A Perfect Meal

The rastafarian next to me on the train is banging on his bongos like we are on the beach somewhere tropical. He is wearing earphones and seems to be the only one not bothered by the insane ruckus he is making. We are very far from tropical - the middle of the urban epicenter of the south, Atlanta, on a train nonetheless. Some of us are heading to work....some to school.... me, I am off to the airport to return to the life of a restaurant manager - a life of unparalled absurdity..... one of long, often unappreciated hours. I have just realized I left my keys at my parents house. These keys grant me access to my house, the restaurant, and my car. I guess I should get off at the next stop and turn around. I can always board a later flight.
Besides, that gives me more time to write. I need this time......


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After a three hour ride through the countryside of Georgia, up the foothills of North Carolina and around their mountains and cliffs with the prestigious view of the world below, we arrive in Cashiers, NC. This is my Aunt Cynthia's house and this place is a sanctuary, however on this night it was dark, rainy, and cold; never a fun or desirable combination. The reason for the trip was a family reunion
for my mother's side of the family, the Porters - a family that I had never met, and knew nothing about, except that a quarter of my genes came from here. In the preceeding weeks, we were all given a family tree and other tidbits of information that might prove useful in unearthing and explaining a side of me that I simply knew
nothing about. My mother passed away before I ever got to know her as an adult, and shortly there after my cousins, my only attachment to the Porter side of the family moved away, thus here I was in North Carolina, with 30 people who I had never met. At the same time we had so very much in common, and it didn't take long to realize this.
We were crowded around the kitchen, living room and porch, chatting, playing games, and drinking in order to warm our souls from the cold air outside, while the translucent smell of a dijon crusted pork tenderloin roasting in the over began toying with our taste buds, as the apple and white wine chutney simmered away on the stove, gracing us with the wonderous flavors and aromas of fall. Bluegrass music whispered softly from the speakers overhead, and I was nominated to carve the meat a mere moments after walking in the door, not yet having met all of the people who by the end of the weekend I could truly call family. I took a quick swig of Woodford Reserve and headed into the kitchen. I asked my cousin Seth for a refill, thinking I would need one. Yes, more alcohol please. We had 16 pounds of screaming hot pork cooked perfectly, though not by me - I was just here for my knife skills. Apparently a number of my relatives had begun reading my blog and were insistent on seeing my skills at work. Though, the real skill was my Aunt Cynthia taking the meat out at the exact right moment, allowing it to rest for a couple of minutes, and at this point it would be nearly impossible to screw up. They marveled as a sliced the meat in 1/4 biased slices, exposing the pink tinted flesh within. They all cheered as the final pieces were plated and a generous portion of the apple chutney was then sprinkled on top. It was beautiful, and tasted just as good. It was served with winter vegetables, and some salad. As we enjoyed the thoughtfully cooked meal, stories were told, jokes were had, and we caught up on the decades of life we had spent without each other. We drank whiskey, and wine, ate homemade apple pies, and enjoyed each other's company until the wee hours of the morning.

I think a lot about the meals of my life. I often sit in my kitchen with a glass of wine or a beer mulling over menu ideas and recipes. I often create a really unique meal for myself, and I always plate it up like I am in a restaurant kitchen - I squeeze sauce over the meat, garnish the plate appropriately, and determine how it would fare in any high end restaurant. This is a meal that I have chosen to eat alone, but have spent no less time or put any less effort into. I equally enjoy going to restaurants with a beautiful girl on a date, or having a summer bbq with friends under the hot sun with cold beer and a football, but the meals and times I most remember are the ones that tend to happen with special people in special places in unordinary circumstances. My favorite foods don't necessarily correlate to my favorite meals. But rather those meals are.....Sharing tapas in an off the beaten path tapas bar in San Sebastian, Spain with the girl I, at one point, thought I would marry. Christmas with my family eating Lobster, spraying lobster juices in every conceivable direction. My first oyster with my best friend in Nantucket as a frightened ten year old - that was for a bet, and I won. Shrimp and Grits at my buddy Rich's wedding - seeing him happier than I ever thought imaginable. These are meals, but more than that they are memories, and have positive feelings and emotions attached. They were in special places with special people. So, yes I love Foie Gras, and I can't tell you how many fantastic, perfectly cooked Filet Mignon's I have had at Hal's Steakhouse, but if you were to ask me what my dying meal would be, it would be one that is based on a very unique and special memory.. When the great chefs of the world are asked what their dying meal would be they almost always respond with their favorite soup from their mother as a child, or the fried chicken their grandmother made until she died when they were adolescents. Yes, food is fantastic, and has the potential to truly take us somewhere else, but more often than not the thought of my favorite meals take me somewhere else - maybe home.... maybe to the coast or to Europe, or maybe to the mountains of North Carolina with the glorious Porter family that I have come to truly love. I guess when you think about it..... The food isn't really that important if everything else falls into place.......

The next morning we had locally stone ground grits, venison sausage which was also local, scrambled eggs and sourdough toast. I had three cups of coffee on the porch and looked into the crystal clear valley below. The colors of red, orange and yellow hung from the trees below, and smoke faded upwards into the sky from the fireplace that was glowing a beautiful hue of orange, sending the smell of burning wood into my mind. It doesn't get any better than this. It is now time for a hike - I just hope I am not too full, or hungover.... Hell, if I am, it is Saturday and it is the fall.... there is always college football.....


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The plane is making it's initial descent into Virginia, and I should probably go ahead and send this before my computer batter dies or the flight attendant verbally assaults me. I hope you all enjoy. Who knew family reunions could be so much fun? I had a sneaking suspicion they could be.....