McSpaceflight

I couldn't resist the cheesy term. Someone else has surely already used it. Mankind is still not at the point depicted in 2001: A Space Odyssey, but we are inching forward. Space exploration is something that I get excited about. At the moment of this writing on a Wednesday afternoon in 2004, the Cassini-Huygens probe is mere hours away from entering orbit around Saturn. The Mars rovers are roving. Two men are orbiting overhead, getting ready to go for a spacewalk.

The last human to walk on the moon, Eugene Cernan, got back into his spaceship and came home when I was two months old. During the intervening 31 years, mankind has not ventured out of orbit. We've talked a lot, and we've gotten some great pictures via unmanned probes, but we haven't really broken a barrier. True human exploration hasn't been going on; it's history rather than current events. This statement is perhaps untrue if one considers the recent privately funded suborbital flight of Mike Melvill.

Let me say that space exploration is vitally important. George W. Bush's corny, wooden oratory aside, exploration is part of human character. We are naturally curious. So why the hell are we still cowering here on the Earth? Simple:

1)We're too busy killing each other
People are killing each other all over the world, but the United States has no excuse for such behavior. The war in Iraq was declared for reasons that were false. Bush is a war criminal. What is this, the Crusades, for fuck's sake? Concentrate on our side of the planet, you asshole. Just look at all this hatred you've stirred up.
2)We're too busy buying shit we don't need
I see a lot of big, shiny cars with only one person in them. I see a lot of big houses. Christmas is a spending frenzy. Parents buy their kids new cars in exchange for good grades. If you've got the money, super. But why? Are you bored or something?
3)We're too cheap
Yes, space exploration is expensive. Everything costs money. NASA is the smallest agency in the federal government. The Cassini mission to Saturn cost about 3 billion dollars. The war in Iraq is somewhere around 120 billion. People say "Exploring space is stupid. We should be feeding the poor or something." Okay, feed them, dick. Food isn't as expensive as weaponry, and we'd save a lot of money on homeland defense if we didn't go to such extraordinary lengths to piss off everyone in the fucking world.
4)We're scared
Yes, manned space exploration is dangerous. So is crossing the street. So is breathing this polluted air. So is eating fast food. You do all those things. Considering the number of manned spaceflights and the number of days humans have spent in space, the track record is pretty good. If an astronaut dies on a mission, it's not because he or she didn't know the deal. You can safely sit on your ass and watch it on television.
5)We think too small
Exploration enlarges the world. It fills in blanks and corrects mistakes in our children's schoolbooks. It's something to be proud of. It's constructive.

Routine space travel is going to become a reality if it is profitable. The continent I am sitting on was discovered because of business ambition. The gadgetry inside your cellular phone is far beyond the computer technology that took men to the moon. You have it, cheap, because it was in big corporations' interest to make it happen. Deeper exploration takes longer to pay off, but what the hell? Five centuries on, we still talk about Columbus and Magellan. The trips they took could be undertaken now with a passport, a credit card, and a suitcase.

 

Salmon Bryan

Wild Alaskan Sockeye salmon served atop a piece of crispy-fried home made bread, topped with basil hollandaise. Schifferdecker potatoes on the side. I had no macro lens, so the picture is not as impressive as the photo of the Mister Orange Roll on Bryan's blog.

(listening to The Smiths)

Still life: Loaf and Mixer o' Death

I added a bit more humidity to the oven and raised the temperature to 450 from my previous 400, and it seems to have yielded a more handsome crust. I believe I am getting accustomed to a cheap electric oven. 

The solace of dark beer and cooking

(listening to "That's Not Really Reggae" by Frank Zappa, drinking Dogwood Stout)

It is an overcast Monday. It is muggy, and I am off work today. I have to force myself to have any direction at all. I did a couple of minor domestic chores this morning, and then I went out into the world.

I had intended to visit a restaurant supply store in Durham. I wanted to get a part for a piece of equipment at work, and I wanted to look at all the fun cooking equipment. Well, I have to write myself a reminder note: Never go to Durham. I've been there before; I should have learned my lesson then. What a fucking toilet. They don't believe in legible street signs, either. The restaurant store may have still been in business, but they were being pretty stealthy about it. No cars in the parking lot, boards in the windows. I thought I was going to be shot fairly soon, so I declined to linger.

("I'm Not Satisfied" by Fine Young Cannibals)

I didn't feel like going home. I drove to a shopping center and wandered around in a hardware store and a bookstore before I entered that oasis of goodness, Whole Foods Market. I had an idea or two of what to do there; I was not just wandering aimlessly. WFM has a very good beer selection, particularly obscure microbrews. I saw plenty of stuff I wanted, but I went for the Dogwood Stout. It has that chocolate milk thing going on, with a bit of bitterness as a backbone. Nice. I wandered the aisles, looking at superlative hunks of cheese, loaves of bread, cuts of lamb, and mysterious dietary supplements. I decided to get a couple of things for dinner. I wish to create a dish named after my brother Bryan, since he did so for me.

A girl with a nose ring handled my transaction (I don't believe I have ever been to a WFM without being rung up by a girl with a nose ring). I like it. In fact, I should apply there. The people working at Whole Foods don't appear to be miserable or brainwashed, and they sell good shit. They like what they do (they're excited to talk to you about a particular type of cheese or whatever it is you might be buying). I had looked at jobs online this morning again, and there is jack shit out there. I should just sell meat or bread or cheese at a good store; I actually care about that stuff, and I've seen for myself that meat and bread actually exist. I'm starting to think that the "real jobs" that I'm looking for are just part of a cruel joke. There are no real jobs, and everyone I see who look like they have more than $40 in the bank is merely a paid actor put there to confound me.

(Show Me a Little Shame" by Ben Harper)

It's raining. I have bread dough rising in the kitchen, and I have beer in my glass. Yes, I have that much. I can also do that trick whereby I simulate removing my finger (always a crowd-pleaser). All is not lost.

This is a chocolate bullet to the head. It's from a Nigella Lawson cookbook. We made a total of eight of them, and they are each the size of a cupcake. Tons of bittersweet chocolate in there, rich as can be. I put a bit of royal icing on there just for good measure. 

A True Status Symbol

Some people have statues of them built in conspicuous places. Some people have bridges and freeways named after them. A number of craters on the moon are named for famous explorers and fallen astronauts. I have been given an even greater honor. Behold!

Food is the legal tender of glory; it is the stuff of dreams. People in my family like food. My big brother Bryan is mighty among foodsmiths. His desserts have brought shrieks of delight from many people; he works in cheesecake as Cézanne worked in oils. He is very skilled in the kitchen as both an artist and a craftsman, and he pays special attention to presentation.

