Bucket list: see a monkey in the wild - check.

Last month, we went to the Philippines, for two weeks of sunshine, beaches, extended family and relaxation.

I took a lot of pictures. It was almost intimidating to sort through them all. So I'll let you do that.  Click any of the photos to see the expanded set. 

There was a lot of beach time.  It's a country of islands. Drive a bit in any direction from wherever you are, and you're going to hit a beach. 

We took full advantage.

But there are other things to see. We hit four or five islands - Bohol was probably our favorite. It's a mid-sized island someplace in the middle of the country without  any major cities on it. It has things like ancient coral hills (the Chocolate hills) and the world's smallest primate to see. 

We also hit Cebu (briefly) on our way to Boracay, and then back up to Manila, the local Chinatown, where we ate food being sold by people in small carts. 

There was a lot of excellent food eaten on this trip. 

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But maybe the best thing eaten was the grilled chicken intestine on a stick ('isaw').  By the Boy. Who forced his mother to trade his other options so he could have more. 

That many islands required a lot of schlepping around. In various means of transportation.

Ok. I admit. It was mostly boats.

But I know you. You've only been looking at these pictures waiting to see the wild monkeys. That's ok. I'd be the same.  But first: drag dancers on a beach throwing fire.

 The kids were fascinated by this show. I couldn't drag them off the beach. About a half hour into it, I asked the Critter if she knew that these weren't really ladies, in the makeup, with the bikinis. Her jaw dropped onto the sand. 

Ladies, men or something else - the show was definitely worth watching. 

OK, ok. Now, monkeys:

I made them stop the van so that I could get out and take that picture. My Bride's cousin came out with me. 

I took some pictures of this group of monkeys sitting idly by the roadside. I took a few steps closer and took some more picture. I took a few steps closer again, and brought my camera up. I asked my cousin: "Hey - is this monkey gonna charge if I get too close?"  "I don't know, bro. But if he does, I'm tripping you and running back to the van."

Thanks, cuz.

Eventually, we had to head home. It was a fantastic trip and worth repeating. 

After all, there are still 7,000 islands we haven't seen.

Chinese Food

I don't remember ever eating at a Chinese restaurant growing up. 

That's not strictly true, I guess. I remember going to a Chinese restaurant with a girl in high school. She and I dated for most of high school. So I might have been 15. Or 17. When does 'growing up' stop? I'm also not really sure why I remember that date in particular. I mean, we went to a Chinese restaurant in suburban Georgia in the late '80s. Which I guess is pretty memorable. But I don't remember it like "Oh, hey - I know! Let's go on a grand adventure and try some of that foreign food."  In my memory, it was kind of an ordinary thing to do, which means I had probably done it before. Maybe it sticks out because it wasn't salmon cakes*. 

*(for that to make sense, you'd have to know that every time I went over to that girl's house to have dinner with her family, her mom was making salmon cakes. Every. Single. Time. For three years. I couldn't explain it. I also can't eat salmon cakes to this day. I think I used up my lifetime quota while we were dating. And probably yours, too.) (You couldn't have known that before I told you that story. But now you do, see?)

I don't know what we ordered that night - probably something on the order of Sweet And Sour Fried Chunks Of A Familiar Domestic Animal With Pineapple Chunks. Because that would have been safe.  I also don't remember what the name of the restaurant was. It didn't stand out. Most Chinese restaurant names in America come from the same standard formula. Pick a word from column A [Asia/Jade/Golden/Hunan/Bamboo/China] and add it to a word from column B [Palace/Wok/Panda/Dragon/Garden/Wall]. Boom. You've got yourself a Chinese restaurant. 

I know that I must have gone out to Chinese later on, when I had entered college and was spending time with much more worldly friends in downtown Atlanta. I remember a giant lazy susan, pots of green tea and twelve or so of us trying to figure out if we could afford something more than a couple of plates of egg rolls. As worldly as we were, we probably still didn't venture too far from the aforementioned sweet-and-sour-pineapple-meat. 

