“Watch out for my uncle, he's a cannibal!”

That’s the way my nieces and nephews introduce me to their friends--oh wait, so does Ken Albala. I should probably point out that the ages of the children (not including my co-editor, who is a child only in the best metaphorical sense) range from eight to sixteen--those magical years when the ability to gross out one’s friends is an important tool in achieving social status. It pleases me to be able to furnish a small frisson of disgust in order to aid in their quest for popularity.

I hasten to add that I am not, in fact, an anthropophagist. I have read and written a lot about cannibals , though--enough, to be sure, to know that my interest in the consumption of human flesh is purely academic.

Mostly academic.

Well, somewhat academic.

There is a small, deeply buried part of me that is still (some people might argue that it’s neither as small nor as deeply buried as I believe) adolescent. Let’s just say I’m adolescent enough to enjoy watching the moment of transient fear and confusion that flickers across people’s faces when they discover my obsession with cannibals. Most of them know of my interest in food and cooking--indeed, many of them have eaten meals I’ve prepared. In that brief darkening expression, one can almost see them counting off past dinners at my house, and wondering if they should have been more concerned about the identity of the main ingredients.

What I find curious, however, is that once their momentary social awkwardness passes, people who believed they knew nothing about such a disreputable subject start spouting little facts--and alleged facts--they’ve accumulated in normal life (perhaps when they, themselves, were adolescents). Sometimes they mention famous criminal cases, sometimes they repeat old clichés about encounters of explorers and missionaries with savage eaters of men, but most often they tell cannibal jokes.

There’s something about the idea of munching on a nice leg o’ man that makes everyone want to be a comedian.

Jokes are, in part, a way of hiding real anxiety about touchy subjects, but this is more than just nervous laughter; it’s clear that these people like to discuss eating people--supposedly, the ultimate taboo--once someone else is kind enough to bring up the subject. William Bueller Seabrook, a man who acquired more first-hand knowledge about the fundamental facts of cannibalism than most of the civilized people who talk about it--including myself--wrote about cannibals in 1931: “Even aside from their delightful humorous aspect they are a highly interesting and wholly legitimate subject, whether for the adventurer or the learned anthropologist.”

Cannibals are fascinating, and our fascination with them is, in itself...ummm...ahhhh...fascinating.

Of course, nothing interests us more than ourselves, and Ambrose Bierce (in an 1868 essay, "Did We Eat One Another?") carried that rather obvious observation to its logical conclusion: “Our uniform vanity has given us the human mind as the acme of intelligence, the human face and figure as the standard of beauty. Of course we cannot deny to human fat and lean an equal superiority over beef, mutton and pork.”

This little collection does not aim to resolve the question of the superiority of human fat and lean over beef, mutton and pork, or whether humans should, or should not, be on the menu -- but I like to think that some of the tales here will add appreciably to the range of topics available for discussion over dinner.

If such talk puts others off their feed, so be it--it just means that there will all the more leftovers for us.

besides being our food history editor, Gary Allen is the co-editor, along with Ken Albala of Human Cuisine. (You just can't make this stuff up.)

Birds of a Feather

In her 1987 work A Birdwatcher's Cookbook, late author and ornithologist Erma Fisk ("Jonnie" to her friends) doesn't have much to say about the sophisticated, discriminating concept of appetite. Instead, she caters to people who cook out of hunger: to those for whom it is a hobby and a pleasure but also a necessity, to those who can't run to the store when their three perfect courses don't go as planned, to cooks whose lives beyond the kitchen sometimes override those within it, and to those who have to improvise when culinary disaster strikes. In other words, she's practical.

Yet what constitutes "practical" changes with time, and after 21 years, many of the recipes in A Birdwatcher's Cookbook are dated. Canned cream-of-mushroom and instant onion soups, both of which make appearances throughout, just don't play like they used to. Despite such shortcomings, the book's appeal lives on nonetheless. Chalk it up to Fisk's one-of-a-kind charisma.

