The Weekly Meat

Ten Foods (That Changed My Life)

There's a lot of list-making happening over on the Facebook these days, some of which has carried over to the blogosphere — occasionally, to good effect. Along those lines, and in any case, the following are ten foods that changed my life — in order.

1. Applesauce — Until I was embarrassingly old to be doing so, I used applesauce as salad dressing. My mom was big on us eating greens every night, and we kids weren't exactly veggie crazy, so the salads. But I never liked dressing — not even fat-laden "Russian" or "Thousand Island" that Wishbone was so fond of in the '70s. I did like applesauce though, and it turned iceberg lettuce into something not quite "salad," which I liked.

Finally, on a long backwoods canoeing trip when I was 16, I was sufficiently hungry enough to eat anything, and I discovered "Zesty Italian" dressing did the trick and that salad wasn't all bad. I've since branched out to a myriad of dressings (still no fan of  "Russian" or "Thousand Island" though), and never have gone back to the 'sauce. Still like it on its own though.

2. Fig Newtons — Perhaps my first love. Sweet without being cloying, chewy yet soft, fruity and exotic (I never saw an actual fig until much, much later) yet whitebread and mundane. The perfect cookie.

As a kid, I'd eat six to eight of these a day and wonder why I had stomach trouble. The answer occurred to me while I was doing a play years later in college. There was a milk and cookies scene required and the actress I was working with and I decided that we both liked Fig Newtons. We didn't figure on quite so much rehearsing. Suffice to say, I don't think either of us felt great after splitting a box of Newtons and a half gallon of milk.

3. Pasta —When I was young, I'd tell my mom I wanted to eat pasta every day. Now, as a grown-ass man, I often do. And it's damn satisfying. Comforting and carbolicious at its most basic, but capable of supporting nearly any taste you throw at it.

4. Cheese — Whether on pizza, or solo, cheese is my constant, my love, my weakness, my habit, my addiction. As my tastes have matured, so has the U.S. cheese market, and what's fresh and available locally these days is a far cry from the orange pasteurized process cheese food product of yesteryear (not that the Whiz doesn't have its place).

5. Sliced bread — Oh, sliced bread, let me count the ways. You make possible the mighty sandwich — and without the constant quest for the ultimate sandwich, life would be boring. From peanut butter jelly time to Vietnamese báhn mì, the sandwich reigns supreme. And sliced bread makes it happen.

6. Salsa — There are two kinds of junk food people — those who like sugar, and those who like salt. I like salt. The thought of downing a pint of ice cream, say, sickens me. But put me in front of a bag of tortilla chips and some nice salsa, and it's good night, Irene.

In some ways, salsa and chips were my entrée into the world "ethnic" food — back when "ethnic" meant Chinese, Italian, or — if you lived in the big city, like I did — Mexican. But Mexican expanded my taste horizon by getting me into the capsaicin arena, which led me to insanely hot stir fries, to curries, to hot and sour soups, and on. And as my tastes expanded, so did availability, to the point now where I am an easy walk from excellent Brazilian, Peruvian, Thai, Indian, Korean, Salvadoran. And I frequent them all.

7. Beer — I've posted on beer before, and I'll probably do so again. Like most things on this list, it took a long time to come around to it, and longer still to appreciate the differences between the good, the bad, and the ugly. What I lack in quantity these days I make up for in quality, and there is some damn wonderful stuff to be had out there at the local these days — and not just the Belgian beer emporiums (though I dig them too).

8. Tomatoes — Tomatoes were the first "vegetable" I really learned to love (this, despite the fact that they're technically a fruit). Sad as it is to say, this love affair did not begin until I was halfway through college. I was tending bar in a great northern Italian restaurant, and when the waitstaff and I would get hungry around 10:00, we'd often just butter up some warm bread and top it with a thick slice of ripe tomato. It was the perfect and ever-available snack.

Nowadays, we grow our own, and there is nothing more perfect than plucking a fresh one off the vine in the backyard, and slicing yourself a chunk while it's still warm from the sun. Possibly my favorite thing about summer.

9. Basil — One of the easiest and most useful herbs to grow. Basil has taught me patience in the kitchen, and the tinkering needed to perfect an oft-made dividend-paying recipe like pesto — the mortar and pestling of which was arguably my first foray into the world of slow food.

