Eat Me. Drink Me.

Why We Eat. Why We Drink. Why We Write.

Category: Travel

Letting it Simmer (a post by Josh)

by johamlet

Hello dear, dedicated, beloved readers,

I’m writing you on behalf of my personal absents from the blogging world. Due to my busy schedule, my writing has been impaired.

Who are we kidding, I’m not formal. School has taken over a bit. I’m still cooking, but trying to keep it short, sweet, and in the twenty minute blocks that I have free. What also stole my attention, was Spring Break. How college of me.

I traveled along with sixteen other seniors the sixteen hours down to Key West, Florida. It was a thrill. Unfortunately – despite its proximity to Cuba (only 60 miles north!) – I didn’t find anything worth writing about down there. Well, that’s not completely true.

And that’s where this blog post comes into play. I have a bunch of posts coming up, but I’m letting them simmer, stew around in my head, to really get a good grasp about how to portray them here. Also, Lyz and I, are looking to do some cool things with this blog in the near future. I know that’s transparent, and if you, dear reader, like mysteries well… the cat’s out of the bag.

What’s also a bummer, currently, is my camera is broken (notice the lack of pictures in this post). Hopefully in the near future, I’ll save up enough to find a nice digital SLR to keep bringing EMDM the food pictures it deserves.

Until then: Happy Eating. Happy Drinking. Happy Cooking. Happy Reading.


Ps. Check out the most recent Dining section of the NY times; it features a list of amazing coffee shops in NYC. Go figure, my favorite one is in there: Gimme! Coffee.


Why the Diet Will Never Work (a post by Lyz)

by lyzpfister

Right now, I’m sitting on a train from Berlin to Stuttgart, thinking back on my visits, the conversations I had, the things I saw, and the millions of pounds I gained.  Not that I would give one single pound back.  In fact, I’m stocked up for this train trip with a hefty mound of honey-laden pastries from Al-Jazeera, a Turkish Konditorei that my mom just happened to find once on a bike trip through Berlin.

When we first picked up our goodies, we walked into the two-armspan-wide store and asked for one of everything.  The man on the other side of the counter couldn’t quite comprehend the request and asked us every third pastry or so if we really meant one of each.  Oh yes, we did.  And it didn’t take us long to walk back to our bikes locked other side of the street, open our three boxes of pastries and sample each piece.  We had an assortment of Turkish baklava, stuffed with pistachios or peanuts, halva or melting sugar and layered between crisp sheets of phyllo dough dripping with honey.  There were three types of cake, one filled with apples and custard, another with crumb pressed into rose-water flavored cream, and a third which the pastry cook brought out after we had paid and which looked so good, we asked for a piece of that too and paid again.

After an extra-vigorous bike ride (a guilty calorie conscience?), we stumbled into a packed Vietnamese restaurant/café for lunch.  Hamy, as the restaurant is called, only serves two dishes a day.  Judiciously, my mother ordered the chicken curry on rice and I ordered the Pho with pan-fried pork over rice noodles. Hands down the best Vietnamese food I have ever eaten in my life, and for five Euros, the most reasonably priced.  Both dishes were piled with fresh vegetables, and my pho redolent of Thai basil, lemongrass, and chiles.  Despite our Turkish pastry escapade, we both finished every bite on our plates.

I’m finding it hard to figure out which culinary adventure I liked the most, but one of the most relaxing and delicious eating experiences I’ve had so far in Germany was at Schlesisch Blau, a tongue twister if nothing else.  Schlesisch Blau is an amazing, homey, gourmet restaurant located near the Oberbaumbrücke, where you can walk along an extant section of the Berlin Wall, now covered in murals commemorating the East-West split.

After walking along the wall in the chill evening air, we circled back down into Kreuzberg and the warm glow of Schlesisch Blau.  We were seated at a round wooden table in the corner, where we had a good view of the rest of the small, ten-table restaurant.  As my mothers says, eating at Schlesisch Blau is like eating in someone’s living room.  The soup cooks on a double burner against the wall of the dining room and it’s a serve-yourself affair.  After soup, a big bowl of salad with mixed greens and two randomly selected bottles of homemade vinegar are placed on each table.  The restaurant makes over fifty varieties of vinegar, and if you don’t happen to like what you have, you’re welcome to wander over to another table to try someone else’s.