I do remember learning to make fried rice from my older brother at some point in my youth. Many years later, when I was staying for a weekend at a different girlfriend's apartment in San Francisco (the girl who would go on to become my beautiful Bride. Despite the story I am telling you now), I sought to impress her by making fried rice like my brother had taught me. Because I didn't know much. But I knew that chicks dig a guy who can cook. So I asked her if she had the ingredients handy. 

Her: 'Probably. What do you need?'

Me: 'Uncle Ben's rice. One beef bouillon cube. And an egg." 

Her: "... Uncl- ... what?! What the hell? No.  Just... no."

Me: "This is San Francisco. It is the San Francisco treat. I've seen the commercials."

Her: That's Rice-a-roni. And still no."

Apparently sensing that intervention was necessary, we met a bunch of friends for dim sum at a Chinese restaurant near San Jose. It's possible that some of my family might read this, and still have never gone to a Chinese restaurant outside of suburban Georgia in the late '80s. So let me explain. 

Dim sum is a style of Chinese food separate and different from all other Chinese foods. It's small, appetizer sized portions, typically dumplings, buns, or other small & conveniently shaped portions of delicious somethings served in a steamer basket or small bowl. They're like Chinese tapas**. It's a great weekend brunch kind of thing.  In the really good places, you don't order off a menu. The dishes are brought out in stacks on wheelie carts - three or four different kinds on a cart. You just point and they put a basket of something steaming hot on the table and stamp your bill. Keep choosing til you're full. 

**Which may not help much in explanation. I didn't try tapas until I was almost thirty. 

I was never really a picky eater as a kid. I just was not adventurous. (Which I maintain is a different thing). I stuck to the things I knew, and was pretty happy. So when we went to this particular restaurant, I tried to figure out which mysterious basket held something that was sort of close to my comfort zone. I didn't expect to find anything in the Sweet and Sour food group, but I figured I could find something at least vaguely familiar. 

I pointed at one of the baskets and asked the cart-pusher, "What's in this one?" She said something back to me in Chinese. Which may or may not have included the ingredients in that particular dish. I smiled and tried again. "What's in this basket?"  She responded in Chinese again. Except louder, and more slowly. I shook my head shyly and waited for the next cart. 

Unfortunately, that didn't prove to be enough time to improve my Mandarin much. The lady helpfully tipped back the lids of the baskets so I could see the choices, though. Which all looked like a sweaty wonton wrapper, squished around small chopped bits of various somethings. One basket contained something that looked an awful lot like boiled chickens feet. (Turns out, they were boiled chickens feet). This had definitely not been on the menu of the Jade Wok of Conyers, GA. 

The pretty girl that had brought me smiled encouragingly between bites of ... whatever... she was eating, and offered me one out of one of the baskets she had chosen. I was hesitant, but I was also pretty desperate to not look like I was hesitant, and somewhat nervous that my earlier Uncle Ben's comment had not improved my chances of seeing this girl naked again. (Note to my children: only after we got married. By a priest. In a church. With our familys' blessing). So I took one.

It was delicious. I had no idea what was in it. Neither did she. 

Suddenly, I figured out that was kind of the fun, and I started pointing at things, and baskets were dumped on our table. Sometimes, the cart lady would cut up the longer sweaty wantons. Sometimes, she would pour an equally mysterious sauce on my plate that I guessed was supposed to make the dish taste better. It worked. Sure, every once in a while, I would find one that I didn't care for, and I'd try and remember its particular shape so I didn't order it again (anything with taro root). (also. the chickens feet).  But I still look back on that lunch as the moment that would've let me eat the two cups of live catepillar gumbo for a million bucks or whatever reality show I might end up on. 

Fortunately, the Critter has never had an issue - she started out as an adventurous eater, and while she's got a couple of things that aren't really her bag (e.g. beans. Of all the things in the world), she'll try pretty much anything at least once.  

The Boy, on the other hand, is pretty much just like I was. He'll eat anything, if it's covered in a decent amount of ketchup. But his instinct is to stick to what he knows. Chicken. Bread. Maybe some green beans. Anything that comes from a cereal box, with or without milk. And peanut butter. Probably not all together at once. 

