Blizzard Conditions

 
This is our house on the day after Christmas. Lindsey took this picture after she trudged up the driveway through the 3/8" drifts of snow.

I love it when a plan comes together

Happy Anniversary to us!

Lindz and I celebrated our 1-year anniversary today. We were expecting to go out to dinner, but things improved from my expectations:

1)Lindsey got a gift certificate at work.
Lindz's boss had received a $100 gift certificate to a local restaurant through some sort of business gift exchange. He gave it to Lindsey for our anniversary.

2)It turns out that this is a really good little restaurant.
We had a couple of lovely steaks, and the service was exemplary. Friendly, personalized, but not the least bit smothering. Carolina, our waitress, even brought us a dessert on the house. This restaurant is Vinnie's on Six Forks Road, here in North Raleigh, if anyone is interested. They know their business.

3)With this fine dinner, we drank the bottle of wine that we received from Lindsey's brother Bill.
Beringer 1999 Bancroft Ranch Howell Mountain Merlot Napa Valley, Christmas gift from Bill Rushing: Carolina opened and decanted this wine for us. Nose - Blackberries, bing cherries, a bit of leather, a bit of alcohol. Palate - Smooooooth, dry, velvety, cherries, mineral, leather, and a hint of spicy smoke. Finish - fairly lengthy, perfectly polished, elegant.
Su-fucking-perb. Thanks, Bill.

So we had a very nice dinner, and it matched our desires admirably. The check came out to thirteen cents, before tip. The receipt is amusing to look at.

Finches

We had many finches visit us at our house. 
This is what happens when a regular finch collides with an identical finch which happens to be made of pure antimatter. 

Cinnamon Swirl Bread

 
I just pulled this out of the oven. It's classic American sandwich bread, slightly modified. King Arthur bread flour, of course.
The dainty swirl is but a hint of the cinnamon goodness that lies within.....

Alright, Alright, I have no special right to bitch

I'm sure it all started with excessively high expectations when I started. But I will say this in my defense-

-At most of my shitty jobs, at least I knew exactly how to do my job, or I could look it up somewhere.

-I had a job I liked for a little while, in San Diego. That seems to have screwed things up inside my head. I was able to concentrate on my job, not deal with the public at all, and I wrote my own job description. I never realized what an amazingly uncommon situation I was in. Unfortunately, San Diego is exorbitantly expensive, and that company was bought out eventually.

-I am a bit disheartened by how I sometimes feel exactly the same here as when I was at Starbucks or UPS. I foolishly hoped for some "more expensive and fancy" kind of stress. Pretty naive, now that I think of it.

Maquilladora

(Drinking Boxing Roo Shiraz 2002 and listening to "Main Vein" by Jamiroquai)

Really now. How do I explain my uncanny ability to get shitty jobs? Granted, this one has qualities about it that are less shitty than others, but I hate it. I dread going to work, I have no sense of satisfaction when I leave work, and I still live paycheck to paycheck. It's the same damned thing as shoveling lattés at Starbucks or spraining my lumbar loading trucks at UPS. The only differences are:
-I use bigger words (cryoglobulinemia, granuloma annulare, or pleural effusion, for example)
-People, after asking what company I work for, don't find themselves forced to find charitable things to say
-I have more numerous and ominous-sounding opportunities to fuck up now

("Caridad Amaro" by Chucho Valdes)

I'm perpetually swamped with work, I seem to have less and less of a clear idea of how to do my job, and other people are making bushels of money. I'm part of an inconceivably vast system of bullshit. The pharmaceutical industry is such a monster. Greed, fear, red tape, hypocrisy, litigiousness, crushing inertia, it has it all. It's drudgery. I'm annoyed. I want to not hate going to work. I've seen it happen in my life, but only occasionally. I should make this a fair and balanced rant, though. Better things than a year or so ago:
-I'm not working at UPS
-I'm not waiting tables at a lame-ass Mexican Restaurant in Yuppie Hell (Cary), NC
-I'm happily married to the woman I crossed the continent to be with
-I live in a house

("Break Away" by John Mayer)

There are always things to be thankful for. However, the recurring need to talk myself out of quitting is troubling to me. I don't want to sedate myself and stop caring about my work. I've tried it before; it doesn't really work. I simply need to rectify the fact that I've landed in a Medical Communications Sweatshop. The knowledge I disseminate to doctors helps people beat cancer. I have to force myself to remember that it's different from hunching over a sewing machine in China. It is, right?

The Awful Rowing Toward Payday

I haven't written anything in weeks.
My wife is cooking spinach enchiladas, and the house is perfumed by the cumin she crushed in our 8" mortar and pestle.
I've worked my way through most of a bottle of Pete's Wicked Ale with little difficulty.
My job is a drag. I'm disappointed. Pharmaceutical sales reps are assholes (some of them are very nice however), and I don't feel much different than when I worked at Starbucks or UPS. The pay and benefits are a bit better, but I'm still curiously impecunious. I provide information that ultimately helps people get well, and probably prolongs quite a few lives. But before that happens, some impatient, rude asswipe of a sales rep gets a bigger paycheck than I do. I have to explain to these people what the FDA considers an Adverse Event, and, by extension, what they are supposed to do when some doctor's patient gets a rash when they're taking one of our drugs. I'm an English Major working in the Medical Communications Department, and I'm forced to be the role model of clinical rigor. Where the fuck is my raise?

Ahh. That's a little better.

Good things:
-My wife
-My beer
-My 401k, which I'm finally able to start building. Sounds materialistic, but I'm beginning to have long term thoughts.
-My health
-The books I'm reading currently:Moby-Dick, The Iliad, Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, and the occasional cookbook perusal

dinner time.

Thanksgiving 2004

 
I went for a traditional and loving execution of the classics.
The menu:
A 12.23-pound Kosher turkey (basted with a bit of butter and oven-roasted, otherwise unandorned)
Confit of cranberries and carmelized onions
Garlic mashed potatoes, unpeeled
Asparagus steamed with maple syrup and white wine
Stuffing of homemade bread cubes, carmelized onions, bacon, apples and sage
Gravy of turkey drippings (with a reasonable amount of fat skimmed off) thickened with roux
The wine: DuBoeuf Beaujolais Nouveau 2004
The dessert: Classic pumkin pie, crafted by my wife and her Mum.

Crab, Chardonnay, and my Wife- a Study in Superlatives 

Jack Lawrence and Doc Watson in Charlotte, NC. Pure, unadulterated music. 

A Sobering

(listening to Henryk Gorecki's Symphony No. 3, Op. 36 "Symphony of Sorrowful Songs")

Connie, the mother of Ali (the mother of my daughter Claire), has cancer. She has been given a year. The exact type of cancer is unknown at this time, but it has metastasized into her bones. She is not well. She is in her fifties.

Her spirits are good; she is strong, and she has no fear. My heart is heavy for those who love her, though. Hope is not lost, but the situation is grim.

I suppose the fact that I work for a company that makes cancer drugs only makes it worse. I am aware of the medical complexity, the ugly ordeal, the bureaucratic nightmare and the hideous expense.

Am I morose? Perhaps I just harbor cold, dark recollections of my father's passing. The passing of a human being is a hell of a thing. What vacuum is more bitter and cruel than the space left by a loved one?

Bah Humbug

Well, at least the president was elected, as opposed to appointed, this time. However, we now have an increased Republican presence in the Legislative branch of the government and will most likely see several Supreme Court justices chosen by this administration. Thus, it won't be difficult for the White House to create a new Federal agency: The Department of Keeping a Suspicious Eye on Gay, Black, Hispanic, Academic, or Artsy People, or Anybody Who Asks Too Many Durn Questions (DKSEGBHAAPAWATMDQ).

The Chandelier of Unnumbered Tears

 
Who would have thought that such an innocent little project would be so hellishly difficult? I'm just glad that monstrous fan didn't crash into our morning cereal; the ignint sum-bitch who installed it decided to attach it to the joist with not much more than you would use to hold a picture on a wall.
Oh well, only three trips to Home Depot and a good spell in the itchy, cramped hell that is my attic were necessary to get it done. I swore prolifically, and my wife felt bad for initiating the project. I suppose I would have refused to do it had I known what a hysterically inconvenient installation it was going to be, but I'm pleased with the results. Also, a 30-pound (I don't know, the cursed thing felt heavy, anyway) ceiling fan clattering down onto one's meal is something I'm happy to have prevented.

Evidence Left by the Orange Wino

This is a mere fraction of the corks Luis (Don Luisito), my excellent friend of some years, and I have generated. Don Luisito and I have drained many a bottle to the dregs. Ah, memories. I bequeathed this corkboard to him when I was getting ready to move across the country. He took me out to dinner on my last night in San Diego (La Casa de Guadalajara in Old Town, I had Mole Poblano), and my last glimpse of the Pacific Ocean was through the window of his mid-80's Nissan Sentra.

Yes, many a bottle has been drunk and many a topic has been discussed by Don Luisito and myself, often on my patio in North County San Diego or in one noisy bar or another (Shakespeare's by the airport or Nunu's in Hillcrest most immediately rush to mind).
 

