#first one is like a beef carcass on a meat hook

[arkfeather]

made some ear rangs

[the-illiterate-pirate]

Twisted Nerve | ch. 1

Btw go check out @return-of-a-space-cowboy 's rendition of the fic! We're working side by side to give you not one, but two stories featuring our favorite man!!!!

Notes: SFW, slasher au, set in USA in the '80s, Reader is a FILTHY AMERICAN but uses gender neutral pronouns, Blackmore works in a butcher shop with meat, descriptions of slaughtering animals, weird kids

WARNINGS: While this chapter is sfw this series will include nsfw content such as murder, dark themes, yandere/stalker Blackmore, and probably more.

Just another Arizona afternoon. A fly buzzed near your ear, always out of reach. The heat burned on. Moving inside didn't help at all. The air was sticky and gross. Countless pairs of eyes from mounted animal heads stared at you uncomfortably while you waited for a sign of life in that butcher shop.

It was in the middle of the day, the doors weren't locked. Surely they were still open?

You ignored the dead glass eyes, instead scanning the short walls for other decoration. Some blue ribbons, lots of pictures of farm life, a tractor, a family picnic, many more pictures of what could've possibly been the generations of men and family who'd own the store. All sharing the same last name. The earliest one you could find was from the mid 1800's. Titled and dated underneath a family of... Gosh, that was a lot of kids...

Besides the countless family photos framed with care, there was a line of pictures like the first one, all dated, with men and their lady front and center before the same farm over and over again, stretching all the way to 1942, where it stopped. The first colored photo. A man and woman, faces blank of any emotion. The difference between this photo and the last wasn't just the coloring, but the mutilated carcass of a cow, hooked and hanging. Acting as a barrier between the two.

The photo felt incredibly cursed to look at. It sent a feeling of unease through you the longer you stared. But you couldn't look away. It brought up a question. Was the couple in that photo still running this meat shop? That picture was already 40 years old, they must be nearing old age now. Right?

Until a kid appearing behind the counter answered your silent question.

A very young kid.

Good heavens, he didn't look a day over fourteen. His clothes were baggy and severely oversized. Mud speckled his thin frame while got out a crate from the back of the building to help him see over the counter. He leaned against the old wood like he'd done this dance a thousand times.

"Welcome, stranger. What are you lookin' for? Beef? Pork? We've got the finest cuts in town!"

You shook out of your daze, stepping towards the counter, hands grappling for the paper in your pocket. "Thanks, but I'm not really looking for meat at the moment." You decided to tell the truth, finally able to free your map from your jeans.

The boy's eyes darken. A deep blue that looked black. "Then what are you even doin' here?" He asked bluntly. You stiffen. The sudden change in tone made you feel uneasy. You swallow your nausea and offer the kid your map.

"I-I'm just looking for a grocery store! You're the closest shop I could find, I was hoping I could get some directions."

"Oh." The dark look on his face left, going back to normal. The blond took the map from your- laughably nervous -hand before laying it out before himself. He scanned the brittle paper for some time, his finger trailing over points of interest. "Where'd you get this map anyway?" He asked without taking his eyes away from the counter.

"Gas station, on the way into town." You answer with a nervous chuckle. "Best I could do. Doesn't seem like this place has an official building. Least doesn't have one I could find."

The boy clicked his tongue. "Figures. The thing's outdated, no one comes through here so there's no real reason to change them."

He tapped a finger with a chewed down nail on your original point of interest, just across the street, actually. A ten minute walk in this blistering heat proved to be worthless once you came face to face with an abandoned concrete flat on the outskirts of town. "This store doesn't even exist anymore!" The boy continued, "Got torn down before my momma even popped me out."

You cringe in disgust at his language. He didn't seem to notice. Instead he turned heel, disappearing before you even knew it to behind the sheets hiding the rest of the building from the entrance room. An entrance room so silent, you could hear a pin drop. Seconds passed like minutes, until you heard the hushed voice of the tiny child nearing again. A new hand pushed open the curtains, connected to a scrawny arm and a frail body. He had the same straw blond hair as the boy guiding him by the free hand and the same deep blue eyes. If you didn't know any better, you'd think that was the boy's father. They looked nearly identical. But the boy still had his childish innocence, soft features, wide eyes, eager to see what the world had to offer. This new man was beaten down from years of work, he'd seen it all. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunken in, looking like a skeleton holding on to its skin for dear life. You didn't feel right assuming his age, but you guessed he was fairly older than yourself.

He was pulled towards your map. He broke away from his relative's paws and set a wet cleaver on the counter. Your eyes were immediately pulled towards it. Pink water pooled underneath its shining blade. You had a suspicion what it was.

The young boy tapped the map, getting your attention again, but he was looking at the taller blond. "They need help getting to Tony's store." The adult turned to the kid, a blunt and emotionless stare. The boy added, "Yer the one good with directions! I dunno how to read a map!"

He slowly turned back, as if all of his motions were in slow motion. He seemed dazed, slowly picking up a plastic pen from an old paper cup. Slowly drawing a circle over a dot on the map marked "RICHARD'S CUTS". He draws a perfectly straight line down the map, taking a left, then adding a right.

"The map's outdated." The man spoke bluntly. His voice whined and squeaked, like red gears churring to life after time without use.

"I already told them that." The kid frowned, but he was talked over.

"This'll take you to the new store, just a couple blocks away. You can find anythin' you need here. Is' about a fifteen minute walk." He punctuated by drawing an X over the map. From behind him, you saw the kid roll his eyes.

"Well, jus' about anythin'. You got a car?"

You nodded, and he reciprocated with his own. "Tony's is good. But if yer looking for name brand stuff you'll have t'skip town." This time you shook your head, "Oh, no, no, no, this is perfect! Thank you so much, Mister...?"

The boy puffed out his chest with pride. "The name's Ezekiel. This here is Blackmore, he's my big bro, and he does the cuttin', up here."

"Right. Thanks a lot you two. Really, this is all that I could ask for!"

So they were brothers. That made sense. The eldest deemed himself unneeded, and left with his cleaver.

"It's no problem." Ezekiel waved your thanks away. "Now, if you ain't buyin' anything, leave!"

"Ah- right!" You walked backwards slightly, thanking Ezekiel again. "I promise I'll come back again soon, promise! You guys-"

Only a step away from the door now, and you were stopped by a hand on your elbow. You reel around, heart jumping into your mouth, just to see it was Blackmore. His cleaver was now replaced with a water bottle, crisp and cold with condensation clearly running down the side, with that same emotionless stare. "Take this."

He pushed the water bottle in your hand. From behind him you saw Ezekiel smirk. "It's not a good idea to be walking around in this heat without a cold drink."

"You ain't from around here, are you?" Ezekiel butted in.

"Actually... no, Me and my dad just moved in from over in Illinois!" Your eyes cut over to blackmore. He was nearly nose to nose. It was uncomfortable, but you'd give him the benefit of a doubt.

Those eyes... They were beautiful before. Now, with no light to bounce off his irises, they looked deep black. Like a hungry shark. You tried to ignore that similarity. "...Thanks, Blackmore. How much do I owe you for this?"

"It's on the house." He mumbled before moving away, ready to get back to work.

"Just remember this kindness!" Ezekiel added while wagging a finger. "Whether it's pork, beef, chicken, we got it all! The finest cuts in town!"

From outside, you could hear Blackmore's little brother chide him for giving away that water bottle. He either didn't reply, or his voice was so soft you couldn't hear it. You decided you didn't want the water to go to waste. It tasted delicious on your parched tongue. It was very much needed.

You paused for a second, map in hand, staring at the rest of town from the outskirts.

Screw walking, you were getting the car.

"So? How is it?"

You settled down on a moving box labeled "Dad's books". It was one of the other pieces of "furniture" you had until the rest came in throughout the week. Dad had his rocking chair, fortunately, snacking on a sandwich consisting of Colby Jack cheese and rotisserie style chicken. You were eager to know how he'd enjoy the change of brand. Ezekiel had been right; the grocery store really did only sell the bare essentials. There was the store brand lunch meat, which in your honest opinion looked sketchy. Then there was Black Night's Cuts. It piqued your interest back in the store. Not just by the sleek black packaging or the name, but the slogan printed right smack dab in the middle of the plastic.

"Cut Fresh, From Our Store To Your Table! Finest Cuts In Town!"

That fucking slogan. Not only did Ezekiel say it to you himself, the damn cashier cashing you out said it, too. Black Night's was certainly a nice change of pace from "Richard's", but you were curious about the change.

But enough speculating, Dad was taking his first bite. Buying food for him was something you feared after moving. He didn't like to eat anything that wasn't a well known brand. It did get pricey. But now you had to pinch pennies since both of you were running off savings until you found a new job. Tony's was full of knock offs, no "Froot Loops" or "Frosted Flakes". The "Hunny Rings" you bought didn't even have a mascot. You grew forlorn for the little bee you took for granted in your past shopping.

"Well?"

"It's pretty damn good." The older man laughed over his toasted sandwich, snagging another bite. You sigh, form relaxing. At least now you know your father wouldn't be dying of starvation any time soon, the stubborn bastard.

"Y'know, I met the guy who cooked that meat."

"Really now?"

"Yep. He was... Interesting. Even gave me some free water to keep from drying up on the sidewalk like a worm." You took a bite from your own sandwich. It had been waiting patiently in your lap for you to finish holding your breath.

It was like an explosion on your tongue. The seasoning was perfect, with a nice smoky taste to the meat. When people described their food as "orgasmic" this had to be what they were talking about.

"You'll have to go back and see if they sell any steak."

"Dad, you know we can't afford that right now. Maybe we can get some as a celebratory dinner, after I get a job."

"Been a while since I had a good steak." He muttered between his two pieces of bread, ignoring what you said. You sigh again, staring down at your own sandwich. You'll have to go back into town tomorrow and look for job openings. If nothing, you were a people pleaser. You'll get Dad his steak.

You took a bite from your sandwich.

[windlion]

Whumptober!  Let’s see how many of these I can actually do!

Day One: Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging Fandom: Daomu Biji, somewhere between Tibetan Sea Flower and Sea of Sands

---

He was moving.  He knew that first. 

The world swung from side to side in a way that wasn't violent except for how it sent pain jolting through his arms and back.  Wu Xie considered the rhythmic jangle and creak of metal on metal, the roar of an enormous engine somewhere behind him, and sighed internally.  On a freight train.  At least that was a new one.  Shame he still needed a plane and helicopter to complete the achievement.