The restaurant’s owner and chef wanders around the room talking to and drinking with his guests while the waiter and waitress eat their dinner leaning on the corner of the bar.  The wine flows freely, and though we protested that we were on our bikes and really couldn’t drink another carafe of wine, our waiter, probably on his third glass himself, winked and told us of course we could—and should probably even finish two.  Apparently, though, only those patrons who order expensive bottles of wine are allowed to drink out of the sparkling, long-stemmed wine glasses.  My mother and I, with our house wine, were relegated to smaller tumblers.  The glasses of shame.

For fourteen Euros, you get soup, salad, entrée and dessert.  There is one soup, one salad, two entrees to choose between, and one dessert.  I ordered slow roasted beef and my mom a pork roast rolled with herbs.  Both dishes are the kind that cook all day and require very little prep time.  But both, with their long cooking time, are tender and rich and served with a crisp vegetable medley of cauliflower, carrots, and potatoes in flavorful sauce.  It’s the ambiance, however, that really makes eating at Schlesisch Blau a wonderful experience.  It’s the comfort of the dim lights, the rustic furniture, the jovial waiters, the unassuming, yet lovingly prepared food.  For dessert, there was berry pie, and though we were both so full of food, we finished all of our pie, the rest of the wine, and set off a little wobbly on our bikes into the Berlin night, sniffing out the next best thing to eat.

Eating in German (a post by Lyz)

by lyzpfister


I grew up speaking in German, and I grew up eating anything but.  Schnitzel, sauerkraut, bratwurst?  Never.  If it was puddled in butter, wrapped in gravy, or leaking grease, my mother did not make it.  I remember her once exclaiming about German food, “It’s all so heavy!  They even cook the peas in cream!”  So I grew up eating couscous and bulgur, slow-cooked stews, stir-fry, and salmon.  But not a single Spätzle graced our table.

This was all ok with me.  My father is from Germany, so my rare cravings for Würstchen and Läberkäs were satisfied on our trips to the country every two years or so.  And while my brothers seemed never to get enough schnitzel (seriously, never enough), I was maxed out on potatoes by day three.

Still, some of my strongest (and fondest) childhood memories center around German food.  My grandfather owns a piece of property on the Schwäbische Alb, a low mountain range in the South of Germany comparable to the weathered Appalachians.  Every available Pfister would gather, and we’d have a bonfire and roast as many types of wurst as Aldi and Lidl had on sale.  There would be loaves of fresh, crusty bread, potato salad done in the German style with vinegar, oil, salt, Kräutersalz, and onion, Fleishsalat (strips of bologna mixed with mayonnaise, gouda, eggs, and pickle), cucumber salad, and beer – lots of beer.  For the kids, there was süsser Sprudel and gelber Sprudel, both sweetened types of seltzer water.

Aichland Eating

The grown ups would sit around the fire and gossip, while we cousins ran around the woods building houses out of bark, moss, and small stones for elves or catching crickets in the sunny neighboring field.  Bocce ball was popular with everyone, and for some inexplicable reason, the kids fought over the right to mow the lawn with a rickety, unmotorized push-mower with scissoring blades.  We never left the Eichland, the Land of Oaks, until late at night and not until someone had brought out a guitar and started a round of “Where Have All the Flowers Gone.”

Bocce Ball

Then there were my uncle Helfried’s tacos.  I know, tacos are not German.  But when you get a gaggle of Very German people together who have only heard that Mexico is a country by hearsay, and you let those people make tacos – tacos become German.

Friedel, as we all call him, is a legendary cook – though incidentally also the cook who elicited the peas and cream exclamation from my mother.  The beef filling he makes is simply simmered with oil and a Maggi taco seasoning packet (shh), but so silky and rich and deliciously bad for you.  We make crêpes instead of tortillas or taco shells, which used to be impossible to find in Germany (I had an uncle who once took back boxes of taco shells in his suitcase after visiting us).  The crêpes, slightly sweet, soak up the juices from the meat and other typical taco fillings, like tomatoes, lettuce, sour cream, and cheese, making them messy, but wonderful things to eat.

