Southern Perlo—a Charleston rice dish loaded with local bounty to extend and enhance its value and taste. Perlo is carefully crafted: its recipe handed down and modified by experience, enjoyed by all.
Cheek to Cheek
Charleston is an old southern city filled with fury and opinion. From the times of the American Revolution, Charleston has thrived in controversy large and small. Even mundane activities of living had a hard edge. My own grandmother used to wring the neck of chickens to be cooked for supper. My father's friends shot and field-dressed deer, and on weekends we ate catfish, fished from the bottom of the river beds. The taste of life was a remainder that the practice of living was unwavering in its attention and required time and vigilance and strength.
But I haven't seen a chicken head snapped from its feathered body in fifty years. I worry now about additives, chemicals, the invisible challenges that creep in the darkness and tear at health and hope, crippling the full measure of living free, of breathing w/out worry or fear. I guess I share that profound invisible sense of the darkness, of a threat from a distant shore of fear with John McClain. Much of his campaign is built upon defending, defeating, digging in against things unseen: terror, enemies, disrespectful countries, irresponsible pols--government itself. Fueled by fast growth aided by artificial means, consumption has caught up with us. Last month, every day, 5,000 jobs disappeared. Last month, we spent 10 billion dollars in Iran. Last month, (actually a couple of months ago) Bear, Sterns sold for less than the real estate value of its New York corporate headquarters. Last month, Merrill Lynch (Fenner and Smith) joined the colossal retail giant, Bank of America.
Yet these new fevers and accelerating changes don't seem to bother John McClain. Impervious, he ignores the swiftly creeping economic tsunami that is ripping up the very foundations of employment and housing. He has no plan for the manning the bulwarks against these powerful tides that are traveling across the globe. He seems to want to manage the Senate, killing ear marks, and to act as Secretary of Defense, sending troops to achieve the goals of our "no talk" policy. It is telling that the American President, who is from the same party as McClain, has not hit the campaign trail on his behalf.
Fall is the season of harvest. It brings the sweet nutty fruit of pecans, of greens cooked after the first frost. Charleston is many things to visiting tourists, but locals reminder when it was a farm-to-market town, no different than other southern towns, a town of brawny production, of handpicked and shipped tomatoes, lettuce, rice, corn, soybeans, of timber for houses cut from old growth forests.
This year, local mills have cut back on production shifts and laid off men with families. The once daily farmer's market is only on Saturdays now, and offers blintzes and coffee by local roasters. Some weeks musical acts entertain. Tax cuts for the well-to-do just don't increase the purchasing power or job security of the middle class.
I am sipping African coffee at Kudo on Vanderhorst and it is strong and uplifting. Mixed with cream, its flavors are compelling. I like John McClain, and like him, fear the darkness. We may be standing cheek to cheek, but our heads are oriented in opposite ways. He looks for and sees that darkness in the wrong direction.