10. Fish — And finally, the most grown-up food on my list. And damn tasty when done any number of the right ways. The cholesterol-lowering, heart-healthy protein meant to undo a decade of crappy eating and to keep me alive for the second half of my life. But for fish sticks, I hated it as a kid; love it as an adult. From fish and chips at the pub to Cajun catfish to broiled sea bream to grilled bluefish to raw maguro. When it's fresh, it's nearly all good.

Pizza Meditations

I. Sex

"Pizza is like sex," the saying goes. "When it's good, it's very good. And when it's bad, it's still pretty good." To which let's just say a quiet "Amen."

I've written before about my — er — struggle with cheese addiction. And pizza is my near-daily nip.

Hot, melted cheese is pretty much one of the tastiest things that ever met a mouth. And when it melds with a nice, simple red sauce, it gets exponentially better. The salt, the sweet, the heat. Mercy. Put the two atop perfectly crisped yet slightly chewy dough, and a beer to wash it down, well then — simple as it may be — we're not just talking sex, we're talking sex with old school Madonna with a side of Psilocybin.

II. Style

• New York — The standard here on the East Coast (pic at right, below). Fold a slice in half. Take a bite. Repeat.
• Greek — Growing up in Philly, we used to call this a "Boston-style" pie. The crust has some oil to it, so it crisps up in the pan and the edges have a bit of pastry-like flaky crunchiness. The cheese medley is generally a bit more salty (less mozzarella and more parm/romano), and cooked till slightly browned on top.
• Sicilian — Thick crust pizza cooked in rectangular pans.
• California — Uppity pie with non-traditional ingredients like barbecued chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, goat cheese, scallions, arugula, etc. "Not that there's anything wrong with it."
• Brick oven — When done well, my favorite. Tends toward irregular-shaped pies, with thinnish, crispy crust, and an emphasis on the high-heat cooking technique.
• Chicago deep dish — The lasagna of pizzas. When it's good, it's very good; when it's bad, it's more disappointing than the meh "good" of a traditional pie.
• Northern Italian — Very thin crust, so it cooks up quickly and is not as filling as a standard pie. Order one per person, and with no more than one topping.

III. Eyeballing

It can be a delicate thing. The taste from one slice — or even one bite — to another, can be inherently fleeting, as the pizza goes from scalding and soupy to cool and coagulated. One bite perfect, and the next twenty spent trying to recapture that fleeting glory.

I maintain that I can tell what a slice will taste like just by looking at it. Whether a bad cafeteria slice with cardboard crust, cloying sauce, and stratified cheese; a boxed Wolfgang Puck between flights; a perfectly reheated late-night "slab"; a pie made from reserved dough; or grilled sausage nirvana at the bar with a couple of pops.

At a couple dozen PIZZA PICTURES from the past year.

IV. The Trick

The keys to making pizza at home:

• If you're making your own dough, use fresh yeast (can be in a packet, just not old), and make sure you're mixing it with water that's hot enough (recipe below).
• Use a pizza stone and a peel.
• Dust the peel with flour and/or corn meal to allow the raw pie dough to slide off it, onto the stone.
• Preheat the oven as hot as it will go (500–550°F).
• Take the batteries out of the smoke detector and banish small children from the kitchen.
• Lay down mozzarella first, then sauce, then grate a hard cheese (e.g., parmigiano) on top.
• Keep "toppings" minimal and construct the pie quickly once you've got the dough on the peel.

V. The Dough

I spent a year or so tinkering with this recipe, trying different ratios of various flours (white, Italian "00", wheat, and rye) to get the right consistency, workability, and taste. You should do the same. Of course, if you want to just try mine, I break up the two cups of flour as follows:

• 1 C "00"
• 3/4 C white
• 1/4 C rye and whole wheat mix

The "00" flour is very fine, and I found it needed a bit more body, so I added some white flour. The rye and whole wheat are in there for taste and tooth.

VI. Rolling

I give you the following piece of celluloid brilliance, via Serious Eats.

The VGT Omnivore's 100

Thanks to Dean Clean for steering me to this excellent social exercise in Omnivorous braggadocio cataloging. And not a moment too soon — as I am juggling three meatier posts and was hoping to serve somewhat lighter fare this week....

I’ve eaten 68/100. I’ll skip 4. Looking forward to (most of) the other 28.

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile [Alligator]
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses [possible, but not sure]
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian [Okra]
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Backyard Farming

When we refer to the "back 40," at our house, we mean our 40 feet of backyard. Still, it's an oasis in this here city outside of a big city, and we dig it — both figuratively, and literally. We garden, but for roughly half of the year, we also farm some.

