Sweetbreads and Diesel Engines

It was that first drop that I never got used to. That freefall of maybe six to eighteen inches as the safety clamps released on the way to sending fifty to a hundred men roughly 1800 feet underground. The spools of wire rope, on a three-way redundant safety system, were always pre-stretched and dynamic. Any climber knows that dynamic is good, static is bad. Dynamic means that when you fall, as all climbers do at some point in their careers, when you hit the end of the line at 9.8 meters per second squared, rather than break every single bone in your body, the line stretches and accommodates your mass, slowing your fall before it stops it.

We were climbing one bright spring day in 2003 in the Sierra Nevada’s on an unnamed route just North of Lake Tahoe on the California side. My climbing partner was perhaps, no definitely, a bit over eager. She was an experienced climber, and a bit arrogant about it. I think that anyone who routinely offers their life up to a multitude of uncontrollable circumstances tends to be a bit arrogant, until that day. When you realize that you are indeed, vulnerable, and yes, you can be hurt, badly, and sometimes, that is worse than death.

This day, we were climbing an unbolted route. Which means that our protection was based on placing nuts, cams and other climbing devices into crevasses, vugs, cracks and other breaks in an otherwise unblemished face of granite to protect ourselves in case of a fall. The rock was super textured and the day was gorgeous. Despite the chill, we had stripped down to our base layers and were concentrated on speed. I was on the lead, as this was a relatively easy portion of the climb. I had climbed probably twenty feet or so since my last cam, but I was unworried. Lake Tahoe glistened in the sun to my left, resembling a giant blue diamond – maybe one that has been bought, but not yet picked up by the customer, who is now scrambling to put together the money to make good on his attempt to impress the gorgeous woman to his left at the diamond auction.

Maybe it was the thought of the gorgeous woman. Maybe it was a slight mental hesitation. For whatever the reason, I fell. Sometimes, you know you are going to fall when you are climbing. Most of the time. You can feel it, a hesitation, a lack of concentration, a fatigue…you can warn your partner, and most of the time, the fall is harmless. This time, I just fell. No warning shout, no mental lead on the fall, just off into space. If you’ve climbed twenty feet out from your last piece of protection, then you fall forty feet. Do the math. I twisted as I fell, wanting to shout to my partner, but she knew. As I fell towards her, I saw that she was impossibly setting a new cam and roping into it as a fourth catch on her belay. Then the last cam that I set popped out. I experienced a brief hesitation in my flight, and then continued down another twenty feet.

I obviously didn’t die that day, nor did my partner. Her belay held, and, nerves shot, we rappelled down to safety and flat ground. I never really wanted to climb again. Top roping, sure…a little mountaineering, yes. Climbing, no.

The same holds true for coal mining. As I said before, I never got used to that drop. We would load onto the cage, equipped with a grated floor that allowed you to actually see the drop into which you were descending, along with chains overhead to hang onto to help with balance, and begin our ride into the depths of the mountain. Freefalling your first six inches of 1800 feet is no way to begin a shift, in my opinion. Nobody liked it. Some men would pray, loudly, for God to protect us during the course of work, which of course is one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Others would crack the most foul jokes I have ever heard. Some, like myself, would distance themselves and get ready for the descent. One young engineer actually fainted.

It was here, in this most inhospitable environment, that I met my first foodie. A grim, scary, giant scarred grey-bearded hulk of a man. If I had called him a foodie, a term that likely had not been coined at that time, he would have likely broken my nose and that would have ended our relationship. With a booming voice and an unmatched knack for leading men, he could have a team assembled and divert disaster in a moment’s notice. He once fired a young engineering intern for “Breathing up good air.” You could be a “Waste of blood, an embarrassment to your mother, a pisshole in the snow.” He had thousands of insults, which he reserved for those that he referred to as – Lazy. If you worked hard, jumped to his commands and put your heart on the line, then he would respect you. Otherwise, you went to another team.

It was this scary mammoth of a man who introduced me to the fact that men can also be cooks, and be proud of it. In my family, my mother cooked. The women cooked. The men did not. I grew up cooking with my mother and my grandmothers, but sadly, at that time in my life I had started to shy away from it. This man reinforced that it was cool to cook. He was a farmer, a butcher, a slow food advocate, hated fast food with all his soul and grew, slaughtered and butchered probably 98% of what he ate. Long since divorced and a self-proclaimed bachelor for life, he kept an airtight case in his locker underground with cooking utensils. A cast iron skillet, a dutch oven, tongs, a razor sharp knife and aluminum foil.

He could wax poetic about the tender cuts of meat encountered while butchering, which he would chop and eat raw, with eggs and chives. He would bring in sweetbreads and wrap them in aluminum foil with garlic and duck fat and let them roast in the diesel engines of our equipment for a decadent treat. He was largely regarded as crazy by his superiors, but we, his followers, worshipped him.

