That Chicken Heart was Real!

I have always loved Bill Cosby's humor. I listened to him as a kid and memorized his bits, repeating them to my friends as if I were as funny as Cosby himself. Then when I had kids, I introduced them to Bill Cosby, and together in the car, we recite Bill Cosby comedy sketches from Savannah to Atlanta. Once, when I was in graduate school, driving from Savannah to Athens every week, I put a Cosby CD in the stereo and listened to it for about half an hour until I realized I was laughing so hard that my eyes were closed, and I couldn't see the road.

My favorite Cosby sketch is titled "Chicken Heart," and in this sketch, Cosby recalls being home alone at night and listening to horror shows on the radio. One of his favorites, he said, was called Lights Out, and one memorable episode was about a chicken heart that ate New York. As Cosby recalls the Lights Out script, interjecting the "boom boom" of heart beats at the end of every line, he has me giggling throughout his piece. You can hear "Chicken Heart" at this link: http://www.top-buzz.net/2009/04/bill-cosby-chicken-heart/

But what I never realized until last night was that that chicken heart was real! I am currently reading Rebecca Skloot's The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, which explains the emergence of the HeLa cells, which scientists still use today for research. Prior to stealing Henrietta Lacks's cells for reproduction, one crazy scientist tried to duplicate cells from a chicken heart, and for twenty years, he claimed the experiment had succeeded, until it was discovered that he "had been putting new cells in the culture dishes each time he 'fed' them using an 'embryo juice' he made from ground tissues." For two decades, people believed those chicken heart cells were reproducing, but all the while, they were dying and new cells were being created.

But before that failure came to light, this scientist claimed that tissue culture would "change the face of medicine." Eventually he claimed that reproduced cells could reach a volume that would cover the solar system, and the media began reporting that the reproduced chicken heart cells might one day create a giant chicken that would cross the Atlantic ocean in one step. People began to fear the chicken heart, and the radio show was born, as Skloot explains:

"But the fear of tissue culture truly found its way into American living rooms in an episode of Lights Out, a 1930s radio horror show that told the story of a fictional Dr. Alberts who'd created an immortal chicken heart in his lab. It grew out of control, filling the city streets like The Blob, consuming everyone and everything in its path. In only two weeks it destroyed the entire country."

All these years I thought Cosby made up the show Lights Out and the chicken heart episode. But I guess he really did listen to that show as a kid. I wonder if he was aware that an actual chicken heart was growing (or trying to grow) in a nearby lab. I also wonder if he really did spread Jello on his floor in order to keep the chicken heart from coming inside.

Boom boom.

P. S. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks is a fascinating read, even if you're not a scientist. I highly recommend it.

The Georgia Pig

Most people go to Brunswick's famous Georgia Pig for the chopped pork sandwiches. For years, the Remlers have visited the Pig for the rudeness. We've always laughed at the belligerent signage, and if we were lucky enough to get yelled at upon entering, even better.

Stephen and I first ate at the Georgia Pig about seventeen years ago at the insistence of our friends David and Lane Jones, who declared the Georgia Pig's chopped pork the best they'd ever had. So on a drive home from Jacksonville one evening, we stopped by.

The old wooden shack on Highway 17 at the Jekyll Island exit was easy to find among the sprouting fast food restaurants. When we climbed the rickety front steps, we found a piece of torn cardboard box nailed to the front door with a message written in ballpoint pen: "Open 11:00-8:00." Great, we thought. It's seven o'clock now. We've got plenty of time.

We were so naive.

When we entered the place, two fat, greasy women greeted us with "We ain't got no tea! We're about to close!"

Taken aback, I replied uncertainly, "But your sign says that you're open until eight."

One woman stuck out her abundant hip with her fist on it, and said, "Honey, if we stay open 'til eight, we'll be here 'til nine."

Horrors.

"All I want is a barbecue sandwich and a Coke," I said. "Can we buy those?" Was I really asking these two customer service representatives for permission to buy their food?

"All right," the other one said, showing what few teeth she had left. "But you gotta eat on the porch."

Stephen and I agreed, thankful not to have to share a room with Ma Porkchop and her gap-toothed crony. In a few minutes, they tossed two sandwiches and two cans of Coke (thank goodness the drinks were cold) in a paper bag, and Stephen and I went to the front porch to eat on a picnic table so old and warped that I perched on the edge of the bench for fear of butt splinters.