We have two 3.5 x 8.5' raised beds that we built when we moved in, and in that meager 60 square feet of space, we manage to produce a startling amount of food. From early season leaf lettuce and radishes, to enough basil and herbs to keep us in pesto year-round; fresh beans, cukes, squash, and peppers; pounds and pounds of tomatoes; and late season carrots, beets, garlic, and chard. All organic, all as healthy and delicious as you can buy anywhere.

Not to get all Barbara Kingsolver on you, but it's pretty damn cool to be even a little self sufficient in the way of food. We're realistic, and not expecting to feed ourselves entirely on backyard produce and the occasional squirrel. We augment the ongoing harvest with the farmers' market down the street, for pastured beef and chicken, corn, peaches, berries, etc. once the season gets going.

We grow what we like, and we've discovered through trial and error what grows best and yields the most. We have some heirloom varieties from which we'll pull seeds for next year, but we start from seed only what can be sown directly in the early spring soil — no indoor seedlings, grow lamps, or cold frames (at least not yet, but I just found these plans while looking for a cold frame link, and well, I generally can't pass up any project involving my table saw and a mess of wood). Our yearly overhead is $30–40, and from that we save ourselves hundreds of dollars worth of produce.

It's no coincidence too that we eat healthier during the summer, and so do our kids. Young RK — despite all entreaties — is a bit of a fussy eater, but during July and August, she likes nothing more than picking and eating fresh cherry tomatoes right there in the garden. She spills seeds and juice from neck to feet, but you can't tell a kid to stop eating tomatoes.

In addition to our raised veggie beds, we inherited further sustenance (as well as a dog) when we bought our house, in the form of a mature Concord grape arbor, three apple trees, and a well-established bunch of rhubarb. All have taken some effort to keep in check, but all pay dividends. The rhubarb and grapes have been producing year after year since we moved in, and now the still young apple trees — after several seasons of producing small, tart, mealy, green apples — have finally begun cranking out totally edible fruit as well. We've added two blueberry bushes, which give us just enough to make weekly pancakes fun, and, just this year (via Freecycle even), two raspberry bushes as well.

Not so long ago, I used to daydream about quasi-rural subsistence farming: a few acres, a tractor, a couple of laying hens, some lambs, etc. But there's something to be said for our modest middle-urban oasis, where out our front door we can easily walk to dozens of outstanding restaurants — serving everything from Haitian Creole dishes to Salvadoran sandwiches, fresh baked scones, Peruvian pollos a la brasa, and pizza by the slice — and out our back door, we can feed ourselves.

It's not housing bliss, mind you. Most of our neighbors are nice, but we can hear their occasionally bad music, and they can all see into our backyard (which pretty much just means we don't get naked there — but still). That's the price we pay for being close to the culture that grows out of a densely populated city and all it provides.

For the moment at least, it's worth every penny.

P.S. The Man is all up in my business at work lately, so I don't have the energy or patience for no stinking recipes at the moment. So for more info on what to do with bountiful veggie harvests, whether urban or rural, see Rose's Lime. And as always, for the finest commentary on the state of food, god, and country, see the venerable Gurgling Cod.

Barbecue

There's no better time than July 4th to light up the backyard barbecue and singe off your arm hair. This year, let it be some pork shoulder, cooked slow and low, with my loose interpretation (meaning I improved the hell out of it) of the "Rickyard Ribs" recipe from the Jack Daniel's Old Time Barbecue Cookbook. It's a great starting point for further experimentation — a tasty middle of the road sauce, with some tang, some sweet, some bite, some depth, and a little something extra.

BK Kine Cue Sauce

1 C  ketchup
<1/4 C  molasses
1/4 C  red wine vinegar
1 oz shot  bourbon (so, in fact, not Jack Daniel's)
1 T  lemon juice
1 T  Worcestershire sauce
1 T  soy sauce
2 t  brown mustard
1 t  horseradish
1 t  pepper
1 clove  garlic, minced
hot sauce to taste

(Big T for tablespoon, small t for teaspoon.)

1. Combine in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes.

2. Put that sauce to use. (Note: There are hundreds of folks here on The Internets to teach you how to properly cook meat and who provide you with the requisite, crystalline food porn pictures, so go visit them. Some are quite worthwhile. Perhaps the ancient race of Druids over at Meathenge.)

Enjoy.

The Sandwich Hall of Fame

Sometimes a meal is far more than just a meal. Sometimes the food and the very act of eating it join to create a transcendent experience.

