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Everything But the Squeal book cover

I just finished reading “Everything But the Squeal,” writer John Barlow’s quest to eat each and every part of the pig. While in the Galicia region of Northern Spain, he ate parts that I could never fathom stomaching—think pig feet and ears—but the book inspired me to look past the ordinary choices such as chops and bacon.

I have also spent some time in Spain, on the southern coast, and when I arrived as an exchange student almost three years ago, I had quite a few culinary restrictions. By the time I set foot back on American soil, those had all but disappeared. I had eaten morcilla, the famous blood sausage that my host parents described to me simply as pig’s blood and failed to mention that other ingredients, such as bits of pork, rice or onions, generally make an appearance as well. I also feasted on the incredibly tender pig’s cheek in a local bar. Initially the giant pig’s leg resting on our kitchen counter grossed me out. But by the time I left, I found myself cutting my own slices of Serrano ham each time I passed it.

On a trip to New York City last weekend, I decided to further my own pig-eating journey and order pork belly at a gastropub aptly name The Spotted Pig. To whet my appetite (and bear the 2 ½ hour wait on a Saturday night), I ordered an appetizer that came recommended from the bartender: Devils on Horseback. She explained that even though the ingredients sounded weird (pickled pear stuffed in a prune wrapped in bacon), they were delicious. And they were. Chalk it up to another victory for the ever-popular meat and fruit combo.

My plan to order the pork belly didn’t pan out because they had taken it off the menu. Luckily, the special that night was called the Pig Plate. After verifying that the plate wouldn’t contain anything too risky, I ordered it. The plate came with a pork shoulder rillete, liver pâté terrine and head cheese with a side of toasted bread.

The rillete was delicious, salty and tender. No complaints here. I had been a little nervous about trying the liver pâté. (We’ve been using a form of liver sausage to give my dog pills for years. I lovingly referred to it as meat clay.) Nevertheless, I actually liked the pâté more than the rillete. I can cross another food phobia off my list.

I’m disappointed to say that head cheese will remain on that list, though. I had heard about head cheese, which isn’t a cheese at all, for the first time a few months ago when I was visiting a sausage shop in southern Missouri. It’s a sausage made from meat from the head and basically any other part of the pig that the butcher wants. It can even include cartilage. I declined to eat it on that trip, but figured I had to give it a try now. The head cheese on my plate had no cartilage and had a texture rather like jelly. Each piece of pig was visible, held together with a gelatin substance that is naturally found in the pig’s skull. The texture was too much for me. On an episode of No Reservations, Anthony Bourdain claimed that texture is the “the last frontier” when it comes to food and that cartilage might just be the next big thing. Count me out.

All in all, I crossed two more pig parts off my list. I doubt I’ll be eating head cheese anytime soon, but Barlow didn’t like every meal he had on his expedition either.

Sauteed loofah, courtesy of Flickr user roboppy

There aren’t too many foods that are equally at home in a stir-fry or a shower caddy. But on a trip to New York City last week, I spotted an ingredient on a Chinese restaurant menu that I would normally associate with smoothing rough elbows: loofah.

Until then, I had no idea that loofah was edible, much less worthy of adding to a soup. In fact, I didn’t even know it was a plant, at least not a terrestrial one. I was under the common (I hope) misconception that the popular exfoliating device came from the sea, like a natural sponge does. But, as I learned later, the loofah is actually a cucurbit, the family of plants that includes cucumbers and gourds (it’s sometimes even referred to as the sponge gourd, or Chinese okra). It grows in tropical regions and its fruit is common in many Asian cuisines. The form familiar to most Westerners is the dried fibrous part of the fruit.

Of course, I didn’t know any of this when I encountered it on the Chinese menu. It took a leap of faith to order a side of sauteed loofah, but out of curiosity—and for the sake of the blog—I had to do it. My mother, who was my dining companion, was equally ambivalent.

We weren’t sure what to expect; the typical shower loofah looks about as appetizing as a hair net, or a dish towel. I assumed it would not be so tough and fibrous, but would it be spongy?

After all the speculation and trepidation, it was a little anticlimactic—and a relief—when a plate of what resembled stir-fried zucchini was brought to our table. The first bite was even more reassuring: it wasn’t at all spongy, and it had a mild flavor and crunch that reminded me of cucumber. I was pleasantly surprised, even though the sauce it was served in was a little bland and oily for my taste.

When I returned home and did some research, I unearthed some more interesting-sounding recipes: Epicurious has one for loofah bread-and-butter pickles; stir-fried sponge gourd with egg and prawn, at ucancookthai.com, looks tasty; and this South Asian dish, stuffed sponge gourd, is intriguing. I’ll have to save them for another trip to a metropolitan area, though. The nearest Asian market to my rural home is a couple hours away, and the only loofah I can find in my local supermarket is in the shower products aisle.