German Tacos

And how could I talk about eating in German without talking about Kaffee und Kuchen?  No matter what you’ve eaten or when you last ate, you will, at 3 o’clock, stop what you’re doing, go home or to a coffee house and have a cup of coffee and a slice of cake.

My grandfather lives in what the Germans call a Hof, a small cul-de-sac lined by houses.  We can’t walk in or out of the Hof without my grandfather’s neighbor, Emma, sticking her head out the window for a little chat.  Wilson-style, our only interactions are through that window, and we aren’t entirely sure if she has legs.  On more than one occasion, Emma has passed us a home made cake through the window to eat for Kaffee und Kuchen.  Her signature cake is a cheesecake made with Quark, a creamy curd cheese, and mandarin oranges.  The taste of that cake and the smell of coffee still filters through my memory and the yellow-brown curtains and onto the ageless dining room table in my grandfather’s house.

Kaffe und Kuchen

For quantity (and baking brilliance), however, no one rivals Annagrette Weber, a woman to whom the phrase, “No more cake, please,” means nothing.  On a recent visit to Rolf and Annagrette’s house, Annagrette said, “Oh, I was feeling tired today, so I didn’t make that many cakes.”  My mother and I heaved a sigh of relief, only to round the corner to find the table decked for four with one chocolate cherry cake, a fruit torte, a linsertorte, a butter cake, and lemon-quark bars.  “You have to have a piece of each.”  Yes, Annagrette.

In the spirit of Annagrette, I’m going to try to eat as much as I can of as many different things as I can.  And maybe by the time I leave, I won’t just be speaking in German, but eating in German too.

Schwäbischer Kartoffelsalat (Schwabian Potato Salad):
This recipe was one of my grandmother’s.  It’s incredibly easy – the south German take on that hot-bacon-chives-vinegar business you’ll find if you try to look up German potato salad online.  The tricky thing, though, is that one of the central (er – only) seasonings in this dish is sold strictly in Germany.  Which makes this recipe hard for you to make at home.  The spices used in the Kräutersalz are as follows: salt, parsley, dried onion, pepper, oregano, dried garlic, celery seed, and rosemary.  So you might be able to recreate the seasoning following that list and using your mortar and pestle – or you can mess around with some spices of your own.

Cook potatoes in boiling water, then peel them, and slice them thinly.  Coat them with vegetable oil – mom says, “Don’t be skimpy” and gives you a hard look.  Add vinegar, sugar, salt, 1/2 cup or so of vegetable broth, and Kräutersalz to taste.  My grandmother used to use white vinegar thinned with water, but my mother suggests using seasoned rice vinegar, since it’s already so mild and has a bit of sugar in it – and American potatoes aren’t as sweet as German potatoes.  Allow potato salad to cool before eating.  Or don’t, and eat it warm.

Opa on the Aichland

Single-Serving Life (a post by Lyz)

by lyzpfister

It’s been too long.  Sorry.  I’ve been working nonstop and traveling on top of that.  My life feels a little like the other Tyler Durden’s:  “Everywhere I travel, tiny life. Single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter. The microwave Cordon Bleu hobby kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos, sample-packaged mouthwash, tiny bars of soap.”  I’ve spent so much time on trains and planes and gobbling something up on lunch breaks that I’m not entirely sure what good food is anymore.

Of course, that is a lie.  I’m sitting in a sunny apartment in Cologne, Germany right now, eating a nectarine so juicy that I can’t take a bite without having to quickly lick my fingers before juice runs down my arm.  And last night, for supper, my mother and I had fresh ciabatta from a bakery down the street with lax, cream cheese, stuffed peppers in oil, and cherry tomatoes.  Life is ok.