The best, though, was when his tomatoes ripened. Oh, my God. He grew heirloom tomatoes every year, started from his own seeds. My mother baked the best sourdough bread that mankind has ever experienced, and the marriage of those two items was heavenly. We would thickly slice the bread; slather it with mayo, and then top with cheese, thick slices of home-cured ham and then big, thick, juicy slices of tomato. Glistening and colorful, in yellow, red, green, purple and deep, dark red, they would shine in our headlights like jewels. Then we would place that great cast iron skillet on the screamingly hot engine manifold of the diesel engine, melt a little lard, and fry the single best sandwich I have ever eaten.

So, along with broken ribs, toes, welders flash, a broken nose and a bit of black lung, I carried from that place a renewed resolve to cook, and to always, no matter the environment, eat well. My mining hat is off to you, you crazy throwback to an age in which men were men and were not ashamed of it. Thank you.

those moments….

What makes us who we are as adults? What is it, that defining moment that shapes who and what we will become? Was there a moment in Hitler’s life, albeit small and remote, that shaped his essence into becoming the monster that he became? I don’t believe that there is a moment. I believe that there are a multitude of moments, placed together in a sequence that we don’t understand, that shapes us into what and who, we are, as adults. Then there are a multitude of moments and decisions after we become adults, as defined as those of us over eighteen, which shape us towards the other sixty or so years of our lives.

One of mine was shortly after my eighteenth birthday. I had been enrolled in a private school shortly after my graduation from high school at the age of sixteen. I lasted exactly seven hours after my parents left before I fled to other pastures, namely those that were occupied by my girlfriend at the time. I was expelled from that worthless institution with a GPA of zero. This was a fact that haunted me for years, and ultimately culminated in my not being granted a seat in the military academy. I was psychologically evaluated and the report was, “Mr. Matney, when under duress, will not obey commands from his higher officers, but will instead do what he thinks is necessary.” Huh. I could have told them that without two days of standardized tests and fill in the blank bubble sheets.

My moment was when I donned a mining hat, given to me by a man I simply knew as Grizzard. He was a great mentor, and shielded me from the hazing that was common in coal mining. Without my mother’s knowledge, I accepted a job in a punch mouth coal mine in deep southwestern Virginia, near the Kentucky border. The mine height was 42 inches. The hat was referred to as a low vein hat, common with workers who toiled in the relatively shallow mines that expelled into the side of a mountain, – hence the term, punch mouth mine. I had three choices when Grizzard gave me my hat. Leave it black. Paint it red, to signify that I was an apprentice, or what is called a “Mater Head” (Tomato head – in reference to the color), or, in an ultimate act of defiance, I could paint it white. White hats were what all of the company men wore. Bosses, Vice Presidents, visiting engineers, surveyors…they all wore white.

I was not one of those men. I had been thrown out of college and was toiling to bring my GPA back up enough to get into Virginia Tech at a local community college while I was working. I left my hat black.

I was accepted into Virginia Tech in 1994. I had no money, no place to live and I was terrified. My uncle fronted me the cost of my first year of tuition. I don’t think I would have gone otherwise. I had tried for years to get a job with a large coal operation in a longwall position, but I had no inside positions, no connections, no way to get in. So, one day, at Virginia Tech, I discovered that Consol, the company with which I had tried so hard to get a job with, was on campus interviewing for interns. I sprinted to the mining department.

Since I was a geology major, I was not accepted into the interview process. I begged. I explained my mining experience – all to no avail. A simple minded big haired stupid sexist administrative assistant smugly reminded me that I was not qualified to be interviewed as I was not an engineering major. I reminded her – I am a coal miner. The son of a coal miner. A grandson of a coal miner. A great-grandson of a coal miner. We have been miners since the dawn of time. She smiled the smile of the opportunist for oppression, with lipstick on her teeth, and reminded me that I was not an engineering major, and therefore, could not be considered for an internship. I withdrew.

But I did not quit. In my best, and only, suit, I waited. Just outside the doors to the mining engineering department. Just down the hall from the only bathroom on the floor. All day.

Around three p.m., a man exited the double door to the room that housed the troll with the lipstick on her teeth, patted his tie, adjusted his belt, and fled to the men’s room. Without a thought in my brain, I followed.

He was at the urinal when I spoke. I’ve never been known for timely deliveries. I proposed to my wife outside a construction site after a carefully planned proposal was disrupted due to my nerves and outright stubbornness. – Are you with Consol? He glared at me, probably disturbed by my intrusion into his space. He zipped. Washed his hands, and stared at me in the mirror. “Yes. I am.” We both waited, poker faced. He dried his hands, still watching me carefully. I was anguished over my suit. I stepped forward. “My name is Ron, I am a coal miner, and I would like to work for you.”