The USDA’s Economic Research Service released a sobering report yesterday about “food security” in the United States. That term is a more nuanced way to explain what is generally called hunger, recognizing the many levels of need that exist between literal starvation and abundance. It could mean skipping meals, or going without food for an entire day. It could mean that your bank balance dictates how nutritionally balanced your meals are. It means anxiety lurking behind what should be pleasant words, like “lunch” and “dinner.”

Courtesy Flickr user tizzie

Perhaps it’s not surprising, since we’re in a recession, but I was alarmed to read these statistics: 14.6 percent of all households, or 49.1 million people, experienced food insecurity last year. That’s not only a significant increase over last year’s prevalence rate (11.1 percent), it’s the highest level reported since this annual survey began in 1995.

The number is even higher in households with children—up to a shocking 21 percent, which as the Washington Post pointed out today, means that nearly one in every four American children has experienced hunger on some level.

How is this possible in a country with the world’s largest economy and 10th-largest GDP per capita? As a point of comparison, Canada, which ranks 22nd on the global GDP scale, has a much lower rate of food insecurity, around 7 percent. On the other hand, look at this map of world hunger: Our problems pale compared to the prevalence of malnourishment in many developing countries.

Personally, I’m in the 85.4 percent of “food secure” American households. I’m generally thrifty; I shop sales and use coupons, but I don’t hew to a strict budget. I feel free to choose healthier, fresher ingredients over cheaper alternatives. Cravings and curiosity, rather than price tags, often guide what lands in my grocery cart. This report makes me feel both grateful and guilty for what I often take for granted.

The USDA offers a few resources for taking action on food security, and I know there are many worthy hunger-relief agencies out there which could use your donations of food, money or time. I don’t feel comfortable recommending a particular organization without researching it thoroughly, but if you do, please leave a comment. Here’s a starting point.

“Sustainable seafood” is a buzzword these days, but as I’ve said before, it can be confusing for consumers. Even if you carry around a list of which species to avoid buying—like the handy pocket guides published by Monterey Bay Aquarium—it’s difficult to keep track of all the details, caveats and alternate species names. There seems to be nothing clear-cut; take salmon, for example, which I ate last night.

Chilean seabass from Whole Foods, courtesy Flickr user swanksalot

As I approached the seafood counter at Whole Foods, I tried to remember what I knew about salmon. I remembered that farm-raised Atlantic salmon should be avoided, because the coastal pens where they are raised in concentrated populations can spread pollution and disease to wild fish. But there are some exceptions to that rule; the company CleanFish sells “sustainably farmed salmon” from a few producers in Scotland and Ireland.

So, wild-caught Pacific salmon seems best, but again, it depends where it comes from: wild Alaskan salmon is a “best choice” in the Seafood Watch guide, while wild Washington salmon is rated one level down, considered a “good alternative.”

One way to cut through such confusion is simply to look for the words “MSC certified” when shopping for fish; the Marine Stewardship Council’s standards are strict. I noticed this label on the wild Alaskan salmon on sale this week, and I asked the man behind the counter if they had anything else with this certification.

“Just that and the Chilean sea bass,” he answered, which baffled me.

Chilean sea bass (a.k.a. Patagonian toothfish)?!? I thought that was one of the only species that’s an obvious no-no because of severely overfishing; it’s on the “avoid” and “eco-worst” seafood lists and there was even a national “Take a Pass on Chilean Sea Bass” campaign a few years ago. Yet here it was, not only on sale at a store that emphasizes sustainability in its core values; but certified by the MSC.

Clearly, I’d missed something. And now I see what it was: the news, a few years old now, that a lone little fishery in the South Georgia and South Sandwich islands (near Antarctica) has found a way to harvest Chilean sea bass without wiping it out or harming seabirds in the process.

Bluefin tuna, courtesy Flickr user adulau

Now that I know this, maybe I’ll try the sea bass next time. But I can’t help but wonder how many consumers miss the fine print, and simply conclude that since a chain with a reputation for sustainability sells Chilean sea bass, the species must not be in trouble any more—even though it is. And with growing demand for the South Georgia fishery’s product (Wal-Mart now buys from them, too), how long can they maintain sustainable catch levels? The MSC just renewed their certification, so apparently this isn’t something they’re worried about yet.

As an aside, there is one fish species I’m aware of that truly is a clear-cut case from a sustainability perspective. Atlantic bluefin tuna is so overfished in the wild that scientists have advocated a zero-catch policy, warning that the species is on the edge of extinction. (The agency in charge has just reduced the catch quota by one-third, but many fear that is not enough.) Keep that in mind next time you’re ordering sushi.

On Saturday, I visited “Beer Planet,” as the Smithsonian Resident Associates invitingly titled their latest program at DC’s Brickskeller. Captained by Horst Dornbusch, a crew of about 100 boldly trekked through a global history of beer that featured 13 tastings.

Actually, I think the title was a bit overzealous. The tasting menu was divided into four categories: Germany, Belgium, British Isles, and North America (Maryland and Maine). Beer…Planet, you say? Well, I guess “Beers of the North Atlantic” doesn’t sound quite as cool.