This is, after all, a blog, so no, I'm not talking about food as mere survival. I'm talking about gustatory excess. Because I have just eaten my favorite cheesesteak of all time.

I'm from Philly. I have eaten, literally, hundreds of cheesesteaks. This is a notable landmark.

The event in question took place at John's Roast Pork. The sandwich — a cheesesteak with mushroom and onions, sharp provolone, and ketchup — was tremendous. The meat, infused with the taste of its roll-mates. Heavenly.

The first sandwich I fell in love with was a simple one. In high school, a friend and I used to drive over to the local convenience store for lunch once or twice a week. I would get deli turkey on a kaiser roll, with lettuce, mayo, and American cheese. Boy, I dug that sandwich. But like many first loves, I have evolved, and it was inherently flawed to begin with we have grown apart.

Love, you ask? Oh, indeed. A sandwich is more than just a slab of meat (or veggies or legumes or whatever) between two slices of bread. It's convenience. It's simplicity. It's a lifestyle. Occasionally, it is even culinary perfection.

That said, I've put together a modest hall of fame, as follows. Now the great thing about the sandwich hall of fame (SHOF) is that it's an ever-expanding (perhaps to match the waistband) entity. There are certainly classic sandwiches (say, the muffaletta at Central Grocery in NOLA), which, sadly, I have yet to consume — as well as sandwiches that have yet to be created.

In any case, the honorees thus far:

Cheesesteak — John's Roast Pork, Philadelphia
Fresh, hot, not greasy, and the perfect meld of ingredients. Thank god I don't work around the corner from this joint (I'd pretty much have to be a stevedore to do so), as I'd be a little scared to find out what the repertory of a daily cheesesteak or roast pork would do to my vascular system.

Pork Báhn Mì — Báhn Mì Saigon Bakery, NYC
I stumbled (literally) onto this place only recently, on the walk to a friend's place after a successful Fung Wah experiment. The crusty, chewy baguette, the pork, the hot sauce, the sliced cucumber and carrots, the fresh sprigs of cilantro. So good that I went back 16 hours later for another to get me through the return bus trip.

Italian Roast Pork — Tony Luke's, Philadelphia
The other Philly sandwich. Succulent roast pork pulled from a bath of broth and juice, served on a hoagie roll with sharp provolone and garlicky broccoli rabe. Mercy, mercy.

Ferdi Special — Mother's Restaurant, New Orleans
When you order your po' boys at Mother's, they ask if you want it with debris. Your answer should always be "Yes." Debris is the juice, fat, and flavor-filled detritus that falls to the bottom of the pan when the meats are being roasted. It's spooned over the top of the sandwiches and soaks into the bread, making everything heavenly. Upon finishing his first debris-addled masterpiece, my good friend Spider decided that next time he might skip the meat and just ask for a debris sandwich.

Lobster Roll — Red's Eats, Wiscasset, ME
The lobster roll debate is a lively one, and I might cast my vote for a different place on a different day, but Red's Eats knows how to bring it, and they don't fuss with accoutrements. You're served a whole lobster's worth of meat on a toasted bun. No hacking up the meat, no obfuscation, just goodness.

Italian Hoagie — The White House, Atlantic City
Like the mighty lobster roll, the hoagie debate is strong. For my money though, good deli meat is good deli meat, and it's not too difficult to come by. I've had great hoagies (though they sometimes go by different names) all over the map, and passable hoagies nearly everywhere. So the deciding factors are sandwich construction and the roll. And absolutely nowhere serves better classic crusty/chewy hoagie rolls than The White House.

Turkey Reuben — The Original Turkey, Philadelphia
There is just so much to be said for a shmear of good Russian dressing and coleslaw topping a pile of fresh sliced, perfectly roasted turkey breast. I've had similar deli versions served cold — a favorite of which was a turkey/roast beef combo. But this particular goodness adds a couple slices of Swiss, puts it between good wheat bread and pops it on the sandwich press until its absolutely beautiful. This is a sandwich that simply melts in your mouth.

Cubano
I don't know that I have yet found the perfect cubano — a delicious pressed construction of roast pork, ham, cheese, spicy brown mustard, and chopped pickles — but that only serves to inspire me to continue the quest. I've certainly come close. Clearly, this may require fact-finding missions to Miami and Havana and all places Cuban. But in my own backyard, there are two places within a stone's throw of each other that do the cubano solid: Chez Henri and the Montrose Spa.