So it was like that I came to work for a major energy conglomerate 2,000 feet underground. I was hired that day, in the bathroom, without an interview. Maybe that was my interview. All I know is that, the evening after, in the light of a new moon as the cicadas sang and the peach blossoms floated off my mother’s trees – I painted my hat white. That was the moment that changed my life. Forever.

Oddfellas Cantina – Floyd, Virginia

I was in a complete funk this morning. It has rained for two straight days and I am trying to get my garden completed before Laura’s photo shoot on Friday, which is looking like it’s not going to happen. I’m in the rain with a slate bar (google it) attempting to dig yet another post hole, which has since notched up a bit to ten feet in what I feel will be a vain attempt to keep the deer out. I haven’t seen much of the sneaky bastards since our coyote invasion, but I have a nagging suspicion that they will be immediately drawn to heirloom tomatoes, potato sprouts from Utah, fresh wild garlic and all the other assorted plants that we are trying to grow in our raised garden beds.

The geologist in me is a bit fascinated by the variety that I am finding in the holes dug for various bushes, posts, and foundations. Red Fat Clay, alluvial stones, flint, chert….you name it, I’m finding it. I’m also cursing the day we decided having a farm, albeit small, on a ridge in Giles County seemed like a good idea. I’m coated with red clay, hopelessly sliding around and the dog is trying, in his doggy way, to help. Which is frustrating as I watch him merrily prance across the just planted beds with carefully cultivated seeds and just sprouted seedlings, all in the sport of playing with a plastic bottle that must, oh, just must, be buried at the far end of the garden area.

Then I look around. The mist is rising off the river. A squirrel is merrily barking at some distance from me. My tools are all around me. My 95 pound yellow lab is now sniffing at something that I will never understand with my human senses, something no doubt enhanced by the plastic bottle that he has managed to somehow recycle. I’ll likely be dealing with the effects of that particular oddity tomorrow, but for now, he’s in good shape. I look at my woodshed, wondering how much, and in what order I should put up the hardwood that grows all around us and I gather from numerous sources. And, (as a writer, you should never begin your sentences with and) I realize – this is a good life.

As I stand in the rain, with my slate bar, wondering where to plant Laura’s lilies, I am mentally transported, for just a moment, to Reno, NV. It was there that I journeyed, albeit temporarily, to work on a NASA grant for planetary-plastic-elastic-tip-deformation-mechanics. Yeah. I roll that way. For all of you whose head just hit your keyboard, I’m right there with you. That was the most frustrating, irritating job in the world. Ok…maybe the second most. But, it was a great experience! I punched a vampire in the head (more on that later), was arrested for jogging and absolutely fell in love with Chimichangas. Did I spell that right? Probably not. But it is so much fun to say, right? There was a food truck on the walk home from the University to my apartment, which was a very cool apartment, if I must say so, and they had the best Chimichangas ever. Or so I thought.

Until I went to Oddfellas Cantina in Floyd, Virginia. Until yesterday, I always needed an excuse to go to Floyd. After all, it is about an hour’s drive from our house, in the middle of nowhere, to Floyd, which is also in the middle of nowhere. The coolest thing is, though, if you live in the middle of nowhere, is giving directions. In this case, it is: Get off the 114 exit off I-81 North. Make a left. Drive to the stoplight. Park. You’re there. I love this place. So, with clay covered clothes and a partially recycled water bottle in my future, I call my adventurous wife and we head out on a brief road trip.

Oddfellas has the best Chimichangas in the world. Period. If I were wealthy, I would have them delivered to my house. By Salma Hayek. But I’m not, and Laura would be really mad (that’s my wife, if you are wondering) if Salma arrived at our house with a Chimichanga. George Clooney would be ok, but Salma, no. We take a scenic route, admiring the rain, so gently falling and I arrive yet again at the conclusion that this is one of the most beautiful places on earth. We duck into Oddfellas and wait a bit to be seated – by the same waitress that I have been seated by for the last six years. That is an accomplishment in an area that is not quite vagrant, but populated by college students. It is in the middle of blackberry winter, so Laura is freezing. She orders a cup of seafood stew…then things become decadent.

These guys get all their seafood from the same purveyors as I do; Indigo farms. In short, it’s fresh. The soup arrives immediately, and Laura has to take it from me for a picture. She is warmed immediately, and we notice that local, wild oyster mushrooms are on the menu. Oh, yes. We’ll take some. We don’t really even talk. We just eat. The mushrooms are sublime. Laura is busily destroying the bread basket when I knock over my iced tea, an admitted obsession of mine: the tea, not the spilling. I am horrified, despite the limited number of guests at such an early hour, but the server helps me clean and I notice a tiny Yin-Yang symbol in the floor. Wow. I’m now glad I spilled my tea. I order, of course, a Chimichanga, with local beef, and Laura orders a Blue Crab and Arugula Salad. Whew. It is amazing.

