amy in alabama

the offal angle

After a recent trip to Atlanta with friend Michelle, I bragged to my sister about the rich meal of offal we enjoyed at Holeman & Finch Public House. Like a child on Christmas morning I listed the dishes in which we indulged:

"There was chicken liver pate with apple cider jelly and steak tartare and rabbit livers and sweetbreads and beef marrow and - "

"Yuck," she said.

What is the philosophy behind eating offal? Why do some of us drool for it while others dry heave at the thought? In the beginning people ate offal because it was wasteful not to. Every part of the animal was used. I suppose as society has evolved and life made easier (both moot points) through the advent of supermarkets and fast food we have allowed ourselves to turn up our noses at feet, cocks combs, and brains as sustenance. That leaves the rare old Asian man to his virility enhancing tiger penises and the foodie to his never ending search for the most awe inspiring offal preparations.

Friend Phoebe Damrosch shares in Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter an evening with fellow waiters from Thomas Keller's Per Se  restaurant in Manhattan where the group aims to seek out the best bone marrow in the city. I agree with their conclusion, Blue Ribbon on Sullivan Street serves a superior marrow to both Landmarc and Crispo, although I prefer the dish at Blue Ribbon Bakery on Downing - the sauce slightly more delicate, a background to the silky, mouth melting marrow rather than the star. 

offal |ˈôfəl; ˈäfəl| noun the entrails and internal organs of an animal used as food. • refuse or waste material. • decomposing animal flesh.

If offal is to a foodie what skinny jeans are to a hipster, or a Malaysian walkingstick to an entomologist - both necessary and all pride when discovered - then surely many chefs aspire to turn livers and stomach linings into something they can serve, sell, and send away full bellied patrons declaring, "I just had the most incredible meal!" As an amateur cook I took great pride when I recently served a red wine marinated venison roast at a party and a guest commented, "I love that beef roast" to which I confessed it was actually deer. "Wow," she said. "I don't even like venison but I want more of that." Turning people on is what food is all about, sustenance being only the very start.

I belong to the tribes of pleasure and pride. The simplicity of a sauteed sweetbread to perfection, a gift from God anyway you look at it, lies in the natural existence of the cow and her due course. Taking what has been provided, sprinkling a dash of innovation and a pinch of sensory nicety, and creating a meal that assuages both emotionally and physically is art. Pride resides for preparer and eater alike. For creator and discoverer pleasure is inherent.

poetry practice

Friend, fellow writer, and UNA professor of writing, Rob Koch, and I lead writing workshops through the Lauderdale County Public Library several Saturdays a year. Today we had a small group, as many of our high school age patrons are on vacation. So we did little critiquing and a lot of playing - with forms. 

We flipped through Lewis Turco's The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics and selected first the Epithalamon form: A B A A B B with four feet, three feet, four, four, four, and three. All the A's must rhyme and all the B's must rhyme and the last two lines must end in the same word, albeit the sixth and final line has only three feet, six syllables where the previous line has four and eight, respectively. Each foot in each line consists of one unaccented word followed by an accented word then an unaccented word and so forth, alternating accented/unaccented throughout the poem. Lost? Bored? Try this - inspired by my recent trip to the slaughterhouse:

My feet grow colder, blocks of ice

while a hog's life is taken

next door, losing his game of dice.

But it's not for me to think twice.

I watch for the love of bacon;

only, for the bacon.

Next we tried a looser form, no rhyming. The Katauta form originated in Japan and follows a 5, 7, 7 - five syllables, seven syllables, seven syllables. The first line makes a statement and the following two answer the call with the turn directly after the first line. This is fun, if not exactly on the mark.

I don't want to clean,

but the house is damn filthy.

And there goes my Saturday.

I can not clean now.

For my hunger is too great.

Please, let the clock strike twelve noon.

Blood sugar is dropping.

Help me please, before I die.

Melodrama is rising.

Sometimes the point is simply to play - no judgement, no goal, but for the sheer enjoyment of words and their possibilities.

a blogger not blogging

I started this blog as an online portfolio to show interested editors of various publications I might query for freelance work. It's supposed to be a practice in discipline and writing. I haven't posted in a month. Clearly the process is working.

Truth be told I haven't written much of anything in weeks, other than a few journal entries. I've done a little drawing and very little reading. I've just been so busy with the garden and chasing my red broiler chickens around the yard, watching them get fat and happy on natural feed. I'm starting up a business with a friend - a part time project certain to bring in money. Writers not writing, especially, need an income. I witnessed a hog slaughter and learned to carve a side of beef. I've been cooking up a storm, following other's recipes and creating my own. I've worked the Master Gardner helpline and fought the japanese beetles threatening my garden - an ongoing battle of wits and soapy water. 

The next few weeks aren't looking any calmer: party to plan, parties to attend, more gardening, more cooking, copywriting deadline, fuel the new business. And through all of this the ideas continue to flow. It's all I can do to jot down the tune, so to speak, and file it away on my desk, worktable, nightstand, or in my purse. 

Natalie Chanin, friend and ardent blogger, never mind she's an internationally known designer with a substantial, growing following (my current numbers cap at three), she blogs nearly every day. And ten years ago, she recently told me, despite everything that should have been or could have been, she started doing exactly what she felt drawn to do: she sewed. Everyday. 

In a recent blog post Natalie shared a link to Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, discussing creativity . Gilbert reminded me of the ancient Greek belief in genius. A person could not be a genius, but could have a genius - a spirit, a muse, a daemon, who worked with the artist, the writer, the performer, to create. She says, in having a partner, the creator can share the huge responsibility of creating. Perhaps it also holds the creator accountable. We have to show up and do our part, do the work. 

It suddenly dawned on me, my genius is working a lot harder than I am.

So I'm crossing off projects, postponing others, and working to make time to do the work. How fortunate I am to have been blessed with an active, prolific genius. She's standing here now, tapping her toe, giving me that look.