But one day, Boy. You're going to meet a girl who's going to take you to a Chinese restaurant. And you're going to have a choice. 

I recommend anything but the chicken's feet. 

I like to eat genes

This made the rounds a while ago, but I was reminded of it in a recent conversation about molecular biology and genetic modification of foods: 

49% of Americans thinks ordinary tomatoes do not have genes but genetically modified tomatoes do. 

*facepalm*

Many of my friends or people that read this blog occasionally assume that because I a bit of a food fan, I must naturally insist on organic/whole/slow-roast/soy-free/what-have-you. It couldn't be further from the truth. I appreciate a McDonald's sausage biscuit or an occasional bag of Cheeto's or chicharonnes as much as I do home-aged salami & pancetta or hand-crafted cheese. I tell people that I appreciate food in all it's forms.

(Except for kidneys. Kidneys are your body's garbage dump, and should never be eaten.)

Mostly, I grow my own whatever because 1) it's relaxing to get my hands a bit dirty after spending most of my working day with a computer in tow, and 2) it tastes good. Sure, there's a little bit of "teaching the kids where food really comes from" in there for good measure (let's face it, I get a kick out of seeing my daughter apprentice at the butchershop), but mostly, it's just a taste thing. I cook to relax, and I cook to eat. I like the flavor of really good food, so I look for (or make) the best ingredients I have time for and can afford. 

I tell people gladly that I'm all for GMO, if it's better tasting. Or more economical. Or better for the environment. Fortunately, the work going on in GMO research offer all of the above. 

The problem with this discussion (and what's going on with California's prop 37 or Europe's similar efforts) is that very few people are actually talking about the science. Most see the words "Genetically modified" but actually hear "Dr. Moreau," and have a knee jerk reaction. The recent example of the protests in the UK over an experimental wheat was a perfect example: 

Take your average wheat. You have to add a lot of chemical deterrents to keep the aphids and other pests away. What if we could insert a fragment of DNA from mint that exuded an odor that kept away the aphids without the need for chemicals? Using the same techniques to insert a simple string of amino acids that has been tested in literally tens of thousands of experiments (at least one a year is awarded a Nobel Prize), and boom: Decreased crop loss, without the need or cost of chemical pesticides or additional manual effort. That's a two-fer. Except the protestors wanted to burn the field.  

Why? Because they had been frightened with terms like "frankenfood" and reactionaries who hadn't bothered to actually research what was being done. Not because there had been a good conversation about the science, the testing, the approach, and the expected way the crops would be used.  One friend - whom, it should be noted, I admire and really, really like - said in a conversation on the subject "Never mind the science. Let's talk about logic." It left me scratching my head as to how she made that statement in all apparent earnestness. 

DNA & gene identification & manipulation is the same science that we use to map the human genome, create new diagnostics tests and therapies. These techniques have been known and used for more than 40 years, and are at the core of what's advanced human health over the past decades. It's the same basic techniques we use for criminal analysis (look at your favorite CSI:Boise episode or whatever and you're bound to see them use "DNA fingerprints" - in that assay, they only look for variations of specific DNA sequence repeats, vs. the whole genome).  Seriously. We've been cloning bacteria, viruses and specific gene fragments for decades now, on a daily basis, unlocking the mechanics of what makes us tick and helping to create cures and treatments for some of the gnarliest issues we face in medical science. Vaccines are created with these same molecular biology techniques, and we have reasonable hope that we'll be able to prevent HIV and other endemic conditions in our lifetimes.  And on. And on. And on. 

In fact, these techniques are far more precise and measured than traditional plant manipulation. Remember Mendel's expirements on peas, where he willfully and gleefully manipulated the colors, shapes and sizes of flowers and crops by hand, all in the name of science?  Mankind has been artificially manipulating the world around us for our betterment for thousands of years. Unless you'd like to argue, maybe, that the chihuahua is a naturally occuring phenomenon?  