I can’t say too much about the restaurant. It is worth every second that you spend in the journey to get there. There are so many unique features in the place itself, down to their homemade cookies, which Laura is obsessed over, and the music venues that they promote. Go to Floyd, eat, have fun and for God’s sake, get the Chimichanga. Even if you just take it home.

The Bank Food and Drink – Pearisburg, VA

I haven’t had much in the way of opportunity to post lately. I have one week off from work and school before they both start up again – I’m using this time to work. I grew up in construction and coal mining, and, honestly, I miss hard manual labor. Those of you that do it every day will scoff, and understandably so. I sit behind a desk and have done so for over ten years. I can tell you this: It is not healthy to sit behind a desk. So has begun my marathon of brute physical labor and exercise to whip my fat ass back into some semblance of shape. But in the meantime, I’ll keep eating!

We had the wonderful opportunity last Wednesday to take a quick journey over to the newly re-opened restaurant in Pearisburg, VA, The Bank Food and Drink. This has always been one of our favorites, and we were seriously impressed by all that they have done. Owner Linda Hayes has poured her heart and soul into this place, and you can tell. One thing that I have always loved about the place is the unique seating. It can be completely private and totally romantic, or they can re-arrange tables and seating for a more casual and family style dining experience in minutes. The colors are now more muted and soothing, with local art throughout the restaurant. Front house manager Rachel Isley seated us immediately in a secluded little area with a great view of the main foyer and after discovering my love for bourbon, immediately suggested a unique drink with Makers Mark, orange juice and candied ginger! I don’t know the proportions, but I would have never thought to put those ingredients together! Laura, laughingly remembering my obsession with orange juice in Italy (where it was often up to five euros a glass!!!), said – How could you not like it!

The menu is simple and pleasing, with fresh ingredients that can be prepared quickly and with precision. We started with crispy pork belly, which Laura was a bit apprehensive about. In the words of Anthony Bourdain – Life does not suck. Not right now. Not with crispy pork belly on a bed of creamy grits and crawfish. Oh, no, life is good, in fact, divine. The texture of the grits was such that I actually thought it was Risotto. And the pork….words fail me.

I switch to the homemade lemonade, which I am a complete sucker for in any circumstances and order a New York Strip. I very rarely order steak in restaurants, preferring to cook it myself. I order it medium rare – just on the rare side. It’s almost never done correctly – something that I was happily wrong about here. Chef Michael Behmoiras knocked this out of the park. Perfectly seared, seasoned and cooked. With sides of carrots and peas, I was a happy, happy man. Laura chose Braised Short Ribs with creamy polenta and was just as thrilled with hers as I was with mine, although I do admit I could not stay out of her polenta. She tried to stab me with her fork but I was too fast.

The ambiance is soothing, the drive is beautiful and the confidence and abilities of the staff are off the charts. Go, enjoy – and try the crispy pork belly!

Musings of an Educator – Reflections of a Broken System

I’m currently surveying the mess that is my office. Three expandable files stuffed to overflowing with papers from this semester’s worth of peer reviewed papers, homework, writing and reading responses, plus textbooks are threatening to gobble not only my desk, but the floor. That’s after I organized everything. I realize that I now live my life in notebooks. They scatter the floor and my shelves, in no particular order, but I am reassured that if I’ve had a thought, I will be able to find it. My laptop is no longer dependable and all my backups are on memory sticks, or as we call them, thumb drives. I’ve always wondered why we call them thumb drives. I guess it’s because we use our thumbs to insert them into the appropriate drive on our computers, but then wouldn’t we call everything thumb (insert word)? Wouldn’t a steering wheel be a thumb wheel? A remote control a thumb control? Of course, that would contradict as it would suggest that the remote controls our thumbs, but one could argue that it actually does. Once again, I must digress.

I’ve always been overwhelmed at the prospect of writing a novel. A hundred or so single spaced, eleven font pages has the prospect of going to war in medieval times armed with a slingshot and a shovel. Painful, and eventually you’ll lose. Yet, as I go through what I have written this semester, including this blog, I realize that I have written enough to comprise two novels, or part of a trilogy, provided it was more on the order of hunger games and not Lord of the Rings. Dr. Morrison, if you are reading this, there are two errors in the former sentence, in direct contrast with APA guidelines. Please be kind.