Sadly, though, these past three weeks, I’ve been eating mostly quick meals – Ramen noodles doused with Sriracha hot sauce, cold leftover lasagna, boxed pizza, takeout.  And as a result, I haven’t really had anything good to write about.  However, now that I have a chance to sit down and think about it, I kind of like eating en route, whether it’s in the car, on a train, or even sitting still in my kitchen while my brain keeps moving.  At least, I like it if I don’t have to do it all the time.  I especially find eating in planes novel.  It’s kind of like a picnic, eating 20,000 feet in the air with no elbow room, watching Star Trek on a six-inch screen, and wrapping a single slab of white cheese from plastic wrap and putting it on a single cracker done up in its own wrapping.  The food may certainly be nothing to write home about, but the ambiance (!)

As I mentioned, I am currently in Cologne, and will be in Germany for the next three weeks, so expect some delicious German food updates.  But for now, I have some jet lag to conquer and some Charles Dickens to read, so I’ll leave you with this still uneaten, though oh-so-enticing-looking roll from my recent flight, wrapped in plastic, of course.

Single Serving Bread

I Came to Picnic (a post by Lyz)

by lyzpfister

4th of July picnic

When the sun is shining and the weather balmy, I enjoy nothing more than packing a picnic basket and a blanket and heading into the great outdoors to eat.  I love eating outside, and since the sun has been generous this summer, we’ve had dinner outside almost every day.  There’s something special, however, about a picnic.  A picnic requires planning, preparation, and packing.  First, you must decide where to go and what to make.  You have to decide whether you’ll be close enough to transport warm food or if your brie will melt before you get where you’re going.  You have to figure out how many utensils and napkins you’ll need, since you can’t just run back to the house to grab them, or which container will work best to sneak red wine into the 4th of July Celebration in Washington DC.

Putting together a picnic basket is one of my favorite pastimes.  Much of this is probably due to my love of cheese and cheese’s conduciveness to being transported in a basket.  But there are a number of other delicious dishes that lend themselves to picnicking – some that aren’t specifically intended for such a meal.

A few weeks ago, Dickinson College (right around the corner from my house) hosted its annual Bluegrass on the Grass festival.  My dad packed up our lawn chairs while I modified a dinner of salmon cakes with fennel slaw for transportation.  I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m not very good at frying things (a great loss), so my salmon patties were less patties than hunks of salmon spiced with lemon, chives, and cayenne and threaded through with grated zucchini.  All for the best, however, since this made them easy to stuff into buns then packed tightly in aluminum foil to retain heat.  I packed the fennel slaw with grainy mustard, mayonnaise, and more lemon in a Tupperware and then threw some Ritz crackers, brie, and leftover chocolate-marshmallow no-bake bars in the basket for good measure.

A delicious picnic, I might say, accented by bluegrass plunking through the warm night.  Even the rustling wind preceding rain turned into a friendly shake as we sipped hot, milky coffee out of a thermos.  Around us, hundreds of other happy eaters with bins of pretzels, take-out Thai, or ham sandwiches swayed in time to Cats in the Skillet until the first fat raindrops began to fall.

Picnics don’t have to be in the midst of a crowd or backed by music or be complicated in order to be delightful.  One of my favorite picnics involved a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and some string cheese.  An old friend, who I don’t see often, and I were hiking around one of the trails in Pennsylvania – one that, growing up, I had never known about.  We had just climbed past a waterfall to the top of the mountain, and at its peak were a series of cliffs with perfect hand and footholds for bouldering.  We’d race each other to the top of different promontories or dare each other to go higher, and then at the summit of one giant rock with a flat, sloping top, we sat in the crisp January sun and looked out over Cumberland Valley, eating the food he’d packed in his backpack.

A picnic brings a new dimension to what food already accomplishes – drawing people together.  When we experience a change of locale, a new scenery that doesn’t have to be as stunning as a bird’s eye view over the mountains but can be as simple as a big, shady tree, we experience our food in a new way as well.  That strawberry is fresher, sweeter, richer.  Or perhaps we have just become more aware of its taste because our senses have been heightened by our new surroundings.  Vision and taste awakened, we begin to see our picnic partners in a different light as well.  We really listen, because our bodies are alert to the changes.  We cannot slip into the unremarkable safety of our everyday encounters.