Clam Chowdah

 
I decided to make some clam chowdah on a nice fall day. That's the remnants of a very good glass of Spaten Oktoberfest. I baked the bread earlier and made garlic-parsley butter to slather on it.
Those are Cherrystone clams in there, and yes, the chowder has bacon in it. Fresh thyme, too. The shells from the clams are now part of the gravel next to the house.

Updates to the System

Since things are different now from when our Founding Fathers wrote the Constitution, I suggest some updates to our system of government:

1)Brevity: Since the majority of information we get about our government comes in soundbites of 30 seconds or less, I propose a maximum term limit of one day for all elected offices.
2)No political parties allowed.
3)No campaigns allowed.
4)Television programs featuring people of opposing opinions who argue about politics and interrupt each other shall be punishable by death. Producers and network executives, especially. Death by pliers. On television.
5)Since evidently the United States has elected itself the fucking policeman of the world, I propose we charge the world taxes for our services.
6)End the electoral college. Or, simply declare that each and every eligible voter is in fact a state with the attendant electoral votes. People who talk on cel phones while driving are worth no electoral votes, people who brew their own beer are worth more.
7)Free doughnuts on Wednesdays.

Our Great Democracy

You know what? I just want this crap to be over. I'm tired of campaigns. Thanks to the electoral college, my vote doesn't matter anyway.

Ugh. Cynicism.

Super Nachos, You are Close to My Heart.

 
This causes pangs of nostalgia. My wife went to San Diego recently to visit her family (alas, I haven't yet built up sufficient vacation time to have gone with her), and she happened to snap a picture that had Filiberto's in it.

That hurt.

Filiberto's is a taco shop, open 24 hours, which has a drive through. San Diegans reading this will understand the gravity of my heartache. Those of you in the rest of the world will hopefully find this intriguing and edifying.

Filiberto's is in Encinitas, near the corner of Highway 101 and Encinitas Boulevard. There are a number of them, but this location has happy memories for me. Taco shops in the San Diego area are a wonderful thing, a true cultural distillation. They serve Mexican food, and they are loved by Mexicans and Gringos alike. It is 2,596.72 miles away from my stomach right now. If you're reading my blog for the first time, I'll let you in on a secret: food is an important part of my life.

Taco shops in San Diego usually have orange formica booths and cheesy velvet paintings of Aztec warriors cradling unconscious damsels in their arms. Items on the menu are often misspelled. There is no kid's play area. There is no McCafe. The help does not kiss your ass just because you're a customer. They speak English, but not as well as they understand it. If you're a pain in the ass white person, they understand less and less. I love it. "Kahepyou?" the man behind the counter barks.
"Yeah, hi."(loudly, because people of other cultures can understand you better if you shout) "I want like a bean and cheese burrito or something. And do you have like fat free beans or something? and what kind of sour cream do you use? And hold that stuff. That, I don't know, that hot Spanish sauce. And I hate guacamole. You always put guacamole on it."
"Go straight to hell," the counter man's eyes say, but he muddles through well enough to finish the transaction. Taco shops are in business, and they don't whitewash it with a bunch of bullshit. Order your food and get the hell out. They won't pretend to care about you. That's fine by me; I'm not there for group hugs.

Filiberto's has a couple of outdated video games and a jukebox full of Mexican popular music. It cannot be improved upon, unless they could start serving ice cold Pacifico. The burritos are as big as my forearm (carnitas and carne asada are my preferences there, roasted pork and grilled beef, respectively), and the Super Nachos necessitate a week of hibernation, like a boa constrictor after a nice meal of a whole sheep. It's a pile of chips covered in sliced grilled beef, refried beans, sour cream, shredded cheese, pico de gallo, and guacamole. I get a few little plastic cups of hot sauce (the guy behind the counter, as he's handing me my styrofoam container of goodness, barks, "Hossauce?"), a fistful of napkins, and a large tamarindo (a sweet, brown refreshment that I might describe as a slightly earthy version of apple juice), and head to the beach to gorge myself and watch the waves. It's only a couple of blocks away.

Simple, wonderful, somewhat unhealthy bliss. I miss that.

Sky Captain and the Human Organ Black Market

(listening to "A Shot in the Dark" by Henry Mancini)

Let me begin with a recipe:

White Trash Mojito

Take a pint beer glass or a pint jar. Put a couple of sprigs of mint in the bottom (leave the leaves on the stem) and bruise them with the end of a wooden spoon or the drumstick that was thrown to you at the end of that Helix concert. Pour a couple of ounces of light rum in there. Pour in cold Sprite and top with ice cubes. Drink. Repeat as necessary.

("Buona Sera," by Louis Prima with Keely Smith)

Here's what I wrote in my little dogeared journal this afternoon:

10-11 Rudino's Rooftop. It's amazing what they can conceal in a suburban strip mall. The view is of nothing but suburban strip mall, but sitting on a rooftop on a very pleasant afternoon sipping a Guinness has a lot to be said for it.
Work has been hard, but I have reason to be proud. I have done well, I think.
I went to see Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow this past weekend. Enjoyable film as long as you fastidiously keep your disbelief suspended. Some girl tried to give me her number. Was she looking for something legitimate or just a fuck? Probably just a fuck; women don't hand their phone numbers to strangers in dark movie theaters because they see a potential husband. Or perhaps she wanted to drug me and sell one of my kidneys on the black market? I was completely caught off guard. By the time I finished saying "Uhhhhh," she said, "I'm sorry!" and scurried out the exit. Strange. I'll just take it as the misbegotten ego boost that it is and move on.
Lindsey is in San Diego. I wish I was with her. I miss her, and I want a vacation, and I miss San Diego.

("Return to Me" by Dean Martin)

I was hit on by some poor misguided lass who couldn't see my wedding ring in the dark. She wasn't a wallflower, either. Even if this would have happened to me as a single man, I wouldn't have taken her up on it out of pure uncertainty. What was she smoking? What diseases does she have? Did she have friends a few rows back, daring her to get some stranger in a brown flannel shirt to bone her? Was it a joke? Was she just lonely? Lindsey thought it was funny when I told her about it. I think it's kind of spooky. Lord knows what happens to girls like that when it's not a harmless schmuck like me to whom they offer their number scrawled on a pink Post-it note.

And now I'm sitting at my computer, listening to popular Italian-American tunes of the sixties and seventies, drinking, and wearing my NEW YORK FUCKIN CITY t-shirt that I purchased in Lower Manhattan in 2002. This is a snapshot of a renaissance man.

Life Goes On

Sitting at work. Yes, sitting at work. The calls come in slower at night.

This is pretty damned stressful when it's busy, and I've had some weird calls. All things considered, we're doing pretty well. Friday creeps inexorably closer, bringing payday and the end of a draining week.

I get such a charge out of my nephews. I can't wait to get home and see their little sister, too. I enjoy their company; there's nothing like bright kids to keep you young and simultaneously force you to be some sort of an adult, too.

What has happened to me? I felt so paternal as I sliced cantaloupe and poured glasses of orange juice for the boys. I was genuinely concerned about giving them some nutritious food to eat (of course I also felt a burden of duty to their mother to take good care of them). At some point, while I wasn't looking, I grew up a little.

The Mondayest Monday Ever

(listening to "The Best of the Waterboys 1981-1990)
My brother Scott and my nephews Evan and Peter drove down from Michigan and stayed with us this past weekend. I hadn't seen any of them for a couple of years. Effort had always been required for the members of my family to be together ever since I moved away from Michigan. As a result, we cherish our time together, and seeing the next generation of our family is always a great experience. Their little sister Elise stayed home with their mother Ann because the drive would be a bit too much for a 4 year-old. The boys are bigger and even brighter than when I saw them last, and seeing Scott has helped me feel a bit more connected to my Michigan roots.

They drove away this morning, headed home under a sky which resembled automotive primer paint. How depressing. We fished, we went to the natural sciences museum, we hiked around parks, we did lots of uncle/nephew stuff. I cooked for them. I drank beer with Scott. This was their first meeting with Lindsey, and the boys seem to like their new aunt. Scott tells me I have done well in the wife department, and I agree. Lindsey enjoyed the family visit, and she was justifiably impressed by the tremendous and frightening intelligence of the boys. It was fortunate that I didn't have any fireworks sitting unattended around the house. Something would have been noisily destroyed. Or maybe not, they are as well-behaved and obedient as an 8 and 10 year-old can realistically be.

It's a hollow feeling. It's quiet again. Lindsey has unhappily gone to work, and her boss has turned out to be less mature, less organized, and less able to deal with other human beings than one would expect from an adult. I have no one to make pancakes for. I have no tangled shoelaces to help untangle; I have no hooks to put worms on. I have to go to work soon, and I'm being thrown into a job half-trained due to obvious corporate shittiness. Scott counseled me that this is the way of the world, and he is unfortunately correct.

I would rather continue making quesadillas or hamburgers for my nephews than talk to demanding, lazy pharmaceutical sales reps.

It's so Monday. It's Mondayissimo.

The Texas Chimp vs. The Tall Botox Guy

If I was a Bush supporter, I would have been tearing my hair out last night. He couldn't put a sentence together without using "uhhh" or stuttering at least a few times. He was pretty negative, testy and evasive, just like the Republican National Convention. He totally sidestepped or stalled on several questions, and he used a couple of sentences that were grammatical nonsense. I suppose I should cite specific examples here, but I'd need a transcript to be accurate.

