Front page
Silflay Hraka?

Bigwig is a systems administrator at a public university
Hrairoo is the proprietor of a quality used bookstore
Kehaar is.
Woundwort is a professor of counseling at a private university

The Hraka RSS feed

bigwig AT

Friends of Hraka
Daily Pundit
cut on the bias
Meryl Yourish
This Blog Is Full Of Crap
Winds of Change
A Small Victory
Silent Running
Dr. Weevil
Little Green Footballs
Fragments from Floyd
The Feces Flinging Monkey
Dean's World
Little Tiny Lies
The Redsugar Muse
Natalie Solent
From the Mrs.
The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler
On the Third Hand
Public Nuisance
Not a Fish
Electric Venom
Skippy, The Bush Kangaroo
Common Sense and Wonder
Neither Here Nor There
The Greatest Jeneration
Ipse Dixit
Blog On the Run
Redwood Dragon
Greeblie Blog
Have A Cuppa Tea
A Dog's Life
Iberian Notes
Midwest Conservative Journal
A Voyage to Arcturus
Trojan Horseshoes
In Context
The People's Republic of Seabrook
Country Store
Blog Critics
Chicago Boyz
Hippy Hill News
Kyle Still Free Press
The Devil's Excrement
The Fat Guy
War Liberal
Assume the Position
Balloon Juice
Iron Pen In A Velvet Glove
Freedom Lives
Where Worlds Collide
Knot by Numbers
How Appealing
South Knox Bubba
Heretical Ideas
The Kitchen Cabinet
Bo Cowgill
Raving Atheist
The Short Strange Trip
Shark Blog
Ron Bailey's Weblog
Cornfield Commentary
Northwest Notes
The Blog from the Core
The Talking Dog
WTF Is It Now??
Blue Streak
Smarter Harper's Index
nikita demosthenes
Bloviating Inanities
Sneakeasy's Joint
Ravenwood's Universe
The Eleven Day Empire
World Wide Rant
All American
The Rant
The Johnny Bacardi Show
The Head Heeb
Viking Pundit
Oscar Jr. Was Here
Just Some Poor Schmuck
Katy & Bruce Loebrich
But How's The Coffee?
Roscoe Ellis
Sasha Castel
Susskins Central Dispatch
Josh Heit
Aaron's Rantblog
As I was saying...
Blog O' Dob
Dr. Frank's Blogs Of War
Betsy's Page
A Knob for Brightness
Fresh Bilge
The Politburo Diktat
Drumwaster's rants
Curt's Page
The Razor
An Unsealed Room
The Legal Bean
Helloooo chapter two!
As I Was Saying...
SkeptiLog AGOG!
Tong family blog
Vox Beth
I was thinking
Judicious Asininity
This Woman's Work
Fragrant Lotus
Single Southern Guy
Jay Solo's Verbosity
Snooze Button Dreams
You Big Mouth, You!
From the Inside looking Out
Night of the Lepus
No Watermelons Allowed
From The Inside Looking Out
Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics
Suburban Blight
The SmarterCop
Dog of Flanders
From Behind the Wall of Sleep
Beaker's Corner
Bad State of Gruntledness
Who Tends The Fires
Granny Rant
Elegance Against Ignorance
Say What?
Blown Fuse
Wait 'til Next Year
The Pryhills
The Whomping Willow
The National Debate
The Skeptician
Zach Everson
Geekward Ho
Life in New Orleans
Rotten Miracles
The Biomes Blog
See What You Share
Blog d’Elisson
Your Philosophy Sucks
Watauga Rambler
Socialized Medicine
Verging on Pertinence
Read My Lips
The Flannel Avenger
Butch Howard's WebLog
Castle Argghhh!
Andrew Hofer
Moron Abroad
White Pebble
Darn Floor
Pajama Pundits
Goddess Training 101
A & W
Medical Madhouse
Slowly Going Sane
The Oubliette
American Future
Right Side Redux
See The Donkey
Newbie Trucker
The Right Scale
Running Scared
Ramblings Journal
Focus On Reality
Wyatt's Torch

February 25, 2003

Next stop, Hooverville Ate barbecue

Next stop, Hooverville

Ate barbecue for dinner tonight, slow-cooked at the little restaurant just up the road from us, Lewis's. I worry about them, and try to go there at least once a month. It's obviously a family owned place, probably run by a guy who spent 20 years cooking at one of the more established places in the area, likely Allen & Son's or Bullocks, before striking out on his own. I've driven past it during what should have been the height of the dinner rush, and seen only a couple of cars, or none.

