Bubba de Tocqueville

Alexis de Tocqueville visited America between 1831-35, observing the fledgling democracy's social and political metamorphosis.  His report on this trip, Democracy in America, is often cited as the beginning of political and social science.  One hundred and seventy some-odd years later, the Texpat ventures back along that same trail, not to study the resulting democracy with all its bickering and bullying (Tocqueville is doubtlessly spinning in his grave), but to visit his Mommy for Christmas,  and see friends, and remind his taste buds that there are some really good things in the USA, and food is one of them.

Arrived in Houston 1/2 hr late on Saturday, the 11th. Not bad, given we were a full hour late leaving the gate at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. The airline made up for its good performance in timekeeping by losing one of my bags...the 55€ one. At least that's what I call it...having to pay that much to Air France for the short hop to Paris from Nantes.  Continental, once again, managed to give me the only seat on the aircraft with a faulty audio/video system.  I could change channels within a mode (video or audio), but could not change from one mode to another without having to have my seat "rebooted" as he called it.  Somewhat apprehensive about the seat rebooting, I managed to complete the flight without too much trouble.  At least until I got to the baggage carosel.
My friends W.T. and Becky picked me up at the airport and the feasting began.
Sample plates so far:
Dinner: BBQ Ribs & Pulled Pork
Breakfast:  three eggs, chopped steak, biscuits, home fries, grits, (wa coffee)
Lunch: Schlotzsky's Original Sub (Funny name, serious sandwich...so true)
Dinner: Enchiladas al Caron w/bean soup (to die for Tex-Mex and the best bean soup anywhere!)
Lunch: Malaysian noodles w/calamari (The Banana Leaf rocks!)
Dinner: Roast beef, mashed potatoes, turnips w/ham, cornbread and biscuits (wa coffee)
Lunch: Enchiladas w/bean soup (not nearly as good as Two Amigos)
Dinner: Double order fried chicken gizzards  (a Cardiologist's favorite I'm sure)
Lunch: Buffalo Burger
Breakfast: two eggs, hashbrown casserole, grits, hamburger patty and biscuits (wa coffee)
Lunch: Chicken and Dumplings, turnip greens w/ham, mashed potatoes, corn, cornbread and biscuits (wa coffee)

(wa coffee: "weak American coffee."  I've been spoiled by the French café.)

The culinary piéce de résistance so far, occurred on my trip to Fla. Turning south on Hwy 19 just east of Tallahassee, I made for one of my favorite little "spots" on the planet. Can't even tell you the name, but I stop there every year.  It's a little roadside citrus, pecan, touristy-trap sort of place on the north side of Hwy 19 just east of where 19 meets Hwy 27 in Capps.  What's the big deal? I'll tell you what the big deal is.   Boiled peanuts. Yep. Boiled peanuts.

I've seen peanuts everywhere I've ever been, and frequently in many cuisines I've eaten. They are a staple in Vietnamese cooking, and in bags, roasted and salted, everywhere in the world, I suspect. You can even find them raw in many places, and I'm right fond of those as well. But real boiled (or "biled" as is often said in the south) peanuts are hard to find anywhere, except Florida...especially north and central Florida. I purchased three pounds of the little wonders split between two plastic baggies placed in brown paper sacks; one for immediate consumption, the other for later...if it makes it.

It's a cathartic experience, bringing one, I think, as close to God as you can get while motoring down a U.S. highway on a bright, sunny Tuesday afternoon in December. And, as with all good things done well, there's a process involved.
Paying careful attention to the traffic, one dedicates the left hand to the steering wheel, as the right becomes the bringer of good things, the cornucopia of cacahuétes, traveling metronomically from the bag to the mouth, a perpetual motion until supply is utterly exhausted.  The hand reaches into the plastic baggy (legally, this time), gently grasping a succulent tuber and bringing it upward, toward the mouth, allowing one, with a glance, to quickly determine the correct orientation of the wonderfully warm legume. It must be turned carefully, aligned just so, in order to ensure the growth '"seam" is positioned perpendicular to the line formed by the waiting teeth that are opening slightly in anticipation as if pulled so by the lever of the approaching arm. The nut is placed precisely between the front teeth carefully and gently.   The "bite" is almost nonexistent, the merest soupçon of suggestion, for it is all that is required to initiate the slightest crack in the moist, now-softened outer shell.  The "split" is sensed, seemingly heard, followed immediately by the sensation of the warm, salty fluid that has managed, somehow, to penetrate the inner sweetness of the shell.  It is a saline ambrosia, fit for kings, to be savored as the right-hand joins the left at the top of the steering wheel to pull apart the now weakened seam exposing the shiny nude, and almost perfectly round, dark seeds within.  Two?  Three?  Four, sometimes.  One can guess but is often surprised by the count, and, almost always by the taste.  For boiled peanuts are like the people you meet in life;  most are good, some are great, and every now and then you encounter a bad one.  But the bad is to be tolerated, and, perhaps, even appreciated somewhat.  What else could make the great ones so good?
Finished, one 1 1/2 pound bag of boiled peanuts.  Awaiting: another one!