Bryan: cook, photographer, history buff, Beatles fan, shameless pesto addict. He is the next member of the litter after Scott, about whom I wrote in my previous post. He lives in Carlsbad, just north San Diego on the Left Coast. My relationship with Bryan is different from those I have with my other two siblings, Kathy and Scott. This is, I believe, because I lived with him for eight years. He and I have been through a lot together: ordeals and glories for both of us. He was a good roommate, a good coworker (we worked a couple of jobs together, including Starbucks), and a good partner in the exploration of good stuff (food, films, people, et cetera).

I was present for Bryan's rebirth, and I like to think I participated a bit. I finished college at Central Michigan University in the summer of 1995, and I didn't have the foggiest notion of what to do with my life. I didn't even bother going to my own graduation. Bryan and his wife Kristin invited me to move to San Diego and live with them. I was excited about a change.

Bryan picked me up at Lindbergh Field on a sunny afternoon. I had my duffel bag and $80. We went back to the apartment and had a couple of Sierra Nevada Pale Ales; I still remember it clearly. Time went on. Very soon after I arrived, I was working with Bryan at Pacific Horizons Balloon Company (now defunct) as ground crew. It was fun working with hot air balloons, but not much of a career. Before long, I was working at Starbucks (I had no idea I would be there for so long) also. Bryan was not satisfied by his work, and his marriage was not doing so well. He and Kristin were finding out how much they didn't have in common. Let's just say they didn't bring out the best in each other. She didn't like food (at least not food with any flavor), and she had very different priorities. They were all wrong for each other. Bryan was an unhappy man. They agreed that a divorce was what they both wanted. Since it was consensual and there were no kids in the picture, it went smoothly. Bryan got a steady job with benefits and escaped the weird world of ballooning (balloonists are not particularly good businesspeople). He worked hard to pay off debts (Kristin had an impressive ability to open charge accounts and buy unnecessary shit), and he met new people. He cooked for people who actually appreciated his craft, and he put more effort into it. He becomes frightfully good at something when he sets his mind to it. People look at his bee pie (a honey chiffon pie with a honeycomb pattern glazed on top, adorned with bees fashioned out of chocolate with almond sliver wings) and are astonished. "Where the hell did you get this?" they say, or "Who the hell are you?" Time went on.

Someone from his work took him to church, and he got saved.

This changed everything. He was a happy person. It was as if he stood upright for the first time. He had spent a lifetime being misunderstood and underappreciated, and it was a hell of a beautiful thing for me to see him come into his own.

And so we have come from a couple of beers on August 29, 1995 to him obliterating his wedding ring with a blowtorch the day Kristin left to him naming a sushi roll after me. If you want an example of how to love being alive, look no further than Bryanasaurus Rex. He was the best roommate I ever had until I fell in love with Lindsey and moved across the country (Bryan would have made the ideal wife, but he's a man, and he's my brother). He's a man who laughs, cooks, and refuses to take anything too seriously. Like Scott, he doesn't spit in public, treat others like shit to make himself feel important, or act like an angry gorilla when the Lakers lose. He doesn't even give a shit about basketball.

Dodgeball and Real Men

(listening to "The Warehouse" by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds)

It's Saturday morning. Rain is pattering down from a leaden sky, and I am draining the last of a superlative pot of Arabian Mocha Java. Lindz and I saw Dodgeball last night, and it was some funny shit. Ben Stiller is a very funny man, and the Good Lord knows this world needs all the funny people it can get. The film reminds me of the brutal degradation that is the very soul of the game of dodgeball. In grade school, I was forced to play it along with lots of other humiliating team sports. I was, in case you haven't guessed, a nerd. At 31 years of age, I am now able to call this nerdiness "personality." I hated gym class as a kid. Ugh; I'm shuddering at the recollection of it.

(listening to "Tangerine" by Led Zeppelin)

My big brother Scott posted some pictures from our parents' wedding. Part of me feels bad for not having a "real" wedding, and part of me just marvels a those people in the pictures. I happened because of that day in 1962 (ten years later, of course).

Scott is, compared to me, an adult, productive member of society. He has three fabulous children and a real job. He has an excellent wife, but so do I. He followed in our father's footsteps in that he is an engineer. I owe my love of King Crimson to him, and his influence during my childhood did much to enhance my overall awareness of music. Not to get corny, but he has also been, along with our late father, the example of manhood for me. He is a provider, a father, a fixer of broken things, and a passionate lover of the good things in life. He is not an insecure guy who uses the word "bro" excessively. He does not have a Harley, a big truck, or a bunch of jetskis and powerboats. Neither he nor Dad ever took themselves too seriously. He is a polite, articulate, hard working man. He likes beer and food. He does not (at least to my knowledge) spit in public, shout at the tv during sporting events, or stare conspicuously at women's asses.

And that, folks, is a real man.

The heart of my kitchen's knife collection. Top to bottom: Spanish-made 7" Henckels granton-edge Santoku, Spanish-made 8" Henckels chef's knife, 8" Mundial serrated bread knife, 10" Henckels honing steel, 10" Mundial 5100 Series chef's knife, 5" Henckels serrated utility knife (stamped steel, also available forged at a higher price), 3.5" Wüsthof pairing knife 

Sharp and Indispensable II: The Reckoning

(listening to In Through the Out Door by Led Zeppelin, drinking Bass Pale Ale)

Let us say you've purchased a couple of knives: a decent chef's knife and paring knife, as I mentioned in my previous post, and a bread knife. You can get away with a less expensive bread knife, because bread slicing is a less exact science. Dexter-Russell is often seen in restaurant kitchens. It's a good value. Of course, an expensive, forged one feels nice.

Anyway, you've got your knives. It is now time to pay the piper. You have to take care of them, or they will become dull. Dull knives are bad because they mutilate the item you're trying to cut, and they are dangerous because you have to apply more force to make them cut. This raises the chance of losing control of the blade. Dull knives are more dangerous than sharp ones. If you're still afraid of cutting yourself, buck up or get the hell out of the kitchen.

Here are some cardinal rules:
1)With very few exceptions, roommates are evil, cookware-ruining savages. They overheat and scrape Teflon pans, leave wooden utensils sitting in filthy dishwater, and abuse knives. Hide your cookware, don't try to own any cookware, or threaten them with a violent death if they fuck up your stuff. Cut off a finger with your new chef's knife to make the point to them. People with no respect for others' property really piss me off.