Her unique brand of kitchen wisdom includes wisecracks, rants, lessons in natural history, and philosophical meanderings--all alongside recipe instructions that border on stream-of-consciousness, with rhetorical questions scattered here and there, like birdseed, for the reader ("Did I mention that already?" she wonders aloud, midway through steps). The bookflap of the original edition even includes a photo of Fisk in which she looks like a wise, ornery owl, surrounded by darkness and peering out suspiciously from the right edge of the frame.

That quirky attitude fills the book. At its very beginning, Fisk dispenses with a foreword and instead gives the reader a warning, which she divides into statements, like a manifesto. One in particular sets the tone for the chapters to come:

If guests are hungry, they will eat anything, I've found, especially if they are sitting about the kitchen or standing (usually in the way) while you bustle about, tantalizing them with fragrances from your kettles. I've tested most of these dishes. Some I don't particularly like, but others do, so maybe you will.

It's easy to disregard remarks like that as glib. But press on through the stories and travelogues (cleverly disguised as recipes), and you discover that Fisk really does mean it. She's certainly had plenty of hungry guests to test her theory on: For decades, she moved through the western hemisphere, along with the seasonal bird migrations, crossing two continents and a handful of islands, from the arctic to the tropics. All the while, she cooked whatever she got her hands on--for her peers, mentors, family, friends, and, eventually, her students.

A colleague in Belize taught her how to roast the armadillos that had terrorized her garden; another, in the Caribbean, informed her that a well-cooked termite tastes like shrimp, and that a raw one tastes like pineapple (understandably, the latter claim is from one of the recipes that the author herself didn't test). A farm woman in Pennsylvania passed on her recipe for scrapple, a regional specialty, which calls for a 48-gallon kettle, three pigs, one steer, two pounds of coriander, and enough cornmeal and flour that the long-simmered mixture pulls away from the pot when stirred. At the end of the recipe, Fisk nonchalantly suggests that the reader may want to scale down the proportions for his or her own purposes.

Fisk also relates firsthand how the intimacy that birders share with nature leads them to waste nothing--even if it means consuming the occasional subject. At a birdbanding station she ran in south Florida, where the locals brought her fresh birds that had met accidental deaths, she found "mourning-dove breasts wrapped in bacon excellent, grosbeaks tough, cedar waxwings and robins tender." When a friend of hers, a well-known ornithologist, found out she was compiling a cookbook, he refused to disclose his method for cooking the white ibis that native guides liked to supply on research trips in the tropics. His grant money depended too much on his image as a conservationist.

That's the extreme end of things. Your taste for birds doesn't need to be quite so literal to enjoy the rest of the book. Plenty of recipes offer sustenance for early-rising birders: overnight oatmeal prepared directly in the thermos; a slapdash affair called Lazy Biscuits, stuffed with ham or cheese; and Bus Breakfast Spread, a vaguely Mediterranean blend of bananas, honey, walnuts, raisins, and cream cheese, favored by young, itinerant Audubon researchers. None of the dishes will win you a Beard Award, but that's missing Fisk's point. Regardless of what you're hungry for, be it market-fresh nettles, hand-picked morels, or a glimpse at a white-eyed vireo during the great spring migrations that are just winding up for the year, Fisk's ultimate commandment is this: Get outside, appreciate the season, and take in the bounty it offers.

Catch David on "Martha Stewart Radio"

Tune into "Living Today" on Sirius Radio Channel 112 at 1:00 p.m. on Monday, May 19th. I'll discuss the barbecued ribs article I wrote for the June issue of Martha Stewart Living, which hits newsstands the same day. I'll also talk about my favorite topic: Portuguese food. You can even call in and ask questions. If you don't have a Sirius Radio account, you can sign up for a free three-day trial.

Guest Post: Pimiento Cheese

Barbecue, catfish, and grits are true Southern culinary icons, to be sure. Yet despite their humble beginnings, these Dixie-born gems have gone on to become quite popular across the country. As a result, it's not particularly difficult to find foods such as Memphis-style barbecue or garlic-cheese grits in New York or LA (and I don't mean Lower Alabama).

Enter pimiento cheese.

Now, if you read the Otis, My Man! post back in March, you know that pimiento cheese is one of my favorite foods. I'll happily eat it morning, noon, or night (and all times in between).