Maybe this is a highly romanticized view of eating outdoors.  I will accept that criticism.  But I will also defend my beliefs that changing our eating routine keeps us aware of what we eat and who we’re with.  It keeps our relationships from stagnating.

A Picnic Guide:

Sandwiches make great picnic centerpieces, and I’ve been doing a lot of sandwich experimenting lately, so there should soon be a blog post with plenty of ideas.  If you don’t feel like making whole sandwiches, just pack a baguette, pita, or crackers and bring cheeses, hummus, tapenades, or cold cuts.  I like to have snack-y veggies and fruits on hand, like cherry tomatoes, baby carrots, melon, or berries.  Small Tupperware containers make it easy to pack coleslaw or potato salad.  Other pre-packaged items, such as chips, salsas, and dips are easy sides.  Most hot meats will still taste good cold, like chicken wings, baked ham, or turkey.  These are great to shred or slice and make into salads or sandwiches.  The options really are endless, especially if your destination isn’t too far away, and many entrees can be modified to become picnic-friendly.

Here is the recipe for an eggplant tapenade that I made recently for the aforementioned 4th of July celebration in Washington DC.  It even got good reviews from a non-eggplant eater.

Eggplant and Sun-Dried Tomato Spread:
(Adapted from Gourmet July 2009)
1 head garlic
6 1/2 tbsp olive oil, divided
2 1/2 lb eggplant
1/2 c oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes
1/2 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
1/2 cup chopped basil
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

1. Preheat oven to 400 with rack in middle
2. Cut off and discard top of garlic head to expose cloves.  Brush with olive oil.  Wrap in foil and roast until tender, about 45 min.  Cool to warm, then squeeze garlic cloves from skins into a small bowl
3. Cut eggplant into 1/2 inch pieces and toss with 1 1/12 tsp salt in colander.  Let drain 30 minutes.  Squeeze eggplant with a kitchen towel to remove liquid
4. Heat olive oil in a heavy skillet over medium-high heat.  Saute eggplant (in batches) until tender.
5. Add eggplant to garlic and mash together.  Stir in sun-dried tomatoes, parsley, basil, lemon juice, and 3/4 tsp pepper.  Season with salt and drizzle with tomato oil.

New Zealand Memories (a post by Lyz)

by lyzpfister

Recently, for lunch, I made myself a meal that I hadn’t had since the winter of 2007, when I went WWOOFing through New Zealand.  WWOOF, which stands for Willing Workers on Organic Farms, is an ingenious program which allows volunteers to work on farms in exchange for food and lodging.  I had just finished my semester studying abroad in Melbourne, Australia and since New Zealand was so close, decided to drag two of my newfound friends, Emma and Dan, with me to see the country.  Since we were broke, we hit on WWOOFing as a brilliant travel method.

Our first farm was a fledgling vineyard outside of Nelson.  Alex and Gareth had started the vineyard only a few years before and were raising a young crop of grapes along with fruits and vegetables.  Their house, a simple, elegant building entirely made from wood, overlooked the sloping vineyard that ran into soft green hills, dark forests, and in the distance, snow-capped peaks.

Our work in the vineyard was relatively simple, but crucial, especially as the vineyard itself was only five years old, and many of the vines were in their formative growing years.  Each row of vines consisted of equidistant wooden poles strung with three horizontal wires on each side.  Approximately five stalks were planted between the poles and attached with string to the lowest of the wires.  This wire was fixed and provided support for the growing vines.  Hypothetically, as the vines grew, they would stay within the two additional wires, growing up of their own accord.

Realistically, vines are wayward things that like growing any direction except up, and preferably grow down.  Our job was to pick vines up from the ground and make sure each stalk was contained within the wires.  One of us would unhook the wire from its post, stretch it out, pull it towards the ground and sweep it up to catch all the straggling vines.  A second person tucked in any loose bits, and a third person did a final sweep.