The area around him sounded mostly empty, jolts in the track making metallic pings rattle around the car.  No signs of anyone else.  He took the risk and opened his eyes to see where he'd ended up this time.

Dim, with harsh slivers of light seeping in through the seams.  Likely close to noon, then- he'd been out for hours.  At least the dark was easier on his throbbing headache.  Wu Xie grimaced to himself as he scanned over the space.  Empty, except for him.  There were rows of hooks from the ceiling for transporting animal carcasses, one of which supported the chains between his wrists.  Rail car door, likely locked from the outside.  Two slim ventilation grates near the ceiling; he wouldn't be able to fit through them but if he could get up there, he could at least get a view of where he was.

Still wearing the same clothes that he had last night.  Notebook against his chest was a bonus; knives gone, not a surprise. He couldn't check his boot knife to be sure of that one.  No food or water, typical.  His stomach made an unhappy gurgle at the thought, which he ignored with ease of familiarity.

His toes just barely touched the floor of the car, boots sliding on the metal plates as he tried for purchase.  He couldn't do much to relieve the pain in his shoulders, much less steady himself.  Assholes, how tall did they think he was?!

Wu Xie stared into the dark over his head, trying to make out what he could of what held him up. His hands had long since gone numb, so touch was telling him nothing except that they'd wrapped the chains a bit too tight.  The same way he was hung just a centimeter too high.  He scuffed the tips of his boots across the floor and only succeeded in sending himself swinging harder, and he huffed a laugh. This had better not be a short joke.

Swinging at least gave him an idea.  He moved with the sway of the car, throwing his weight into the action, trying to get play in the restraints.  The chains didn't move but it created a hell of a jangle as he swung in increasing arcs.  Almost--on the next swing he could finally kick off the wall, throwing himself backwards.

Like many things he'd done, he abruptly regretted it.

His shoulder popped. He might have bounced off the ceiling, and his short cry echoed harshly in the empty metal car.  Like a goddamned desk toy pendulum, he kept swinging wildly with the momentum, each lurch sending fresh spasms of pain down his arms.  He tried to catch his toes against the floor again to still his movement, panting. 

Shit.  They'd clipped the chain on his wrists to the hook with a carabiner.  And the metal jingling was starting to sound suspiciously familiar.  If those fuckers had put him on a train home secured with his own keys. . .

He stared into nothing as he finally slowed, assessing.  Yeah, that was his left shoulder, dislocated.  He'd probably made a mess of his wrists; it might be a good thing he couldn't feel his hands.  He swore quietly and fluently to himself.  Sadistic assholes; really, he'd been treated better by people who wanted to kill him! 

Then again, people who wanted to kill him usually came equipped to do so.  This was all more of an on the fly set up, an afterthought.  They hadn't really expected him to be the one to show up there.  Obviously at least one too many people knew about that rendezvous.  It had better not have been from his side.  Ahh, how could the Nine clans neglect teaching their members better?

If it was even one of them--  he had his suspicions about who would have interrupted the deal.  Well.  He was still alive, so that was a vote in favor of the Nine Clans.  Someone knew enough that they didn't want to deal with the fallout from killing him, knew they didn't dare keep him, so they just wanted to get him out of the way. No matter where he was now, by the time he got back, the goods would be long gone.

Wu Xie sighed and tried to relax, to keep the tips of his toes in contact with the floor.  That was easier said than done; the train kept lurching unevenly.  They were ascending, but not high enough that he could feel it in his lungs. The train curved one way, then the other to cling to the mountains.  Not many options for an easy exit, then.  If they'd shoved him on a train to Hangzhou to ship him home, tied up with his own keys, he was going to have to kick someone for being a smartass.  Possibly Wang Meng if he was the one who met him at the railyard.

Kan Jian was too polite to say anything about it.  Pangzi would die laughing.  Xiaoge wasn't going to hear about this one later, he'd make sure of it. Heiye. . .

Wu Xie growled under his breath.  He was the one who hurt himself the most just now by struggling.  Being hung up like a side of meat wasn't a kindness.  It felt much more like a lesson.

"Damnit.  Shifu!"

That asshole.  He had better have charged a lot from whoever hired him.  When Wu Xie found out who it was that bought the rings. . .

After all this, he hoped they were fakes.

It felt like hours before the train finally came to a full stop, not just a pause while the engine struggled against gravity.  He was more than half-expecting the roar of the car door sliding open, force almost shaking in its tracks.  A familiar stout shadow blocked the light, clambering easily on board, tsking. "Aiya, aiya.  Tianzhen, I'd never buy you at the butcher.  You'd make a terrible meal.  Look at you, so skinny!"

"I'm the dieter's special." Wu Xie smiled against the glare of light behind Pangzi, silhouetting the man as he waved extravagantly at his own solid form.

"Pfft, cheap, cheap---me, I'm prime beef!"  Pangzi scoffed as he moved in closer, the familiar scruff of beard and leather coat as he leaned in to free the chain holding Wu Xie's wrists from the hook.  Wu Xie tried to pull his feet under him to stand, but Pangzi did more of the work to keep his knees from hitting the metal decking.  If they were still moving, he'd have gone down hard.

Wu Xie just laughed in response through the pain, forcing his legs to straighten and stagger forward towards the open door.  He fell more than jumped out of the railcar onto the gravel, and Pangzi casually hauled him up against his chest, sighing, "Ahhh, now I want hotpot."

Squinting in the proper light of day, looking at the bare semblance of a town around the tracks, ,Wu Xie tried to get his bearings.  He slapped the back of his good hand against Pangzi, chains rattling with the movement.  "Guess it's my turn to treat.  You'll have to lead, though--  this isn't my usual stop."

Pangzi cackled as he led them away from the train before it could start up again, "Ah, we're closer to Beijing!  My home turf!  I know the best restaurants."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

[authorellenmint]

An excerpt from my coming-of-age YA novel about a girl, Hayley, cut picking pockets who can either become a squire or hang from the gallows.

Drool pooled on the side of her mouth, her nose screaming for her to leap towards wherever this salty, piquant, soul-affirming smell originated. Her growling stomach took command, dragging her towards a smaller stall where a side of dried beef hung off a hook. She watched it sway back and forth, the red and brown animal muscle taunting her with its deliciousness.

A man approached, flipped a coin towards the proprietor, then sliced an edge off into his greedy hand. Hayley shifted higher on her toes, watching each sliver of the dried beef slip between the man’s teeth. Her stomach refused to stop gurgling, demanding obeisance, but she smoothed a hand down her new breeches. There were pockets, albeit smaller ones than she was used to, but they were as empty as her gullet. How easily could she steal a piece? Have to be quick, both to take and eat it, but…

Darkness eclipsed the slab of meat, Hayley gulping at the black cloud that obscured away her target. She shuddered, fearing that the guards could sense her plans and came to drag her away again, but it was Gavin who stepped forward. “You sound famished,” he said in his grave voice. It was hard for her to tell if he found the idea funny, was admonishing her for it, or simply stating a fact.

Not wanting to show weakness, Hayley hefted her head up higher. She was about to tell him she was fine, when Gavin walked up to the butcher and handed over two coins. Generous swipes of a dagger from his belt peeled two palm sized strips off the carcass. Shit, was he going to hold it out in front of her until she confessed she was hungry? Eat both as a lesson?

“Here,” Gavin pressed the pair into Hayley’s fingers. The first she jammed into her teeth, her saliva dissolving a taste that stilled the jangling horror in her gut. As the heavenly flavors dripped down her throat, she stashed the second strip away in her pocket for later.

“You did not partake of the food offered in the arena,” it didn’t sound like a question from the tone, but the words did. Uncertain if she should respond or not, Hayley shrugged. Gavin’s head dipped a moment from its lofty perch, “It is in your best interest to take sustenance when you can.” Now his eyes darted over her matchstick frame. It’d been easier to hide under all the cloaks and shirts she owned, but stripped to little more than one pass of linen and Hayley felt naked — as if everyone could read her past with one look.

“It will be a hard year reshaping your form with muscle and strength, food may be not only required for it but a respite.”

Hayley bunched her nose up, lost as to why he felt he needed to talk her into eating. “I like food,” she said, “all kinds of food. Whatever kinds of food I can get, it’s just… I’m not a fan of eating with a pile of vipers at the table.”

Her knight snickered a moment, his closed eyes raising towards the sky, “Then you are in the wrong line of work.” After seeming to whisper that part more to himself than anything, Gavin began to walk her towards wherever they were heading. “You must have questions, about your new life. About becoming a squire and all that entails.”

“Yeah,” Hayley nodded her head fast. They lost the others back at the arena, each of the Knights fussing over their squires like they were grooming them for best in show at a county fair. The entire trek it’d been just her and Gavin through the city. Be a good time for him to knock her off and make a run for it, no one would even know. Doubtful anyone would even question it. Just another rat off the street.

But he chose her. Picked her out of every single other person who was a country mile better. At least they all wanted to be there, she didn’t have a choice. When in her life did Hayley ever have this mysterious choice. Why? Why waste what seemed an important decision on someone like her?