Evidently, his handlers made him memorize the closing statement; that was the only time he made any sense (and then, he just came back up to his corny wooden speech standard of quality). That, along with the word "denigrate" and the phrase "mixed messages," were the only things that would fit in his head.

Kerry, I thought, held up pretty well. He actually answered the questions. He pronounced the words correctly and used complete sentences. His voice didn't pubescently warble with emotion. He made geopolitical references. I don't know, perhaps it's difficult for me to be objective.

When you take the President out of his element (he usually only faces friendly audiences and he only uses one, repetitively rehearsed message on the campaign trail), Bush comes across as slow-witted. What the hell is he doing in the Oval Office?

A Well Wrought Blade

 
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the shit. In celebration of finding a real job, this is my gift to myself, a completely selfish indulgence: A 10 inch Viking chef's knife. It is a solid, hefty, balanced and wickedly sharp piece of steel. Its name is Ringil.
I received a Williams Sonoma gift card from my parents-in-law, and I got the Boos Block with it. I had wanted one for years, and it has surpassed my expectations. It's as hard as a rock.
Shameless materialism. It's fun to get what you want now and then. Many onions shall meet their destiny at Ringil's edge! (Howard Dean-style war cry)

The Cubicle Farm

(listening to a randomized mix of Sting's Nothing Like the Sun, Eric Clapton's Me and Mr. Johnson, Oysterhead's The Grand Pecking Order and Lyle Lovett's Live in Texas)

I'm sipping a glass of Black Box Merlot, a very nice, mouthfilling, velvety, dry, plummy wine. My wife is away on business. The house is pretty blah without her. Comfortable and pleasant enough, but utterly unmotivating and rather boring. I need time to myself, but not too much. This is too much. The sky is grey and Tropical Depression Jeanne approaches. I don't really feel like going out to see a movie; it's just not exciting enough to get me out of the house. I have the History Channel, the Food Network and my jolly new Star Wars Trilogy DVD set to keep me safe from the perils of industriousness and ambition. Speaking of which, there's the topic of work:

I'm still happy, but I'm adjusting. I've been training and squeezing as much information into my factory-second brain as possible, but there is no substitute for time spent on the job-- I am assigned to a project which is in a period of major change. My coworkers and I have a very abbreviated time frame in which to become functional, and it is a bit daunting.

Having drained to the lees the rhapsodic cup of shit-job escape, I have come to the grim realization that I still have to go to work.

I have not written very much here lately; I have used the term 'sedated' to explain it. I hope it passes. Perhaps I'm just using up my meagre brain power at work. Perhaps it's all still new and challenging, and I need to be a little bored and fidgety in order to be creative. Cubicles don't bring out the seething lust for life in people, if I may permit myself a generalization.

Nevertheless, I'm very glad to have the job that I have. I just can't seem to rid myself of my disdain for the very idea of a job. So much fascination, pleasure and satisfaction can be gained from non-work activities. It naturally follows that one could accomplish more of those in the absence of a job (but with money magically coming out of your nostrils). Here are some examples of what I've done lately in spite of my laziness:

1)Making prosciutto, scallion and ricotta filled ravioli
2)Toasting various sandwiches on my iron griddle , and enjoying the fact that the wife enjoyed them:
-pastrami on potato bread, with parmiggiano on the buttered side, which yields a golden-brown and tasty crust
-Albacore tuna salad with fresh cilantro from the garden, on home made wheat bread with kosher dill pickle slices
-A Quesadilla filled with chopped pastrami, ricotta and hummus (sounds weird, but it turned out to be rather tasty)
3)Writing tasting notes on the wonderful beers that my brother-in-law sent me for my birthday (beers which I could not purchase in North Carolina because of the backward and idiotic 6% alcohol limit)
4)Washing dishes to my obsessive-compulsive standards of cleanliness (in order to maintain some order in my not-quite-as-big-as-could-be-wished kitchen)
5)Ordering and impatiently waiting for my Viking knife from CutleryandMore.com

I'm not exactly Mother Theresa. I consider myself a bum, but I'll make you a hell of a sandwich.

My long-lost and eminently excellent friend Sean sent me some Tahitian vanilla beans, a windfall from his honeymoon. Some home made ice cream will hopefully result from this. 

 

Westvleteren Abt 12 (Yellow Cap)
A Quadrupel brewed by Brouwerij Westvleteren (Sint Sixtus Trappistenbdij) in Westvleteren, Belgium

Thanks, Tim.
Here is my review, as I posted it on BeerAdvocate.com:

The color is deep mahogany with a fine, palamino-colored head which dissipates to lacy remnants fairly soon.

The nose is somewhat restrained, but it contains sugar, oranges, banana, and croissants.

The palate is smooth with an abundance of flavor. I get toffee, brown sugar, banana, nutmeg, chocolate, quinine and fresh grapes.

The finish is long. The bitterness, reminiscent of quinine or campari, becomes slightly more prominent as the sip of beer fades. It does not, however, overexpress itself.

This beer has extraordinary balance and complexity. It does not hit you over the head; it just states itself perfectly with nothing out of place. I equate it with Veuve Cliquot La Grande Dame.

[ serving type: bottle ]
appearance: 4
smell: 4.5
taste: 5
mouthfeel: 4.5
drinkability: 4

overall: 4.55

Sunday afternoon. The sun is shining, and the breeze is fresh and cool. Summer is on its way out. The day reminds me of the way it is on Thanksgiving in San Diego. Lindz and I are sipping wine, listening to Bach's Brandenburg Concertos and David Gray's "New Day at Midnight," and we are grazing as we read (I'm reading French Chefs Cooking by Michael Buller). Earlier, I made pita chips and we ate those with hummus. Then, (pictured here) I put together some cantaloupe, prosciutto, balsamic vinegar and a bit of black pepper. The wine is A Mano Primitivo. We nibbled some herb crusted buffalo mozzarella next.
All the while, my soup is simmering. It is the remnants of a roast chicken (I used the technique from The Best Recipe, a Cook's Illustrated cookbook), some onion and garlic, some fresh rosemary from my potted herbs, a whole star anise, some pinot grigio, some coarse kosher salt, some fresh black pepper, and some water. We'll eat it sometime this afternoon.
This is wonderful.

Tasting Notes and a Poem

(listening to Björk's Homogenic)

Glenfarclas 12-year old Single Malt Scotch Whisky, a gift from my excellent wife on the occasion of my thirty-second birthday:
Color: that of a penny which is a few years old
Nose: Sherry, the inside of a brand new acoustic guitar, alcohol, hints of spice
Body: Firm, slightly tongue-coating in an oily way
Palate: Burnt sugar, peat, sherry, honey
Finish: Fairly lengthy, oaky toasty notes and an overtone of Lapsang Souchong tea emerges.

This poem was written in Michigan, for those of you reading in less autumnal environs:

Fourteen Lines of Fall

by Christopher Kueffner

September 1993

The earth whispers, quieting

down for a sleep. A crisp breeze sighing

is the sound of her bedtime prayers. Shining

slant and for fewer hours, the sun starts sliding

south and west, gilding the fruits ripening.

The leaves on the trees are rioting

in fiery colors before they fly and swing

through the air on their way to the whitening,

frosted ground. I must ask why this thing

called Fall steals summer, why it brings

cold, why it takes the leaves from trees lately sighing

in a warmer breeze. But as I'm trying

to find an answer, it comes in a blinding

blizzard which covers and gives beauty to all this dying.

Tasting Notes

(listening to Mark Knopfler's superlative album "Sailing to Philadelphia")

On the occasion of my birthday (which officially is tomorrow), I received a box of various beers from my brother-in-law Tim. Tim is a lover and brewer of beer, and he filled the box with good stuff.

1)Homebrewed Stout. Tim did not supply a name for his brew, so I dub it Howell at the Moon Stout. It is excellent. It's better than many of the professionally brewed stouts I've had, be they on draft at a microbrewery or bottled. It was thick and black, but it was free of the chalky dirtiness that afflicts some heavy beers. It reminded me of Fuller's London Porter or Lost Coast 8 Ball Stout. It's well balanced and drinkable, but profoundly satisfying. Brown sugar, smoke, leather, chocolate and toffee notes.

2)Jolly Pumpkin La Roja. This is from Dexter, Michigan. It is a Belgian style artisinal amber ale. 7.2% alc/vol. It is fantastic. I drank the whole 750 ml bottle myself, and I was pleasantly buzzed. A strong but balanced wave of brown sugar, smoke, sherry, peat moss and an elusive white-wine-like zing washed over my palate. Good heavens, what a beer. This one demands your attention as soon as you sip it.

3)Bell's Pale Ale. One of my favorites ever since the first time I had it in the early 90's. It's a nice cloudy, hoppy pale ale. I love a good bitter beer, and I love sour cocktails and single malt scotch. Everything needs a backbone.

4)Paulaner Salvator Doppelbock. A strong, brown sugary, buttery, toffeeish beer. I've had it before, and it deserves its place in Michael Jackson's Great Beer Guide.

More great beer awaits me in the box. Thanks, Kathy and Tim.

 

Labor Day Weekend. That's Mom and Ron holding hands around the grilled garlic/rosemary pork tenderloin and zucchini. The roasted red pepper risotto is in the foreground. The wine was the economical Yellow Tail shiraz. That is a real Guinness bar mat that Lindz borrowed from a bar somewhere. We'll return it some day.