"But wait!" you say. "He crossed pea with pea! Crossing wheat and mint is an unholy union and an abomination!" 

Uh-huh. Right. Come over here and let me show you the apriplum.

Good, peer-reviewed science is precise, measured and targeted. It is well reasoned, and with a purpose. And yes, it is open to discussion and debate. The problem with California's proposition 37 (which "only requires labeling") is that it's a trojan horse. The agenda of the supporters is not to endorse debate and progress, but to scare, frighten and, I believe, ultimately ban. At least, based on the near complete lack of scientific merit (or even attempt at one) to their position. 

There are some real problems that have been created through a combination of farming practices, the growth of our population and extended lifespans, and the evolution of our expectation that we can get pretty much any food we'd like, at any time of year. While I'm all for showing people how much more enjoyable a tomato is when you just pulled it out of your garden in the height of summer, I recognize that is a first world luxury, and we have long term issues that can most effectively be addressed through better understanding and breeding of crops that are more sustainable and affordable to raise in the long term. Science is good at solving problems like that. 

What I will support & concede is that there is still much conversation to be had with regards to the intellectual property "lock-down" of the institutions conducting the research. If a bee brings the pollen from your super-corn over to my ordinary corn, and I end up with some kind of super-corn bastard in my field, do I owe you money?  That's hard to swallow, given the infamous promiscuity of bees. And birds. And corn. I'm all for making up a reasonable profit for the significant up front research investment. But there's definitely going to be some lawyering going on to figure that stuff out. 

If you'd like to argue the science with me, let's sit down and have that conversation. Over a sandwich, maybe. With some cloned lamb & GMO mint sauce. 

Personally, I think tomatoes taste better with genes. 

Charleston, 2012: Wherein I talk a lot about fried skin

This summer has really flown by. And we kind of weren't paying attention to the planning of any kind of vacation. Before we knew it, the weeks had already been booked for soccer camp, sleep-away camp, classes, you name it. And we were left trying to figure out how to slip in a little family vacation time between all the commitments. 

We also wanted to find another place we could meet up with some of our broader family, like we did last summer in Maine. We picked Charleston, South Carolina - a place that my Bride and I had visited a lot way back when we lived in Augusta, GA. But it had been more than 12 years (!), and we both thought it was time to head back. (the other option was New Orleans, but the Boy isn't quite up to Hurricane-drinking-age yet.) 

In case you have missed out on the experience, South Carolina in August is a touch warm, and a bit humid. It was about 95 degrees with 80%+ humidity most days. We brought the dog along for the trip, and she kept shooting us looks that seemed to indicate she was a little underwhelmed with the Southern Summer.

Hey idiotic man-thing. St. Bernards are freaking Swiss. You know. From the freaking mountains. With the freaking snow. So how about you don't look surprised when I poop in your shoe tonight?

Here are a few other pictures of the week.

We rented this amazingly beautiful carriage house in the center of the historic district. Perfect for a home base for the week.

We roadtripped it down. An 18 hour drive. I love road trips. They were kind of a family tradition when I was growing up that I don't hear enough about these days. But I've got I-95 fairly well charted, and the kids do well in the back seat. So we loaded up the car, and headed south, hunting for what has become the traditional first pit stop on any road trip.

Bojangles - cajun chicken in a biscuit. 

This chicken will not judge you

My Bride and I swap the driving every couple/three hundred miles or so, and I bring along hours and hours of BBC Radio 4 podcasts ('Gardeners' Question Time', 'Thinking Allowed', 'The Farm Programme'). Time just flies by!

I can tell my relative relationship to the Mason-Dixon line from the abundance and variety of porkskin products available at your average gas station.

That one at the top?  You read that correctly. That says "FAT BACK."  In a freaking bag.

These are my people.

Somewhere around the North Carolina border.

The trip really started out all about food, and we tried our best to carry that theme all the way through the week.

Before we went, I had heard an interview with chef Sean Brock, executive chef at McCrady's and owner of Husk - a new restaurant he had recently opened to celebrate and showcase the best of Southern cooking and ingredients. Chef Brock spoke with Churchillian-passion at great length on national radio about the dwindling supply of sorghum syrup to the American public, and why that was a tragedy of near epic proportions.