Dornbusch, an engaging speaker who epitomizes the term “beer nerd,” attempted to cram a college course’s worth of world history into four hours. I groaned and settled in for a long ride when his first Powerpoint slide asked: “How long has homo sapiens been on this earth?” But somehow, we made it rather quickly through evolution, the dawn of civilization, the Sumerians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians, all while still sipping our first beer, a gentle, malty ale called “Old Brown Dog” from New Hampshire’s Smuttynose Brewing Co. (Not clear what the connection was between the beer and the topic at that point; other than the word “old.”)

Beer bubbles, courtesy Flickr user Attilla1000

No one’s sure exactly when beer was invented—it was referenced as early as the 6th century B.C. in Sumeria—or how. Dornbusch’s personal theory, that beer was invented by accident during bread-making, goes something like this: One day, someone was making bread outdoors when their work was interrupted by a big rainstorm. They ran for shelter and forgot about the dough for a day or two, then came back to discover a soupy, fermenting liquid in the bowl. They tried it, got tipsy, and said, “hey, this is good.”

Eh, that seems like a bit of a stretch, but as I don’t have a better theory to offer, we’ll go with it. Dornbusch says brewing spread to Egypt and continued to grow until Cleopatra instated a beer tax (at this, a rumble of “booooo” went around the room—the tasting seemed to be taking effect) and declined drastically after Arab conquest of the region in the 7th century, since Islamic laws proscribe drinking alcohol.

But while beer’s popularity waned in the Middle East, it was gaining ground in northern Europe. People there somehow figured out brewing (perhaps via another soggy-bread epiphany) by at least 800 B.C., based on beer residues in a Celtic amphora found in modern Bavaria. Dornbusch says the Romans were the first to invent the modern brewing process—involving malting and mashing—based on the ruins of a 179 A.D. brewery discovered in a Roman settlement near what is now Regensburg, Germany.

For this portion of the tasting, we started with a Hefeweizen from Weihenstephan, which claims to be the world’s oldest continually operating brewery, founded in 1040 A.D. by Benedictine monks. I’ve been a fan of this beer since I lived in Germany a few years ago, so I was happy to taste it again; there’s a spicy, sweet quality to it reminiscent of banana bread. Then we moved onto a Jever Pilsener—crisp and refreshing, but unspectacular—and a Reissdorf Kölsch, a pleasant, light-bodied brew which Dornbusch compared to a British pale ale.

In the early years, German beer was flavored with whatever was available to cover up its rank taste in warmer months: herbs, bark, mushrooms, or even chicken blood and bile! In 1516, Bavarian Duke Wilhelm IV issued the now-famous edict restricting the ingredients of beer to barley, hops and water. For the past century this edict has been commonly referred to as the Reinheitsgebot, or “purity law,” which irks Dornbusch. (“Ninety-five percent of it was about price fixing; this was no ‘purity law!’” he told us, pointing out that it excludes wheat and even yeast, which hadn’t been discovered yet.)

Eventually we moved on to Belgium, whose more anti-authoritarian culture is reflected in its more inventive and eccentric beers. I was sure I’d find my favorite in this country, and I was right…sort of. The beer I liked best—a dark red ale called Ommegang—is named for a Belgian festival, inspired by Belgian Trappist ales and even made with Belgian yeast, but the brewery is actually in Cooperstown, New York. Ommegang’s spiced-fruit flavor reminded me of the “drunken fig preserves” I made a few months ago, and I imagine a bottle of it would disappear from my fridge even more quickly than those did! Same goes for the two true Belgians we tasted: Saison Dupont, a bottle-conditioned farmhouse ale with coriander and orange notes, and Liefmans Kriek, a cherry lambic that tastes like fruitcake (in a good way).

In Great Britain, archaeological evidence suggests that fermented beverages date back to Neolithic times, and brewing became an industry during the Roman occupation. Ale was drunk widely in medieval Britain (hey, it was safer than water), and hops had become part of the brewing process by the 16th century.

Although not as exciting as the Belgians, the two British ales we tasted (Fuller’s ESB, and Boddington’s Mild) were highly drinkable, and the O’Hara’s Irish Stout from Carlow Brewing was every bit as good as Guinness, my first love in terms of beer.

Finally, we landed (tipsily) in North America, where we tried two brews from nearby Maryland: Flying Dog Double Dog, an “insanely hopped” IPA which I found too bitter too drink, and Clipper City’s Great Pumpkin Imperial Pumpkin Ale, which tasted like, well, pumpkin pie that someone spilled beer on. The real star of the show was the Maine-brewed Allagash Curieux Tripel Ale, which had hints of coconut, bourbon and vanilla in it after aging for two months in Jim Beam barrels.

If you could plot a trip to your own “Beer Planet,” what countries would your tastebuds pull you toward?