Chicken Torta — Tacos Lupita, Somerville, MA
Torta is a generic Spanish term, which, like the Vietnamese báhn mì, loosely translates to "that which makes the mouth water, the knees go weak, and the heart grow fond of foreign lands." My favorite torta starts with well-spiced grilled chicken, adds a spoon or two of beans, avocado, lettuce, tomato, a couple of jalapeño slices, and mayo. Nothing crazy, but the roll is nice and soft and the effect is outstanding.

Cheeseburger — Your Backyard, Your City
Don't let anyone make a better burger than you can serve your damn self. There is nothing more simple than grilling up your own burger, grilling it right, topping it with your favorite cheese, a perfect slice of tomato, etc.

Yes, I realize full well that the above list is guilty of a dearth of cold sandwiches. Rest assured that there are indeed plans for a future annex to the SHOF for our heat-challenged friends — once we are able to secure proper funding. Perhaps a reserved space for the buttered Parisian baguette with country ham, gruyere, hard-boiled egg, and lettuce. But for now, these are my darlings, and I'm gonna dance with them until a cardiologist looks into my heart and stomps on my soul by telling me to lay off.

Beer, Beer, Beer

I.  Before the louts that are Roger Clinton and Jeb Bush, our fine nation was blessed with one of the most influential presidential siblings of all time. With apologies to RFK, I'm talking, of course, about Billy Carter. Hell yes, he was country, and simple as a two-by-four, but brother Billy played an inspired role in the U.S. microbrew revolution — and for that, he must be celebrated.

The fact that his eponymous "Billy" beer tasted like a mixture of old bongwater, urine, and IC Light notwithstanding, you had to love his advertising approach: It's the best beer I've ever tasted. And I've tasted a lot. (A reworking of Schaefer's classic one beer to have when you're having more than one.) Billy beer didn't exactly corner the market, but it did gain a certain trashy kitsch appeal in the way that, say, a Bill Clinton cigar might.

Regardless, it was Billy who convinced POTUS Jimmy to do away with moldy blue laws against homebrewing, which gave both everyday Joes and entrepreneurs permission to legally brew beer in small batches. In this case, as in many, a little experimentation in the garage went a long way. It took a good 10 years to catch fire, but once folks perfected their recipes, it was game on.

So raise a pint to Billy, because today's package store shelves look a far sight better than they did in the '80s. And many of us can hit up a local pub and find draft offerings from Dogfish Head, Victory, Sierra Nevada, and the like.

II.  The first beer I can remember drinking (and I don't mean that in an Amy Winehouse sort of way) was a Carlsberg "Elephant" beer, at a party back in tenth grade. It was basically OE for the suburban set. Bad beer, but it made us feel cool, and it gave me something to hold while those with an even greater need to feel cool experimented with the latest from Medellín.

While growing up, I had tasted beer my dad poured for himself, and never really liked it all that much. But when one wants to develop a taste for something, one can, and for good or ill, beer was an integral part of my college experience.

I didn't necessarily drink good beer in college, mind you, but I did drink it. It was after those four years that I had the good fortune for my culinary tastebuds to come of age at the moment the microbrew industry went public with their IPO of IPAs, presenting delicious alternatives to those of us boring Americans daring enough to drink anything darker than Bud.

Yes, I know there are still plenty of light-beer–swilling folks out there, and all I can say is thank you for leaving more of the good stuff for those of us who like it. Just get your simple ads off my hockey telecasts, eh?

III.  Cheers.

Coach: What's the story, Norm?
Norm: Thirsty guy walks into a bar. You finish it.

IV.  Two weeks ago, I went to the New England Real Ale Exhibition (NERAX) — which, as luck would have it — is held in my neighborhood each year. This is a somewhat small but well-organized affair held over several nights, and damn if they don't bring in some hella ales each year.

"Real ale" is defined by the Campaign for Real Ale as "beer brewed from traditional ingredients, matured by secondary fermentation in the container from which it is dispensed, and served without the use of extraneous carbon dioxide." You can read plenty more about the distinction here, but in a nutshell, real ale is to brewing what "slow food" is to cooking — a natural, old-school approach meant to highlight both the product and the process.

The beers tend to be smooth, and less carbonated than most non-cask beers. If beer had tasted like this when I was growing up, I might actually have taken a dinner-table liking to it much sooner. Not that these are kid beers (for lack of a better term); most are very flavorful and complex in a way that surpasses many of the better bottled beers.