2)Don't put knives in the sink. They bang and scrape against the side, causing dulling, and dishwater-obscured knives can cause a quick trip to the emergency room.

3)Don't put knives in the dishwasher. The heat screws up the handles, and they bang against other utensils.

4)Don't try to resharpen them. If you use a steel on your knives every two or three sessions of cutting, they will not need to be resharpened. I have had some of my knives for years, and they have never seen a sharpening stone. A knife steel is not a sharpener. It keeps the edge in alignment, and it knocks down any burrs. In fact, I had a knife (an inexpensive Farberware chef's knife, stamped steel) for at least six years. I gave it to my friend Luis (Don Luisito) because he needed a sharp knife in his kitchen. One evening, we spent an enjoyable four hours in the emergency room together after he nearly cut his fingertip off. It was a sharp knife. It was an accident, too; Don Luisito is not a careless man. Unless you chop gravel often, a knife steel is all you need.

5)Electric sharpeners grind your knife away. Avoid them. Diamond sharpening steels do, too.

I like my knives, but my natural lust for shiny toys makes me want more. I have a few expensive pocket knives, but the most expensive knife in my kitchen cost $43 (the Spanish-made Henckels chef's knife). There are some other things I want to get if I ever get a real job, but I have knives that would do fine against any professional chef's (probably, but I suppose some have full-time knife valets). My stuff is pretty sharp.

Sharp and indispensable

(listening to Ben Harper)

Knives are in my must-have category. You cannot cook without one. Heating up convenience food doesn't count. I have a lot of knives. I don't need a lot, but I like knives. I used to buy them too often, and my credit card situation showed it. Pocket knives, hunting knives, cooking knives. This bit of writing is, however, about what one needs.

First, one needs a fact to sink in: good knives are indispensable tools, and shitty knives are worthless, dangerous sources of disappointment. A good knife is a sharp, edge-retaining one that you like. A shitty knife can be a cheap knife, a good knife that's gone dull, or the wrong knife for the job.

Second, one needs a good knife. Preferably three:

An 8 or 10 inch chef's knife, a 7 inch Santoku also does very nicely
A paring knife, 3 or 4 inches long
A bread knife, serrated, at least 8 inches

They don't have to be terribly expensive, but they'll be more than a few bucks apiece if they're any good. You'll need a sharpening steel, too. Someone who cooks and appreciates a good knife knows where all that money goes. Steel must be high grade, properly heat treated, and correctly ground to make a good knife. There's plenty of shitty steel out there. Good marketing, but shitty steel. And don't buy a set(unless it's the set on Alton Brown's website. His show, Good Eats, is my favorite thing on the Food Network. He knows what's up). His book, Gear for your Kitchen, is a very useful and interesing incarnation of his pragmatic philosophy. He doesn't believe in having cheap crap or unnecesary frills. I agree with his philosophy, but I'm guilty of having more stuff in my kitchen than I absolutely need. And I always want more.

Retailers would love to have you buy a bunch of stuff you don't need. However, knowing what you need and what you don't is inextricably tied to good cooking and good living. You don't appreciate things if they are utterly superfluous. But I digress. Just buy what you need, or steal it from some rich person with a sensational kitchen but who only goes out to eat. Why are there so many of those people? Expensive, neglected knives, custom cabinetry, and not a crumb of cooking going on.

That being said, get a knife. The chef's knife is the "if I was stuck on a desert island" knife. It does just about everything: chop vegetables, cube meat, smash garlic, even open beer bottles if you're foolish like me. A paring knife is for the fine work (boning chicken breasts, making incisions in a leg of lamb for garlic insertion, peeling things, etc.), and the bread knife is important because an unserrated knife tends to smash a loaf to death rather than slice it. By the way, don't go for a serrated chef's knife. That's a saw, not a knife. That "Super Edge, EverSharp, Ginsu or whatever gimmick is just cheap crap. Where are the good knives? What do they look like?

A good knife feels good in the hand. It's not light and flimsy. It has no nicks in the edge. It is sharp. It has no gaps in the handle where germs can hide. It has no cheesy gimmicks.

Most knives these days are made of high carbon stainless steel. It doesn't rust (although it might discolor or develop pitting if you leave it in seawater or something like that), and it can keep a good edge. Some are forged (a heavier knife with a bolster, a thick, solid part between blade and handle), and some are stamped (lighter, less expensive, and the blade is of uniform thickness). I like the forged variety. Good stamped knives can be had, though. Forschner and Dexter-Russell make good examples of these. If you've got a hundred bucks or more to spend on a chef's knife, then Wüsthof, Shun, or Viking are the shit. If you don't, then get what I got:

10 inch Mundial chef's knife (forged, made in Brazil)

8 inch Henckels chef's knife (forged, made in Spain) Well, it's actually my wife's, but I've been known to borrow it.

A Wüsthof 3.5 inch paring knife (forged, made in Germany) nice knife. The Spanish Henckels line is fine, too.

8 inch Mundial bread knife

I've got more stuff, but these are the basic essentials. I've also got a Henckels honing steel and some Kitchenaid kitchen scissors.

To be continued....

A Gross Physical Salute to Everything Good about the American Way of Life

Ahh, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Delicious book, delicious movie (as far as filmmakers go, Terry Gilliam is the absolute tits, I tell you).

(listening to "Sex Sleep Eat Drink Dream," performed live, by King Crimson)

I'm drinking Fransiskaner Hefe-Weisse. Slightly different from the Dunkel version. I am always astounded how Germans and Belgians can coax such complexity out of the four ingredients permitted by the 1516 Purity Law. I'm getting banana overtones here, in addition to the lemon cream aspect usually found in a good Weisse. A good German beer like this is splendid on a hot day. The Belgians excel, however, at contemplative fireside beers. If I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never stop vividly remembering drinking Delerium Tremens out of a snifter. I was sitting on a low, velvet settee in a Belgian bar in NYC. Greenwich Village, I believe. I drank some Leffe, too, among much else. They had a special glass for every beer, I think. I got pretty fuckered up, actually.

I worked my annoying little shift at Big Green this morning, and then I decided to be productive. I drove around and finally found the DMV office (the streets and shopping centers in Cary were planned by acid fiends, evidently). I needed to transfer my registration from California to North Carolina. I had all the necessary documents with me. I had hours of free time. To my astonishment, it was easy and fast. The woman at the counter was pleasant. It took me four hours to get my driver's license. Go figure. Too bad I had to use Plastic Pretend Money to pay for it.

