When I was a little girl, I spent possibly half of my free time next door, playing with Lynne, my first friend. She's the friend who would twirl with me in our dress-ups as a storm approached. We practiced our make-up skills. We snuck her mom's cigarettes in our socks and rode our bikes to the woods and made ourselves sick. We would set up elaborate Barbie villages using the sleeves from record albums: Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy, Cher, the Carpenters. We made secret forts in the closet on under the stairs. When her awe-inspiring teenage sister wasn't home, we'd sneak in her room and listen to the Beatles White Album and Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. I was impressed with the photo and bracelet of a Vietnam POW that she had on her bulletin board. She had a poster that said, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you."

We played until dinner was ready. We would try to eat dinner at each others' houses. I remember peering into the square electric skillet on her turquoise formica counter to find the source of the delicious aroma. Onions browning around a dark meat that I was told was liver. My mother never cooked liver. Although it didn't sound good, the smell made me think differently. Mrs. Boyer invited me to stay and try it and I cautiously accepted. Earlier, Mr. Boyer had convinced me that their spaghetti was worms and I watched a single strand on my arm for a long time before I realized he was teasing.

The smell did not live up to the taste. I couldn't get passed the mushy quality of the meat. I really had wanted to like it, but I couldn't eat it.

It's hard to get passed those early impressions of food. I tried it once again when I was older and it was still mushy. I decided it was the onions that lured me in every time. So last night when I stopped over at my friend Peggy's, I was reluctant to accept the offer of the liver and onions her Iowan mom had cooked. But I'm a grown up now, right? Peggy likes it. I'm striving for more biodiversity in my diet and I know liver is really good for you, so I agreed to try a taste.

I was surprised. It was delicious. The texture is definitely different than steak, but it wasn't mushy. My adopted Iowan grandma told me that she pours boiling water over the raw liver to get the blood out before frying it up with the onions. Who knew?

Do you eat liver & onions? Do you cook it? What childhood food aversions have you overcome?

The next article I'm writing for Taste of the Bay is on a cook's essential tools and essential pantry items.

What couldn't you do without in the kitchen?
What do you always keep in the pantry?
(I mean besides delivery phone numbers.)

I am delighted that an Amish Farmer's Market has moved fairly close to my home. Shopping there is an event, a delicious one too. So when I was there yesterday, I checked to see if they had organic milk. (After having done research over the last year on organic foods, I will never buy commercially produced milk for my family.) They did. It was from Trickling Springs Creamery in PA and came in adorable glass jars. I get a deposit return when I bring them back for a refill.

The difference, besides the usual differences in organic milk, was this 2% milk was not homogenized. So when I opened it, there was a thick layer of cream on top, almost like a wax seal. I couldn't even disrupt it by shaking it. I poked it with a butter knife and splashed myself. My kids were horrified to see clumps of cream in their milk. They had never experienced this before. They were not amused, thinking I had gone too far this time. I thought it tasted good.

I remember as a little girl that we still had a milk box on the front porch. I don't really remember the milk, but we used the box for a variety of dropping-off transactions, and for climbing on the check the mailbox.

Have you ever had non-homogenized milk? Do you remember a milkman?

Have you ever changed your dinner plan halfway through cooking?

Last night, I baked my daughter a frozen pizza (whole wheat, organic) and set about making myself some healthy adult fare. My chile seasoned turbot fillet was baking in a glass dish when I decided to have a can of Cuban seasoned black beans as a side dish. How healthy!
I'll save myself a dish and just heat the beans with the fish, I cleverly thought. I pulled out the oven rack and began spooning the canned beans around the sizzling fish.

Now you are one step ahead of me here, I know. I've heard of this happening: I had just never seen it demonstrated so vividly. The dish exploded with a bang. Hot chards of glass, sticky fish, and bean confetti littered my kitchen. I'm lucky I didn't end up on a bizarre episode of CSI. (That's redundant: they're all bizarre.)

The first to come investigate were the kitties, smelling the fish and unaware of their peril. Once I got them locked in the garage, I could begin the clean-up. Talk about a hot mess! I saved the inside of the oven for today's entertainment. My gas oven has many nooks and crannies for glass chards to hide. I never took that thing so far apart. Had to use a little WD-40. Is that flammable?

If you've never been to Memphis, you should put it on your list of places to go. Mark & I had so much fun! (Well, he had to work for some of it, but I got to play!)

First let me tell you about the food.
We ate some delicious ribs at The Rendezvous, which has a comically carnivorous menu. While listening to jazz at BB King's, I feasted on fried catfish, sweet onion hushpuppies, french fries, fried green tomatoes and some of Mark's pulled pork bbq. Mmmmm. We decided to pass on the deep fried hamburgers at Dyers, which boasts that they haven't changed their grease in the 90+ years they've been in business, although after watching the video on their website, I think I might have to try it on my return trip.

My drink for the weekend was the Presbyterian, which was mostly ginger ale and bourbon. I figured that counted as church.

On our third day, our bellies were a bit overwhelmed by the grease and the bourbon, so we ate at Circa, a fancy schmancy restaurant on the way to the Orpheum to see the hilarious Menopause, the Musical. Dinner was fantastic and the show was affirming to me, but I think a bit scary to Mark.

When I staggered out of the zoo on Saturday, a bit lost and hungry since only one snack stand was opened and the tremendous line was cluttered with fussy children, I serendipitously found the Cafe Eclectic, which had "regular and rebel side dishes", a wide variety of teas, and my favorite, lemon soup.

It was a good thing I found this little organic haven, because I had just listened to Jane Goodall speak at the award-winning Memphis Zoo and now I don't know what to eat. I'll have to tell you more about her and her various causes in another post.

Of course I went to Graceland, which was mobbed. Elvis seemed very much like a sweet, local boy who loved his momma and his hometown. I wished I had more time to read the graffiti on the gates.

The Civil Rights Museum, built onto the Lorraine Motel was sadly informative, and also mobbed with visitors from all over the world. I was overwhelmed with sadness at the balcony where hate won a battle.

I had wanted to see Mud Island and Sun Studios, but alas, I ran out of time. We did stay at the Peabody and we got to see the famous ducks coming to and from their beautiful fountain and in their ornate rooftop home. I enjoyed a morning in their spa to get my weekend off to a relaxing start.

Last night at dinner, my sister started a line of conversation with
"My favorite mashed potato story is..." I wondered aloud if everyone had a mashed potato story. My father had a baked potato story. I had a raw one. Mom had a potato soup story. It was an interesting line of conversation, that didn't quite make it all the way around the table.

What is your favorite potato story?