This semester has been rife with stress and difficulty, yet rewarding in the knowledge gleaned. Before this semester, the words assessment strategy, teaching pedagogy, hemogenic teaching paradigms and stratified educational systems would mean very little to me. It was a sobering and thought provoking semester, yet one that convinced me that I have made the right decision in choosing, so late in my career, to be a teacher. I have been blessed with intelligent and thought-provoking peers, engaged in many heated discussions and I want to thank my professors at Radford University for their insight, guidance and constructive criticism. I have been challenged intellectually and I have learned, for the first time in my life, to partake in a heated discussion without resorting to petty name-calling or losses in judgment due to my inherited lack of control over my temper. Although I have been very close.

I have learned the difference in teaching and assessment strategies and I have been challenged to analyze the pros and cons of each. I have chosen my thesis topic in Native American studies, particularly the effects of their culture, history and environmental conditions on the success of students within our own society. I have been profoundly shaken by our general inattention to the ethnic stratification of an entire group of people in modern America. It has shaken my faith in our government and our political system to my core.

Yet, I am undeterred in my goal to become a teacher. For any change to happen within our educational system, and within our society as a whole, it must start with us, as educators. We must not lose sight of the dream, hopefully at least partially unselfish, that made us pursue such an underappreciated career. We are ultimately in this profession not to become wealthy (insert laugh here), nor famous; nor should we have pursued it in some mistaken sense of entitlement. Instead, we should pursue this career, and our pedagogies with the unwavering commitment to make a difference in some student’s life. A professor of engineering told me not long ago that he preferred to teach college, as the miscreants and underachievers have been weeded out by the educational process and the application of standardized teaching to determine which student is worthy of a higher education. I say, and emphatically, NO! I would prefer to teach those that are struggling, those that need my help, and those that need and can utilize a safe and caring classroom and witness their rise to their own capabilities. That should be the American dream. To provide each and every student with the opportunity to be what they can be and what they want to be.

A Day in the Life of a Photographer – Baltimore

I have the sense of hurtling through time and space at an extraordinary rate of speed. I realize that I am dozing and awake briefly as the howl of the V-8 engine in Laura’s Cadillac reaches a fever pitch. Any attempts to sit upright are nullified as four hundred horsepower propel us through the early morning hour. The acceleration lane of exit 150 on I-81 becomes a launching pad as left-lane assholes get passed in a furious blast of acceleration and premium fuel, economy be damned. I take over after we hit I-66 west on the way into to D.C, and honestly, I’m a bit more aggressive than Laura behind the wheel. After all, it’s not often I get to drive the Caddy.

This is my introduction to the world of wedding photography. I feel as though I know it, after all the years of helping Laura, but I’ve been largely relegated to being an equipment mule and lighting guy. I’m fine with that. Anything that I can do to help is fine by me. But this weekend is special. Laura has finally decided that I am ready to actually take pictures and help with an entire wedding. I’m nervous and very excited.

We’re headed to Baltimore, Maryland to the Museum of Industry. The lucky bride and groom have reserved the entire space and catered the event with Rogue Catering, so the food is guaranteed to be awesome. We pit stop in Centreville for a bowl of our favorite Vietnamese Pho, and as usual we are the only white people in the restaurant. The entire restaurant is silent except for the sounds of people happily slurping noodles. I’m thinking, this is not so bad.

We arrive in Baltimore ahead of schedule and with a couple of hours to kill, we head out into the Inner Harbor. We are trying to find a place to eat for Sunday morning and we are having zero luck. Tourist trap, tourist trap….somebody slap me. Really?? I’m in freaking Baltimore and we can’t find a place to eat?

It was at that moment of frustration that I see a dude in chef’s whites cruising down the boardwalk in front of me. I run him down and see a bit of panic in his face at first – I can’t help but think that he was afraid the big sweaty dude chasing him was trying to mug him, but the reality is that I am about as threatening as a Labrador Retriever. I ask him, “If you had one, just one morning to eat in Baltimore, where would you go?” He grins at me, and without hesitation, replies, “Miss Shirley’s.” We run back to the hotel to finish charging batteries, (after a quick stop in a haberdashery, where Laura picks out a couple of rather dashing hats) and google Miss Shirley’s. Awesome. It’s been voted the best restaurant in Baltimore!

Honestly, after this weekend, I have nothing but respect for wedding photographers. I had no idea how much work is involved. People constantly ask Laura what she does for arm exercise, and she is always a bit bewildered. I will tell you what she does: Strap an eight pound camera around your neck, a twelve pound camera bag around your shoulder and do the equivalent of three to six THOUSAND modified curl/triceps extension for eight to twelve hours at a time fifty or so days of the year and see what your arms look like!

