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bronze_ribbonsI was in Bell Buckle this morning, helping out with the RC Cola & MoonPie Festival race. There was a booth right next to the finish chute selling deep-fried MoonPies. I was tempted (but decided I didn't want to be stuck in traffic with an unhappy gut).
There was a guy with a MoonPie beret tying balloons to various tentpoles, there were over 800 runners/walkers, and there was the inevitable rendition of "Rocky Top" (I don't think it's possible to hold a festival in this state without someone playing and/or singing it).
On one of the back roads, there were several signs that simply declared "Singing," with an arrow pointing to this church or that one.
There was a guy with a MoonPie beret tying balloons to various tentpoles, there were over 800 runners/walkers, and there was the inevitable rendition of "Rocky Top" (I don't think it's possible to hold a festival in this state without someone playing and/or singing it).
On one of the back roads, there were several signs that simply declared "Singing," with an arrow pointing to this church or that one.
What is an oyster if not the perfect food? It requires no preparation or cooking. Cooking would be an affront. It provides its own sauce. It's a living thing until seconds before disappearing down your throat, so you know -- or should know -- that it's fresh. It appears on your plate as God created it: raw, unadorned. A squeeze of lemon, or maybe a little mignonette sauce (red wine vinegar, cracked black pepper, some finely chopped shallot), about as much of an insult as you might care fo tender against this magnificent creature. It is food at its most primeval and glorious, untouched by time or man. A living thing, eaten for sustenance and pleasure, the same way our knuckle-dragging forefathers ate them. And they have, for me anyway, the added mystical attractive of all that sense memory -- the significance of the first food to change my life. I blame my first oyster for everything I did after: my decision to become a chef, my thrill-seeking, all my hideous screwups in pursuit of pleasure. I blame it all on that oyster. In a nice way, of course.- Anthony Bourdain, A Cook's Tour