The Flexible Orange Spatula of Death

Charlotte sent me some goodies for my birthday. This spatula is one of them. It works very well, and I'm a man who owns a bunch of spatulas. This thing gets under anything. Pictured here is a sublime tomato, from the Farmers' Market, on my massive iron griddle.
She sent me a colorful dishtowel, which is draped over my shoulder off-camera here. I'm never in the kitchen without a towel over my shoulder. I haven't explored the intricacies of my other items yet. She sent me a little bottle of pure orange oil; I might do some dessert crimes with that.

sedated

I am sitting in my cubicle, fifteen minutes before my shift starts.
I've been reading and training, not really doing anything with consequences.
I feel just a little sedated. I'm still getting used to this, and the arrival of my first payday here will probably put a little spring in my step.

My mom and Ron (I'm not sure what his official title is; boyfriend seems a bit silly) visited Lindsey and I over Labor Day weekend, and a good time was had by all. We did some shopping at the flea market and the Farmers' Market (I got some potted herbs). I cooked dinner for us, of course. I smashed up some garlic and fresh rosemary from my plant in the Giant Mortar and Pestle of Death. A bit of salt and pepper, oil and honey went in there too. I smeared this goo all over a couple of pork tenderloins. I roasted a huge red pepper in the oven. Lindsey used that in the risotto. I grilled the pork and some zucchini on the Broil-Mate 3844 of Death. Tasty.

My mom brought a bunch of stuff with her for me. I had left a bunch of stuff in my room when I moved to San Diego in 1995, including a lot of cd's. I have been reunited with my old Metallica, Tesla, Anthrax, Van Halen, Megadeth and much more.

Waldenstrom's Macroglobulinemia

(Listening to "The Great Radio Controversy" by Tesla, an album that sat collecting dust in Michigan since I moved away in 1995)

I'm trainin' like an oncology fool, yo. It's great, but I suppose it all happened a bit fast. The transition from "shitty" job to "real" job happened over the course of a weekend.

I mentioned some names of former Starbucks coworkers in a previous post (the one with the axe), and a couple of people have spotted it. Crazy. I wonder if Dana Berkoski, Kristi Gardner and Barb Brown will see it too (I think they're all married now)? Or Joyce Varino? Or Peter Lutz? Or Ki Min Sung? Or Jeff Shaffer? Eric Canfield? Damon Kilcoin? That crazy chick Vanessa who shaved her head? Shelley Bilden? Annabelle Dunnatte? Stacia Partin? Tina Givens?

Ah, the years I pissed down the drain at that company. All so I could remember some people through the sweet, gauzy haze of time. All that time spent shovellin' coffee for the man almost seems warm and fuzzy.

BAH!

A Couple of Things

1)No, I don't like Bush. I've ranted about him before here.
2)Billy, I don't understand your comment.
3)I'm not an unquestioning, rah-rah-rah Democrat. I'm unaffiliated.
4)I choose not to trivialize my views by putting them on a bumper sticker. I also do not drunkenly rant about them at a bar. I bitch and moan about things here.
5)It is never my intent to offend or insult people (except if I make it clear that I'm insulting them); my only aims are to vent and to stimulate thought.
6)Perhaps I lived in California too long, or perhaps I've spent too much of my life working low-paying, unsatisfying jobs. The result is that I tend to question the establishment.

Here's my Mom, bustling around my house. 

Dubyah

George W. Bush, you are a real piece of work. You woodenly read a corny speech written by your lackeys and expect to convince anyone to vote for you? You couldn't manage a convenience store, much less a country, you swaggering chimpanzee. Things would be better if there simply were no one in the Oval Office. We would do fine on inertia for a decade or so.

Speaking as objectively as possible, I make the observation that the Democratic National Convention was more positive in tone and eloquent in character than the Republican National Convention, which was negative in tone and bluntly vicious (particularly that backward hick Zell Miller), as well as evasive of the issues. Vice President Cheney, bloodless corporate manipulator that he is, can speak fairly well. He has gravitas, and he actually commands the English language, unlike his slack-jawed used-car-salesman of a boss. I actually think he would have been a better president because he's a CEO kind of animal.

Of course, all of the carefully screened people in attendance cheered on cue. The dead soldiers who mistakenly thought that their children were orphaned for a good reason did not applaud.

George W. Bush, you are a draft-dodging, falsely pious, dangerously proud fool. I hope you lose and crawl back into the bottle, asswipe.

Just Drive

I've said it before, and it needs to be said again. If you slow down to stare at a car accident, thereby backing up traffic, you should have your fucking eyes gouged out!

Other than that, everything is sunshine and lollipops.

Yee-Haw!

(listening to "Goodbye, Pork Pie Hat" by Charles Mingus)

I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

So far, anyway. It has only been training so far, but it's strangely invigorating to sit and read Standard Operating Procedures and a bunch of précis about cancers, proteins and macular degeneration. I can say, without fear of contradiction, that ocular angiogenesis is synonymous with choroidal neovascularization. I'm so excited to have a real job, I could weep. I'm going to have a DESK with a VIEW! I will be able to see trees from my workstation. I'm licensed to use the word "apoptosis" if I need to.

("Soldier Blue," by The Cult)

Regular hours. Non-insulting pay. Respect. It's great! I'll be involved in the battle against some pretty nasty diseases, particularly breast cancer. It's more important than foo-foo coffee drinks.

 

Thanks for all the free coffee, but Thank Almighty God that I'm done with you, Starbucks

(listening to a cd that Blakeman made for me)
Yes, it's done. I worked my last shift at the coffee mines. They had cake for me and everything! That was cool. I said goodbye to many good customers. It was busy today. I was hired by a very different company in 1995, that's for damned sure. It's so corporate now. I don't know who's going to read this, but I feel no need to candy-coat my feelings. I just worked 11 months at a North Carolina Starbucks after working over 7 years in half a dozen Southern California Starbucks. The verdict: What a backwater bunch of slackass amateurs (with a few exceptions, you know who you are). If you paid half as much attention to the customers as you do to those fucking checklists and pastry case schematics, you might almost be able to move a line through the store. The least of my SoCal crews would plow you into the ground without breaking a sweat, if this were some sort of a competition. The people in the California stores never seemed to be so brainwashed and terrorized.

But it's over. It never really mattered, anyway. Nobody really gives a shit. My best memories are of drinking or hanging out with various Starbuckers after work. Marc Dedario. Morty Aguilar. Paz Salvador, my former roommate. Cathy Jacoby. Rosemary. Katie Saltzman. Stacy Haddix. Billy Walters. Sean Perry (The Fridge). Brendan Klein. Milo Martinez. Bill Rushing, my brother-in-law. Janet Von Rusten. Dara Dealy. Valerie Brann. Dave Roberts. Brandon Cole (Stone Cole!) Ali McCartie, the mother of my daughter. Jen Brown, ugh. Jeremy Jones, a great and highly esteemed man (the only one who didn't drink). I've omitted so many from absent mindedness. Sometimes we even drank during work. Starbucks people drink.

Blakeman is the first person I've worked with in many years who actually cares about coffee. Freddy Ansari and Asher Engel trained me on the bar at Del Mar Highlands (store 553) in 1995. Stoners, beer lovers, and lovably irreverent. as coffee gurus, I never met their equal.

I feel more emotion about being done with that fucking job than I felt when I graduated from college. How disgraceful. I need to get down to business and live a real life, rather than just making coffee and smalltalk.

Nostalgia. I want to get drunk and mope now.

Wilmington Appears to be a Dump

Here is exactly what I wrote in my journal today during my adventure into southeastern North Carolina. Added comments are in brackets.

8-26 The Fat Pelican, somewhere just south of Wilmington
Wow. What a place [I was referring specifically to the bar]. It's a rummage sale that sells beer. The Wilmington area has the University, lots of Food Lion stores and lots of tourist crap. It's the same kind of schlock you always see when you're near an ocean. I paid $3.25 for a bottle of Fuller's London Porter. Quite a good deal, for a bar.
I have reached the end of the 40.
The bartender and her one [other] customer are really cool.
-Later-
God, what an ugly town. Virtually all of it is either run-down or touristy. Much of it is both. It's fun to be driving around, though. The road washes away ennui. I found myself driving (miraculously not getting lost) through shitty neighborhoods, hungry, gradually going from "I want someplace local and interesting" to "I think McDonald's will be fine" to "I'll have nothing. Where the hell is the freeway?"
I'm presently at Sticky Fingers Restaurant and Bar, blissfully close to I-40 and then home. This was a brief excursion, and I hadn't mentally prepared for full-scale local color exploration. Therefore, I was ready to come home and sit on the couch shortly after I finished my Porter at the Fat Pelican.