This is her knight, Ser Gavin

[arplis]

Arplis - News: Hungry for Words Podcast: Vietnamese Chef Andrea Nguyen

Welcome to episode 2 of the Hungry for Words podcast starring best-selling author and chef Kathleen Flinn. In this episode, Kathleen talks to noted Vietnamese food writer, chef, and author Andrea Nguyen about everything from dumplings and pho to her dramatic escape from her home country in 1975 at the height of the war.    Andrea is the author of several books, including the classic Into the Vietnamese Kitchen, Asian Tofu and Asian Dumplings, and The Pho Cookbook. Get more about Andrea - plus the recipe for the Rotisserie Chicken Pho - from the episode here on Hungry for Words. Below is a partial transcription of the podcast. Kathleen: Hello and welcome to "Hungry for Words, The Podcast," in which I talk to the most interesting people writing about the food, I make some of the recipes and then we talk about it, and you get to listen in. I'm your host, Kathleen Flinn. Today, I'll be talking to Andrea Nguyen, an award-winning author of numerous books on the cuisine of her homeland, including the classic, "Into the Vietnamese Kitchen." We'll talk about her latest book, "The Pho Cookbook" over steaming bowls of the noodle soup. We'll also talk about dumplings, tofu, and how her family dramatically escaped the war-torn country in 1975. This episode of "Hungry for Words" is sponsored by Wolf, encouraging you to reclaim your kitchen starting with one home-cooked family meal per week. Visit reclaimthekitchen.com for tips, techniques and recipes from Wolf cooking tools. And by our media partner, foodista.com. Join a passionate community of food lovers at foodista.com. And by our partner, Book Larder, Seattle's community cookbook bookstore. Learn more at booklarder.com. Tomorrow, I'm gonna interview Andrea, and I have her book, "The Pho Cookbook." Forever, I thought it was pho, I think it's still pronounced pho. And I have to say I've never actually attempted to make pho, but I am really excited about it. So I was looking through it and she has a whole bunch of different recipes. So she has the classic beef, classic chicken, and they look great, but they also look like they take four or five hours, which I don't really have. So then I was looking at her quick chicken pho, which sounded really good, but she said it was pho-ish, so it's not really pho. But then I'm flipping through and then I see something that she calls Pho Ga Quay, Rotisserie Chicken Pho, and I was like, "That has my name all over it." And I like this because, to me, I felt like it was sort of more real stock-ish because you take the actual chicken carcass, according to her recipe, you take it, you kind of break it up, and then you simmer it along with celery and apple and napa cabbage and carrot and cilantro. Now, I'm taking the star anise, cloves, some coriander seeds, and cinnamon, and then over medium heat, you toast the spices for several minutes. I'm now going to add some ginger and some onion. And then now, I'm gonna add in all the chicken and all the other stuff, and you let that simmer for about an hour, and then see how it goes. And now, I'm going to strain it. And I have to say, it smells pretty great. I'm going to put it aside till tomorrow. Hey, welcome to Seattle. Andrea: Thank you so much. And you know, I have to say, when I walked through you're door, I smelled this beautiful fragrance of pho, and I was so happy. Kathleen: I have to tell you, I started it last night, at like 9:00, and I wasn't done until about midnight. Because I had to go shopping, I just all of a sudden went, "Wait, she's coming tomorrow and I got to go get that stuff and figure out what I'm gonna make." But I picked the rotisserie chicken pho. Is it pho? Andrea: It's pho if you want to really impress a Vietnamese native speaker, but if you just say... Kathleen: Pho. Andrea: Yeah, pho, like you're asking a question. Kathleen: Kind of like how a Valley girl says it, like, "Pho?" Andrea: Yeah, like "I want some pho right now." Kathleen: Okay, I want some pho. Andrea: Yeah, yeah. Kathleen: All right. Well, this is, like, the most helpful pronunciation guide, I have to tell you. Andrea: Always add a question mark at the end of the word pho. Kathleen: Pho? Andrea: Yeah. Kathleen: All right. So other question I have to ask you is how you pronounce your last name. Andrea: It's pronounced Nguyen, like N-hyphen-W-I-N. Kathleen: "N-win." Andrea: You can always "Win" and it will always be like a win-win situation, I suppose. Kathleen: My husband and I were having this whole conversation about last night. And I thought, "Oh, my gosh, I'm gonna mispronounce your name. I'm gonna pho wrong." So here we go. So it's all good. Your other books are easier, there was tofu, I can say that. That's pretty clear. And dumplings, which are universal. Andrea: You know, pho is a new word for the American-English language dictionary. And so one of the problems is that we know we no longer have to put an accent mark on it, so it looks like pho. Kathleen: Yeah, that' true. Because if you walk around international district, they all have the, you know... Andrea: The diacritics. Kathleen: Yeah. Andrea: And those things look so funky, and there's like two of them on that letter O, and so I always tell people, like, in Vietnamese, when it's just P-H-O without any of funny little cookie dickies, you know, accent marks, that is pronounced pho, and once that you get a little side hook on the O, then that is pronounced pho. But then once that you have a little question mark above the O, it become pho. Kathleen: And pho is what we're talking about. Andrea: Correct. You know, pho is a word that is based upon a Chinese term for flat rice noodles, fun. I don't really believe that there is a precursor for, like, the other words for pho. It's just pho. It's almost like a word that Vietnamese people, they sort of...they adapted from Cantonese, or their pidgin version of Cantonese way back when pho originated in the early part of the 20th century. Kathleen: Interesting. In reading your book, you talked about that being the origin of pho, right, was in the early 20th century. Andrea: Yes, and there's a lot of murky mythology about the origin of pho. And so some people have, who allows it, "Oh my gosh, you know, it came from French pot-au-feu because look how pho sounds like feu, fire, in pot-au-feu." So the French were in Vietnam at that time as the colonial overlords of Vietnam. And they began slaughtering a lot of cattle. And the Vietnamese were using the cattle as draft animals, not as food. And all of sudden, there were these scraps sitting around. And there was a particular water buffalo noodle soup that was being served on the streets in and around Hanoi. So we're talking about the northern part of Vietnam, the northern part closest to the border with China. So this noodle soup made with water buffalo had like these little round rice noodles, like rice vermicelli. All of sudden, there were sales on beef. And people didn't have a taste for beef, but the sales were really good, because the butchers were like, "Hey, we got to get rid of these really like tough cuts of meat and bones." And the food vendors were like, "Oh, here's a business opportunity," and they started switching out the water buffalo for the beef. And then along the way, they were like, "This tastes better with flat rice noodles instead of..." So we're talking about noodles that look so, like, pad thai, or linguine shape. And so they made that switch and it became like this hit with a lot of working-class folks who were, like, working on the shipping, like merchant ships on the river there, in Northern Vietnam. And as Hanoi became more urbanized, the noodle spread throughout the city, and so it became this city thing, and it became a food vendor thing. So you can imagine, like, you know, the 21st century version would be like, I don't know, taco truck, you know, [inaudible 00:08:23] taco trucks gone wild. And here's like the noodle soup's like "Woo hoo!" Everybody goes crazy for it. And people from all different walks of life come to pho and have pho at the table, and they're eating it out on the street. Kathleen: And I bet it was probably inexpensive if they were making it, essentially, out of rice noodles and these super cheap cuts of beef. I have one question though. Where did the water buffalo come from beforehand? Andrea: They are also a primary draft animal in Vietnam and throughout Southeast Asia. They are placid animals that we love, and so like when you look at Vietnamese art, oftentimes, you'll see a little boy painted atop a water buffalo in the rice patty and everyone looks at that and everyone goes, "Oh, it's the water buffalo." And at certain times, you know, the water buffalo is harvested, but oftentimes, the water buffalo is just out in the field working. If you were to travel to Vietnam, you would still see in rural areas, sometimes, you know, water buffalo roaming. And they have a special place in our hearts. Kathleen: Let's try the pho that I made. I will say that I was kinda like, hmm, I'm kinda nervous because I'm making this for the first time and I'm cooking for an expert. Andrea: I love food that whoever cooks for me, and this smells really, really good. Kathleen: Oh, thanks. Andrea: I'm not gonna talk for that much, or I'm gonna talk with my mouth open. It's aerating things. Kathleen: It's aerating, I like that. Andrea: I think you did a bang-up job. Kathleen: Thank you. Andrea: Pho is about the noodle soup but it's also about the spices and it's about the experience and it's about the noodles. And I thought to myself, you know, how can I tell people about making, creating their own pho experience so the spice blend, the pho spice blend really allows me to do that. You know, it's got the star anise, and fennel, and coriander, and cinnamon, and clove, and black pepper. And I'll use it in lieu of five-spice. I will also mix it with salt and create like a rub for steaks. Kathleen: So let's talk about the whole condiment thing, because to me, this has always been part of the whole experience. You go and they bring you all the stuff and how are you supposed to eat it. And it's interesting, because earlier in the book, you said you guys didn't do that. You're much, much more purer. Andrea: It's because my parents were both born in Northern Vietnam. And their pho experience was one that was not born from bodacious Southern Vietnamese living. So they both migrated from Northern Vietnam to Southern Vietnam and settled in Saigon. And this is like the '50s and my father was a military governor and he went all over the provinces and stuff. So they were familiar with southern food, but there were certain things that they're very traditional about.

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/hungry-for-words-podcast-vietnamese-chef-andrea-nguyen

[mollykittykat]

The Cupboard Game pt. 6

(AU in which Splinter evaded the contents of the mutagen canister and ended up raising the turtles as a human.

No real warnings apply. Mostly family fluff/action-adventure with a teeny hint of angst. (Also available on A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10471893/chapters/24056478))

Despite the gloomy rumble of the surrounding rain and the pervasive scent of raw meat the masked men proceeded with feigned confidence, the two allies who had been previously guarding the gate joining the sole surviver of the first attack in entering the meat packing plant. Behind them the door to the alley slowly creaked on it's hinges, a shimmering beam from a New York streetlamp casting a meager spotlight on a second door at the end of the room; the entrance to a meat locker, wide open, bidding the intruders inside. "Jig is up Mister Takada" one of them shouted, companions scanning the other sides of the room in case the open meat locker was merely a diversion. "Come on out, and we might be inclined to give you a second shot at Don Visioso's offer." In truth they had no basis to make that claim. It was merely an attempt to draw their target into the open, if only to avoid having to enter the dark maw of the fridge. In the end the search of the corridor came up empty and Daiki gave no response, leaving the trio with little choice but to delve deeper into the darkness.

It was three against one, and yet amidst the hoard of hanging carcasses Visioso’s goons felt outnumbered. It was all the worse for the one currently heading the group with his gun drawn, who had witnessed their hidden target render seven men insensible just a few minutes before. The door gently swung shut behind him with a dull heavy thud, and he immediately retaliated by sending a spray of sparking bullets into the wall surrounding the door.