In fact, I found it interesting to sample the real ale versions of beers I can readily buy in bottles at the liquor store. Last year, I discovered first in cask form and then in bottles what I'd been missing in Geary's Hampshire Special Ale, a delicious beer. On the other hand, though I liked Harpoon's (then) new Brown Session Ale from a cask, its bottled equivalent leaves something to be desired.

Clearly, in the name of both science and of blogging, I need to do a bit more "research," and report back. Until then, thank god for the brewer patriots out there, giving us freedom of choice, and the choicest of hops. And thank god for Billy Carter.

The Clancy Brothers — Beer, Beer, Beer

Meat Addiction

I had no clue when I named this blog that folks might stumble their way onto these pages by googling "meat addict" and the like. Apparently, it's an increasingly popular thing to search for. Not as popular as "Scarlett Johanssen" perhaps, but let's not digress.

The name of this site, plus my post on (cheese) addiction, plus Google's proprietary algorithms place me fairly high on the list of results for that particular search. Now, don't get me wrong (especially you meat addicts out there — I appreciate the hits), but meat addiction? Who knew?

Yet, enough folks are afflicted by, or curious about, such a thing as to search the internets for it, and some of those folks are in turn curious enough or desperate enough to click on The Weekly Meat for answers. Well, I'm flattered — albeit naively curious — and hey, I'm here to serve my constituency (even those just passing through). So I've put forth some research to get to the bottom of this burgeoning phenomenon.

First off: Is there such a thing?

I realize addiction can be a tricky thing. Clearly, the most pandemic of addictions seems to be that of booze — something the human body does not historically/biologically need to survive. But meat? Homo sapiens have depended on it for eons. True, in our post-industrialized global reality, we can now get by swimmingly (if not happily) on a meat-free diet. Or to generalize, if you're reading these words, it's a fair bet that you do not need to kill wild game for the sake of sustenance. Not that there's anything wrong with it, mind you — I appreciate game as much as the next guy. I'm just saying it's no longer essential to our survival as a species.

Maybe it's more a problem of psychological dependency. If one works at it long enough, I suppose we can become addicted to nearly anything. Videogames, crosswords, blogging. Watching hockey fight videos on YouTube. Whatever.

And where might meat addiction rank in the world of addictions? Might it threaten the addict's well-being more seriously than, say, heroin? Dubious, but as with all addictions, it's a matter of degrees. I mean, is the afflicted in the habit of sneaking meat at work? Running late for appointments, furiously slugging down mouthwash to cover the smell of Slim Jims? Not-so-discreetly surfing barbecue porn sites behind the spouse's back? Cutting out of the office early to head over to the local butcher shop? Suffering meat blackouts? The mind reels with possibilities.

Maybe there's another angle I'm missing.

Ah. Further searching shows that some of this business about meat addiction is to do with Big Meat (that is, the Industry, à la "Big Tobacco"). And on that score — though we might differ a bit on some details — I'd agree that yes, certainly we do have a meat problem in this country.

Our problem is this: The meat that we most often consume does not come from healthy stock. Rather, it comes from animals who live nearly their entire brief existence while penned together like the shrink-wrapped food product they will become; hopped up on drugs and hormones to keep them from dying, because they're being fattened up on "food" they were not physiologically meant to eat and that they cannot digest without said drugs; all while wallowing in their own excrement. (For much more on this, I highly recommend reading Michael Pollan's excellent book The Omnivore's Dilemma; or more briefly, this Time article; or even the politically correct CDC website.)

So, we have a problem. But are we "addicts"? Whether or not we eat too much of it, or whether we have a compulsive need to eat it, I'll leave up to the evangelists out there — or better yet, to you. Rather, what I'd argue is that "meat addiction" may be missing the point. For we are in denial of an addiction to something much bigger: We are addicted to cheap goods, and it is this addiction that feeds our meat troubles.

We have convinced ourselves that it is our American birthright to pay next-to-nothing for nearly all goods and services. Thus, we turn our backs on the reality that behind our $5 t-shirts, 50¢/liter soda, and $2/pound meat is sweat-shop labor, high-fructose corn syrup, and "Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations" (CAFOs).

And our $5 t-shirts, soda, and factory-farmed beef are slowly and methodically killing us as surely as heroin. The meat and soda are doing it medically, thanks to our country's #2 corn fetish (For an entertaining look at how and why, watch King Corn or Supersize Me or The Meatrix). Even the t-shirts are doing it culturally, (macro)economically, and spiritually.