("One O'Clock Jump," Benny Goodman live at Carnegie Hall)

Next door was an Asian grocery store. One of my favorite pastimes is perusing the shelves of Asian grocery stores. My wife grows impatient and annoyed as I fondle bottles of Nuoc Mam and plates with dragons on them. She does not share my lust for Kim Chee. I was, however, alone.

It is a slightly humbling experience to enter an Asian store, even more so to enter Chinatown in San Francisco. I suppose I know a thing or two about food, and I've learned a bit about Asian cuisine as a result of my eight years in California, but I've barely scratched the surface. When one goes into one of these stores, one sees Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese, and often Philippino things. These are the cuisines enjoyed by well over a billion people. Some of it has roots going back millennia. A clueless Caucasian is very much an outsider. I still marvel at the strange pickled things, the panoply of tofu, and the vast array of sauces, pastes, and oozes in bottles. I wish I knew how to make full use of all of it. Dried fish. Mysterious powders. Alien candies. Mesmerizing beverages with things floating in them. Unfamiliar produce: Durian is a challenge. It's also called stinkfruit, and it smells like rotting flesh. It tastes good, though.

("Building a Mystery," live, Sarah McLachlan)

Asian grocery stores are a very invigorating change from American ones. Not so much marketing. I have to be on guard when I go to an American MegaMart; who knows what new crap they've invented since yesterday. And they'll try and sell it to me because they assume I'm stupid and lazy. Precooked bacon? Low-carb wine? Prechewed gum? NASCAR potato chips? Get the fuck out of my face. None of this happens at Grand Asia Market or Ranch 99. There's plenty of stuff to buy, but you've got to find it yourself. If you're stupid, you starve to death, I suppose. It's generally more crowded, too. Asians don't seem to feel entitled to 45 square yards of personal space apiece. That's the way it should be, instead of the American style store:

1)The sun shines out your ass just because you're a customer
2)If you're too stupid to find the cake mix or iceberg lettuce, someone will hold your hand.
3)If you're reasonably intelligent and blessed with good taste, we'll be sure to only carry processed crap. Surely you can't make food from scratch! Ha! The very idea.
4)We'll upsell you until you're exhausted, and then usher your fat ass out of there.
5)We need to be this obnoxious because there's a Food Lion or Harris Teeter or Vons on every corner. Can't let that $1.49 slip away with this much rent to pay. All this high-powered signage costs, too. You'll pay one way or the other.

Anyway, I walked out of the Asian store with a nifty serving bowl, some shiitake bouillon cubes, a bottle of peanut oil, some Chinkiang vinegar (total blind pick; it was only 99 cents, and I like it), some firm tofu, and a package of fruit flavored beef jerky for the drive home. I decided against getting the honeydew filled cookies.

("Achilles Last Stand", Led Zeppelin)

The Dark Ages

People are having their heads chopped off, for fuck's sake. And George W. Bush's head only gets bigger. He has created more terrorists than he has captured or killed. I compare him to Pope Innocent IV. He authorized torture in The Inquisition in 1252. Bush denies it, but I'm having a difficult time giving credence to anything coming from the White House. It's all about pride, not people.

I'm so cynical. Someone help me understand why the hell we have a two party system.

And why such a falsely pious, foolishly proud man is the President of great nation.

And why we're governed by so many old, rich, white men. Rumsfeld is such a fucking prick.

And why his opponent isn't all that exciting either.

And why we're supposed to be the Gleaming White Knight of the World. We should charge for our services as Meddlling, Sanctimonious Superpower.

Dark Matter, High Expectorations, and Clams

(Listening to Ralph Vaughan Williams's Symphony No. 5 in D major)

I am hiding between the cushy earpads of my headphones, listening the swelling beauty that is Vaughan Williams's music. I am drinking a very tasty beer, Breakdown IPA by Dogwood Brewing of Atlanta. It is late at night; I dozed off for three hours on the couch this evening. I awoke to a PBS program hosted by Alan Alda. It was about the expansion of the universe - the outer limits of it, the beginnings of time, dark matter and energy, and so on. I could only think of watching him portray Hawkeye Pierce on M*A*S*H everyday at dinnertime through much of my childhood. I suppose my universe's limits lie closer than the ones he was explaining. I heaved myself off the couch and sat for a spell on the balcony. I listened to the air conditioners running, the upstairs neighbors talking and spitting, and the wind.

Clamming
by Reed Whittemore

I go digging for clams once every two or three years
Just to keep my hand in (I usually cut it),
And I'm sure that whenever I do so I tell the
same story
Of how, at the age of four, I was trapped by the tide
As I clammed a sandbar. It's no story at all,
But I tell it and tell it. It serves my small lust
To be thought of as someone who's lived.
I've a war too to fall back on, and some years of flying,
As well as a high quota of drunken parties,
A wife and children; but somehow the clamming thing
Gives me an image of me that soothes my psyche
Like none of the louder events: me helpless,
Alone with my sandpail,
As fate in the form of soupy Long Island Sound
Comes stalking me.

I've a son now at that age.
He's spoiled. He's been sickly.
He's handsome and bright, affectionate and demanding.
I think of the tides when I look at him.
I'd have him alone and sea-girt, poor little boy.

The self, what a brute it is. It wants, wants.
It will not let go of its even most fictional grandeur,
But must grope, grope down in the muck of its past
For some little squirting life and bring it up tenderly
To the lo and behold of death, that it may weep
And pass on the weeping, keep the thing going.

Son, when you clam,
Watch out for the tides and take care of yourself,
Yet no great care,
Lest you care too much and talk of the caring
And bore your best friends and inhibit your children and sicken
At last into opera on somebody's sandbar. Son, when you clam,
Clam.

Ted Nasmith painted this. That's me on the left. 

Frijoles Al Borracho Naranjo (Beans prepared in the style of the Orange Wino)

(listening to "Close to Me [Closer Mix]" by the Cure)

I am alone all week, because the wife is away. She departed on her trip early yesterday afternoon. I had a very "orangewino-ish" day yesterday. I got some beer and a bit of food at the store. The weather was sunny and mild, a happy contrast to the oppressive mugginess that preceded it. I was in a good mood. Tuna steaks were on sale, so I got one. I stuck it in a bag with some Soy-Vay. I got some Franziskaner Dunkel Hefe-Weisse and some Pilsner Urquell. I got one of those huge pickles that they have floating in the barrel. I got a moderate chunk of smoked Gouda. I got some tortillas.