I told my Bride that I didn't care what else we saw. I had to eat at that guy's restaurant.  

Our favorite breakfast place in Charleston

We browsed and grazed and gluttoned. We planned out outings around where we would eat. Fortunately, Charleston is a walking city, and we walked everywhere, every day, for literally miles and miles and miles (in the sweltering heat. Did I mention it was hot?) - thus ensuring we worked off our last meals, and working up another appetite for the next one. 

We ate lunch at the Swamp Fox on King Street. The decor kind of sucks in a hotel-restaurant-slash-conference-center sort of way. But the food was terrific. 

We started with a complimentary chef's plate of house-made pimento cheese spread, served with slices of pickled okra and crusty french bread. 

"Can I get you a little more South with that, sir?" "No thanks.. I seem to be all set here."

I ordered what I had come to Charleston for: Shrimp & grits. (and a rum cocktail. because there had already been much walking.) 

Those of you who say you do not like grits do not properly understand the heights that such a humble base can be taken to. I tell you: go here. Get these grits. This recipe made me weep. It was that good.

Or maybe it was the rum. Either way, these were the best grits I have ever eaten in my life. 

Topped with garlic, caramelized onions, roasted sliced peppers, and awesome sauce.

We rolled out of that restaurant after getting the chef's card (Steve Klatt - who wants to share his recipes! how cool is that! I love this town).  After a couple of hours of walking around the heat (holy mother of all that is sacred, have I mentioned yet how hot is was there?) we needed refreshement. We found Nick's BBQ. 

Critter: We looked at that place already, didn't we? Isn't it the fancy one?

Me: Kid - anyplace that has a neon pig sign out front is pretty much saying "Come on in. We're short on fancy around here."

Honey - if you read this, I'd really like one of these signs for my birthday.

I picked up perhaps the best BBQ shirt I've ever found at this place. (And I know of which I speak. I have a few BBQ shirts.)  I didn't manage to snag a picture of it. So you'll have to make do with this instead. 

Oink!

We had dinner the next night a great little place called Poogan's Porch. Poogan was the owner's dog. Apparently he liked the porch. I can see why. It was a nice porch. 

Here the kids were enjoying the "joggling bench" - something I've never run into outside of Charleston. It's kind of like an old fashioned novelty seat, with rockers on the bottom, and long enough that you can bounce (or joggle, if you will) the board up and down, and end up squished together in the middle. 

Critter and the Boy and a bit of old time fun.

There's a tradition in Charleston of she-crab soup. There are competitions. It's more bisque like than chowder-esque. But with chunks of crabmeat in there. Some people leave the crab roe in. I don't know what Poogan's does. But I highly recommend it. 

I also had the grilled peach salad with thinly sliced, crisp rounds of country ham. And then the plantation fried chicken. Mostly because it came with 'spicy collard greens'. And I am totally into that kind of thing. 

I forget what kind of liquor was in my iced tea. Because we had walked a bunch more that day. And it was hot. Did I mention the heat?

The next day, we squeezed in the old City Market. And Ft. Sumter. And Battery Park. 

The old Charleston city market.

These sweet grass baskets are beautiful, but they were charging $200+ dollars for one! I'd rather spend my money on something more lasting. Like lunch, maybe.

Morning tour of Ft. Sumter.

There were many pictures of the kids on/near/in cannons. Assume they all pretty much looked like this.

My Bride and step-mother taking in Battery Park

Actually, I think those were three separate days. But who cares? There's more food to talk about!

When we were at the City Market, we found one vendor selling various confectionaries and sweets. And okra chips. The lady there said she sold more of these than she did all the chocolate combined.

They're deep fried. Taste kind of like sweet potato chips. Except greener. I don't know exactly what that means, but trust me. That's correct. They're delicious, and you can't just eat one. We paired it with cane-sugar cola and grape soda.

It's hard to find this much South in one place outside of a monster truck rally.