That doesn't mean that he's suffering. Most of the restaurants within 5 miles of our house do 80% of their business feeding the hordes that RTP disgorges at lunch, and places that serve far worse food than Mr. Lewis stay in business quite easily. Some of them just close for good at 2, and don't even bother with the dinner crowd.

Lewis's has been there for over a year now, so they're probably doing fine. I don't know that for sure, being as I am 20 miles and 45 minutes away come noon, so Ngnat and I go in now and again and order takeout. Combo plate for me, barbecue plate for the Sainted wife, and extra hushpuppies. Ngnat gets the first fruits from each of the styrofoam containers once we get home, and prefers barbecue and hushpuppies above all other food. We've taken to given her tiny, tiny portions of each, so that when the inevitable requests for seconds, thirds and fourths come in we have some vegetable leverage.

"More? Babakoo?"

"Eat three green beans and I'll give you some more barbecue, hon."


"Eat some corn...."


And she eats some corn, or three beans and half a new potato, and gazes in greasy delight at the new forkful of pig on her plate before she vacuums it up.

Tonight she noticed my ribs. Not my personal ribs, of course. Even assuming I dined naked, which I haven't done since the Night Of The Unfortunate Fondue, they're not exactly Ethiopianically protuberant. She noticed my glazed and honeyed pork ribs. What Wilbur would have been without the damned busybody spider.

Good Pig.

"Wassat, Daddy?"

"It's a rib, honey. You want some?"


This was unexpected, as her reaction to new foods normally causes a garlic/vampire metaphor to rear its cliched and hoary head, but this time the shiny gobbets of meat must have overcome her normal antipathy to the unknown. She stopped chewing only to say "More?" until I said the hell with it and handed her a rib of her own, one with a last few shreds of meat hanging off it, greasy and glistening with sauce.

Genetics will out. She immediately popped it in her mouth and treated it like a lollipop, at which the Sainted Wife took umbrage.

"Don't teach her to suck the bone."

I'm sad to say it was all I could do to keep the sweet tea from coming out of my nose. The wife gazed at me serenely, refusing to acknowledge that anything at all might be amiss, funny, or entendred in the least. I considered several responses, but under the gaze of that bland and dangerous countenance decided that perhaps, just this one time, discretion was the better part of valor.

"Why not?"

"It's so.....thirties." This from a woman whose parents weren't even born during the Depression, whose grandparents were growing up in the coal industry swank that was Bluefield, West Virginia in the 30's.

I guess this means that I shan't be passing on my hard won knowledge of how to crack chicken legs and extract the sweet dark marrow with a splinter of bone.* I think that's a pretty good indication of the difference in growing up with just one sister, as opposed to one sister and two other brothers, both of whom would steal the bare bone of a chicken leg off an unattended plate if Dad didn't get it first.

He grew up in Mississippi in the Depression, with 10 siblings. He's a man who knows the value of marrow.**

*The ends of a fried chicken leg are soft and can be chewed off. This leaves a piece of bone about the size of a pen, where most of the marrow is found. The bone has a ridge that runs down one side. Bite down a couple of times on each end of the chicken bone at a 90 degree angle to this ridge. This should shatter the bone, and create plenty of sharp bone splinters that you can use to scrape the marrow out with.

Once you are done, the same bone splinters make handy toothpicks.

**Yes, I married up. My wife's family is from West Virginia, and I increased my relative social class by marrying into it. I have to say I have never seen them use chicken bone splinters as toothpicks.

Posted by Bigwig at February 25, 2003 11:44 PM | TrackBack
First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself.
Post a comment Note: Comments with more than two dashes per line will be blocked as spam.

Remember personal info?