("Sunday Sun" by Beck, and then "Army of Me" by Bjork)

I sipped the crisp, refreshing Hefe-Weisse out of a tall glass while I flipped through Diana Kennedy's Essential Cuisines of Mexico. I sliced off bits of the excellent dill pickle (crisp and vibrant, nothing like the stuff in a jar) and of the smoky, slightly buttery Gouda. I decided to do something with the bag of dried pinto beans in the pantry.

What a wonderful cookbook. It's all about the regional nuances. I did not follow a recipe, however. I used some ideas, but I winged it. This is what I did.

Ingredients:
1 pound dried pinto beans, washed and inspected for stones
a few tbsp bacon grease
1 dried Pasilla chile
1 dried Guajillo chile
1 dried New Mexico chile
1 medium onion
3 cloves of garlic, peeled
about 1 1/2 tsp whole cumin
1 or 2 inches of cinnamon stick
2 beef bouillon cubes (real beef stock would be better)
water

I think that's everything. I tore the stem off of each chile and shook the seeds out. I tore them up a bit and toasted them lightly in an iron skillet, just until they emitted their earthy, wonderful perfume. I'll never bother with that stale, insipid "chili powder" from the store again. I pulverized them in my little food processor. I chopped the onion and sweated it down in the bacon grease (in my deep iron skillet, Lodge model 8CF). I pulverized the cumin with the garlic in my Huge Mortar and Pestle of Death. I put this in the pan. I put in the beans and the bouillon cubes, and I covered them with water. I added the chile powder and the cinnamon stick. I covered it and simmered it for two or three hours. I stirred it occasionally, and I added a bit of water to keep the beans covered. I may have added some salt; I'm not sure. I tasted periodically. I put some in a tortilla with some fresh cilantro leaves. Cheap, tasty stuff. Not strictly traditional Mexican style.

I neglected to mention the tuna. While the beans were cooking, I heated up the broiler. I sprinkled some sesame seeds on both sides of the tuna and broiled it until the surface sizzled. Still pink on the inside. Nice. It went well with the Pilsner Urquell.

Other nutritious items included M&M's and lots of Food TV.

I accomplished some laundry, but that's as industrious as things got. No wonder I'm such a ne'er-do-well.

Further Ranting about Coffee Customers, Slightly Grounded in Fact

(Coffee Customer = complacent, middle class, Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual, suburban people with a little too much money*)

The highly competitive retail industry in the United States has created the most self-entitled, rude, and lazy customers the world has ever seen. The retail sector of the U.S. economy is a big pile of money - somewhere right around 335 billion dollars just last month (May 2004) alone. I could buy a lot of beer for that amount of cash.

In the process of fighting over a slice of that pie, businesses will suck as much cock as they have to. The customer is always right. Free samples. We’ll stay open later just for you. As soon as your dumb ass wanders into our store, the sun shines out your anus, Mr. and Mrs. Customer! We appreciate your business, even though we don't necessarily have it yet! Of course, it’s the shmuck in the apron who really has to kneel and bob. It is an unstated law that a customer may be rude, stupid, or generally difficult, and the cashier has to deal with it without complaint. This law is sometimes bent or broken:

1)At the really good, hole-in-the wall taco shops in San Diego. The staff barely speaks English, and they don’t give a shit about how some picky, asshole Anglo wants pinto beans instead of refried beans. Americans do not know jack shit about work ethic compared to the legions of Latin Americans who play an essential part in our lives. I respect them for that. You racist, anti-immigration “patriots” would have to clean your own hotel rooms, pick your own vegetables, do all the landscaping yourselves, and a lot more if you sent these people back to where they came from. Shit; you can’t even drive. You need all the help you can get. Behave yourself and show some respect, Gringo, and you’ll be treated just fine. One doesn’t go into a taco shop for pleasantries, anyway; it’s all about the carne asada.

2)At a small business where the owner is doing well and has enough self respect to tell an unruly customer to go fuck him/herself. I’ve seen this, and it’s good entertainment. A busy bar or New York delicatessen are good places to see assholes reminded that the world would go on just fine if they dropped dead (and they are sometimes encouraged to do just that).

3)When an employee has finally had enough and is ready to go out in style. They blow up at a customer, either stomp out or get fired on the spot, and other employees have to take up the slack. It’s worth it if it was a big enough scene (obscenity, suggestions about putting things in anatomically inconvenient places, inferences about the sexual habits of one’s mother and how much she charges for it, et cetera).

It is part of the American Culture to feel entitled to a lot when you’re in front of the counter. Politeness and common courtesy are still around, but the busy, materialistic, morally bankrupt parents of the last few decades have raised some shitty kids, so it’s only getting worse. There are a lot of rude old people, rude middle aged people, and rude young people. It’s getting more and more okay to be a dick. Kids have been raised by the television in the absence of example, discipline and consequence. Sure, it’s often necessary for both parents to work these days, but so many of them come home and have no meaningful interaction with the family. So many of them get divorced. No time for manners. I’m just saying that there is room for improvement there. I’ve known a number of nannies who play a larger role in a child’s life than the actual parents because they are too wealthy and busy. They are unwilling to splurge on the ultimate luxury: time.

Of course, there are lots of polite people and good kids out there. Thanks, and keep it up. As for the rest of you, don’t be confused when you have a caffeine headache this afternoon. Your mocha was probably made decaf because you threw your money on the counter. Or because you were on your pacifier - er, I mean cell phone. Or because you talked down to the person working the register. Good. Suffer. Rudeness should not be rewarded. Of course, I would never personally engage in such petty behavior; it’s just something I’ve heard rumors about.



*There are always exceptions to my self-righteous generalizations, but I refer to this demographic (I also call them Yuppies, but that’s technically not correct. They are not necessarily young or urban or professional) merely because almost all of the assholes with which I come in contact belong to it. In contrast, various people embody the antithesis of this group. I mean to say that here are some people who are often polite, thoughtful, patient, and circumspect:
Minorities
Homosexuals
Liberals
Some college students
People who work at brewpubs, wine shops, and independently owned music stores

Why? People have a certain degree of perspective when they haven’t spent their lives taking everything for granted. The same applies when they are actively curious and critical. Lastly, people who do something they really love just seem to be nicer than average. I mentioned those specific businesses because it combines the dedication to a craft with poverty, which keeps one from being an uppity prick.

The Silent Majority and the Parliament Funkadelic

(listening to "El Beso Secreto" by Compay Segundo)

I'm drinking Pete's Wicked Ale. My father was named Pete. My nephew is named after him. I wish my dad could participate in our home buying experience, he was a manly, house-fixin', steak-grillin', get-your-life-in-order kind of man. I miss him.