Big Meat is a scourge, and it has been since the advent of, well, ice, which in combination with the railroads, allowed the shipping of meat. Upton Sinclair's The Jungle exposed horrifying slaughterhouse conditions over a hundred years ago, and effected fairly sweeping change, but not nearly enough. And the meat and farm lobbies have become exponentially stronger in recent years (amazing how the strength with which they argue is directly proportional to the damage they are causing), and once again, they are abetting the fouling of our food sources.

So, what to do? The answer, as with any addiction, is simple — if not easy. You want to start putting the Big Meat CAFOs out of business? Don't buy their products. Tell ADM, Cargill, Monsanto, et al. to go screw. Check out some of the great sustainability resources, find a local farm where they allow cows to eat the grass they were born to eat, join a meat CSA. The difference in taste and nutrition between CAFO and pastured beef is astounding.

"I would," you say, "I'd eat that way every day, but it's expensive."

And there's the rub. We are so far removed from our food sources that we have no appreciation for their true cost (neither monetarily; nor environmentally; nor ethically/morally). We spend far less on food than we used to. Further, our elected fat cats have so devalued both food and nutrition, that we don't seem to care to spend the money necessary to perhaps help us live longer. Instead, we subsidize the growth of more and more shit corn to feed our livestock. Crazy, when you consider how much we as a nation spend on the care of serious (and clearly related) health issues like diabetes, high cholesterol, heart disease, colon cancer, hip and knee replacements, etc.

Sure, the immediate situation is complicated too by the fact that our housing costs are so high (i.e., After rent/mortgage, who has money left over to eat well/righteously?). But housing costs have risen at a rate inversely proportional to food costs. Not directly, but the case could be made that we are willing to overpay for housing precisely because we underpay for food.

So where does all this leave us? I don't know, frankly. If I did, I like to think I'd have a more influential day job. But I do know this: I don't have to buy products that contain high-fructose corn syrup; I don't have to buy sick chicken eggs; I don't have to buy factory-farmed beef. I don't have to be an addict. I've got some say in this thing. And there's no need for me to start throwing meat on the fire of our national dependence. However much it might help bring traffic to this blog.

Feedlot photo via USDA. Turkeys photo by Scott Bauer, via the USDA.

Addiction

With the holiday party season nearing full tilt, I think it's time I come to terms with some personal trouble I've been having lately. OK, for a long time.

One year, in my bachelor days — when life was both more exciting and more boring — my age-old friend Spider and I decided we'd each make our New Year's resolution to develop six-pack abs. We were both fairly active guys who had once been in shape. We each figured what the hell, the mutual competition would keep us honest and spur us on, and the rippled stomachs would surely, we thought, be a hit with the single ladies.

I can't remember how close Spider got to that six-pack, other than to say that he has only slightly less body hair than Robin Williams and Tom Selleck combined, and I believe he ultimately chose to simply comb the hair on his stomach in such a way as to give the impression of a six-pack. God knows what was actually under the hair.

My own quest was more enlightening than successful. No matter how many sit-ups, crunches, etc. I did, I was never really able to get past a solid four-pack. Those bottom two ab cuts just would not show themselves. It didn't take long for me to realize why. Beyond the fact that I simply did not have the mental discipline to work out every single day, I knew at a core level that those two muscles would be forever hidden under an unyielding layer of beer and cheese.

So, a few months into the year, I gave up my resolution. The experiment had paid some dividends, but when push came to shove, I was not willing, at that stage of my life, to give up either beer or cheese.

Soul searching ensued. If I had to choose one, I wondered, which could I actually give up, beer or cheese? Ultimately, I decided, it would be far easier for me to give up beer. I would miss it, sure. But life without cheese? Get real.

I don't just like cheese, I dream of it, pine after it, live for it. Always have. I have my cheeses of choice, for those times I need something stronger than vacuum-packed cheddar, and I love nothing more than spending a good hour in a proper, local fromagerie. Going to Neal's Yard in London was like a personal cheese hajj.

Mind you, my cheese eating has not all been quite so glamorous. I've had more than my share of cubed orange colby-jack at office parties. And I mean cubes that have been sitting for hours, sweating under the glow of holiday cheer and bad jazz. I've opened the tub of squeaky-fresh cheese curds before even exiting Wisconsin farm stands, eaten poutine for breakfast, and scraped the last bits of jarred Whiz onto my cheesesteak. I've reveled in individually-wrapped slices of pasteurized process cheese food product, creamy WisPride logs, and bacon-cheddar squirt cheese. I've had my brushes with hitting rock bottom; I know why the caged cow laughs.