We'd only taken one bite before they turned the lights out on us.

Because the barbecue made up for the service, and because Stephen and I got a kick out of the employees' work ethic, we've been back to the Georgia Pig many times, insisting that our boys also enjoy the Pig's version of southern hospitality. I've taken Sabra there once, and we've also brought JoJo and Bruce. All agree the run down shack, the underwhelming service, and the cardboard signs only enhance the tasty chopped pork sandwiches.

Recently, I made a solo trip to the Georgia Pig. I wish I'd had someone with which to share the experience.

As I walked from my car to the shack, I found an amply hipped woman wearing size extra small stretch pants and a hot pink tank top. She pushed a red Snapper mower through the weeds as sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip. A cigarette dangled from her mouth.

At the front door, I noticed the Pig operators had upgraded their signage, having traded in their torn cardboard for a white erase board and florescent poster paper. Those signs warned me NOT to bring any animals on the front porch (which immediately wipes out half my social circle as customers) and to wear my shoes when indoors (even my children who can walk). Next time I come, perhaps I should bring my two boys barefooted but tell them to enter the building scooting on their butts. The indoor signs were just as welcoming as they urged me NOT to take barbecue sauce bottles out onto the porch. I wondered why sauce bottles were forbidden outside. It's not like they'd be whisked away by the numerous animals lurking there.

My question went unanswered as I stood patiently behind a family of five placing their lunch orders. As I waited my turn, the hipsom beauty from the lawn mower entered, ran her grubby fingers through her sweaty hair, and went immediately behind the counter to work the cash register. That was a line I refused to cross. If that woman touches any food back there, I thought, I'm leaving.

She must have been psychic because she only punched a few buttons on the cash register before disappearing in the back room. I breathed a sigh of relief, but in retrospect, I don't know why her departure made me feel better. I had no idea of the condition of any other employee's hands. For all I knew they could have all been picking their noses before I walked in.

My original plan was to purchase a pound of barbecue and a quart of Brunswick stew to take home and surprise my family. But the lawn mowing lady provoked me to reconsider. Instead, I got a barbecue sandwich and a Coke to go. I think it'll be a while before I return to the Georgia Pig.

Father's Day Blog

This is my father.








This is my father with me (this photo was taken a long time ago).





Most people know my father like this.










I know my father like this.

When I was in college, a friend once told me that she envisioned my father relaxing on weekends sitting in his study in front of a fire, reading a classic novel and sipping a glass of red wine.



Well, the fire part was correct, and he does like to read classic novels. But while he enjoys a good fire, more often that fire is outside at the farm, and Dad sits in front of it wearing his overalls and his Smurf hat, sipping on a cold malt beverage just before frying the fish he's caught in the pond.

Those disparate images of him remind me of other aspects of my dad few people know. This is how I know my father:





1. He can play a mean harmonica, which he learned on his own.

2. He has a dent on his index fingernail, which he got when he was in high school as he tried to break into the high school gym. The window slammed shut on it.

3. He likes to serve kids Ritz Soda (see my earlier posting).

4. Most people either put on both socks and then both shoes, or they put on a sock and a shoe, then a sock and a shoe. My dad puts on his socks, then his shoes, then his pants.

5. As a result of number 4, he has to have his pants mended a lot.

6. He used to go barefoot all the time. In fact, when Stephen and I got married, our minister told us that when he was a teenager, he and Dad had a double date with two young ladies, and when he drove up to Dad's house to pick him up, Dad emerged from the house wearing cut off dungarees and bare feet. To this day I feel sorry for the girl my dad took out, whoever she was.

7. He did not fulfill his foreign language requirement in college. He started out taking Spanish, which he found too difficult. He took all but one of his required Spanish courses, and then a friend suggested he take Latin, which was much easier. So he signed up for Latin I as his fourth quarter of foreign language. The Emory registrar didn't catch the gap in his transcript and he still graduated.

8. When my mom would go out of town, he would feed me, Sabra and Harley corn flakes and tell us they were roosters.

9. Once Mom asked him to take me, Sabra and Harley downtown to B.C. Moore's and buy us some new shoes. He bought us little hiking boots. I don't know if he thought they were cute or practical. They sure were, well, farmy.