The house inspection was today, and nothing but minor stuff is wrong with the house. Some flashing, a crooked door, an attic fan, stuff like that. No termites, no cracked foundation, no one claiming rights to the property. Capitalism has been cleared for takeoff! We'll be sweating our asses off moving in less than a month.

The job search is getting me down. When I'm not happy, nothing seems doable or worth doing. Funks suck. A job won't permanently remove moodiness; that's part of life. Busyness and challenges do, however, make a reasonable facsimile of purpose.

(listening to "Ramble On", Led Zeppelin)

I'm peaceful when happy, and I am happy when at peace.

But it seems like such a long time since I've accomplished anything more impressive than focaccia. The last thing of note that I did was move across the country.

I want more.

Still Life: A Pyrex Beaker Filled with Foreign Coins 

Italian, circa 1620, Artist unknown. Glass, various metals, ceramic, cardboard, plastic, wood, detritus.

A Pyrex Beaker Filled with Foreign Coins

(Listening to Bruce Hornsby's album Spirit Trail)

It is a humid, overcast, unproductive day. It is like a sensory deprivation tank. My simple, low-cash life continues. I got off work, and then I sought to put the $22 remaining in my wallet to the best possible use. This is how it broke down:

$10 in gasoline at $1.939 per gallon, leaving $12

a bag of onions, $1.99
cheap Food Lion white bread, $.91
a surprisingly large package of chicken thighs, $3.08
a package of paper towels (three rolls), $1.50
one oilcan of Foster's Special Bitter, $2.19
one 22 oz. Samuel Adams Boston Lager, $2.09
Total, including tax: $12.28

I didn't have 28 cents, so I used my check card, draining my bank account a bit lower. But I still have cash! I can get $12 worth of pigs' feet or that insipid, radioactive pimento cheese spread that North Carolinians seem to be so fond of.

I doused a few of the chicken thighs in Old Bay and baked them. I swilled down the Foster's (refreshing but forgettable). I checked my email, and I learned, to my astonishment, that I don't have a real job yet. The mighty American economy is still quite unaware of my existence. I ate the chicken without really tasting it.

My heavens, I have an exciting life. The wife is out of town on business until tomorrow. I guess that means I can run around the apartment with scissors and stay up late.

(Listening to Enrique Granados's Cuentos de la Juventud)

Now, I'm on to the Sam Adams. A better beer. Hoppy aroma and palate, nice bitterness on the finish. This was one of the first legitimate beers I drank back in the time of the Great American Beer Renaissance. My college buddies and I started to realize that there were beers out there that didn't taste like dishwater, so we tried all kinds of microbrews and imports. I remember it very fondly. We would start an evening with a microbrew, often Bell's (still a favorite on those rare occasions when I have access to it), some other American beer, or perhaps a fascinating Belgian. After we meticulously portioned it out, savored it, and commented on it, we got trashed on Natural Light. I can't believe that was ten years ago. Mercy, I'm getting old. I appreciate life so much more now. I wish I could have those years back. I'd travel more. I'd still get drunk. I wouldn't have stolen that canoe. That's another story. Yes, I really stole a canoe.

I like this poem.

ZEN OF HOUSEWORK

by Al Zolynas

I look over my own shoulder
down my arms
to where they disappear under water
into hands inside pink rubber gloves
moiling among dinner dishes.

My hands lift a wine glass,
holding it by the stem and under the bowl.
It breaks the surface
like a chalice
rising from a medieval lake.

Full of the grey wine
of domesticity, the glass floats
to the level of my eyes.
Behind it, through the window
above the sink, the sun, among
a ceremony of sparrows and bare branches
is setting in Western America.

I can see thousands of droplets
of steam--each a tiny spectrum--rising
from my goblet of grey wine.
They sway, changing directions
constantly--like a school of playful fish,
or like the sheer curtain
on the window to another world.

Ah, grey sacrament of the mundane!

I found that poem in a collection entitled A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz. It is a wonderful book for opening to a random page.

Just Another Freak in the Freak Kingdom

(listening to Henryk Gorecki's Beatus Vir, Op. 38)

Beautiful, haunting music by a Polish composer. It's raining, and I'm drinking a glass of Yuengling. I savor my idle time. I suppose it isn't always idle, but sometimes I do achieve an uncanny likeness to a worthless bum. I cannot deny however, that, since I quit the job at the Brown Pit of Sauron, every day has seemed like Christmas. I have less money, but I can do things like bake bread or make cream puffs if I feel like it. Call me weird (and indubitably you already have), but that's exciting. I haven't wasted all my time doing nothing; I've looked for jobs and done housework. I've written. I've embarked on buying a house with my wife. However, I like to do things like wander the aisles of the hardware store, looking at grills, hoses, or peat moss. I watch DVD's in languages other than English. I hang around Williams Sonoma and fondle the All-Clad three-quart saucier. I watch Alton Brown's show on the Food Network. I make my wife laugh and/or cry with my twisted humor. We sit on the balcony and watch thunderstorms. When there is no thunderstorm, we sit on the balcony and listen to the guy upstairs hocking up phlegm (What the fuck? Is this a man thing? Anatomically, I'm a man. However, I must not be a manly man, because I don't noisily expectorate or drive a truck, both of which our upstairs neighbor does. We call him BroDude).

I appreciate the value of hard work, but I cannot ignore my loathing of working hard for something I don't care about. My clueless search for a job I love continues....

Is a work ethic a blessing or a curse? It's not just my imagination; many people out there care less what they do with their lives than about other things (money, status, ease, what they are expected to do by others, for example). Is making a decent living easier for some than for others? I think so. If I didn't mind being a salesman and could force myself to do it, I'd already be a well-to-do fellow. I could sell myself. But I don't like selling stuff. I sell coffee all day, but that sells itself. I like making things. Prose, garlic mashed potatoes, love, memories, et cetera. Maybe I just need to learn to submerge my personality in order to make a living.

Hmm....
No.

I think my problem is that I'm the world's worst job seeker. Where the hell are they? Where is my epiphany?

I was hoping to find something on the Web, but I haven't been able to find a simple "Top Ten List" of the world's most traded commodities. I once heard that coffee was #3, after oil and illicit drugs. I have no idea if that has any credibility. I do know, however, that coffee is up there. Starbucks is big, but it only represents a tiny fraction of the world coffee market. Most of it is just regular old canned coffee, I think.

I guess I haven't figured out exactly how to search for this list yet. I saw oil, coffee, sugar, cocoa, rubber, wood, grain, and steel recurrently in my search.

