A Blast from my Past

(An old draft I discovered today that I started two years ago)

During my midday break today, Halbastram and I were watching Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations and he was in L.A. sampling the fare at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles. As a semi-stereotypical african-american, I do enjoy the chicken and waffle combination something fierce, as it is a southern tradition that made it's way up north to my family via various migrations.

But that's not what made me watch this episode. What Mr. Bourdain ordered after the chicken and waffles can only be described as pure food porn for me: fried chicken livers and gravy, grits and scrambled eggs. I nearly had an orgasmic moment when that plate flashed across my screen. As a foodie, I'm game for just about anything. The greasier, the better. And don't get me started on ethnic food. I'll take it all. (Except foie gras. Call me a bleeding heart, but the whole process of that meal just makes me shiver. It's a long discussion not worth mentioning in this feel-good blog)

The meal reminded me of holiday brunches that I would have with my family. A lot of our southern roots would shine through and with everyone bringing their own receipes to the table, I would be guaranteed no less than 6-7 different meal choices on my plate at any given moment. Cornbread, baked mac'n'chesse, collard greens, cabbage, salt pork, baked chicken, stuffing with cornish hens, homemade cranberry sauce, buttermilk biscuits from scratch, neck bones, etc etc etc. The list goes on. And it all goes in my belly.