeine Kills Kids!

And, in the mean time, enjoy a nice hot cup of N-R-G (Neurotransmitter Regulation Goop), and don’t forget to thank the Goddess for the blessings of liberty!

... Your Good Leader and President for Life

They Eat, They Drink

Strange to note that the climax of the long saga of Terri Schiavo seems to be tracking Holy Week -- the days beginning Palm Sunday, through Holy (or Maundy) Thursday, Good Friday, to Easter, which most Christians churches observe (though, the Orthodox church, often, at a different time, because of the way they calculate Easter -- a moveable feast -- on the calendar.)

The "Schiavo Bill", passed by Congress very late on Sunday morning, has already been dubbed the "Palm Sunday Compromise" by those who, in addition to being movers and shakers, are also apparently namers. Great forces are at work, on both sides, over one woman, who, by any estimation, is absolutely helpless before them; mute; without a remedy, herself, in a land overflowing with remedies; with nothing to eat and nothing to drink in a land of plenty.

For Christians marking it, Holy Week is a doleful time. In a sense, as the week progresses, it becomes increasingly foreboding and desparate -- suggestions of treachery and of death coming. There is a revealing, final meal -- then, nothing more is consumed. Instead, comes anguish, betrayal, lack of due process -- if you will -- torture, infamy, and suffering. Through this, the victim is largely, strangely mute and yielding. At the point of death, he says, "I thirst."

Your humble Contributor -- whose spiritual resume reads like a postal employee with a drinking problem, many personal grudges, and a penchant for firearms -- nonetheless holds a little booklet of readings for this week. And, what is remarkable to him is not so much the theme of the Christian scriptures, but that of the Jewish scriptures.

Consider this reading for today, from Psalm 55 (in the feminine gender):

My foes are speaking evil against me.
"How long before she dies and her name be forgotten?"
They come to visit me and speak empty words,
their hearts full of malice, they spread it abroad.

My enemies whisper together against me.
They all weigh up the evil which is on me:
"Some deadly thing has fastened upon her,
She will not rise again from where she lies."
Thus even my friend, in whom I trusted,
Who ate my bread, has turned against me.

Or, this reading from Isaiah 21:

A cruel sight, revealed to me: the traitor betrays, the despoiler spoils. My mind reels, shuddering assails me; My yearning for twilight has turned into dread.

They set the table, spread out the rugs; they eat, they drink.

Maybe it means nothing. Maybe Terri Schiavo feels nothing. Maybe her hunger and thirst consume her and break her down in dread, emptiness, and desparation. And, maybe no-one will ever know.

Or, maybe, like the week, it resolves in hope, fullness, and remedy.

Flowing With Non-Dairy Creamer

"On that day, the mountains shall drip new wine, and the hills shall flow with milk."

I can see that day coming. For now, at least, we have milk in the fridge.

Dairy products had become the victim of the current domestic obsession with pigment application and -- to be honest -- my own lacteal lackadaisiality. "No-one is stopping you from picking some up." Strictly speaking, this is true; but the issue is more complex and nuanced than that.

Not three days ago, found myself searching out a suitable, substitute mate for the coffee. Snapped a packet and ripped it open. Here's what came out.

• Corn syrup solids - what you scrape off the plate a few hours after serving pancakes.
• Vegetable oil - since when are cotton seeds, safflowers, and/or palm kernels vegetables?
• Sodium caseinate (a milk derivative) - in the sense that a few, unscaled notes are derivatives of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony
• Dipotassium phosphate (moderates coffee acidity) - I though that was the point... a little acid to balance our base natures.
• Mono & Diglyerides (prevents oil separation) - what they use for tanker spills.
• Sodium aluminosilicate - made its name as additive to paint and pet care products.
• Artificial flavors - surprise.
• Annatto color - actually that might look good in the billiard room.

Believe me, I have nothing against non-dairy hot beverage lighteners; just not my cup of tea.