Will you just look at these pork skins for a second? Most people's inclination would be to call them "pork rinds," but pitmaster Rodney Scott - a man at the vanguard of the current puffed pork reclamation movement - goes out of his way to inform his customers that pigs are not, last he checked, a kind of fruit. So skin, not rind. At least not while Rodney's around.
The SFA is on a barbecue field trip right now, but this picture might tide you over. The all-you-can-eat buffet at Brown's Bar-B-Que in Kingstree, South Carolina, includes everything from barbecue and hash to sweet corn and squash. The vegetables come straight from the Brown family's farm.
Barbecue means a lot of things to a lot of people. It brings together folks of all faiths, ethnicities, backgrounds and economic strata. It's steeped in history, legend, tall tales, competition and regional identity.
It's also incredibly delicious.
This is a dish of boiled peanuts. You love them, you hate them, or you just haven't had them; they are not a foodstuff about which there is much neutrality.
It's quite likely the texture. Perhaps the smell. Maybe the mess.
This probably seems self-explanatory from the name, but the popular roadside snack is made by boiling raw or "green" peanuts (or "p-nuts" as they're often touted) in heavily salted water until the shells soften and the nutmeat loses any snap. Devotees pop 'em open and slurp them out of the shells like edamame with a Southern accent, but again - there are issues.
I've never liked s'mores and it's not for lack of effort. I grew up with the classic version of the fireside treat and I wanted to like them. I held out hope on my many childhood camping trips that I could and would grow to like them.
I tried extra chocolate, no chocolate, especially burnt marshmallows, lightly-toasted marshmallows, but nothing created a satisfying treat. I'd always end up with something too dry or too sweet; something I'd settle for but never crave.
Now, after a quarter-century of begrudgingly munching on s'mores, I've had a revelation: s'moreos.
Behold Scottish breakfast, which was easily accessible to me all last week when I was trouncing about the West Highlands on my first proper vacation in five years. It's laden with streaky bacon, sausage, and black pudding - not as traditional as haggis, but the hotel wasn't keen on the local offerings. It also has lightly roasted garden-fresh tomatoes, a mushroom that flavor-wise could easily have doubled as beef tenderloin, a tattie scone (not unlike a potato pancake) and a fried egg straight out of a chicken somewhere in the immediate vicinity.
Now, back home, I pine for this breakfast. I sit on windowsills, staring out into the middle distance and dreaming of the day that this breakfast and I can be reunited. I have stopped just short of composing a mournful, touching love ballad starring this breakfast, but I'm fairly certain that this here counts as a mash note.
Chef Dale Talde recently shared his list of five Southeast Asian dishes he felt everyone ought to know, and halo-halo made the cut. Talde wrote:
Scorpacciata is a term that means consuming large amounts of a particular local ingredient while it's in season. It's a good way to eat. Let Mario Batali pronounce it for you.
You're clicking around on the internet, so you're probably not eating a Caprese salad right now. That's too bad. Let's fix it.
Yes, it's summertime and plenty of fresh vegetables are in season and surely salad-worthy. Fine. No one ever said a grown man or woman couldn't have two (2) separate and unrelated salads at a meal. Just make sure one of them doesn't have any basil, mozzarella or tomatoes in it, because you'll need all of that for this dish.
What do you do with a 12-year-old niece who has just started her summer vacation and is already bored? You put her to work picking blueberries.
I picked Susie up early so we would beat the heat. My pick-your-own fruit history was limited to apples and peaches, so I wasn’t sure how labor intensive, bending, stooping or squatting, the picking would be. It turns out to require a bit of all three, but not to a point where my back hurt.
We arrived at Homestead Farms in Poolesville, MD just before 10 a.m. loaded with re-usable plastic blueberry containers and sturdy bags. After a quick tutorial on how to identify and pick ripe berries we were off. A ripe blueberry is entirely blue. If the berry has a hint of red on it then it will still be a bit tart.