On our first day, Alex had told us that they paid a woman to do the first twelve rows.  We calculated that if one person could do twelve rows in a day, three people could do at least forty.  Four hours later, we had only hit the twenty-third row and were exhausted—especially when we thought of the seventy-one remaining rows of vines we were to prune in the next four days.  By our last day of work, however, we had become pros, waking up early and finishing our average twenty-five rows before lunch.

Every morning, Alex would make us breakfast—two slices of dark, home made bread slathered with butter and topped with sliced tomato and fried egg.  Emma, Dan, and I along with Alex and her three children, Lily, Mia, and Yeshe, would sit on the expansive back porch watching the sun rise over the craggy mountains and eat enough to sustain us through the muggy morning heat.

Alex had learned that I loved to cook, and asked me to make dinner one night.  When I asked what she wanted, the only instructions she gave were, “Well, it doesn’t matter really.  We like to eat different things, but I don’t really want to go to the grocery store, so if you could make something with what we’ve got around the house, that would be wonderful.”

I looked through some cookbooks, found a recipe for Lebanese lemon chicken, and began the question game with Alex.

“Do you have chicken?”

“We have a neighbor who butchers them—it’s no problem for me to get some.”

“Do you have rosemary and fennel?”

“They’re growing down by the road.”

“Do you have carrot and kumura?”

“We can dig some up from the garden.”

“Do you have pickled lemon?”

“I pickled some last summer.”

“Well, great.  I think Lebanese lemon chicken is a go.”

So that’s how I found myself mashing herbs and spices with nine month old Yeshe swaddled to my back.  Five year old Lily pulled a chair up across from me and rested her elbows on the counter.

“Can I help?”

“Sure, Lily.  Can you go outside and pick me five pieces of rosemary this big?” I asked as I held up a stripped twig.

“Yes,” she said, and shook her head once.

“Can I help too?” Mia, three, came up to me and wrapped her arm around my leg.

“Sure, Mia.  Can you mix up this bowl of flour and these spices?”

“Can we help?” Dan and Emma asked as they walked in the door with a handful of fennel.

“Sure, guys.  Can you chop up those veggies?”

With the kitchen full of five industrious workers and one baby drooling into my neck, we promptly prepared a dish of chicken fried in flour, cumin, rosemary, fennel, chilies, salt, and pepper, baked on a bed of couscous, red onion, pickled lemon, carrot, and kumura.

After dinner and a desert of apple crumble, Alex’s friend Sarah and her son Harry, who had come for dinner, led us into the living room for a story.  We sat ourselves in a circle, Sarah’s soft voice working with the dusk outside and our postprandial somnolence.

“These are grandma’s glasses.  This is grandma’s hat.  This is the way we fold our hands and place them in our lap.”

The story she told was of a girl who had been sent to look for a house with no windows and no doors but with a star inside.  She searches far and wide, eventually coming upon an apple.  Here, Alex produced three apples from her lap and rolled them to Sarah, who cut them open through the middle to reveal the star-shaped pattern made by the seeds.

“One house for Mia, one house for Lily, and one house for Harry.”

While the story had inspired us to seek our own sleep-inducing houses, it had awakened in the girls a pressing desire to hear more stories and tell some of their own.  So Sarah related one more story, and Lily told a rambling epic, before Alex called attention to the sun’s absence and announced that it was time for bed.

Dan, Emma, and I, tired but happy, wandered to our sleepout behind the house, played a lazy game of cards, and curled ourselves up to sleep.

Excavating Green Gold (a post by Josh)

by lyzpfister

Here, as promised yesterday, is a listing of my top ten. Top ten loves in the oil category. Mainly: olive oil and truffle oil. There’s much to say and even more memories, but here is a smattering of oil loves.

Olive Oil

I have get down to the basics before I go and start telling you about the slight variances that I have fallen in love with. So, here it is to me: olive oil. This stuff (as one sign in Florence, Italy, once read) is Green Gold. Wait, green? Yup, most of the good olive oils in Italy, Spain, Greece, France, New Zealand, all have a slight green tint to the oil. This generally means you should get ready for a slight bite to the oil. It’s not just food lubrication as most Americans see olive oil, but it’s a flavor unto itself. Wait, let me back up. olive oil is one of my most favorit-est things because it is universal in the cooking world.