10. Whenever he uses an ATM (which I think is seldom), he reads all the directions carefully with a furrowed brow as if he's never seen one of those machines before.

11. The best time to catch him on the phone is on a weekday morning when he's in his car on the way to work.

12. Sabra, Harley, and I always groaned when he was in charge of our hair cuts. He would take us downtown to Mrs. Womack's barber shop. I don't know where Mrs. Womack ever learned to cut hair. Let me rephrase that: I don't know if Mrs. Womack ever learned to cut hair. She would pull out her scissors and start chopping away. Harley used to weep when he had to go to Mrs. Womack's because he knew he'd come home looking like a displaced person.

13. Dad enjoys the novels of H. Rider Hagard and Lydia Bailey, by Kenneth Roberts.

14. Before e-mail, Dad used to correspond with me, Sabra and Harley by writing triplicate memos on NCR stationery. Upon receiving them, we would call each other to find out who got the original copy. It became a game to us. Getting the original version was like winning. Getting the yellow copy, which was the bottom copy, was like coming in last.

15. When Davis was a baby, he had a stuffed bass in his crib. When my dad came to visit, he took a shine to that bass and took it home with him. He nailed it to the wall next to bass he'd had stuffed at the taxidermist. To this day those two fish hang on the camp house wall.

Sometimes perspective is everything. Happy Father's Day!

Dinner Music

Usually, my children hate to have their pictures taken. I've never understood why, because I think they're especially handsome. But whenever I point the camera on them, they complain and hide their faces, and act like I'm being such a mom.

So when I want to get some good photos of them, all I have to do is keep my camera at the dinner table. That's because usually at dinner, our conversation steers toward the ridiculous, which gets me and the boys tickled to the point that we can't stop laughing. Then Lawson gets the hiccups, which makes me and Davis laugh more.

Stephen's the only one who keeps his composure, and he tells me and Davis to cut the hijinks so Lawson won't choke on his supper. But Stephen's seriousness only makes me and Davis laugh more. And Lawson hiccups.

So Monday night, our silly supper went like this:

Even though we had eaten a delightful birthday dinner with the Howells-Thompsonclan on Sunday, Stephen fed us a roast chicken Monday night and followed it up with a cute chocolate birthday cake from the Publix. The goal was to eat a quick meal so we could all go see Robin Hood afterward. But laughter delayed the program.

Somehow, the topic of the Rocky theme song came up. Then I recalled to my children the time I played drums for the Dublin Junior High School band, and we played the theme in the RockySt. Patrick's Day parade in our double knit polyester pant suits that were supposed to be band uniforms. Anthony Dawson played the tuba, so he played those famous two tuba notes in the opening measures of the song.

Lawson didn't know the Rocky theme (How does one not know that? Aren't people born knowing that?) Davis and I decided to sing it for him. I sang the trumpet part, and Davis sang the famous two tuba notes. But he kept singing them in the wrong place, which got us all tickled and gave Lawson a case of the hiccups.

With all his laughter and hiccups, Lawson had a hard time finishing his dinner, and finally, so we wouldn't miss the beginning of the movie, Stephen let Lawson forego eating his peas so we could move on to the ice cream and cake. Stephen took some photos of the cake and candles, and he caught some really good shots of my boys. Then we cut the cake into four pieces and ate it in about two minutes before running off to the Eisenhower Cinema 6.

After all that, Robin Hood wasn't even all that good. We would have had more fun if we'd stayed home and watched Rocky.

Flag Day Eve

In the past few years, my family and I have established a customary celebration for my birthday. We go out to dinner by boat. Some celebrations have been more successful than others.

In fact, the first time we took such an excursion was for my 40th birthday, when we took the boat to Chimney Creek for my first (and so far only) dinner at the famous Crab Shack. We enjoyed the rustic surroundings, the baby alligators in the nearby alligator pool, and the steamed seafood. We bumped into our friends Debbie and Joel Rotkow and had a nice visit with them. And we watched the tide come in, which I always enjoy.

Around 8:30 or so, after paying the bill, we decided to make our way back home. Joel cautioned us. "Are you sure you can make it all right? The tide's coming in pretty fast."