It was the intensity at which she worked that threw me a bit. After about five hours or so, I began to tire and get a little bored. Not Laura. She was operating at the same level of intensity eight hours in as she was in the beginning. My eyes began to burn from the flashes and a couple of times I lost track of her completely. The remote flashes were as constant as the lights playing across the band as she tracked every moment of the entire event.

By eleven, I was exhausted. The happy bride and groom exited into their waiting car and the entire wedding party was headed to the after-party event. I load Laura’s car and admire the waterfront at night. It really is beautiful.

We faceplant into bed and complete our whirlwind tour of Baltimore with a trip to Miss Shirley’s. It really is as good as the chef said. Laura has a soft-shelled crab Egg Benedict with Hollandaise sauce and I have a fried green tomato sandwich with runny eggs and bacon. It is perfect. We eat way too much, check out of our hotel and throw ourselves back in the car for the trip home. I’m sore, tired and completely checked out when we arrive home. Laura never hesitates, and begins charging her equipment for the next shoot. I wonder if I can even be a photographer.

So, to all you photographers out there, do what you do, and know that there are very few who can do what you do. My hat is off to you. So is Laura’s.

Deep South Yankee

I’ve been called many things in my life, and worn many hats. I’ve been a student, a brother, son and husband. I’ve been a friend, an enemy, a combatant and I’ve been labeled a challenge. I’ve been called a liar, once; recently, and I’ve been called an honest man. I’ve been a coal miner, a consulting geologist, an engineer of sorts and a teacher. I’ve traveled throughout most of the U.S. I’ve lived in Reno, San Fransisco, Maryland, D.C. and NOVA. Throughout it all, I’ve remained steadfastly southern and have only once been accused of being a Yankee.

That was in deep Mississippi. One screamingly hot night, in a fog of cigarette smoke which only pretended to keep mosquitos the size of small helicopters away, a rather drunk local stared at me through the smoke of endless cigarettes. I was uncomfortable and really wished I was in bed and wondering why, oh why, I had agreed to this trip in the first place.

Those that know me even slightly know that I do not travel well. In all honesty, I’d rather be home. At home, I know from which direction Jupiter will rise. I can find Orion’s Belt in seconds. Laura’s Mountain is always in the same spot and I know where the green garlic will be in the spring. My bed is reassuringly in the same spot every night, which is not the case when you are traveling. So, it is with great reluctance that I travel. But I do enjoy it, especially the fine art of observing other people, trying new things and learning about new places and cultures; and delving into strange food. That is the best. There is nothing funnier in retrospect and humbling in the experience than having a beautiful Italian woman in snake skin pants, high heels and a butchers apron tell you that the meat you have asked for is little better than dog meat. Score one, Italy.

This was something different though. The fog hung low and the unrelenting beat of southern rock stormed out of the smoky bar. I was face to face with a rather large and intimidating and decidedly annoyed girl sporting the most amazing mullet I’ve seen in years. I’m fairly certain I’ve just been insulted, but I’m so fascinated by the situation, the place and the mullet that good sense has abandoned me. I step closer. “Do what?” I ask. “I just wanted to know how you like it in the South.” This comes out as a threat, somehow. Accusatory.

I reply that I’m actually from the South, Virginia, as a matter of fact. This fact has no relevance on the situation currently at hand, which is to say that in her mind I am from Northern Virginia, that accursed place from which I fled so many years ago, a land of endless traffic jams, pavement, inflated real estate and desperate single women who want nothing more than to just meet a decent man, a myth in that desperate quagmire of iniquity. I’m offended, really, for her to think, with my accent, that I am from that place. I attempt a geography lesson. I explain that Virginia is a very large state, and the most beautiful part of it is Southwestern Virginia, which is a land of rivers and mountains, trees and fertile soil, wonderfully friendly people and entrepreneurs of all sorts. The kind of place that you can settle in, sink your roots deep and live with the land. A place where we have four seasons, gentle winters and mild summers. A place where you know your neighbors – and they leave you the hell alone.

I fall silent. I realize that I am now talking to several people, looming in the shadows, invisible except for the muted red of the nearly constant draws on their cancer sticks. I feel that I have made my case for being southern, especially since my Buchanan County accent has inexplicably returned in all its nasal glory. I glance at mullet girl, hoping for a confirmation of sorts. She is glaring at me now openly. “So, you don’t like it here, huh?”

I am baffled, but I realize that her attitude is germane to the fact that it is time to go. It’s been a very long time since I have been in a bar fight, and I have no desire to relive that experience in rural Mississippi. I beat a hasty retreat, collect my wife and friend and we head to the hotel. The bed is where it should be. For now.

(Author’s note: This recollection by no means summarizes my Mississippi experience. Quite the contrary, I found the Deep South to be a wonderful place, despite the unrelenting heat. The people were friendly and hospitable, the food was wonderful and I fully intend to go back. In January or February, not August.)