First off, in my neck of the woods, the word pimiento is pronounced "PUH-minnuh" (just like the old guys in the bait shop pronounce minnow, only without the "PUH").

A cookbook codifying one true recipe for pimiento cheese, let alone the many regional variations such as adding smoked paprika or jalapeno peppers, is almost impossible to find; favorite recipes seem to survive by way of oral tradition. Therefore, the popularity of this unique spread remains largely confined to states below the Mason-Dixon, where it rightfully assumes its place as an authentic Southern delicacy.

So what exactly is pimiento cheese? To the uninitiated, it's little more than a one-dimensional combination of grated cheese, some chopped pimiento peppers, and a dollop or two of mayonnaise. However, to those passionate fans who rank pimiento cheese right up there beside cold fried chicken and deviled eggs as essential provisions at any proper picnic, it's more, much more. (Speaking of deviled eggs, try substituting pimiento cheese for mayonnaise in your favorite recipe.)

Novelist and North Carolinian native Reynolds Price says, "It was the peanut butter of my childhood." As an adult, he now swears by its restorative powers. "I've been caught eating a pound in two days, especially if life is hard. On rough brown bread, it's a sovereign nerve salve," he admits. To other devotees, a tub of pimiento cheese in the kitchen becomes a multifunctional must-have--elevating an ordinary grilled cheese to something heavenly (particularly when combined with sliced Roma tomatoes and crispy bacon) and dramatically raising the bar on the everyday cheeseburger and omelet.

Admirers regularly agree that sharp cheddar cheese is the backbone of the mixture--the sharper, the better. High-quality mayonnaise, such as Hellmann's or Duke's, is also a given. But here's where the opinions begin to fork off in more directions than tributaries leading into the Mississippi. On the issue of texture, should the cheese be grated or mashed? If grated, does coarse or fine yield the best results? If mashed, is the fork or the modern food processor the best tool? Then there are the legions who make pimiento cheese by running all ingredients through a meat grinder (a.k.a. "the old-fashioned way").

In my search for the definitive blend, I asked Mary Allen Perry, a member of the Southern Living Foods team (and long recognized for her exemplary pimiento cheese-making skills), to share her secret recipe. She happily (and thankfully) agreed. However, Perry, giving credit where credit is due, admits, "My recipe was originally that of my Great-Grandmother Kersh, who lived a vibrant life until she was 98--slim, trim, and fearless of fat content."

The recipe eventually made its way to Perry's aunt Carolyn, who added a touch of Worcestershire sauce and finely grated onion. "They worked by taste and feel, dismissing the exactness of measurement," says Perry, explaining how she drew upon childhood memories to record this fabulous formula. So, whether you use pimiento cheese to fill celery sticks or cherry tomatoes, or spread it on crackers or a slice of your favorite bread, you should feel confident with this terrific version.

Classic Pimiento Cheese
Makes 4 cups

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups mayonnaise
One 4-ounce jar diced pimiento, drained
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon finely grated onion
1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper
One 8-ounce block extra-sharp cheddar cheese, finely shredded
One 8-ounce block sharp cheddar cheese, shredded

Method
Stir together the first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; stir in the cheeses. Store in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.

Variations
Jalapeno Pimiento Cheese: Add 2 seeded and minced jalapeno peppers.

Cream Cheese-Olive Pimiento Cheese: Reduce the mayonnaise to 3/4 cup. Stir together the first 5 ingredients, one 8-ounce package softened cream cheese, and one 5 3/4-ounce jar of sliced salad olives, drained. Proceed with the recipe as directed.

Pecan Pimiento Cheese: Stir in 3/4 cup chopped pecans, toasted.

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Southern Living Executive Food Editor SCOTT JONES is a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America. Jones has received awards from the International Association of Culinary Professionals and the James Beard Foundation. In addition, he holds a degree in magazine publishing and journalism from the University of Mississippi and is the author of the Southern Living Wine Guide and Journal. Do you have a great pimiento cheese recipe? Please share it with Scott (and it might even make it into the magazine).