Oh, sure, we told him. We didn't have that far to go.

What we had forgotten was that June 14th, 2006 was the day of the highest tide of the year. In fact, we found ourselves going home at the height of a neap tide, and the Chatham County waterways rose way over the marsh grass. I felt like I was in Lake Michigan. And that was before we had a GPS in the boat.

"This is cool," I told Stephen. "We can just sail straight home."

Thank goodness Stephen knew better. "We don't know what's under this water," he said. "We have to stay in the river, or we don't know what we might hit."

Oh.

So for about twenty minutes, we crept along what we thought was Chimney Creek, and the sky grew darker, and we grew increasingly unsure of where we were steering. Finally, we gave up, went back to the Crab Shack and docked the boat. We called my father in-law, who picked us up in the car and drove us home (which was another adventure because the water had also covered Tybee Road. We drove past a taxi which had floated into the marsh). We got home around 10:00 to find our back yard under water. That was a memorable birthday.

So the adventure has inspired us to take a boat to dinner each subsequent year. In the past, we've gone to Tybee restaurants, but this time, we ventured a little farther to Hilton Head, where we met our friends Beth, David, Elsie and Kit at the South Beach Marina's Salty Dog Cafe. We had never been there, and we were expecting a marina with a restaurant. But my readers who are Hilton Head experts already know it was much more than that. We actually ate at The Wreck, which is an extension of the Salty Dog Cafe. We shopped in the Salty Dog Tee Shirt Factory as well as the bait and tackle shop. Elsie got her face painted and then visited the resident parrots. Afterward, we all enjoyed a scoop of ice cream on the deck just as the live music was starting up. When we left, Lawson referred to the marina as the Salty Dog Mini Outlet Mall.

Dinner was tasty. The company was enjoyable. And the boat ride was pleasant. We left at high tide again, but this year, the rivers cooperated and showed us the way home (with a little help from the GPS).

Another successful Flag Day Eve.

Ritz Soda

Some of my friends already know I'm on a quest to find Ritz Soda in the Coastal Georgia area. My sons think this quest is just more evidence that their mom is a flake. But Ritz is more than carbonated, flavored sugar water. It's a significant, though small, part of my childhood.

My parents separated when I was ten, and by the time I was eleven, my mom had moved, me and my siblings to Dublin, Georgia, where she took the position of bureau chief for the Macon Telegraph & News (now the Macon Telegraph). My dad, meanwhile, married my step-mother, who had three kids of her own. Every other weekend, Dad would drive to Dublin to take us back to Hawkinsville for a visit. Before leaving Laurens County, Dad would stop by a cinder-block country convenience store on Highway 257, and he'd buy each of us a Ritz Soda.

My favorite was orange-pineapple, but sometimes I got tropical punch. Occasionally I'd opt for the pina colada flavor because I liked the additional flakes of faux-conut floating in the drink. So exotic! I felt like I was having a cocktail.

Those one-hour drives to and from Hawkinsville were the only times Sabra, Harley and I got to be with Dad by ourselves, so Ritz Soda represents some rare quality Dad time.

But that's not to say my step-siblings didn't get in on the Ritz Soda fun. Oh, no. By the time I turned twelve, Dad had decided to build a log cabin out at the farm. It took him about ten years. After building the foundation, he had to collect the logs, and that's where the six kids came in. On the weekends, Dad would pile us in the tan and white Dodge van and drive us out to the farm. He would disappear into the woods on his John Deere tractor, cut down a pine tree, chain it to the tractor and drag it back to the clearing just up the hill from the building site. Then he'd give us these tools that looked like hoes with the blades straightened out, and we'd spend a sweaty afternoon stripping the bark off those pine trees.

Good times.

Sometimes (not every time, just on special days), while we were busy stripping those logs with smiles on our faces, Dad would take off while we weren't looking and show back up with a cooler of Ritz Sodas.

Back then, Ritz Soda came in a conical shaped glass bottle with a Styrofoam-like label, which we all stripped from the glass after finishing the drink. Then we'd shove the foam strips inside the bottles and throw them in the woods. Back then, we didn't care about litter or recycling.