"Hey! Hey easy!" One companion, a laid-back older man who was all bulk beneath his one-size-too-small ski mask, grabbed hold of the weapon and forcibly lowered it. “Can’t let ‘im know where we’re coming from. We gotta sneak up on’im” The gunman, on the other hand, knew all too well from his experience that if he didn’t act at the first given opportunity the shoe was going to end up on the other foot. He pulled his weapon back up with a rebellious jerk, threatening to send another round of lead into the surrounding darkness. “Aye, s’gonna be alright!” his companion said again, speaking louder despite making no further attempts to disarm the other “You’ve got two of Visioso’s best bodyguards with ya, don’t he Frankie?” Franklyn, who had been the second man removed from his post at the gate, was a younger sailor sort, decked out in tattoos and so muscular he was practically neckless, constantly emitting the strong scent of Italian Cigars. At the moment this scent was masked by raw meat, his body hidden behind the merchandise that paid no response. "Frankie!" Again no answer. Then there was a low thump, like one of the cows had fallen off of it's hook. When the two followed the sound they discovered a body sprawled out on the floor, dressed in a suit and carrying the faint scent of cigars. The one with the gun took a step back, his expression pinched with tension “Oh no. Oh no Frankie” “C’mon, ee’s still breathe’n” The elder bent down and placed two fingers against the point where Frankie’s neck immediately met his shoulders, trying locate the pulse before eventually noting the rise and fall of the chest. “Aye, don’t panic. We stick together, we find this guy, we knock him silly. Capiche?” “Easy for you to say! You haven’t seen him man!” Weapon now shaking slightly, the other didn’t look at his sole remaining companion. His eyes instead were on the meat, searching them for any sign of movement between the shadows. He backed off, keeping his blindside shielded by the various hanging slabs, losing his partner in the darkness of the corners of his vision. “Y’know, maybe we should just open fire, wreck everything in sight!” he suggested with a nervous laugh “He’s got to be hiding somewhere ‘round here, right?” He turned his head back and forth briefly, waiting for some word of refusal or confirmation. All was silent. His final remaining ally was gone, lost amongst the hanging meat and the distant patter of rain.There was another thump like something heavy hitting the floor, this one preceded by a muffled yelp cut short. Knowing what was in store if he followed the sound he didn’t bother to pursue the matter. The final goon was practically hugging his tommy gun now, shivering far more violently than he had been before, his back pressed firmly against the icy hide of a slab of beef. He opened fire once again, secretly hoping for some sort of familiar reprimand from out of the darkness to prove he wasn’t alone. When nothing came, when no hand reached out to gently lower his gun, he opened fire again… this time aiming toward where he thought he heard the patter of footsteps. More silence. More maddening silence. The last man standing took a few seconds to wonder if they had been hired to chase after a phantom as he breathed heavily, trying to discern between the threat of footsteps and the thud of his own heartbeats. He was reaching into his belt for another round of bullets, when the slab he was leaning against suddenly jolted forward like it had been shoved by an opposing force, knocking him off balance. Spinning around the lone gunman unloaded a full clip into the beef, shells clattering against the floor, a long frightened scream tearing from his throat. When things went quiet and the weapon could emit nothing more than empty clicks, the thug’s stomach dropped as quickly and suddenly as his abrasive manner. As if he himself was under the threat of gunfire he threw the empty gun to the ground and put his hands in the air, backing his way toward the shut door.

“Look, look I’m done see? You win!” he called, upraised hands now shivering violently in place of the gun. He received a response: hands reached out and grabbed his wrists, knotting his arms tightly behind his back before a knee slammed him against the ground. Before he could so much as scream his face was pressed against damp concrete, the dark shadows of his his two strongest comrades laying just in view.“Ten men against one” Splinter’s voice growled from atop his victim “I know your employer doesn’t value honor, but this is ridiculous" “Oh my God! Oh my God please, don’t hurt me!” Splinter kept the man pinned, but couldn’t help but gain an annoyed expression when he heard the goon’s pathetic tone. Judging by the struggles he was in a fitful state of panic, which Splinter figured might as well be put to good use.He ground his knee into the man’s back, holding both his arms at such an angle as to threaten dislocation. The thug started shouting louder, tears wetting his rain-soaked mask.“C’mon! It was just orders! I’ll do anythin’ ya’ say! anythin’!” Splinter leaned down close, keeping the arms locked in a painful restraint. “Which one of you has the keys to your car?” “Frankie! Frankie has it, th’man with no neck and all the tattoos!” “Thank you” With that, Splinter jabbed two fingers into the side of the struggling captive’s neck, rendering him unconscious. Then he made his way back over to Frankie to check him over, and sure enough there were a set of keys in the back of his pocket, hooked together by a little Italian flag keychain. Splinter couldn’t help but wear a small relieved smile, gripping the well earned keys tightly to his chest before turning around and racing back out toward the parking lot, not even bothering to give the trail of unconscious bodies so much as a second glance as he made his way to the vehicle with the slightest limp to his step.

Peering out into the hallway, Marco and Vinnie had not yet pieced together in their minds that the stash of children’s books were in any way connected to the creatures they had just saw.Were they gremlins? Aliens? They shot various possibilities back and forth between each other, wondering whether or not they should abandon the apartment to pursue the little green monsters that had shrieked and scampered away. In the end Marco volunteered to chase them down while Vinnie stayed put, continuing the raid while pulling out his phone, feeling the need to express to the rest of the group that they had found something worth consideration as he dialed Don Visioso’s number.Leonardo and Donatello were scampering down the hall hand in hand, forged together by equal desperation. Donnie suggested making the elevator their goal, but Leonardo refuted it. As much as he would’ve liked to ride an elevator the dangers of accidentally getting caught in a small space alongside unwanted company was all too apparent, even to a preschooler. He remembered Splinter’s instructions. They needed to get to the fire escape on floor five.The two stumbled their way to a flight of stairs, rushing up on all fours in order to scale the metal steps with better efficiency. The vacant corridor around them had a faint echo to it, and for a while Leonardo couldn’t quite make the distinction between the reverberation of their own frantic retreat and the heavy clomping of spats closing in from below. Only when the eldest turned his head and saw the looming shadow, hurrying at their heels like some sort of shapeless boogyman, did he realize that they weren’t nearly as far ahead as they hoped to be.Leo emitted a terrified yelp and viciously pressed a hand against his sibling’s shell, trying to force his younger brother to quicken his already straining pace.

While his elder brothers rushed to escape their pursuer, Mikey calmly strolled about the fifth floor. He had never seen the apartment hallways before excepting a few glances through closing doors, and he couldn’t help but pause to get an eyeful, the emptiness of the corridor putting him at ease. It was so big and spacious, perfect for a game of tag if only he was allowed. But right now was not play time, it was time to find the fire exit… even though Mikey just now came to the realization that he wasn’t really sure what a fire exit even looked like.He did, however, find a small lever looming just out of reach along the center of the wall. He didn’t care to put effort into reading the inscription that read “fire alarm,” as in his mind strange levers meant a mystery to be solved… maybe a secret superhero hideout!Momentarily forgetting his original mission he jumped to take hold of the lever, tiny green hands slapping the wall just short of it’s target. “What’er ya doin?” Mikey paused his efforts to look behind him, finding Raph wearing expression that could only be described as “annoyed inquisitiveness.” “Pulling the exit lever!” Mikey replied, giving an answer that he felt would most likely get his sibling off his case. Raphael looked at Michelangelo, then back up at the lever, then back at Michelangelo, then back at the lever. He squinted, and upon making out the word “fire” on the handle he figured that his little brother had found what he’d claimed. Sure, Splinter had described the fire exit as a big door with the apropos “fire exit” sign on it (which Mikey likely would’ve known if he had been paying attention), but maybe this particular exit was pull-lever activated.Either way, Raphael too was curious to walk away now. Without a word of warning he leapt up onto his Michelangelo’s shoulders, shoving his feet against his sibling’s forehead as he fought to climb up and take hold of the lever himself.

Closing in on their destination at a frantic pace Leo stopped looking back. He felt the stranger’s eyes beating against the back of his head, heard him thundering just short of him and his brother as they finally came upon the fifth floor and rounded the corner to escape into the hall. The voice of Marco shot up with an enthusiastic “gotcha!” when Donnie felt something grab the collar of his shell. Torn from the floor the turtle let loose a long terrified squeal. Leonardo didn’t even think twice before doubling back, losing his fear as he clung to the attacker’s leg and bore down on the meat of his calf with his teeth. The pant leg softened the blow, but the gesture still had it’s desired effect. There was a mess of frantic movement, the man shouting in pain and dropping Donnie as Leo continued to gnaw on the apprehended limb. Donnie, who had landed on his shell, worked to right himself as the thug gave a swift kick in order to release the toddler’s grip. He missed, and with a sharp shove Leo released the leg and sent Marco stumbling backward perilously over the edge of the stairwell. The sound of him tumbling head over heels all the way back to the first floor might have been rather comedic, had it not been covered up by the sound of a sudden loud blaring alarm accompanied by flashes of light.The world around them seemed to scream, hallways flaring up with bright red beams and an ear-piercing beeping.

Raphael let out a squeal and released the lever before falling backward onto his younger sibling. He was expecting any number of thing to happen once he succeeded in pulling the lever, but loud noises wasn’t one of those things. Suddenly feeling like he’d been the perpetrator of a really big mistake he forced his smaller brother to his feet, then began running to get away from the noise. He wasn’t sure which direction he was heading in, wanting nothing more than to escape the scene of the crime however possible. That was he and Michelangelo ran headlong into their siblings. Their collision drew all four children from their frantic states back into reality. Donnie, though still in tears, pointed out fire exit, taking a moment to scold his siblings for not noticing the big red glowing sign that said “exit” right next to a conspicuous door bearing an equally blatant “fire exit" sign. The scolding didn’t last long. Despite their limited knowledge of the world the turtles knew it would only be a matter of time before that alarm drew the attention of strangers, and the sooner they were out of sight the better. Working together the tots finally managed to push the door open and slip to the outside, making it to the landing of the fire escape just a mere few seconds before residents went stumbling out of their apartments, wondering what was going on and why… if there was no emergency… nobody had stopped the hideous noise yet. The rain shower had slowed a great deal since the storm began, but it was still wet and the reptiles couldn’t help but huddle together, the remaining dark clouds speckling them with rain and raking their skin over with wind. Descending the metal steps the children couldn’t help but think about how, even though they had already seen this part of the world through their window, the outside felt so very different from the inside. They could breath, the sky extended beyond mortal comprehension, and the New York Air… humid and dirty as it may have been… was to them fresh and exhilarating.The rain, however, was not quite as pleasant. Donatello was the first to start shivering, though Leonardo wondered briefly if it was from cold or from his recent encounter with the thug. “Donnie, do you see the storm drain?” Donatello nodded, pointing out a dark cavernous pit in the corner of the alley at the end of a rivulet of filthy rain water.The closer the quartet got to the drain, the less confident they felt about the hiding place. Mikey didn’t like the darkness, Raphael didn’t like the smell, Leo didn’t like the claustrophobic nature of that gap, and Donatello was theorizing that the location may be flooded after such a heavy rain shower. However, their father’s instructions were their only instructions, and standing out in the open wasn’t an option. Leonardo volunteered to go first to test the waters, literally and figuratively. His siblings gripping his hands and helping him through, his shell clearing the gap as he was released into the drainage ditch. Letting out a noise of disgust Leo leapt to his feet and found the water just barely met the level of his chest. The smell made him want to puke, but otherwise things seemed to be safe. Looking up at his brothers, the eldest gave a thumbs up and readied himself to catch whoever came next.