(Notice, I did not say baking. Almost never use olive oil in your baking dishes, it will give that desired sweet a strange savory flavor. Especially if the dish calls for a pinch of salt, which most baked goods do).

It is called green gold because one: it is green and two: because it flavors most dishes in the Mediterranean repertoire. It’s silky, heavy, robust and compliments garlic, salt, pepper and just about any other savory spice you throw at it. Too much, and your food is greasy, too little and the garlic is burning in a dry pan. Olive oil is something I thought I knew before traveling outside of the US, and something I fell in love with when I got outside of the US borders. Here are a few of my favorite oils I’ve met, taken out for dinner and back to my place for later.

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Mountains in New Orleans (a post by Josh)

by lyzpfister

While re-reading some of the archived entries, I remembered that Lyz had written about beignets a while back. Her first post, in fact. If I may quote, “Almost every culture has the compulsion to throw a wad of dough into a hot pile of oil, fry it, cover or fill it with something delicious, and eat it.” I would subscribe to this statement; I mean with all the thoughts of physical health aside, doughnuts are delicious. Especially hot. You know every time you pass a Krispy Kreme Doughnut factory and that “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign is on, you think about stopping. You may not stop, but you think about it real quick-like. Who doesn’t?

Who doesn’t want to gorge on soft, warm, sugary bread that collapses upon fist bite. And if you coat it in a glaze or powdered sugar? You can’t stop yourself. If you are reading this and saying to yourself “No, of course not, I don’t like sweets all that much,” you’re lying to yourself. I know it, I just know it.

But this is much more than Krispy Kremes. This is ever more than the beignets that Lyz and her friends made in that dorm-room kitchen (sorry blog partner). What I’m talking about are the real beignets. The ones that Lyz talked about in her post too: “Beignets, however, evolved outside of France, most notably in New Orleans, where the pastry was brought to the area in the 18th Century, most likely by the Ursuline Nuns.”
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Define: Seasoning (a post by Josh)

by lyzpfister

I don’t know about you, but the most vivid memories I have of my grandparents revolve around the dinner table (dinner, supper, lunch, whatever you want to call it). Usually there would be a giant wooden table joined by eight or ten or twenty chairs, plates and sets of silverware. I would show up and talk with my family for a bit, then we would extend our visit over the table, passing food dishes as we passed our life updates. There was never too little food, no matter what my grandparent’s economic situation may have been. Come to think about it, I never thought about it because there was always so much food. A turkey, mashed potatoes, beans, beets, green beans, onions, biscuits, corn, sweet potatoes, you try and name it, and I’m sure I’ve seen it on the table at some point.

The meal would progress, and we would slow our talking and our movements and the dishes would sit in the same place for extended periods of time. The sun would set and we would speak of dessert. People’s responses were usually “Oh how could I?” which could be either taken as “Oh how could I eat any more?” or Oh how could I not?” My grandma usually tended towards the latter and would serve up a heaping piece of pumpkin pie or chocolate pie topped high with baked, homemade meringue. We would get up, stretch, feel the bulk of our plates in our stomachs and resituate to the couches and continue talking. Really, our meals were part II of our visit.
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He’s on the Move (a post by Josh)

by lyzpfister

It’s been a minute since I’ve updated my travels, my eats, and frankly, my stomach’s adjustment to Southern Foods. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been living in the South for about three years now, but I don’t always choose to indulge in collards with fat back as my staple lunch item. But now – this summer – I’ve got to go big then go home and take a nap to “work off” that fried goodness. O! that fried goodness!

Well since I’ve last updated (on my travels, not my shameful meal), I’ve been to Sapelo Island, Charleston, a few surrounding areas (James Island, Mt. Pleasant), Beaufort, Athens, Atlanta, Watkinsville, and Birmingham. That’s where I sit right now, sipping a well roasted, full bodied black coffee – iced (to cut the 99 degree heat and 110 percent humidity).

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