About a year ago, my brother, who travels South Georgia for his job, texted me and reported that he had found an orange-pineapple Ritz Soda in Albany. I hadn't thought about Ritz in decades, but that one text message sent me on a mission to find a Ritz Soda in my area. In the past several months, Facebook friends have reported Ritz sightings in Dodge County. And then last weekend, Harley found a stash of them in a convenience store in Tifton. He bought me three of them. One of them was orange-pineapple! What a treat. Last night he found more in Valdosta. On the drink's website, I notice a flavor I've never heard of before: Champagne cola. Now, I've got to get me some of that.

Still, it would be fun to find a Ritz Soda on my own. Now it's kind of like finding the prize egg at an Easter egg hunt. I might just have to take a road trip through rural Georgia.

I Went to Cooking School in Italy

Among the many things I did and saw in Italy, I attended culinary classes at Siena's Dante Alighieri School. So of course, immediately upon my return home, I decided to employ my new skills in my own kitchen. Several differences made the home experience a little challenging.

For instance, in Siena, we cooked on gas stoves, of course. No self-respecting cook would choose electric over gas. Except me. Actually, I have no choice. My street has no gas line running to it, so I have few options: electric stove or Big Green Egg. And the Dante Alighieri School doesn't do Big Green Egg. So electric it was.

Another challenge was measurement conversion. All of my recipes call for metric measurements. My measuring cups have markings for liters, but I didn't know how to convert grams to cups. Fortunately, many experts have already put such information on the Internet. Thank you, Google.

But the biggest challenge of all was that I did not have my instructors, Sonia and Louisa, next to me, explaining the intricacies of preparing these delicious recipes. And I had several questions: How finely does one cut the Swiss chard? And what is Swiss chard, anyway? If I use the kale already cut up in the bag, should I cut it up more? What is caster sugar, and where can I find it in Savannah? What is double cream? When the recipe calls for milk, should I use whole milk, or will 2% do?

The web helped me answer some of my questions, but others I had to wing it. And the result was, well, underwhelming.

First of all, I spent this afternoon cooking from the recipe book Sonia and Louisa gave me (it's already looking pretty tattered). And just when dinner was about ready, Davis walked in and reported that he was going out to eat with She Who Must Be Obeyed. These recipes make enough for two dozen people, and I was counting on Davis to eat. He can chow down enough food for at least one dozen. With him out of the equation, I was going to have gallons of leftovers.

When I served the ribollito, I couldn't help noticing Stephen adding lots of salt and pepper to his. I could understand that. When I cook a new recipe, I'm nervous about seasonings and often use too little. Lawson, however, turned his nose at the dinner as soon as he saw green stuff in it.


"Can I have a sandwich?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "This is dinner."

He protested a bit more, until I said, "You can eat this, or you can go to bed." He choked down his ribollito, but I knew he wouldn't be asking for seconds. Now I have two big containers of it in my fridge.

My crostini ai tre formaggi was much more successful. I knew it would be. When we made this antipasto in Siena, I declared that I could eat these savory slices alone for dinner. When Davis reported he was going out to eat, I told him he first had to try the crostini. After the first one, he asked how many more he could eat. Stephen ate several of them, as did my mother in-law, sister in-law, and brother in-law. Big hit there! We'll definitely have those again.


Dessert was also tasty, just not as visually appealing as the one we ate in Siena. At our first dinner at the Dante Alighieri School, our dessert was pannacotta con frutti di bosco. Immediately I fell in love with this congealed creamy treat with fresh berries, and I couldn't wait to share it with Stephen and the boys. Although the pannacotta I had in Siena stood tall on its own, my Savannah panacotta lacked the same posture.



This is what a successful pannacotta looks like.







This is what mine looks like.









It tasted just as good as what I had in Siena, but because it flopped onto the plate like a sick jellyfish, I had to explain to my family that dessert was not yogurt and berries with a fancy name. Once they took a bite, they were sold. Still, I'll have to try this dessert again and see if I can get it to stand up straight.

So while I'm proud of my experience at an Italian cooking school (especially when I wear my Dante Alighieri apron), I'm not yet ready for Food Network. Maybe in a few weeks or so. I'll keep working on my skills and report back regularly. Meanwhile, feel free to try these recipes out yourself. If your pannacotta congeals successfully, please let me know.