It was a very cursory glance at Wilmington, and to call it a dump is probably unfair. However, it certainly looked like shit to me. Dubious-looking seafood restaurants, motels with names like "Crabcatcher's Reef Lodge" and gift shops abound there. None of them appear to have seen a can of paint since Carter was in office. That's in addition to the normal background of Food Lions and Dollar stores that occur in North Carolina at a rate of 9 or 10 per square mile.
I love to get out and see stuff like that. I love the road. Unfortunately, when I started homeward, I missed the opportunity to snap a picture of the signs that said "BEGIN I-40 WEST" and "BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA 2554 MILES." Almost exactly one year after I quit and moved here, I have completed a symbolic journey. I got a job and I saw the end of Interstate 40. I suppose the continent-spanning ribbon of concrete is my Mississippi, in a Twain sort of way. Or maybe none of it means anything, and I drove 140-odd miles each way just to have a beer and a pork sandwich.

 
My friend and coworker Blake found these pictures for me. Many thanks, Blakeman.

The Rest of the 40

(listening to "Combustication," by Medeski, Martin and Wood)
I'm kind of bored.
I'm broke.
I'm a bit numb as far as my job change is concerned.
It hasn't truly sunk in yet that I'm leaving a sort of lower caste for a higher one (again). I quit Starbucks before and got a real job, and the caste analogy seems to be accurate.
I intend no arrogance, smugness or flippancy by my remark. One feels and is treated a certain way when one waits on people for a living. I was often treated quite warmly by my customers, but not as a peer. I was there to serve. When I quit retail for the first time and started working in clinical research, I was a respected professional. I was a neophyte in the business, but I was treated differently than before. At Starbucks, I exceed all of my coworkers by at least a factor of four in seniority. I generally impress my customers (the ones that actually notice, you know who you are) with my work. But it does not substantively matter. I serve them. I am not in any sort of a supervisory capacity, but that doesn't matter, either. I had to eat even more shit when I was an assistant manager. Customers are on unassailable high ground.
Dropping down a notch has really sucked. I have spent the last year waiting on people, loading boxes and making no money at all. Every minute of it has been worth it, considering how I have gone from aimless bachelor to married homeowner, but it sucked. It feels like the ankle irons are coming off. I'm going to work very hard to make sure I never, ever have to go back down again.
That being said, I really believe that retail jobs build character. They should be compulsory for all Americans. People should not be allowed to take themselves too seriously. They should not be allowed to take other people for granted. They should not have an inflated notion of self-entitlement. I also think that it's good to finally get the hell out of retail. There comes a time when it is an insult to human dignity to be forced to serve. However, I love to serve people and make them happy.
When it's my choice.

Now that I've whined and pontificated, I think I will hop in the car and drive to Wilmington. You see, I drove on almost all of Interstate 40 when I crossed the country from San Diego. I haven't done the last bit of it which goes to the Atlantic.

One of the perks of working for Starbucks is getting a free pound of coffee every week. Yesterday, I took home my last of about 420 pounds of coffee. Only in the past few months have I arrived at a favorite: Arabian Mocha Java, closely contested by Anniversary Blend. I like strong but well balanced coffee, which reflects my tastes in beer, scotch and (when I still smoked them) cigars.

I might buy the occasional pound of coffee from now on, but I don't expect to be much of a source of revenue for Big Green. There's plenty of good coffee out there. I may roast my own; I'm silly like that.

I've also paid a lot of rent with Starbucks paychecks (I actually did okay when I was in management). I also spent a lot of money trying to distract myself from how much I hated it. Retail just sucks, plain and simple.

I've met a lot of people, including my wife. I had some very cool customers, and I worked with some cool people. Starbucks is a giant fraternity, in a way. We bond while we're getting shit on by dickweed customers.

Idleness, Laundry and Alcohol - the Life of an Absolute Stud

(listening to "Bloomdido", by Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie)

Yes, I enjoyed a couple of gin and tonics Friday afternoon. I made one for Lindz when she got home from work. They were sublime (actually the limes were inside of them, so you could say they were 'circumlime.' Har har). We took a stroll around the lake. We had some dinner at The Taproom. We watched some television, and I can't even remember what was on. A generous dose of Olympic coverage was in there, I'm sure.

Saturday morning, we washed and waxed our cars. Lindsey went to Winston-Salem to hang out with a friend from school, so I was left to live an evening of bachelor life. It was white-knuckle excitement. I browsed Borders, and I got one of those value-priced Verve Jazz cd's. Wonderful stuff, I tell you. I got #38, Django Reinhardt. I've been a huge fan of his for years.

I came home and had another gin and tonic while I listened to Django. Later, I browsed Home Depot and got a garden hose repair kit and invested thirteen dollars in an axe. The idea of splitting my own firewood is just so rugged and manly. My driveway was clogged with beautiful women who were attracted to my hose-mending, woodchopping studliness. Perhaps I exude a natural musk that makes them drop whatever they're doing and seek me out.

Well, perhaps not exactly.

The rest of my evening consisted of sitting on my ass watching History Channel programming. I woke up this morning on the couch, lights and television on, sleep marks on my face.

(listening to "Movin' Wes," by Wes Montgomery)

I am just a crazy, devil-may-care stud. Guys like Orlando Bloom and Colin Farrell are wet cheese compared to my pulsating, laugh-in-the-icy-face-of-death mojo. If that's not enough excitement for you, I did laundry this morning. Darks and whites, people. I can do all that shit - different temperatures and fabrics. I can get crazy in the laundry room if I need to. Presently, I'm currently waiting for a batch of rosemary bread dough to rise. This is the first time I've harvested any sprigs off of my rosemary plant (recently purchased at Whole Foods), and it doesn't seem to be as intensely fragrant as the plant that Bryan and I had in San Diego. We'll see. I'll probably repair my garden hose today and read a couple of chapters of The Odyssey in the hammock.

It's not easy being such a man of adventure, but It's my cross to bear.

Gin and Tonic

It's Friday afternoon. I have the desire for gin and tonic pulsating in my breast, and it shall not be gainsaid. I'm going to go and get the ingredients right now. Ah, prince of cocktails! The quinine in the tonic water will protect me from malaria, as well.

Waiting for the End of my Term in the Big Green Monastery

I sat down with a calculator and estimated that I have worked 15,350 hours at Starbucks. It feels like the last week of a jail term. Perhaps indentured servitude is a little closer to the truth.

People could say, and they'd be right, that it's no one's fault but my own that I've worked so many hours at shitty jobs (Big Green chief among them). I suppose if I were more entrepreneurial and daring, I would have started a successful career long ago. But I might also be an asshole who doesn't know how to enjoy life. I've met a whole hell of a lot of people in those thousands of hours of customer service, and more than a few of them were unhappy. Many were people who made a lot of money but were over their head in debt from living beyond their means in Southern California. Some were unhappily married. Many were trying to impress everyone but themselves. Quite a few simply seemed to be rotten assholes and nothing more.

Perhaps it's an oversimplification, but I'll state it anyway because it suits my purpose: an ambitious, successful person is unlikely to be someone who bakes bread, takes two hours to make pasta sauce, enjoys hour-long Bruckner symphonies or has a lot of well-seasoned iron cookware. I'm probably wrong; I don't know. I'm a slow-moving, eccentric old fart. I was just never smart enough to get rich doing the things I love to do for recreation. Perhaps some day. I will likely never be rich, but I won't have to buy a sportscar to amuse myself. I will buy interesting bottles of scotch and cookbooks, however.

Money does not buy happiness, but it sure as hell does come in handy.

Living
by Denise Levertov

The fire in leaf and grass

so green it seems

each summer the last summer.

The wind blowing, the leaves

shivering in the sun,

each day the last day.

A red salamander

so cold and so

easy to catch, dreamily

moves his delicate feet

and long tail. I hold

my hand open for him to go.

Each minute the last minute.

What do You Want?

(listening to "Bitches Brew" by Miles Davis)
I love owning a home. It's 8 a.m., and I have the music turned up quite loud.

Thinking of stuff that you want can be fun mental masturbation. It can also be frustrating, of course. The thought occurred to me that some of my material desires have changed over the years, and some have not. One can make some inferences about a person's personality and character by looking at what makes them salivate.

I will turn 32 in less than a month. Here is a fictional, "if I had a magic wand" birthday list.

A computer chip, implanted in my brain, which contains all the knowledge of a plumber, an electrician, a carpenter, a roofer and a landscaper

Some sort of Harry Potter type magic that allows my kitchen to be thrice its present size without altering the floor plan of the house

George W. Bush, wearing my Starbucks apron, selling coffee FOREVER

The ability to sing

Beer taps (Guinness Stout, Bell's Pale Ale and Pilsner Urquell) in every room of the house

13 aquariums full of guacamole

An island in the South Pacific, which I would name "Orange-o-nesia"

Here's a slightly less ridiculous list:
A new deck (made out of composite, and in a cool color)

A Viking gas cooktop

Skylights here and there in the house

A trip to the UK

A trip to Napa Valley

A pair of Vandersteen Audio model 2's or Definitive Technology BP7002's

A Parasound Halo A21 power amplifier and P3 preamplifier

A new laptop, a GPS unit, a good digital camera, and several months to drive around the country (writing, taking pictures, eating, drinking, and sharing it with y'all)

A little closer to reality:

A good bottle of Scotch (I think I have my heart set on Lagavulin, but some Glenfarclas or Bruichladdich would be lovely also)

Dinner at Ruth's Chris

A Craftsman socket set

Some Woody Allen movies on DVD, particularly Manhattan

A red Kitchenaid food processor

A 10-inch Shun chef's knife ("oh, yeah, baby," as that oaf Emeril would say)

Something orange - a set of coasters, a polo shirt, a monogrammed bathrobe, etc.