Spring Duck: And Asparagus!!!

I absolutely love this time of year. I especially love the cool, rainy days of spring, when I can literally, almost, if I imagine it just right, hear the trees leafing out. The dogwoods are in bloom, the redbuds are fading and the soft rain is permeating my garden boxes and reminding me that it is time, past time even, to plant my potatoes. And onions. And split up the hickory that I cut last winter. And put the poplar away and look for mushrooms. I also need to build two more garden boxes and put up a permanent deer fence. The first three chapters of my thesis is also due, and I have to make a decision on teaching next fall…

No stress, though! The greatest thing about this time of year can be summarized in one word: Asparagus. I have anxiously awaited the arrival of spring asparagus since last year. There is simply nothing better than al dente asparagus with a little butter and fresh local spring duck. Do you need a recipe? No. Score the duck breast on the fat side, place in a scorching hot cast iron skillet until nicely browned (fat side down). Move to the cold side of the grill for about 15 minutes, or until the interior is 140 degrees, or until it is approximately the tenderness of your palm as you press your middle first finger to your thumb. Boil the asparagus for about five minutes, then toss in a tablespoon of the rendered duck fat and a little butter. Slice the duck, serve, and remind yourself that you are eating like a king. Simple, easy, mac-and-cheesy. (For the record, I hate instant mac and cheese. Hate. That’s a strong word, I know. Hate it.)

A great side item is caulifower and potato mash. Boil until fork tender, drain, add about two tablespoons of mayo and a tablespoon of horseradish sauce and smash until smooth!

Crabbin on the Bay

I awake to the sound of gulls calling. I lay still for a moment, as we often do when awakening in an unfamiliar place, orienting myself in time and space. My wife’s gentle breathing from across the room and the sound of waves slapping the rocks lend my mind a trajectory and I realize that I am at Laura’s parents’ house on the eastern shore of Maryland, located on one of the tributaries to the Chesapeake Bay. I was born and raised in the mountains of Appalachia, in the coal fields of Virginia, so this world is foreign to me. I slip out of bed and pad as noiselessly as possible to the window. Moonlight glints off the water, and Jupiter is low on the horizon, indicating that dawn is near. I’m glad I’m awake, but, honestly, I am nervous.

We’re going crabbing today, with the vehicle of choice being one workboat named Dorothy, lovingly restored to her original form by Laura’s Dad. One of only two left in existence, this diesel-powered wooden testament to the hardworking people on the Bay is utilized on almost a daily basis for fishing, crabbing, transportation and recreation. I have never been crabbing, and I fervently hope that I do nothing to embarrass the tradition of this family and their beloved Dorothy. She rises and falls slightly in the early morning breeze and the tide laps softly at her stern. The first glints of sunlight break the horizon and I smile, despite my nervousness. It’s going to be a good day.

Six hundred feet of line have already been threaded with chicken necks for bait as we load Dorothy with water, sunscreen, nets and our dog, Axl, who has decided that this is definitely the most exciting thing in the history of doggy things. He leaps fearlessly from the dock to the boat, sliding on the bottom a bit before righting himself. I’m a bit less fearless, but I manage not to fall in the dock-to-boat translation. Laura’s Dad fires the massive diesel and we cast off the lines in the early morning mist, off on the search for the absolutely delicious Chesapeake Bay Blue Crab.

Considered to be too small and too difficult to harvest on the west coast of the United States, this crab is king on the eastern seaboard of Maryland and Virginia. People are passionate about their taste and they are prized for the tender, succulent body meat found within their carapaces. A bit intimidating to the uninitiated, a seasoned crab picker can reduce a blue crab to nothing but meat in a matter of minutes. The first time I watched Laura pick a crab, I was a little speechless and in complete adoration. It was like watching an expert pianist perform Bach’s sixth symphony. Not for the first sime, I thought, “I’m going to marry that girl!

Laura casts off the last line and leaps as fearlessly as Axl into the bow as it passes the end of the dock. Laura’s Dad accelerates away and we are soon in the middle of the creek, as the locals refer to the tributaries of the Bay and in prime crabbing territory. We wave at fellow crabbers, some already with their holds full, as we let out our line loaded with chicken necks into the green waters of the Bay.

After it is stretched, we begin our runs. The line is routed over a roller than lifts it out of the water, with the chicken necks spaced about every five feet. A net is utilized to grab the crabs just as they realized that their meal is being interrupted by a rude grab by a net. Laura is shockingly good at this – for her, it’s personal. She has nothing but bad intentions for these guys. I can tell that visions of steamed crabs are dancing in her head as she catches two in the same net, juggles them as they try to get away, and then slams them into the wooden bushel basket just in time to grab another. My job is to keep them from getting out of the basket, but they seem to intent on fighting one another to escape. I’m glad I’m not a crab.