Splinter drove a little faster than was safe, barely straddling the line between simple recklessness and getting the police called on him. In the dry warmth of the lit car he could be seen sporting a large black bruise right above his left eye, scraped from the pavement but washed clean by rain. His breaths were short and shallow, but aside from that he gave little indication that he was in any pain, his face bearing a look of unshakable concentration as he stared daggers into his surroundings.He was not very practiced at driving. He knew how to do it, but he was far more accustomed to public transit. That fact, combined with his adrenaline fueled desperation, made for a perilous trip indeed. But it was faster than running, and the meat packing plant had only been a mere few blocks away from home. Splinter wondered briefly if showing up at the appartment in a strange car would rouse any suspicions. Or would anyone would really care so long as he left the keys with the car and made up some story about borrowing a vehicle from a friend? In either case his thoughts never wandered far from his sons, and the temptation to jump to conclusions and start preparing himself for the worst peaked when he finally reached his destination. He put the swiped vehicle in park right along the curbside, staring out the window at the flashing red and blue lights of two cop cars parked right outside his home. “Oh no.” Splinter threw the keys in the front seat and shut the door, burying his hands in the pockets of his soaked slacks as he climbed out of the car and raced toward the stoop of the apartment complex.

[ecotone99]

The Sinews of Meat [NF]

The gravel parking lot is frigid but mercifully dry on this Friday morning in the dead of winter. Instead of fighting for a space in the back of the lot with the rest of the crew, I opt, as usual, to place my truck somewhere alongside the building among the USDA inspectors and the retail ladies. I finish the last of my cigarette, which I lit once I was confident that my mother could no longer see me as I pulled out of the driveway, before I take back the last of my coffee. It has chilled to room temperature and I accept it with a grimace. I sigh and exit my truck before walking around to the rear of the shop.

Out back are the pens, half of which are outside and typically used to house lambs, or sometimes hogs in the event of a full house on the inside. Every week an order was filled for 115 lambs and one goat- don’t ask about the goat, I didn’t understand it, and neither did any of the guys I worked with. But, week after week, 115 lambs got slaughtered on our kill floor, usually split between Friday and Monday, unless Monday was a holiday or some such. Animals were held in the pens and led down a runway that led into the kill floor via a steel chute leading to a walled in box which had a gate on one side to facilitate “live-giving” from a safe vantage.

When I say lambs, I’m using the term loosely, as the boys on the crew did. These weren’t the cute, Messianic lambs one sees on Easter cards. They were sheep, at least as far as I could tell. Filthy, coughing piss reeking sheep. They stood dumb and bleating in the pens packed in tight, and they’d run as you approached the outside. Of the three usual animals we slaughtered (beef, hogs, and lambs), lambs were by far the dumbest. This, paired with their size, meant that they suffered the most frequent abuse of the trio. When they were being moved, usually in packs of four, into the box, they would often be thrown down the chute if they couldn’t be coerced with a kick in the ribs or a shot from the cattle prod. They proved easiest to kill. The lamb gun, a captive bolt gun which used a .22 blank to propel a steel rod into the brain of its intended recipient, would stun and incapacitate the animal. Sometimes this would kill it but they would usually be left squirming and kicking on the grated bottom of the box, and one of the crew would run in and deftly slash its throat.

The exception to this was of course the beef, who, along with the hogs, received a .25 cartridge instead of the .22 to better piece their thick skulls. Since the beef were typically over a half ton, after being shot they were hooked to a chain fall by their back legs and hoisted in the air. From here it was a two man job; one would do the cutting while the other would hold a barrel under the carcass to catch the gush of blood that spilled forth while holding the front legs. Oftentimes a spinal nerve would be severed during the cutting of the throat, which would trigger involuntary thrashing throughout the suspended carcass. A 1000 pound animal, hung on a chain, flailing its legs around in a room no bigger than 15x25 with mostly occupied floor space, can present a serious safety concern if it is not properly secured. So upon nicking the spinal nerve, the cutter would yell “SPINAL!” and the man with the barrel would hold onto his legs to avoid getting kicked in the head by the recently deceased animal. Then the now deceased animal would be hung by a hook and roller that was connected to tracks that ran across the ceiling throughout the back rooms, so it could be pushed with relative ease through the shop.

As it reached 7 am I would clock in and give and receive my standard morning greetings from the rest of the crew, most boisterously by a guy we’ll call Zeke, for my own safety as well as his privacy, who was sort of my impromptu mentor from my start there. Zeke was about 22 and at the time he was in work release at the county jail. He played his hardass routine very well, but I believe he developed a bit of a soft spot for me in spite of my general incompetence. Every day he would see me first and say “BILL! How the fuckin' hell are ya, pal?!”, followed by a hardy clap on the back. He rarely waited for a response, I think he just liked to yell. This was indicative of most of the crew. The oldest of us, the impromptu father figure of the group, though not the only one with kids, was probably in his early 30s. Most of the rest were in their mid-20s, generally speaking they were fun-loving, if not slightly malicious, rednecks, hellbent on spilling blood by the gallon in pursuit of the blue collar dream and the almighty dollar. I was among the youngest, along with two other kids who lived on my old street in town. Like me, they would come in stoned most days, and they were mostly out of place among the group of what most would call bona fide hillbillies. While the kill crew represented a respectable range of demographics for a slaughterhouse in Southern PA, they all held one thing in common- they loved their job. In spite of the filth and grime, in spite of the shit wages and the long hours, I have never worked with a group of young men more dedicated to the art and the science of their craft. They were a marvel to see in action. When they would skin a beef, they’d splay the beast on its back and go to work severing the legs and peeling back the hide, all the while laughing and whooping and hollering, just as I imagine a group of young Sioux braves would have done to a buffalo in the western territories hundreds of years ago. One time I watched them break into the chorus of "Strawberry Wine” halfway through the skinning process, all four of them, and I laughed so hard I nearly hit the fat-slicked tile of the Kill Floor. This was us, upon the crimson-stained tile floor, grown children in leather aprons with knives in their belts, singing and laughing and playing like modern day savages.

Two be clear, these were not a band of young Jeffrey Dahmers, meaning the classic “gets off on torturing animals” type. They were pretty normal ass dudes who, when the moment was right, were ready, willing, and able to spill blood for money, or sometimes a strange pleasure. They went home and lead fairly normal blue collar existences when their work was over. They all smoked or chewed tobacco, and they all would, at the very least, drink domestic beers in their down time. There was an old man there, probably in his 80s, who had been a butcher for his entire life. He was a kind, soft spoken, church going man who didn’t curse, had been with his wife and only his wife for the last 60 plus years, and had never had a sip of alcohol. He would come in on kill days and collect the hog maws (stomachs) we had set aside, which he would take and clean out so they could be later stuffed with vegetables and god knows what else then sold to other elderly Pennsylvania Dutch denizens. However, he still reminisced to me one day with a smile and a chuckle about being a young man and killing lambs by the dozen with his friends.

I never learned to skin and I rarely gutted, but I had work on the floor, too. After being fully cleaned, a “hot weight” was taken. The weight of the carcass would fluctuate after cooling so the hot weight was taken to ensure a consistent figure for pricing. With the hot weight received, it was pushed down to me for further cleaning, this time in a less technical sense. I used a knife and a hose to remove excess shit and hair from the outside of the carcass. While skinning the animal removed most of the contaminants, a shitty, hairy beast will remain shitty and hairy unless great care is taken to remove it. When a carcass first pushed to me, I typically had an animal specific augmentation to make before inspection. On hogs, kidneys were removed and split open to check for disease. Cows had the spinal column removed to prevent the potential spread of Mad Cow. Lambs, since they were moved in such bulk, still had genitals and a hanging throat to be removed, plus forelegs that needed to be tucked inward via a tendon pulled from within and pulled over the front part of the leg. Then I would go over it slowly and slice off any excess unsanitary components that I may come across. The skinners usually missed bits of hair and shit here and there, especially on lambs, arguably the hairiest and shittiest of the bunch. After removing all the undesirable parts, I sprayed the carcass down with the hot hose, which had to be above 150 degrees Fahrenheit to kill bacteria, namely e. coli. Barring any further pestering from an inspector, I would then push it into the next room, give it a final once-over, and stamp it with a USDA certified inspection stamp before pushing it into the cooler. You read that right. A green as grass 20 year old, usually stoned or half asleep or both, was responsible for the federal-level inspection of hundreds, perhaps thousands of future pieces of meat. Be afraid, be very afraid.

This was the typical kill day, with little variation. After what usually amounted to five or six hours of this, we would take lunch. A generous hour, where I’d get stoned for the second time of the day and have more coffee. My ritalin prescription, plus the sights and smells of the morning, usually left me without much of an appetite. When I got back, it was time for my solo tasks of the day; cleaning and re-laying pens, dumping “compost” (mostly shit, blood, and hair), and storing the guts away. First, a word on these guts. While we kept various oddball body parts and organs, such as beef tails, tongues, eyeballs, hearts, and livers, most of the organs, namely the digestive track, would be thrown rather indiscriminately into “non-consumible” barrels, which were stored out back as they filled. On kill days, two men would show up in a 3 axle truck to pick up these non-consumibles, to be processed into dog food at some plant. Otherwise, the guts were kept as part of a strange and macabre deal worked out with a man named Gil. Gil raised hunting dogs, and since the early days of the butcher shop, dating back over 30 years, he had been coming and picking up hand picked bodily delicacies, set aside specifically for him to mix with saw dust and feed to his hounds. He mostly got specific parts of the beefs’ stomachs, but he was privy to other, rarer finds. Most days when we killed a bulk order of lambs, several of them would be pregnant, and fetuses would be removed in the gutting process. When they were close enough to natural birth, they could be saved, and the owner would give them a blanket and bottled milk in the front office without the knowledge or consent of the farmer who had brought them. I never saw this, though. Lamb fetuses typically ended up in bizarre post-mortem puppet shows or as prop devices in pranks (“Here, open you’re hand, Bill, I have something to show you”), before being thrown in Gil’s barrels outside. Once we killed a cow with a fully formed calf inside, maybe 2 weeks shy of natural birth, with hair, hooves, eyeballs, the whole package, and the calf was given as a whole to Gil for his hounds.