As you can see, the banality of my desires increases in direct proportion to the likelihood of my receiving them.

What sort of picture of me does this paint? I don't know. It's just a bunch of nonsense I typed while drinking coffee and listening to Miles Davis. I like toys and good things to eat and drink. I enjoy life.

Hell, I don't need anything. It's been a great year, and the only taint on its glory was my unhappy job situation. I married a ludicrously good woman, got a house and got a job. I've got everything a sane man could want. My sanity is not entirely squared away, though.

Almost There...

(listening to "Joe's Garage," in its glorious entirety, by Frank Zappa)
Hopefully, my last day at Starbucks is no more than a week away (the next schedule is not finished yet).

Hurricane Charley had no effect on my home in North Raleigh, thank God. It was a big, ugly blob on the radar, but it passed us by. He beat the hell out of Florida, though. We received a tad over 8 inches of rain within three days. I believe San Diego averages something like 9 inches per year.

Things finally dried out enough, so I got the lawnmower (I have named it "Black Beauty") out of the car. I assembled it, oiled and fueled it, and fired it up. My lawn is smaller than the lawns I grew up with, but it's mine nonetheless. It was astonishingly satisfying. I felt like a grownup and like a kid again, all at once.

I grew up in Michigan, the son of a man who loved his home and lawn. I grew accustomed to seeing an immaculately groomed yard, and I could virtually hear that damned lawn growing as I lay in bed at night. One of my chores was to mow it. It wasn't vast, perhaps half an acre in total. During the warm months, mowing it every other day was not unheard of. My shoes were stained a vivid green. I remember the smell and the vibration of the mower's engine pulsating up the handle to my arms. I remember pouring gasoline into the tank. The thwack of small branches and pine cones as they met a rotary, four-stroke oblivion. It all came back to me this afternoon.

My Car has Two Engines in it

(listening to the classical radio station, WCPE Chapel Hill)
It has been raining like crazy, and Hurricane Charley isn't even here yet. We've gotten 4.1 inches since yesterday evening (and it's only 8 a.m. now), and we got 2 inches the day before that. I crawled around the attic again like a nervous hen, but I still see no water. I did see, however, a couple of big cockroaches. I suppose there just trying to get out of the deluge, but they're such loathsome creatures. And so enviable - a hardier beastie can scarcely be conceived. I'm just glad that they're as small as they are. Twelve inches in length would be a bit much.

I received some enjoyable and thought-provoking comments on my previous post about milestones. My brother Scott made some very valid suggestions, particularly "burying a parent." Our Dad passed away in January of 1993. I was 20 at the time, and I have spent the years since then reflecting on it. Fatherhood, friendship, mortality, loss, life's priorities. It's a major thing, and I don't know why I neglected to put it in my list.

I wish to respond to the comment from The Little Whiskey Girl:
Learning to put the seat down - yes, learning to think of others is important. In my own life, I learned to put the seat down many years ago. I have gone one step further: a fear of dropping something in there has given me the habit of putting the seat and lid down.
Winning an Argument with the Mother-in-Law - I have never argued with either of my wife's parents. I prefer "Marrying a person whose parents are excellent people with whom you would be friends anyway." Besides, I'm a man. The Law of the Universe prevents me from winning any argument with a woman.
Learning to make awesome chili - A worthy accolade, yes. However, I must disagree with your suggestion that men are born with it. Any dish takes practice and experimentation, and you must choose your chili: Texas style, no beans? Garden chili? Ground beef? Chunks? How hot? And can you make cornbread? Also, I propose that it is a critical rite of passage for a person when they eschew store-bought chili powder and make it themselves.

El Borracho Naranjo's Moderately Spicy Chili Powder (these are the same chiles used in the beans in the June 21 post)
1 dried New Mexico Chile
1 dried Guajillo Chile
1 dried Pasilla Chile
(other chiles may me used; some are quite hot, such as Chiles de Arbol. Consult Diana Kennedy's Essential Cuisines of Mexico)

Preheat a medium cast iron skillet, dry, over medium heat.
Tear the stems off, and rip the chiles in a few big pieces in order to remove and discard the seeds. Put the chiles in your skillet. Toss them now and then for even heating. Toast them thusly until you can smell the earthy aroma. Don't burn them. Remove them and grind them up in a coffee grinder (one that you have dedicated to spices) or a food processor. A mortar and pestle works very well. Grinding a bit of whole cumin in there is very nice, too, and you can toast it in the pan if you wish.

Anyway, on the subject of milestones in a man's life, I just reached another one. Lindsey and I now own a lawnmower. It's still in the box in my car, so my car technically has two engines in it. It's been raining so much that I left it there until the Deluge passes.

Milestones in a Man's Life

Tying your shoes unassisted
Taking a fish off the hook
Shaving
Tying a tie
Moving out of the house
Getting laid
Getting laid without having your heart stomped on
Figuring out the significance of getting laid
Acquiring the taste for good beer
Cooking food for others
Cooking good food for others
Buying a car
Having good sushi for the first time (and every time, for that matter)
Learning the joy of travel
Being able to afford to travel (still waiting)
Getting married
Living under a roof that is not rented
Owning a couch that no one has previously owned
Quitting undesirable jobs

The orange socks worked.

My excellent, long-suffering wife took me out to P.F. Chang's to celebrate, and we had a lovely time. We even had some port with dessert.

Thank you, God.

I Got a Fucking Job!

The Bread Recipe

This long-distance dedication is goin' out to Charlotte in San Diego.

This is mom's old French bread recipe. I have made it many, many times, and I have slightly adapted it. It is a standard pain de campagne. It makes two loaves, which are photographed below, in the August 6 post.

7 cups flour (King Arthur's Bread flour is my preference, but all purpose is fine)
2 1/2 cups warm (not hot) water
one or two glugs of olive oil
2 packets of yeast
A tablespoon or so of salt

Tools:
5-quart stand mixer (you can do without it, but it's more exercise)
a big stainless steel bowl (bigger than the mixer's bowl)
pizza stone (baking sheets are okay, but a stone is more even heating)
plastic bowl scraper
parchment paper (if you don't have this, then dust your pizza stone with cornmeal)
oven thermometer
A pizza peel (one of those cookie sheets without sides is a good substitute)

Turn your oven on to the lowest setting before you start getting your ingredients and stuff together. In the bowl of the mixer, put the water, yeast, oil and salt. Stir it up a bit with the dough hook. Add the flour. Lock the mixer in position and turn it on to the lowest setting (it's my understanding that you can destroy the motor if you turn it up too high with dough like this). Turn the oven off. Run the mixer for 3 to 5 minutes. As things progress, the dough will form a cohesive mass, pulling away from the sides of the bowl. Mist the big bowl with oil and put the dough into it. Cover it with oiled aluminum foil. Make sure your oven isn't hotter than 150 degrees. Put the dough inside, and let it rise for at least an hour. If it's too hot in there, you run the risk of killing your yeast.

Non-Mixer Kneading Method this is actually a relaxing, meditative activity.
Take off your watch and any rings with lots of crevices.
Combine the water, yeast, oil and salt in the big bowl. Add the flour. Mix it all together with one hand, rotating the bowl with the other.
You can either knead inside the bowl or on a floured work surface. I use the bowl, but it's inconvenient if you're shorter than me. Do what you prefer. Shove down with the heels of your hands to flatten it, fold it over, rotate the dough 90 degrees, and do it again. Smash, fold, turn. Keep doing it for 15 minutes. Flour your hands as necessary, but don't add too much flour. You want a smooth, elastic dough. Kneading develops the gluten, which gives the dough elasticity, which allows for those nice bubbles inside the bread. Let the dough rise for at least an hour in the covered bowl (mist the bowl and foil with oil).

The dough should have doubled in size. Remove it from the oven. Turn the oven on to 450 degrees (put the stone inside, on the middle rack). Put a piece of parchment paper, about the same size as the pizza stone or baking sheet, on your pizza peel. If you have no peel, use an upside down cookie sheet. A dusting of cornmeal on the baking surface can substitute for the parchment. Flour your hands. Punch the dough to make it shrink back down. Take half the dough and put it on the parchment and shape it into a loaf. Shape the other half of the dough likewise, so you end up with two loaves. Leave some room between them. I like to simply spray them with olive oil, but you can put salt and fresh pepper on them, too. Let them sit there while your oven preheats. Let at least 15 minutes go by. Gently slide them onto the stone (you can just have them already on your baking sheet if you're not using a stone; there's no need to preheat a baking sheet) and bake them for 25 to 30 minutes. You can apply an eggwash after 25 minutes, but I don't bother. Look for golden-brown color, and the loaf will give a sort of hollow sound when tapped. Put the loaves on a cooling rack.

Variations:
You can chop up some rosemary and mix it into the dough at the beginning.
Grated cheese is good.
You can make three long snakes of dough and braid it.
You can substitute 2 or 3 cups of the flour with whole wheat flour.

This bread has no preservatives, so it won't keep well for more than a few days. Eat it.

Further reading: The Bread Baker's Apprentice is a very edifying work.