We have a successful morning. In an hour or so we have a bushel basket full, and we declare it a victory. A few hours later, we are steaming them outside of the garage with corn on the cob, cornbread hush puppies and all the fixings. My God. Is it because we caught them ourselves? How can anything be this good? Laura slows down at around fifteen crabs and I am fighting to keep up. It’s not like you can save the leftovers – oh, wait, you can! After we are stuffed, we pick the remaining crabs for crab cakes. Laura normally despises crab cakes in favor of the actual crab, but when you are returning to Appalachia, you need to be adaptable. She makes the best crab cakes in the world, and I will share her recipe with you now. Catch your own, if you can – it is an unforgettable experience, as are most things on the Bay.

What you need:

½ cup of finely minced red onions

1/3 cup of finely minced red bell pepper

1 tablespoon of minced tarragon

1/3 cup of mayonnaise

1 pound of crab

¾ cup of panko

Salt and pepper to taste, plus a pinch of cayenne

What to do:

Mix all the ingredients well, form into palm size cakes and place in the refrigerator for a half hour or so to firm up. The panko will absorb the wet ingredients and they will stick better. Fry over medium high heat in olive oil until golden brown, 3-4 minutes per side. Asparagus and fresh baby carrots make a wonderful side. Enjoy!

A Positive Breakdown

I’m stuck. I can’t think. My kitchen is full of people who are currently staring at me, waiting for me to begin cooking. I realize that if I ever had a plan, it is no longer in occupying space in my head. I feel like I am having both stage fright and writers block at the same time. I stare at my ingredients as if I am not recognizing them. My guests and family are happily sipping wine. Laura is cheerfully preparing the salad course, chattering away with her Mom while slicing absolutely identically sized pieces of pancetta. I wonder what I was ever thinking when I volunteered to cook this meal.

It doesn’t help that we have had a foodie weekend. Chef’s Tour Saturday night, English breakfast at the Underground Pub on Sunday morning – wonderful Scotch Eggs, coffee and lattes by Strange Coffee – I’m feeling more than a little intimidated. I decide it’s a good time to pet the cat.

I wander out to the deck; Stubbs is nowhere to be found as there are what he considers to be strangers in our house. I light charcoal in the chimney starter, buying some time. Laura’s mountain is clearly visible now that we have cleared the trees – so now she can see directly from her hammock overlooking the river. I scour my brain for inspiration.

My ingredients are great, wonderful even. Inspiring. I have free-range, organic, grass finished beef tenderloin. Fresh new carrots and baby potatoes. Fresh horseradish. Assorted spring greens. New Vidalia onions and Granny Smith apples from last fall. What on earth to do?

Inspiration builds quickly as I overcome my stage fright. Everyone is ignoring me a bit now that the grill is lit. I put a tablespoon or two of pink and black peppercorns in a skillet and begin toasting them over medium heat. I add coriander seeds and with a nod to the morning, a small handful of coffee beans from Strange brewing company. I toast them all for a few minutes until they are aromatic, and then grind them in a spice grinder. Now, I have my rub for the tenderloin.

The tenderloin is already on the counter coming up to room temperature and so everyone can admire what they are about to eat. I am getting my confidence back. I start a large pot of salted water on the stove to heat up so that it will boil quickly. I rub the tenderloin down with olive oil and coat it in the rub, adding a bit of paprika and truffle salt at the last minute. The rub has a nutty, spicy flavor that will hopefully compliment the meat without delivering the same old barbecue flavor that is so popular this time of year.

The coals are ready, so I spread them over one side of the grill and place the tenderloin on the cold side. The thermometer instantly hits 400 degrees. Perfect. I’m starting to sweat now, and focus entirely on the food. I mix Sorghum Molasses and local honey, bring them almost to a boil and add a splash of Maker’s and a few pinches of brown sugar. I pour this over the carrots in aluminum foil and add them to the grill.

Now we’re getting somewhere. I slice the apples thinly, quarter the potatoes and split the onions in half, leaving the greens on. I sauté the apples in the remnants of the sauce for the carrots, boil the potatoes and throw the onions on the grill to char. I chop garlic and quickly brown the bits, then mix the garlic, sour cream, crème fraiche and horseradish for the tenderloin.

The tenderloin is at 135 degrees, so I char it quickly, and then put it on the cutting board. The potatoes are fork tender so I drain them, smash them quickly with sour cream, butter and horseradish and season everything with salt and pepper. IT’S WORKING!

I relax happily during the meal. Everyone claimed to love it, but the proof was in the empty plates. Whew. That was a close one.