I digress. The pens were the simplest part of the job. It was all just sweeping up the shit-and-blood-infused straw from the concrete floor, occasionally spraying the bare ground, and laying fresh straw for the next day. I would load the old straw into a tractor bucket and dump it down in the back part of the lot, the area known as the "Compost Pile". This is also where we deposited the things that the dog food boys wouldn’t touch, such as the shit and blood that seems to lurk within beef by the gallon. If there is a hell, it probably looks and/or smells like the Compost Pile. Long-since dried shit piles sat half-submerged in great pools of thickened, coagulated blood. This all sat totally exposed to the sun, and even in the cooler months it would slowly become even more putrid and draw flies and maggots by the millions. I have worked in many less than sanitary environments, but nothing I have seen can quite match the vile obscenity of that gruesome Pile. I am thankful every day that I don’t have to see it anymore. From there I would put any remaining barrels in the cooler for the following day, return the tractor to its resting place in a pole barn across the lot, and clock out after a long, arduous 9-10 shift.

From all the time I spent there, and all the things I saw, one day stands out more than any other. It was a kill day, nearing the end of the menagerie of animals brought to die that day, and I was moving carcasses in the cooler. One of the kill crew guys came and got me, and told me I was needed on the kill floor. I stopped what I was doing and joined him, with a vague idea that I knew what was about to happen. I had been told when I started that there was a macabre ritual practiced by the kill crew, an initiation for new members. I stepped into the room and saw the crew crowded around the freshly killed body of the last hog of the day. I recall that Godsmack’s “Voodoo” was playing on the speaker in the corner. I approached them, and was quickly presented with the heart, still hot and beating freshly pulled from the heart of this pig. It was now my obligation to take a bite of this thing. I consider myself to generally be a morally respectable person, and beyond that, above simple peer pressure. But I knew that if I didn’t take the bite, I would never be respected by these savages. So I ignored my morality and my pride and I bit into it. It was rubbery and bloody, and I spit it out onto Zeke’s chest. He swore and kicked me in the ass, and I walked away grinning, knowing that I had done the bare minimum to gain acceptance from my coworkers.

This was my life for about 4 months before I got fed up with it and quit over something that was fairly insignificant in hindsight. I learned a lot about death and meat and human progress, and through the assistance of psychedelia I have done much meditating on these subjects. One thing I have found is that people generally refuse to hear about what happens at a butcher shop. The common American dines on meat with nearly every meal, but many of them are disgusted by the thought of where it comes from. This is a logic that has allowed the world’s genocides to occur throughout modern history. If we look at things such as the Holocaust, the genocide in Armenia, or the Rape of Nan-King, we find that while people are opposed to these events happening, they are often unwilling to do anything to stop it. I am not comparing the meat trade to genocide. I believe that if you look at it from either a biological or more spiritual standpoint, it is our natural right to kill and feast upon other animals. And even if it isn’t, fuck it, they taste good. However, I think it is important for those of us who choose to eat meat to take a rational look at the way meat is collected and processed, and make a decision based on this knowledge. The idea of humane slaughter is a farce. There is no such thing. The idea of giving an underpaid, overworked American male with little education or future prospects the duty of slaughtering a great number of animals in a limited amount of time, and expecting him to do so in a friendly and non-intrusive manner, is laughable. Butchers know this, as do most inspectors who are worth a shit. I am equipped with this personal knowledge, and I continue to eat meat. I hunt and harvest whitetail in the fall when possible, and I still try to support smaller scale meat packing operations, as they still seem to be a more humane option than more industrial settings. Point being, I can kill what I eat. I don’t require the veil of secrecy regarding the food I eat, so I feel at liberty to eat as I please. However I still see the masses who eat their dead flesh but want no involvement with its harvest and preparation, and I wonder if this is indicative of a moral confusion within mankind, where we feel above the inherent cruelty of our actions because of our refusal to acknowledge it.

submitted by /u/semibluecollar [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2UmgxhQ

[theliterateape]

Fat Louie the Butcher

By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

Fat Louie the butcher had thick arms. Short and covered with hair. A bloody apron draped over his barrel chest. And a large stomach. His gnarled fingers couldn’t decide which way to go snaking out of his leathery hands. A nose that went about three different ways before it came to a purple veined bulbous stop. I never saw him without an unlit cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. Maybe 5’8” 230–240. A fucking gorilla. “Spent time in the ring” was the word on the street. In the Bronx before he got to Chicago.  

At about 30 he showed up in Grand Crossing where I lived. He opened the shop at 77th and Greenwood. Butcher block tables, saw dust on the floor. Bloody meat hanging off hooks. The whole thing.

He had the cleanest windows I ever seen. Fucking sparkled. Huge pieces of meat hung in those pristine windows and everybody bought from Louie. The smell of garlic, rosemary, and fresh basil drifted onto the street.  It lured you in like an herbal specter gently taking your hand guiding you through his doorway. A bell hung over its cracked wooden frame that jingled whenever a customer walked in.

Open at 6, closed at 9. Every fucking day. Except for Sunday. “I go to the Church at 11, eat the pasta at noon, come back, open again at 2.”

He lived alone over the store. A small apartment with a kitchen, a bathroom. a closet for a bedroom, and a tiny room where he balanced an 18 inch Philco on top of a milk crate. Four channels, 2,5,7, and sometimes 9.

His voice sounded like it was dragged through an alley, raspy with a thick accent. His eyes were sunk deep into his face, dark almost black. His eyebrows looked phony. Like they were balls of white and black cotton glued to his forehead aimlessly searching for a place to rest. 

His meaty paws were always wrapped around his cleaver. His clothes smelled of recently slaughtered animal. And his black boots crunched the sawdust floor as he moved among the carcasses of cows, lambs, and pigs.

It was 1959. The Sox were in the World Series. Playing the Dodgers. I was 10. My old man was going, I wasn’t. I was pissed, pouty. We owned a deli right off 79th Street and one or our regulars was Daley’s secretary. She had an extra ticket. She asked the old man. Not me.

I wouldn’t go to school that day. Made up a story about a bad gut. The runs. Poured water into the toilet making it sound for real. The old man didn’t buy it. But I got to stay home anyway. Watched the game on TV. Black and white. Brickhouse announcing on the radio. Big Klu our first baseman hit two bombs, and Early Wynn, the Indian, threw a shutout. We smoked em 11-zip.

I deserved to go. The old man went, I shoulda. I was a kid but I knew the score. Daley’s secretary coulda copped a ticket for me. No problem.

So I’m sulking and shit after the game even though we won. My ma had the heart of a lion and the wisdom of a fox. “Pauly, here is $3 go to Louie’s. Get me some flank steak.”

“Ma, I whined.

“Go.”

“I don’t wanna.” I was gonna make her and the old man pay, I’d be a shit, their penance.

“I feel like braciole.” My mother was so fucking smart.

“Braciole?” My eyes lit up. Tender beef pounded paper thin, braised in wine and olive oil, lovingly embracing garlic, cheese, parsley, pancetta, and bread crumbs, simmered in red sauce.

“Now.” She pointed to the door, “Your father will be home soon.”

She won. My foul mood vanished and my stomach rumbled joyfully.

I started walking to Louie’s to get the meat. Through the park, and up Greenwood.

When I got close, I saw Georgie cleaning Louie’s front window talking to himself. In the ’50s Georgie was called the neighborhood retard. He stuttered and drooled. Had a red pockmarked face. Wore baggy pee stained green pants and a white t-shirt two sizes too small. At first you thought he was 13, maybe 14, but when you looked close it was more like 23, maybe 24.

Georgie spotted me coming up the street and he got all happy. I never gave Georgie shit, but the big kids in the neighborhood did. Bullies, assholes. “Pauly, Pauly, my friend!” Georgie shouted. I wanted to crawl under a rock. I mean I’m 10 years old and this kid, even though he never hurt nobody was screamin my name like, well, like a retard.  

I didn’t respond. I just wanted to get my flank steak and disappear. Again” Pauly, Pauly, my friend.”

Fuck! He’s talking to me. What if people heard?

Just then outa the corner of my eye I saw the three of them. The bullies. Assholes. “The retard’s friend?!” They screamed.

 Shit.

“Georgie’s buddy!” Screaming.

“Come on guys, he ain’t botherin' nobody,” I said, scared and embarrassed.

“He bothers us, with his piss pants and drool. Bothers us a lot.”

“Just leave him...” I felt the warm liquid run down my face and searing hot pain shoot through my skull from just below my eye socket. The crack sounded like it came from across the street. I dropped to my knees spotting the rock on the ground. It had hit me square in the face. Stars floated in the bright afternoon sun. Georgie terrified. The assholes laughing, “Retard’s buddy, his friend.”

The door to the store swung open. Filling the doorway was Fat Louie, cleaver in hand, bloody apron draping his stomach. Unlit cigar crammed in the side of his mouth.

“You,” he pointed at the bullies with his cigar.” Get the hell out of here.” He stepped towards them. They scattered like flies.

Georgie bent over me, his breath making me nauseous. “Pauly, my friend, are you OK?

I felt a thick fingered hand pulling me up. The smell of meat filled my nose. Without saying a word Louie guided me into his store.

He lifted me onto his butcher block counter, and slapped a piece of cold raw meat onto my face. “This help. Boys, they bullies. I find later. Press.” He grasped my hand in his pressing the raw bloody meat into my eye. Its damp coolness felt like heaven.

In raspy broken English he spoke. “Pauly, you did a good thing. The bully boys no do good thing,”

“They nailed me Louie.” I sobbed.

“Face will heal. They need to live with what they do. You did good. Them, if no change, bad things will happen.” He pressed his hand on mine again, the steak still doing its job. “You see when older. No good to bully.”

“No good to get my face smashed.” I argued, trying to be strong.

He gently pulled my hand from my face. The meat slithered down my shirt. I could feel my eye swell as it closed. He took my bloody face in his hands. “You did a good thing. Georgie needs help sometimes, you give, that is good.” His breath was heavy. His voice solemn. “Now why you come to my store?”

What? I tried to remember. The Sox. The Dodgers. The World Series. Braciole. That’s it. Flank steak. “I came for some flank streak.”

“Ah,” he pulled the cigar from his mouth, “you Momma, she make the braciole?”

“Yeah, my favorite.” Trying to cover my whimpering.