Lamb

(listening to "Ain't Misbehavin" by Fats Waller)
It is difficult for me to choose one favorite food, but lamb comes to mind when I ponder the question. It tastes good, it brings up happy memories, and it is a relatively forgiving meat to cook.

Turkey is okay, but I chose lamb as my traditional Thanksgiving main dish in 1995 when I spent my first T-day in San Diego with my brother Bryan. Living with him was a formative culinary experience; we both love food. His then-wife would occasionally whine about our flying in the face of tradition. She liked bland, non-threatening food like cereal. Anyway, Bryan and I enjoyed ourselves in the kitchen. Thanksgiving was obviously even more enjoyable when he and I both managed to get the day off from work. We would start cooking and drinking and nibbling early on.

A bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau was typically open by 10 a.m., and a glass of it accompanied my mirepoix preparation for the sauce. The meal typically occurred mid- to late afternoon.
("Furnace Room Lullaby," Neko Case and her Boyfriends)

Leg of Lamb with Rosemary Prune Sauce

I use my Lodge five-quart dutch oven for this sauce. I usually ended up with more than enough sauce (even when people put some of it on the garlic mashed potatoes), but it forms a good foundation for lamb stew later.

Sweat in olive oil (or in bacon fat if you're feeling naughty):
A couple of carrots, roughly chopped
A couple of ribs of celery, " "
An onion, " "
8 or 10 cloves of garlic, bashed on the cutting board but not necessarily chopped
Add:
A few glassfuls of acceptable dry white wine
A big handful of prunes (they don't have to be pitted)
six rosemary branches - roll them on the cutting board with your hands to bruise them and get the aromatic oils going
A generous spoonful of Better than Bouillon, beef flavor (bouillon cubes are a bit harsh and salty)
Freshly ground black pepper
Coarse Kosher salt

Keep this at a very, very low simmer. Stir it occasionally. Keep drinking wine, or it will explode. Make your other dishes. Eat some interesting cheeses and hors d'oeuvres, and perhaps drink a nice Belgian lambic. Taste the sauce regularly and add more wine to keep it liquid.

Get yourself a nice leg of lamb. Bone-in is good because it has been minimally handled. Salt and pepper it, and stick a meat thermometer in it. Roast it in a 350 degree oven until it reaches 160 or so for medium rare. This will probably be a couple of hours. Use a roasting pan and pour the drippings into the prune sauce every so often.

By the time I put the lamb in the oven, my sauce has been simmering for several hours. I like to spend time in the kitchen. Remove all the solids with a strainer. Discard them. Reduce the resultant liquid a bit if there's still a lot, and adjust the seasonings. Add a bit of brandy if you like, but watch your eyebrows. I've never made it exactly the same twice. I used to thicken it with cornstarch, but I have come to prefer the results of roux.

Put some of this sauce on a slice of the lamb and on the garlic mashed potatoes (I usually make those on T-day). Asparagus is nice on the side, or perhaps a salad of mixed greens with balsamic vinaigrette, gorgonzola, strawberries, walnuts and avocado. Pinot Noir goes very nicely (Sanford, Acacia, Santa Barbara Winery, Saintsbury, Mondavi, Gary Farrell, et al), but a good Chateauneuf-du-Pape is awesome, too (Les Closiers and Chateau de la Gardine are the only ones I can remember at the moment). A good merlot or cab will not disappoint, either. Fresh bread is a must. If you're lucky enough to be at the table, you will then eat my brother's pumpkin cheesecake or lemon tart or some other evil treat. With hot, strong coffee and a good cordial or port. Perhaps a cigar and a good single malt Scotch (16 year-old Lagavulin or 12 year-old Glenfarclas). A fuzzy, fat-dumb-and-happy state is normal. The house is an absolute mess, but no one cares by this point.

Cute kids, friendly grownups and sensational sunsets

I have just gotten back from Lake Norman, the idyllic home of my parents-in-law. I have written about this place before. It is 170 miles from home (I'm thinking either 'Rivendell' or 'Das Orangewino-platz' as a name for the house). The neighbors were nice, and the sunsets were spec-friggin'-tacular on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings. The special thing about this weekend was that my two year-old nephew Alex was in town.

Alex is the son of Rob and Lil. Rob is my wife's brother. Rob and Lil are both PhD's, and Lil is Russian. Alex switches effortlessly between Russian and English in his chatterings, and he's frightfully smart. He has long, cherubic eyelashes. He has dimples as well, so he's quite popular.

It was a good weekend. What I mean by this is that it was a weekend that made me feel good. I spent a good amount of time chatting with very friendly neighbors who ask about my welfare. I enjoyed the company of my wife away from the toil of moving. I participated in some good conversations with two well-traveled college professors. I always like to hang out with my parents-in-law. Being with a two year-old, however, is really invigorating. Especially when he likes you. Kids keep you young, and they make you think.

Young Alex (usually called Sasha, which is the Russian familiar form of Aleksandr) is an adorable little man. He has tremendous power. The family dotes on him, and who else can wander around naked while carrying a ukelele? It just seems to work for him. My wife is an educated, elegant woman who holds an important position at her company. She wouldn't sing the Oscar Mayer jingle for just anyone, but there she was, crooning away.

Yes, it was a good weekend. Grownup fun was had as well; Rob is skilled in the ways of margaritas.

Alas, I should go to bed so I can enthusiastically serve hot, brown milk tomorrow morning.

This is the first batch of bread I have made at the house. 

Bread and Crises

(listening to "Are You Lonesome Tonight" by Elvis Presley)
The apartment is almost completely empty. It's creepy and desolate, just like the times at college when I was one of the last ones in the dorm to leave for break. Deafeningly silent.
I forget where he said he heard it, but my father-in-law said "Moving is one of life's great crises." I had never thought of it in terms other than "pain in the ass" or "ordeal," but he's quite right. When you have to spend fifteen minutes trying to figure out what zip code your socks are in, you're outside of your normal state of being. The upheaval has made me weary. Back and forth, pack, carry, disassemble, assemble. It has also prevented me from writing here. My wife and I have put all of our energy into moving our life through a distance of 14.5 miles. We own a lot of shit. Less than many people, but enough to create a couple of stressful, sweaty days.
("Incident and Neshabur," Santana)
Anyway, we are almost done. We have spent our first few nights at the house. The cricket symphony is good sleeping music. It's great to have a house in Raleigh. An apartment in Cary is the blandest place to live, except parts of San Diego. Now that I think of it, I can't wait to get back for a visit. I lived in San Diego for eight years.
Great Things about San Diego, CA:
1)Cool neighborhoods with cool bars, particularly Pacific Beach and Hillcrest
2)Food (sushi, fish tacos and Mexican food in general)
3)Weather (it's not a hellish sauna in summer, nor does it ever snow)
4)The roads almost actually make sense there.
5)Trader Joes and IKEA
Drawbacks about San Diego:
1)Yuppie assholes (think Cary by the Sea)
2)The cost of putting a roof over your head is THREE TIMES HIGHER than in Raleigh.
3)No acceptable barbeque
4)Shitty traffic
5)A weak museum situation for a city of its size

It was nice, but what I miss most are my friends and my brother Bryan. I want to get them to visit my new palatial estate here. I can turn up the music, and the neighbors can't hear it. I like that.
("Outside Woman Blues," Cream)
I've only been here for a year, but here's a preliminary list:
Great things about Raleigh (The Triangle), NC:
1)It's green (things grow without being irrigated. Incredible!)
2)There are lots of parks and open spaces
3)Comparatively little traffic
4)Barbeque
5)People are polite (except in Cary)
6)Affordable housing
Drawbacks about The Triangle and Cackalacky in general:
1)Astonishingly bad drivers. I mean, holy shit, pull your head out of your ass.
2)It's a hot, steamy hell in summer.
3)NASCAR - What the hell? A bunch of rednecks driving around in circles, burning gas and occasionally crashing? The grandeur is lost on me.
4)The mere mention of an ice storm shuts down the state's entire economy for days. Get some balls and some snow plows. And learn how to drive. I spent my first 23 years in Michigan. You can do it.
5)No good Mexican food. No, that melted cheese crap that you call "queso dip" is not Mexican food.
6)How many fucking decades does it take to finish some road construction?

And now, I'm going to turn off my computer and put it in my car. The cable will be hooked up tomorrow, and my next post will be from the house. What should I name the house? The Biltmore East? The Batcave? Suggestions, please.

That black goo that you put on the roof

(listening to the Democratic convention on NPR)
My father-in-law gave us a lot of help on the house this past weekend. He fixed some drywall, did some realignment of the attic pull-down ladder and fixed a leak in the roof. None of it was terribly high-tech, but it was fairly time-consuming. It was not a problem for a man who has owned a number of houses, but I, a man who has always rented his roof, found the whole thing very reassuring. "That's not a problem; we can fix that," he said a number of times during the weekend. It was all typical stuff that needed to be fixed.
I got back from the house a couple of hours ago after dropping off some stuff and checking the mail. The rain gauge told me that 1.8 inches of rain had fallen in the 20 hours since I had last checked it. Most of it was during concentrated periods of deluge, and the attic was dry as a bone. I'm overwhelmed by relief that I can relax and enjoy the rain in my new home. I like rain.
I guess John Kerry seems like an okay guy. I'm still more anti-Bush than pro-anything, and that's unfortunate. Bill Clinton, Ron Reagan, and John Edwards are a little easier to listen to. A lot of people are just getting to know Mr. Kerry. He's just beginning to become something other than Mr. Not Bush. Perhaps the U.S. will enjoy more esteem in the world if Mr. Bush gets the boot. People hate a swaggering moron.