The Effects of Coffee - a Word from the Inside

I have opinions about coffee. It is a beverage, a drug, a ritual, an industry, and an important thread in the world’s cultural tapestry. It is a thing worthy of comment, and comment can be made from any number of angles. The historical angle is covered eruditely here (a tiny sample of what‘s out there, but worthy reading):

History of Food by Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat (Barnes & Noble Books)

The Encyclopaedia Britannica 2004 Ultimate Reference Suite DVD (The same writing is probably found in the paper version)

Anything written by Kenneth Davids is worth a look if you’re interested in coffee.

I will not, therefore, attempt to summarize the history of coffee. One third of the world drinks it, says the above mentioned encyclopedia. I could write thousands of words about the many coffees I have tasted. Mr. Davids, among many others, writes eloquently on the nuances of coffee. He can also tell you how to buy it, roast it, and brew it properly. Pharmacologically speaking, I’m sure a bit of research would turn up some interesting stuff. As I write this, I am not aware of any really conclusive data about caffeine. I don’t believe that sufficiently large, lengthy and properly controlled studies have been done yet. No one can yet say whether caffeine is good or bad. Everyone reacts differently to it, and certain people need to be careful (pregnant women, people with heart conditions, etc.). If you’re an economically savvy person, you know that coffee is big business. It is a commodity which is traded in vast amounts. It is an understatement to say that there are people out there that know more about certain aspects of coffee than I ever will.

At the time of this writing, I have spent just over eight years in the coffee business. I have been at the very bottom of it, however. In the trenches, if you will. I work at Starbucks. It’s a good company; it really is. Retail, however, sucks dick. I’m trying to get a real job (read: a job that I like, which pays the bills, and involves a modicum of respect). I love coffee, however. I feel like a dinosaur at Starbucks. I work with kids who were born when I was starting high school. They don’t like coffee. They drink that foo-foo shit.

Most people drink that foo-foo shit. That foo-foo shit pays the bills. What do I mean by “foo-foo shit?” Anything but straight coffee. Anything. Lattés and Cappuccinos are borderline, only if they don’t contain anything but espresso and milk. Sweet stuff, blended stuff, and bottled stuff is all foo-foo shit. Yes, it’s a free country, and you can have whatever you want. If you are a polite customer, I will even make it for you happily. If not, well… I’ll write about you. We have now reached the pith of this piece of prose: The cultural aspect.

Most of my time in the coffee business has been spent in San Diego, California. It is quite similar to Cary, NC in that it is suburban and populated by a well-to-do, professional demographic. Both places have a shocking number of people with no manners, no taste, backward values, dim wits, little shame, and too much money.

I have, just to clear things up, abandoned reason and taken up judgmental ranting at this point. I have bitched and whined for years about customers. Plenty of my customers, of course, have been wonderful people. We have been part of each other’s lives. Enough assholes remain to make me continue my ranting generalization. Starbucks employees, both current and former, will know what I’m talking about.

No manners: Using your cellular phone while someone is trying to talk to you (trying to take your order, for example) is rude. What kind of spineless, lazy parents raised you? Get off the fucking phone, or you’re getting decaf. Also, when a sales person says, “Hello. How are you today?” it’s rude to cut them off midstream and say, “Yeah, I want…” We’re not fucking vending machines, you know. Well, I guess you don’t know. You’re unfamiliar with the phrase indicating gratitude, too. It’s pronounced, “Thank you.”

No taste: Nobody even notices the care I put into making drinks. I make good foam. I make good shots of espresso. And you take it right over to the condiment bar and dump a bunch of shit into it. You let it get cold in the car or on your desk, and then you microwave it. You order sickly sweet blended drinks. You order lattés with four or five packets of sweetener and several ounces of flavored syrup. I suppose you drink wine coolers and slushy cocktails, too, you fucking pussies. What’s the matter, afraid of the taste of coffee? Then don’t drink it.

Backward values: Hundreds of regular customers of mine spend thousands of dollars a year on their coffeehouse habit. Add to this the time and gasoline spent. What the fuck? Okay, fine. I spend money on alcohol and cookware. But I can make my own coffee. Also a lot of these customers drive big SUV’s. Why? You’ve never been off road in your life. It never snows in Southern California, and an SUV doesn’t help anyway. You don’t know how to drive. You’re on the damned phone, anyway. I have seen how these soccer moms and preppy golfers drive ALL ALONE in vehicles that get probably less than 15 miles per gallon. They don’t know how to park, either. Just because you can afford it doesn’t mean you should have it. The world will run out of gas, and you’ll have to find another expensive way to compensate for your empty life. And if you’re trying to lose weight, just stay the fuck out of here. Don’t order some bucket of heavy cream because you’re counting carbs. Go for a walk. Build an orphanage. Get off your ass. “I have so little time,” you say? Make time. I’m standing there every day in what amounts to a really good sociological duck blind, and I watch people whose lives are obviously full of crap just like kitchen drawers are full of unused gadgets.

Dim wits: There is no ‘x’ in the word ‘espresso.’ You sound like an uneducated moron when you say “expresso.” You don’t even know what it is. Many times someone has ordered “a large expresso” or something like that. I hand them some espresso, and they are confused at why “there ain’t hardly no coffee in this here cup.” When I put several drinks up on the bar for pickup, the writing on the side of the cup is not secret code. You’re just too dense to figure it out. Some hints: The big ‘X’ in the box labeled “decaf” just might mean that the drink is decaf. ‘M’ could possibly differentiate a mocha from the latté sitting next to it, which bears a nice, big ‘L.’ And so on. If you could only watch yourselves! I can’t believe you’re licensed to operate motor vehicles.

Little shame: Maybe it’s just me, but you look stupid when you run (literally sprint) into a Starbucks, leaving your car running, because you seem to think you’ll die if you don’t get your nonfat three-equal extra hot fucking bullshit drink. You look like a real asshole when you berate a young, low-pay cashier for not understanding your order when you speak vaguely, inarticulately, and in between sentences on your cell phone. I see it all the time. Get off the phone. Read the menu. Use the words. It’s not my fault you’re a stupid, impatient asswipe.

Too much money: What the hell do these people do for a living? Where the hell did you get that ring? Those tits? That enormous SUV? Retail service should be compulsory for all Americans. It might build some character. So much money gets pissed away on nonsense. I can’t really preach; I like toys and stuff. But a mocha, a scone, and a drive in a Cadillac Escalade every single day adds up. And still you fuckers don’t tip.

Ah, that’s better. I feel cleansed. No, I don’t claim to be a better person. I just like to bitch. We retail losers have to stick together.