What I could see of his face through my swollen eye broke into a huge smile. He walked slowly to his butcher block table, his feet crunching on his sawdust covered floor. He slammed a piece of meat onto his table and pounded it thin with his mallet. The banging made my head throb. Finished, he methodically wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with white twine.

I reached into my pocket for the $3. He held his hand up. “No bring me a braciole. That is payment.”

“ I will.”

I walked  back up Greenwood through the park. I carried our flank steak in the blood stained brown paper that Louie had given me. When I opened the door to our store, my mother was finishing with a customer. Her eyes riveted on my swollen face. She rushed to me. “What happened?”

I could hear Louie’s voice. The voice that sounded like it had been dragged through a fucking alley. I looked at her and smiled handing her the meat.

“I did a good thing.”

[kidsviral-blog]

You Eat These 15 Foods Every Holiday Season, But Do You Know Where They Came From?

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/you-eat-these-15-foods-every-holiday-season-but-do-you-know-where-they-came-from/

You Eat These 15 Foods Every Holiday Season, But Do You Know Where They Came From?

We all have our favorite holiday dishes. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Hanukkah, we indulge in tasty treats that send us on nostalgic trips back in time to when we were kids and didn’t have to decide between paying rent and giving awesome gifts every year.

But how much do you really know about pumpkin pies, candy canes, and latkes? Where did they come from, and why do we eat them during the holidays? Let’s find out.

1. Fruitcake

Flickr / Jeremy Keith

Nothing says “I can’t cook or bake, and I had no idea what else to bring to Christmas dinner” quite like a nice, heavy fruitcake. This cake, which is full of dried fruit, spices, and nuts, has become something of a Christmas mockery. Back in the Middle Ages, however, dried fruit and nuts were super expensive, so they saved the preparation of this little indulgence for holiday festivities.

2. Cranberry Sauce

Flickr / Didriks

This polarizing Thanksgiving treat came to be in 1912 when a guy named Marcus L. Urann wanted to extend the short shelf life of cranberries. Some prefer to make more elegant versions at home when Thanksgiving rolls around, but as for me, I want this delicious nonsense to be a sliceable, can-shaped, gelatinous blob.

3. Candy Canes

Flickr / liz west

Candy canes were developed about 350 years ago, but they looked nothing like the striped, hook-shaped sweets that we know and love today. They eventually took on their most familiar form when a choirmaster curved them to represent a shepherd’s staff, and the red stripes were added in the 19th century when there were more vibrant dyes available.

4. Eggnog

Flickr / Isaac Wedin

If you ever want me to avoid speaking to you until the end of time, offer me a glass of eggnog. While I find the stuff contemptible, plenty of people adore this holiday drink — and they have for centuries. Back in the day, members of the British aristocracy mixed warm milk, eggs, sweet spices, and various liquors to create the original version of this holiday staple. Because the ingredients were so expensive, it quickly became a symbol of wealth. It eventually fell out of fashion with the Brits, but Americans brought it back. We added our own spin by using rum instead of sherry.

5. Apple Cider

Flickr / Eliza Adam

This is one of few holiday beverages that sticks around throughout autumn and winter, which is probably because it’s awesome. Originally an exclusively alcoholic drink, cider was created by the Brits back in 55 B.C., and it has been well loved ever since. With the advent of refrigeration technology in the 20th century, people were able to start drinking unfiltered apple juice, which meant that alcohol was no longer necessary in the process. While Americans refer to non-alcoholic, unfiltered apple juice as cider, the rest of the English-speaking world still associates the term with the alcoholic version.

6. Latkes

Flickr / slgkgc

These Hanukkah favorites are absolutely amazing, and your opinion is invalid if you think otherwise. Latkes were originally just cheese pancakes (which are also too delicious for this Earth), but the addition of potatoes became popular in the 18th century. Because they pay homage to Judith — a Jewish heroine — latkes hold far more significance in the Jewish tradition. That being said, they’ve been known to show up on Christmas tables as well.

7. Sweet Potato Casserole with Marshmallows

Flickr / Mr.TinDC

While this dish strikes fear into the hearts of many, tons of people love indulging in this sweet casserole. Cooking with marshmallows was trendy at the turn of the 20th century, and this particular recipe stuck after being featured in a popular cookbook by Angelus Marshmallow Company, which was printed in 1917.

8. Pumpkin Pie

Flickr / jeffreyw

Pumpkin pie is the perfect Thanksgiving dessert. Everyone knows that. It’s science. The beloved pumpkin has been linked to seeds that grew about 9,000 years ago in Mexico, and it was eventually adopted by Native Americans. Boiling pumpkin and mixing it with honey and spices was a great way to preserve it back then, and some even suspect that the Pilgrims made a dish similar to pumpkin pie. They just didn’t use a crust.

9. Pecan Pie

Flickr / cyclonebill

If you ask me, this amazing Southern staple beamed down from Heaven many years ago. If you ask people who actually know things about pecan pie, however, this dessert was first made in 19th-century Texas. Back then, the filling was a standard custard that was topped with pecans. The pecan pie that we know (and love way too much) today actually came to be in the 1930s when the wife of a Karo Syrup executive came up with a new way to use corn syrup…and we are all eternally grateful to that woman.

10. Gingerbread

Flickr / Michael Bentley

We might feel bad about decapitating these sweet, spicy cuties for a second, but once that epic flavor hits, all cookie carnage is forgotten. The recipe originated in Greece in 2400 B.C., and it eventually made its way to the U.K., where Queen Elizabeth I was credited with the tradition of decorating gingerbread cookies during the holidays.

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11. Corned Beef and Cabbage

Flickr / LearningLark

We have the Irish to thank for this one. This salt-cured dish was served on Christmas in Ireland for years, and it only makes sense that Americans eventually adopted the tradition. We do have a pretty serious amount of Irish-Americans floating around out there, after all.

12. Stuffing

Flickr / Maggie

People have been stuffing food into animal carcasses for their own enjoyment for centuries now. One Roman by the name of Apicius even dedicated a recipe book to the many methods of making stuffing. Today, we prefer stuffing of the non-meat variety, which explains why we love putting bread inside of our Thanksgiving turkeys and serving it as a side dish.

13. Green Bean Casserole

Campbell’s

I eat so much green bean casserole on Thanksgiving that I’m pretty sure it runs through my veins for weeks after the fact. Americans have been eating creamed vegetables since the 19th century, and the traditional white sauce used in doing so was eventually replaced by cream of mushroom soup. In its current form, green bean casserole was popularized by Campbell’s in an effort to advertise their cream of mushroom soup. The deliciousness really caught on, and it’s said that Campbell’s makes about $20 million off of that variety alone on Thanksgiving each year.

14. Peppermint Bark

Flickr / femme run

While no one knows exactly when people started sprinkling broken candy canes on chocolate, many agree that it was sometime between the ’60s and ’80s. Popular treat company Williams-Sonoma first sold peppermint bark in 1988, and they’ve been doing it ever since. They estimate that they’ve sold five million one-pound packages of the treat in the last decade alone.

15. Figgy Pudding

Flickr / Meal Makeover Moms

This originated in the U.K. in the 17th century. English Puritans banned the consumption of figgy pudding because of its high alcohol content, but those who knew how to get down loved it. Medieval lore dictated that this dessert could only be made on the 25th Sunday after Trinity Sunday. It originally included 13 ingredients, which represented Christ and the 12 Apostles. Today, figgy pudding isn’t seen on tables that often, but it remains popular in holiday songs.

(via mental_floss)

Knowing where these dishes come from probably won’t change your opinion on any of them, but it’s still cool to think about the fact that many before you have gorged on pumpkin pie until they were about to explode.

Read more: http://www.viralnova.com/holiday-food-origins/

[notinmyvocab]

Horror Story

I meant to post this yesterday on Halloween. Oops, haha. Here’s a short horror story I wrote for my English class. Enjoy!

Warnings: T, some gore

Whack!

The sickening sound of the meat cleaver hitting a joint resonated in the bloodied room. It was a sound that always made me cringe, which struck me as ironic: the owner of a butchery not liking cutting up meat. That was why it had never been my job until now.

I had always been in the office doing the finances or ringing out customers. Numbers were more of my thing while the actual butchering was left to my business partner, Janice. That was something she never, ever let me forget. Every single day, she would always manage to bring up how she did the hard work; how she was the reason we were still in business. I had never denied that her job was vital, but I once tried to argue with her by saying that the money side of things was just as important. I remember her reaction so clearly: she had acted like she hadn’t even heard me. Instead, she had gone on about how much work she was doing and thank god she was around otherwise this place would never have gotten off the ground. I had never been more pissed off in my life.

Whack!

The meat cleaver cut through the ligaments, separating the leg from the rest of the carcass that hung on a hook from the ceiling. I wrinkled my nose as I tossed the leg onto the gleaming metal table to be properly butchered. It landed with a loud clang!

This job was turning out to be a lot easier than I originally thought. Janice had always made it out like it was so taxing and something that only a select few people were capable of doing. Yet here I was doing the exact same job with relative ease. The only thing that I found troublesome was the mess. There was red everywhere. The meat was fresh and every cut made blood pour out. It looked like red Kool-Aid but I doubted it was as delicious.

Janice never complained about the mess, and I gave her props for that. It was, after all, a very messy job. She never seemed to mind. What she did mind was everything else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that she would just complain and complain. It was astounding that I managed to put up with it for years; I was bound to snap at some point.

Opening up a butchery together seemed like such a good plan in college. Janice and I had never been close friends, but we had gone to the same university and intended on moving to the same small town after graduation. I wanted to put my business degree to good use, and the one thing the small town was lacking was a local butchery. It seemed like a brilliant idea, and a partnership was born. That had been my first mistake: starting a business with someone I didn’t like all that much. I thought it would have been fine. I thought that becoming business partners would have helped us become friends.

It didn’t.

We had been civil with each other at first, but there was clearly tension between us especially a month after our grand opening. The butchery wasn’t a total failure, but it wasn’t as successful as we had hoped. Everyone in town preferred to stay with their old routine of just picking up prepackaged meat at the supermarket. We were making money, but it wouldn’t be enough to make ends meet after a few months. It became a blame game between Janice and me: who wasn’t doing their job well enough? Janice became more passive aggressive, then just plain aggressive. I would overhear her badmouthing me to friends, to customers, and then straight to my face. I just couldn’t take it anymore!

Whack! Whack! Whack!