But am I addicted?

To find out, I turned to the source. Alcoholics Anonymous has a list of 12 questions for self diagnosis. They tell us that "Yes" answers to four or more questions may indicate that you have a problem. Highlights are as follows. My honest answers are in line with the questions.

1 - Have you ever decided to stop [eating cheese] for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?

Yes.

3 - Have you ever switched from one kind of [cheese] to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting cheese-drunk?

Yes.

4 - Have you had to have an eye-opener upon awakening during the past year?

One word: pizza.

7 - Has your [cheese eating] caused trouble at home?

No. But my wife might be what they call an "enabler"; or worse, an addict herself.

8 - Do you ever try to get "extra" [cheese] at a party because you do not get enough?

God, yes. I eat party cheese like a starving college student, uncertain as to when and where I might stumble onto my next free meal.

9 - Do you tell yourself you can stop [eating cheese] any time you want to, even though you keep getting cheese-drunk when you don't mean to?

Yes.

12 - Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not [eat cheese]?

Yes. Specifically, my cholesterol and might be lower, my weight slightly lower, I might be more in fighting trim, with a thinner waist — and six-pack abs.

The addiction question. According to my answers — as the Magic 8-Ball likes to say — "signs point to yes."

So what next? Am I ready to give it up? I don't honestly know. The program tells us that the first step is to admit we are powerless over cheese. Forget the other 11 steps for now; I'm living one day at a time, one holiday party at a time. If you see me on the street, wallowing in a self-pitying stink-breath cheese hangover of yet another aged gruyere, get me to a meeting. My name is BK, and I'm a cheese addict.

Praised Vegetables

There has been much great writing lately about the local food movement and the societal evils of number two corn. During the summer, you can't swing a hoe without bumping up against odes to local heirloom tomatoes (and, as my mom likes to say, "I don't disagree"). But some veggies get short shrift. Yes, the blog is called The Weekly Meat, but I'd like to praise the orange root veggie we grow  from seed in our modest middle-urban backyard, because the difference between a fresh local carrot and the orange imposters we find in our grocer's produce aisle is like the difference between a Santarpio's grilled sausage pizza, and, well, Wonder bread with a slice of "pasteurized process cheese food product" on it.

Our carrots taste like carrots were meant to — sweet and crisp, but also rooty and earthy, with a hint of bitterness toward the top. Bagged, shipped-cross-country grocery store carrots taste like the idea of a carrot. They have the texture but not the soul.

This is all somewhat new to me. I'll admit to not fully appreciating (okay, not liking) too much in the way of vegetables until well into my sideburns years. Growing up, I made my mom's compulsory nightly iceberg lettuce salad palatable by drizzling over it not dressing but applesauce. But at some point (read: college), as my mind expanded, my stomach — realizing it could not remain trapped in puberty forever — grew up too.

I'm not a veggie freak, but I am a food freak, and these days (perusals of a certain daily specials menu aside) it's tough for me to eat well without also eating right. Not just well-balanced meals, but locally-grown, mostly in-season meals.

The following recipe* works just fine w/store-bought everything — hell, give it a shot today if you need a quick starter — but try it sometime with real carrots, local to your yard or a nearby farm. You won't be able to ignore the difference.

BK's Quick Carrot Soup

1 lb carrots, cut into large chunks
1 onion, chopped
1 clove garlic (~Tblsp), chopped
1/2" nub of fresh ginger (~tsp), chopped
1 qt. chix stock (homemade or boxed)
1 dollop light sour cream (~1/3 C)
salt/pepper to taste
spice to taste (pinch of cumin or curry if you go in for that sort of thing)
fresh chive if you've got it

1. Add a splash of olive earl to a (>3 qt) soup pot and saute the onion for a few minutes. Add garlic and ginger and continue sauteeing for another minute or so. Then add carrots, and saute for ~5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

2. Add stock to the pot, cover, and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat, and let simmer for 45 minutes to an hour (until the carrots are soft, but not mush).

3. In two batches, transfer the contents to a blender, add a dollop of sour cream, and blend until the soup is pureed. Add salt/pepper to taste, pinch of cumin or whatever tilts your kilt.

4. Top soup w/fresh cut chives if you've got em, and eat.

Serves 4

* I'm really not big on writing down (or following) recipes, so forgive me if this seems roughly remembered (it is).