Then we got all gussied up for the main event. We hit Husk and McCrady's in a single day for the full on Sean Brock experience. 

Look at how pretty she is. This is the girl I come home to every day. 

Yep. I think I'll keep her.

When I got to Husk and saw the menu, I was like a kid sitting in Santa's lap. "I want one of these. And one of those. And ooh, that other one looks good Screw it. Have the elves bring me two of everything, and an extra helping of reindeer steak." 

I liked it so much, I snagged the menu and started taking notes. 

True story: I have four pigs ears in my freezer, and never before now did I have a clue what to do with them.

Me: What's that like? The pig's ear, I mean? 

Waitress: Like a chicken wing, wrapped in bacon. 

Me: You had me at "bacon". Bring two orders!!

It tasted *exactly* like she described. Except she left out FANTASTIC.

I had catfish for my entree - perfectly done, and re-establishing its place as my favorite of all the fish-housepet crossbreeds.

We ordered a skillet of 'bacon-cornbread' to share for the table. Which came in its own little seasoned, cast iron skillet (the only proper way to make cornbread).  It was coated with bourbon salt. That's salt, drenched in bourbon, and allowed to dry. This can only be explained by divine inspiration.

But wait.

It gets better.

My Bride and I were arguing over who got the last piece when the waitress came back. My step-mother is far too gracious a lady to stake a claim, and it was good enough that I was going to be crass and let her cede without an argument. The kids both wanted more, but they're far too small and un-muscled to put up a real fight for it. However, my Bride can kick my ass if she chooses. And even if she is usually far too sweet to show it, I could tell she was probably willing to draw blood for this one. 

The waitress laughed and explained. 

"That's not just butter you're spreading on that. That's butter whipped with rendered pork lard. That's what makes it so good."

This may be the best thing you have ever eaten in the history of ever.

Where Husk was comfortably fantastic, McCrady's is a fancier affair. It's one of the oldest restaurants in the US - George Washington was served in the upstairs dining room. They have a certain cache of culture and heritage to maintain. It made me glad I had changed into long pants for the evening. 

What I really loved about these restaurants was that the waitstaff was all as excited to see us and tell us about their food as we were to read them and select our meal. That makes a difference. The Critter was over the moon about the skirt steak she ordered, and even the Boy (whose foodie gene is late in blooming) was enjoying himself with the linen tablecloths. 

You can get that camera out of my face and find me some more of that bread, old man.

We had the tasting menu. Mine started with this - beef tartare and crispy fried beef rinds. 

As discussed, I'm pretty versed in your various types of fried pig skins. I can (and do) sometimes wax poetic about the proper treatment and condiments to bring out the flavor and texture. I can even offer an opinion on fried chicken skin.  

But beef rinds? 

There should be a "fried rinds" option for pretty much any animal. Also? On-a-stick.

I shouldn't have been surprised (given my love of all other things rind), but they were fantastic. 

The waitress explained: 

They're not actually skin. They're beef tendon. Thinly sliced and dehydrated. Then dropped into hot oil, seasoned, and served. 

Who the hell thinks of things like this?? A genius. That's who.

How do you top that off?  Small square slices of perfectly skillet-fried pork belly. 

Also? More animals should be made into bacon.

Yes, we did actually get out and see a few other things around town. The architecture and the pace of Charleston will keep it amongst my favorite spots, even if they didn't have the great restaurant scene. And there's plenty of other things in the area to keep one occupied (we didn't make it out to the beach at all. Or the Yorktown.). 

But I love the ad hoc culinary tour we took, and I'd plan another trip of this kind in a heart beat, maybe even out to some of the food source sites and/or into the kitchens of chefs that are open to that kind of thing. I know 'culinary tourism' is a sort of on-again/off-again trend. But I asked my fellow travellers, and they seemed to agree that this trip was an overall success.

More bacon! More cannons!

(For a whole bunch more pics of the trip, you can click here)

Make one bacon-flavored, and I might buy it

 Dear America, 

WTF?

Sincerely, 

Me.