It went well. Hopefully they won't take too long to tell me yea or nay.

Yes, I'm going to the interview with orange socks. Sort of a terra cotta, really. 

A Prayer

I just finished a shift at Big Green, and it went well. I'm sautéeing some onions and ham. They will join two eggs inside a warm tortilla. A slick, black iron skillet is my tool for warming tortillas. In two and a half hours, I will enter a job interview. For a real job. I'm optimistic, and I'm fairly confident in interpersonal situations, but I am a bit nervous. I've been submitting resumés and shmoozing people for a year, and this is the first interview (for a non-awful job) that I've gotten. Do I suck, or does the economy suck?

I'm going to put on a suit and go to RTP with my paperwork all in order. I'm second-guessing myself like crazy. What will they find that is inadequate or undesirable? How many people are they interviewing? Will the security guards haul me out because I break down into abject begging and offering of sexual favors if they'd just please hire me and get me the fuck out of retail?

Perhaps it's just the effects of 11 months of rotten jobs. That sort of shit will suck your self esteem out like the Dementors in Harry Potter. It's tough to be excited about yourself when an hour of your time is worth so little money, and you are so replaceable.

Please, God, make the interviewers look favorably on me, and make my paperwork free of omissions and ugly things. Deliver me from the misery of crap jobs so I can afford take my wife out to dinner some time. So I'm not a crabby, negative stick-in-the-mud all the time. So I'm not spending so much of my time trying to cheer myself up. So I can get my life on track and do things like travel and have kids. Please, Almighty God, who has already given me more good things in life than I deserve, please give me this as well. Amen.

More Flashing than Mardi Gras

Lindz's Dad has been kind enough to come out to the house for some highly appreciated assistance and moral support.  We're fixing some drywall and a bit of flashing today.  We spent some quality time on the roof yesterday afternoon.  We also put up a hammock in the back yard.  The time when Lindsey and I actually wake up at the house is drawing nearer.  We currently just visit it to get dirty and paint-spattered.

I have written little here of late, largely because I have been busy with the house.  I have eaten very little interesting food; leftovers and fast food have been the bulk of my fare (we haven't spent much time in the kitchen where my cookware is).  I've had a bit of good beer at the Sawmill Tap Room, however:
Highland Brewing Company Kashmir I.P.A. -A nice, clean India Pale Ale
Duck Rabbit Brewing Amber Ale - I don't think they have a website.  It's brewed in Farmville, NC, a podunk town, I'm told.  The Amber has a lovely, sumptuous brown sugar body with a perfectly balanced backbone of hoppy bitterness.

I have finally gotten a phone call I was waiting for - I have a job interview on Wednesday at PPD Medical Communications.  I'm struggling to avoid getting my hopes up too high, but it looks fairly promising.  The idea of getting out of Starbucks is intoxicating.  Shitty jobs are ruining my life.

Anyway, we'll see.

The Primary

(listening to "Automatic Blues" by The Cult)
I'm going to get off my ass and vote in a few minutes here.  I'm going to try and defeat my cynicism.
 
I suppose Linda Ronstadt should know better than to use her stage as a soapbox (she's paid to perform, not talk politics), but it's too bad the audience reacted in such a McCarthyesque fashion.  I haven't gotten around to seeing Fahrenheit 9/11 yet; I suppose I'm not in the mood to be outraged.  I'm too busy painting the master bedroom closet.
 
I'm not particularly Left or Right; I just think that things should be questioned.  The U.S. system is not perfect, but, given lots of questioning and participation on the part of its constituents, it provides a reasonable chance of common sense prevailing.  A sense of humor is also required.  Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger of California called some Democrats "girly men," using the old Saturday Night Live bit.  The Democrats are offended.  Get over yourselves, you assholes.  You're just jealous of a governor who is popular but isn't as spineless and slimy as most politicians.  The SNL joke poked fun at Arnold, so he's entitled to use the joke.  I think that being easily offended is a character flaw, not an excuse for righteous indignation.
 
"This Land" is a funny video.
 
(listening to "Two Step" by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, the acoustic version)
 
Closer to home, things are proceeding on the house.  I grilled some Italian sausages and corn on the cob last night for our dinner break on the deck.  Starbucks is still hysterically miserable, but I have an interview later this week.

Making it Mine

I feel satisfied
In the discovery of things which are not quite satisfactory;
I get hold of something to remedy.

 
A furrowed brow becomes a happy and sweaty one
With turns of screws.
Mutterings are gone with the flick of a new switch.
 
A door swings open with long-absent ease;
A board is once again firm.
Power thrums up my arm from the hammerstrike
As a sixteen-penny nail goes home. 
 

The House has been Baptized with Fire and Meat.

We haven't moved in yet.  The only things in the house are tools, scrapings, sawdust and a stepladder, but we bought a grill today.  It just wouldn't wait.  I have never in my entire life had a real, non-crappy grill.  Here I am with the brand-new Broil-Mate 3844.  I was amazed at how fabulous the assembly directions weren't, but the grill works very well indeed.  Note the lush greenery around me, and the Pete's Wicked Ale behind me.  The surprisingly solid spatula was $2.99 at Food Lion.

We enjoyed our burgers and beer, and then we strolled around the lake.  We admired the variety of shrubberies and houses, and we encountered a startling number of geese meandering about the shore.  Ice cream sandwiches capped it off.

It's a pity we still need to move all of our stuff into the house.

Not Sufficiently Controversial

Lately I have written mostly about my house or my job situation. I have been remiss in my self-appointed job of bitching about something in the wider world. I will attempt to make amends.

Same-Sex Marriage:
If you don't approve of homosexual marriage, then don't have one. A great many people, preaching from their morally bankrupt soapbox, decry the "threat to the institution of marriage." What threat? What the hell are you talking about? The threat to marriage (and allow me to point out that 1 in 2 heterosexual marriages fails these days) comes from people who get married but shouldn't have, from asshole men who beat their wives, and from people who can't or don't remain faithful to their spouse. I fail to see how a union of two men or two women down the street is going to split up your home.
I respect marriage. I would not have pledged to share my life with one other person if I didn't. I do not, however, waste my time criticizing other people's relationships. I'm going to pay attention to mine. I actually expect to see gay marriages do better than traditional ones statistically. Some of these people have waited decades for this. That's a long engagement.

The opponents of gay marriage are fond of citing Holy Scripture. They miss some important parts, however. Here's what Jesus says in Matthew 22:34-40:

But when the Pharisees had heard that he had put the Sadducees to silence, they were gathered together. Then one of them, which was a lawyer, asked him a question, tempting him, and saying, "Master, which is the great commandment in the law?" Jesus said unto him, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

Funny, I can't seem to find the verse where Jesus says "Except fags and dykes. Don't cut 'em any slack." The New Testament is full of parables and exhortations to love, forgive, and do good deeds. God didn't appoint you judge, George W. Bush, so fuck off. No one is getting away with anything; the price of sin is between a person and the Lord. Holier-than-thou, reactionary assholes are not in the equation.

There's a Bar within Stumbling Distance!

We spent our first day fiddling around with the house today. We are starting to feel it sinking in. Ownership. Nesting. Territorialism. Disbelief. Any confusion which I ever had regarding why Home Depot is a successful company is long gone.

I feel the need for a real job very acutely now. I need tools. I need appliances. I need materials. The stove works, but it's a rattly old hunk of shit. The cedar siding needs to be stained. The deck is structurally sound, but a whole truckload of new wood sure would look nicer. Our back yard is a forest; some stone-paved paths and a gazebo back there might be nice.

Actually, I'm just in a period of overwhelmedness right now. My job situation remains a steady source of misery, but a house doesn't really change that. It just provides an opportunity to be preoccupied by it. A lot of what we are doing right now is actually pretty cheap. Lindsey is scraping the popcorn acoustic stuff off the ceilings, and I'm fixing stuff (a wiggly deck board, a barely attached mailbox, removing a pile of half-rotten firewood under the deck, some sketchy door hardware, a furnace air filter that was so old that it had deeper shag than the carpet, an exterior light fixture which apparently hides a wasps' nest behind its dangling facade, et cetera). I'm no carpenter, but I think I can surpass the workmanship on the guest bathroom's vanity. The hinges are the hardware equivalent of Britney Spears. They wiggle, and they will probably fall apart soon.

We will do a bit of painting as well. It seems that our predecessor entrusted the painting of all the trim in the house to a seven year-old spastic. The closet door in the master bedroom is either an original and very valuable Jackson Pollock painting or just a hell of a sloppy door.

But those are cosmetic things. The furnace is brand new, the water heater is rather new, and the roof is only four or five years old. We have 1/3 of an acre of woods to call a back yard. A lake is less than 100 yards from our door (ducks included).

AND....

There is a bar, which has good beer on tap, within walking distance. I enjoyed a Highland Gaelic Ale this afternoon. I am very, very pleased about that. We have one of the less impressive houses in a very nice neighborhood. Given time and a couple of bucks, it will be a hell of a home.