I brought the meat cleaver down on the leg, getting off as much of the meat from the bone as I could. This part was going to be a little trickier; I wasn’t entirely sure of what was okay to leave on the meat, and what should be taken off. There wasn’t much fat, so was it better if I left some of it on? Should I take off the skin? Janice would have known what to do. She had been annoying as hell and insubordinate, but she knew how to do her job.

Maybe getting rid of her was a mistake? She was good at what she did, but she had just been so irritating. She had been too critical of me and never shut her mouth. Going into business with her had been the wrong choice, and now that poor decision was rectified. Janice was gone, and I was the sole owner of the butchery. Well, I would be as soon as Janice was officially declared dead.

I turned on the grinder and it whirred to life. I decided I would just grind up the meat so I wouldn’t have to worry about how to cut the tender filets. I took the hunks of meat and plopped them into the grinder. Pink mush squelched out of the other end of the grinder. I found myself mesmerized at the sight of the meat suddenly transformed into the pile of pink, a color much softer than the harsh red that stained my gloves. Maybe someone would take that pile of pink home and cook it up for dinner? I would need to mix it with some actual ground beef so that there would be enough to sell. Janice, though muscular, had been rather slim and could only give so much product.

[arplis]

Arplis - News: Hungry for Words Podcast: Vietnamese Chef Andrea Nguyen

Welcome to episode 2 of the Hungry for Words podcast starring best-selling author and chef Kathleen Flinn. In this episode, Kathleen talks to noted Vietnamese food writer, chef, and author Andrea Nguyen about everything from dumplings and pho to her dramatic escape from her home country in 1975 at the height of the war.    Andrea is the author of several books, including the classic Into the Vietnamese Kitchen, Asian Tofu and Asian Dumplings, and The Pho Cookbook. Get more about Andrea - plus the recipe for the Rotisserie Chicken Pho - from the episode here on Hungry for Words. Below is a partial transcription of the podcast. Kathleen: Hello and welcome to "Hungry for Words, The Podcast," in which I talk to the most interesting people writing about the food, I make some of the recipes and then we talk about it, and you get to listen in. I'm your host, Kathleen Flinn. Today, I'll be talking to Andrea Nguyen, an award-winning author of numerous books on the cuisine of her homeland, including the classic, "Into the Vietnamese Kitchen." We'll talk about her latest book, "The Pho Cookbook" over steaming bowls of the noodle soup. We'll also talk about dumplings, tofu, and how her family dramatically escaped the war-torn country in 1975. This episode of "Hungry for Words" is sponsored by Wolf, encouraging you to reclaim your kitchen starting with one home-cooked family meal per week. Visit reclaimthekitchen.com for tips, techniques and recipes from Wolf cooking tools. And by our media partner, foodista.com. Join a passionate community of food lovers at foodista.com. And by our partner, Book Larder, Seattle's community cookbook bookstore. Learn more at booklarder.com. Tomorrow, I'm gonna interview Andrea, and I have her book, "The Pho Cookbook." Forever, I thought it was pho, I think it's still pronounced pho. And I have to say I've never actually attempted to make pho, but I am really excited about it. So I was looking through it and she has a whole bunch of different recipes. So she has the classic beef, classic chicken, and they look great, but they also look like they take four or five hours, which I don't really have. So then I was looking at her quick chicken pho, which sounded really good, but she said it was pho-ish, so it's not really pho. But then I'm flipping through and then I see something that she calls Pho Ga Quay, Rotisserie Chicken Pho, and I was like, "That has my name all over it." And I like this because, to me, I felt like it was sort of more real stock-ish because you take the actual chicken carcass, according to her recipe, you take it, you kind of break it up, and then you simmer it along with celery and apple and napa cabbage and carrot and cilantro. Now, I'm taking the star anise, cloves, some coriander seeds, and cinnamon, and then over medium heat, you toast the spices for several minutes. I'm now going to add some ginger and some onion. And then now, I'm gonna add in all the chicken and all the other stuff, and you let that simmer for about an hour, and then see how it goes. And now, I'm going to strain it. And I have to say, it smells pretty great. I'm going to put it aside till tomorrow. Hey, welcome to Seattle. Andrea: Thank you so much. And you know, I have to say, when I walked through you're door, I smelled this beautiful fragrance of pho, and I was so happy. Kathleen: I have to tell you, I started it last night, at like 9:00, and I wasn't done until about midnight. Because I had to go shopping, I just all of a sudden went, "Wait, she's coming tomorrow and I got to go get that stuff and figure out what I'm gonna make." But I picked the rotisserie chicken pho. Is it pho? Andrea: It's pho if you want to really impress a Vietnamese native speaker, but if you just say... Kathleen: Pho. Andrea: Yeah, pho, like you're asking a question. Kathleen: Kind of like how a Valley girl says it, like, "Pho?" Andrea: Yeah, like "I want some pho right now." Kathleen: Okay, I want some pho. Andrea: Yeah, yeah. Kathleen: All right. Well, this is, like, the most helpful pronunciation guide, I have to tell you. Andrea: Always add a question mark at the end of the word pho. Kathleen: Pho? Andrea: Yeah. Kathleen: All right. So other question I have to ask you is how you pronounce your last name. Andrea: It's pronounced Nguyen, like N-hyphen-W-I-N. Kathleen: "N-win." Andrea: You can always "Win" and it will always be like a win-win situation, I suppose. Kathleen: My husband and I were having this whole conversation about last night. And I thought, "Oh, my gosh, I'm gonna mispronounce your name. I'm gonna pho wrong." So here we go. So it's all good. Your other books are easier, there was tofu, I can say that. That's pretty clear. And dumplings, which are universal. Andrea: You know, pho is a new word for the American-English language dictionary. And so one of the problems is that we know we no longer have to put an accent mark on it, so it looks like pho. Kathleen: Yeah, that' true. Because if you walk around international district, they all have the, you know... Andrea: The diacritics. Kathleen: Yeah. Andrea: And those things look so funky, and there's like two of them on that letter O, and so I always tell people, like, in Vietnamese, when it's just P-H-O without any of funny little cookie dickies, you know, accent marks, that is pronounced pho, and once that you get a little side hook on the O, then that is pronounced pho. But then once that you have a little question mark above the O, it become pho. Kathleen: And pho is what we're talking about. Andrea: Correct. You know, pho is a word that is based upon a Chinese term for flat rice noodles, fun. I don't really believe that there is a precursor for, like, the other words for pho. It's just pho. It's almost like a word that Vietnamese people, they sort of...they adapted from Cantonese, or their pidgin version of Cantonese way back when pho originated in the early part of the 20th century. Kathleen: Interesting. In reading your book, you talked about that being the origin of pho, right, was in the early 20th century. Andrea: Yes, and there's a lot of murky mythology about the origin of pho. And so some people have, who allows it, "Oh my gosh, you know, it came from French pot-au-feu because look how pho sounds like feu, fire, in pot-au-feu." So the French were in Vietnam at that time as the colonial overlords of Vietnam. And they began slaughtering a lot of cattle. And the Vietnamese were using the cattle as draft animals, not as food. And all of sudden, there were these scraps sitting around. And there was a particular water buffalo noodle soup that was being served on the streets in and around Hanoi. So we're talking about the northern part of Vietnam, the northern part closest to the border with China. So this noodle soup made with water buffalo had like these little round rice noodles, like rice vermicelli. All of sudden, there were sales on beef. And people didn't have a taste for beef, but the sales were really good, because the butchers were like, "Hey, we got to get rid of these really like tough cuts of meat and bones." And the food vendors were like, "Oh, here's a business opportunity," and they started switching out the water buffalo for the beef. And then along the way, they were like, "This tastes better with flat rice noodles instead of..." So we're talking about noodles that look so, like, pad thai, or linguine shape. And so they made that switch and it became like this hit with a lot of working-class folks who were, like, working on the shipping, like merchant ships on the river there, in Northern Vietnam. And as Hanoi became more urbanized, the noodle spread throughout the city, and so it became this city thing, and it became a food vendor thing. So you can imagine, like, you know, the 21st century version would be like, I don't know, taco truck, you know, [inaudible 00:08:23] taco trucks gone wild. And here's like the noodle soup's like "Woo hoo!" Everybody goes crazy for it. And people from all different walks of life come to pho and have pho at the table, and they're eating it out on the street. Kathleen: And I bet it was probably inexpensive if they were making it, essentially, out of rice noodles and these super cheap cuts of beef. I have one question though. Where did the water buffalo come from beforehand? Andrea: They are also a primary draft animal in Vietnam and throughout Southeast Asia. They are placid animals that we love, and so like when you look at Vietnamese art, oftentimes, you'll see a little boy painted atop a water buffalo in the rice patty and everyone looks at that and everyone goes, "Oh, it's the water buffalo." And at certain times, you know, the water buffalo is harvested, but oftentimes, the water buffalo is just out in the field working. If you were to travel to Vietnam, you would still see in rural areas, sometimes, you know, water buffalo roaming. And they have a special place in our hearts. Kathleen: Let's try the pho that I made. I will say that I was kinda like, hmm, I'm kinda nervous because I'm making this for the first time and I'm cooking for an expert. Andrea: I love food that whoever cooks for me, and this smells really, really good. Kathleen: Oh, thanks. Andrea: I'm not gonna talk for that much, or I'm gonna talk with my mouth open. It's aerating things. Kathleen: It's aerating, I like that. Andrea: I think you did a bang-up job. Kathleen: Thank you. Andrea: Pho is about the noodle soup but it's also about the spices and it's about the experience and it's about the noodles. And I thought to myself, you know, how can I tell people about making, creating their own pho experience so the spice blend, the pho spice blend really allows me to do that. You know, it's got the star anise, and fennel, and coriander, and cinnamon, and clove, and black pepper. And I'll use it in lieu of five-spice. I will also mix it with salt and create like a rub for steaks. Kathleen: So let's talk about the whole condiment thing, because to me, this has always been part of the whole experience. You go and they bring you all the stuff and how are you supposed to eat it. And it's interesting, because earlier in the book, you said you guys didn't do that. You're much, much more purer. Andrea: It's because my parents were both born in Northern Vietnam. And their pho experience was one that was not born from bodacious Southern Vietnamese living. So they both migrated from Northern Vietnam to Southern Vietnam and settled in Saigon. And this is like the '50s and my father was a military governor and he went all over the provinces and stuff. So they were familiar with southern food, but there were certain things that they're very traditional about.

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