Ribollita
(The recipe says it's for 8 people, but really, it's for about 28)
300 gr of dried cannellini (or other white) beans (I used navy) soaked overnight
5 tablespoons olive oil
2 medium red onions, peeled and finely chopped
2 stalks celery, trimmed and finely chopped
500 gr silverbeet or Swiss chard, washed, trimmed and finely sliced
800 gr cavolo nero, washed, trimmed and finely sliced (I used kale)
1 tbsp tomato paste
1/2 small red dried chili, crumbled
salt and pepper to taste
250 gr white country style bread, cut into slices about 1/2 cm
extra virgin olive oil to serve

Drain the soaked beans and put them into a large pot. Cover with plenty of cold water and bring to a boil With a slotted spoon, remove any scum that comes to the surface. Lower the heat slightly and cook until the beans are tender (at least an hour). Add more water when necessary to keep the beans well covered. Season with salt and pepper about halfway through. Meanwhile, in a large, separate pot, heat the olive oil. Add the onion and the celery and saute until they have softened. Add the silverbeet (I used Swiss chard) and cavolo nero (I used kale) and saute for a while longer, until they have softened and their volume has reduced. Cover with about 3 liters of water and bring to a boil. Season with salt and pepper and the chili and tomato paste. When it comes to a boil, lower the heat and simmer for about an hour and a half. Put the bread slices onto an oven tray and put in a hot oven until they are quite dry and keep aside. Drain the cannellini beans, keeping about 1 cup of their cooking water. Puree half of the beans with this water, leaving the rest of the beans whole. Add both to the soup pot in the last 10 minutes or so of the cooking time. Put an abundant ladelful of the thick soup (mine wasn't very thick) into a large soup tureen or dish. Add a couple of the bread slices and then another layer of the soup. Continue until you have used up both the soup and bread (that's going to be a mighty large tureen). Leave it to stand for a few minutes for the bread to soften, and for the flavors to blend before serving. It it seems too thick (not a problem for me), adjust the consistency with a little hot water. Serve warm.

Crostoni Ai Tre Formaggi
200 g gorgonzola
100 g mascarpone
100 g stracchino
(Try Fresh Market for these cheeses)
50 g chopped nuts
2 pears

Mix the three cheeses. Add half the chopped nuts (leave the other half to garnish the crostoni). Grill the bread. Spread the cheese mixture on the crostoni and place it back into the oven for a few minutes. Decorate with a slice of pear and a drizzle of honey. Serve hot.

The recipe does not specify how hot the oven should be. I had it at 400 degrees, and I kept the crostoni in there only for a minute or so.

Pannacotta Con Frutti Di Bosco
1 litre single cream (from the Internet, I learned this is half and half)
1/2 litre milk (I used whole milk)
250 g caster sugar (1 1/4 cup)
30 g gelatin or 1 tbsp gelatin powder
1 tsp vanilla extract
about 600 g mixed berries of your choice
2 tbsp vinsanto (If you don't have vinsanto available, muscato is a nice substitute)

Soak the gelatin leaves in a bowl with cold water until they soften. If you are using the gelatin powder (I did), soak it in a few tablespoons of cold water. Heat the milk and cream in a pot with 150 g of the sugar and the vanilla until it just boils, then remove from heat. Remove the softened gelatin leaves from the water and add to the cream mix (or add the podered dissolved gelatin into the cream). Stir to dissolve and leave it to cool for a while, stirring the mixture now and then. Ladle the mixture into individual molds our ramekins, or into 1 large mold. Refrigerate for 3-4 hours before serving. Put the berries into a non-corrosive (such as stainless steel) bowl. Splash with vinsanto and sprinkle with remaining sugar (you may have to adjust depending on the sweetness of the berries). Refrigerate for at least one hour before serving. To serve, dip the bottom of the molds into hot water for a couple of seconds only. Loosen the sides of the top of the pannacotta gently with a spoon, and invert onto a dessert plate. Spoon a couple of tablespoons of the berry salad over the pannacotta and serve.

Caster sugar is a superfine sugar used when making desserts. It is not as fine, though, as confectioner's sugar. A cooking website told me that if I can't find caster sugar in stores (I can't) I can grind regular sugar in the food processor. That's what I did, and the sugar dust made the top of my food processor stick to the container.