Lindz and I spent the afternoon driving around the area where are house is located. It's exciting; it appears to be a good area with no prisons or artillery practice ranges. Now, it's dinner time.

We are drinking MacMurray pinot noir. Nice- a trifle earthier than the average pinot, with a hint of that desirable cola effervescence.

I am roasting chunks of potato with onion, oil, salt, pepper, and a dash of balsamic vinegar.

I am making focaccia (1/4 whole wheat)

Lindz made slaw (eggless, slightly spicy, light and crunchy)

I'm going to broil some salmon. It's marinating in the style of my great uncle Carl: equal parts bourbon, oil, and soy sauce.

IN PRAISE OF CAST IRON

I lugged a great load of iron across the United States when I moved in the summer of 2003. I gave a couple of pieces to my brother (one of very, very few people in the world to whom I would bequeath cookware), and one big piece I entrusted to the care of my brother-in-law. I am emotionally attached to my cast iron. It comprises a major part of my cookware.
I got my first cast iron skillet 11 or 12 years ago, I think. It is Lodge’s model 5SK, 8 inches in diameter. I was a silly college student; I partied a fair amount and put assignments off until the last minute. I did not, however, fail to lovingly care for my skillet. I suppose I was weirder and more introspective than the average college student. I was fiercely critical of the fraternity system. I was a moody poet. I didn’t get laid much. I did, however, like to cook. Therefore, I was curious about cast iron. Cast iron is just right for a weird, proud, obsessive-compulsive hobby cook like myself.
Cast iron is ancient. The Chinese were making it in the 6th century B.C., and it was all over Europe by the 15th century, give or take. Thus, it is not exactly a new-fangled item. Mankind has had a bit of time to get familiar with it.
Cast iron is heavy. In many situations, heavy is better. It feels good. It feels strong and enduring. It feels like you’ve gotten your money’s worth. Cooking is a situation where heavy is usually better.
Cast iron is inexpensive (mostly). Unless you get the enameled stuff, cast iron cookware is pretty cheap. I have a number of Le Creuset enameled iron pieces, mostly orange. It’s great stuff, but I got it on sale because it’s costly. It’s beautiful and functional, and I have so far avoided the dreaded cracking due to temperature shock. The coating is borosilicate glass, so it’s completely nonreactive. The rest of my collection of iron is all made my Lodge. I wouldn’t have such a large and varied set of cookware if I tried to use all stainless steel or anodized aluminum. I have a bit of those, of course, but only as needed. The most I have ever paid for a piece of cast iron cookware (unenameled) is $40 or so for my wok.
Cast iron lasts. I’ve seen cast iron skillets at flea markets and garage sales, and it’s never worn out. Sometimes rusty, but I haven’t seen anything beyond repair. Once, and only once, I saw an iron skillet at the store with a crack in it. It must have been dropped. Generally speaking, you have to try hard to destroy cast iron. I haven’t done it yet. It helps to either have roommates who respect your cookware or no roommates at all. Many a Teflon skillet of mine has gone to an early grave because of ignorant roommates who feel the need to turn the burner all the way up and/or scratch the hell out of it with a fork. Assholes. Iron is pretty forgiving, however. The first thing I ever gave my wife, back when we were dating, was a cast iron skillet (a Benjamin & Medwin, purchased at Lowes Foods in Winston-Salem, NC). Romantic, huh? She didn’t have one in her tiny apartment kitchen. Her roommate, whenever she actually dealt with dishes at all, put the skillet in the dishwasher. It rusted, of course, but I steel-woolled it and re-seasoned it back to life. It’s a good skillet, and our grandchildren will get it.
Cast iron looks good. It’s like blue jeans. Always in style.
Cast iron works. It holds a great deal of heat. Nothing excels it at searing, and I have set off the smoke detector numerous times doing so. My massive iron wok attains massive thermal majesty. Thunderous frying. It is also unparalleled at releasing heat slowly and evenly. I braise pork shoulder or boeuf bourguignon for half a day in it. I have one particular piece, Lodge model 8CF, which is the only pan I ever use for risotto and red pasta sauce (a simmered Bolognese style usually). Once you become familiar with the output of a particular cooktop, it works beautifully. I have a griddle that has been indispensable for grilled cheese sandwiches, bruschetta, and pancakes for years.
Cast iron is undesirable and frustrating if you are stupid, negligent, or impatient. This aspect appeals to the snob in me. Who doesn’t like to be part of something exclusive? If you have no interest in learning or in taking the time to do things right, then you have to pay the money to go out to eat. Or eat crappy food. Or starve to death. You don’t deserve good food. It’s quite simple.

Yes, I’m kind of a dick. I’m also weird. However, I have a lot of fun cooking, and you can think whatever you like.

Take a look at lodgemfg.com

PARIS HILTON TOPLESS AT WAL-MART

Har, har, har. I wonder how many people have Googled their way here by now? The modern age has its amusements.

I did not have to work today, and I've done my best to profit by it.

(Listening to "Ciao Baby" by The Cult)

I made a breakfast burrito for my wife. I made her tea and sent her off to work with a kiss. I spent some time fiddling with my music library in the computer. I have hundreds of cd's, but I find that when I rip songs into mp3 format, I listen to things that I haven't for a long time. It's like getting new music all over again, without piracy. Having thousands of songs at your fingertips, shuffleable and organizable, is a fun treat. Having ripped some disco and some Ben Harper, I went for a hike.

(Listening to "The Deception of the Thrush" by King Crimson)

William B. Umstead State Park is perhaps ten minutes from my apartment. I live in a suburb of Raleigh, and it's pretty garsh durned white and plastic. Carefully manicured and zoned, almost nonexistent just a few years ago. A petri dish for idiots, like Southern California. Perhaps bright people move here, but their offspring are sure to be soft and dull. No predators. The reason I say this is to underscore the wonder I felt when I first wandered into the aforementioned park. It is a nicely maintained, quiet, sylvan refuge located right next to RDU airport. No Starbucks, no Kinko's, no CVS. Just trees and free maps.

(Listening to "Digging a Ditch" by Dave Matthews Band)

It's Friday, and perhaps that explains why the trails were so blissfully vacant. It was hot but not unpleasant, and the trees' shade ameliorated this. They are mostly hardwoods, and the ground is verdant with all sorts of plants. Enough light gets through the canopy to make things cheery. White rocks, quartzite, I believe, poke out of the ground. A great many exposed tree roots do so also, necessitating a lot of attention to avoid falling on one's face. I saw several deer sprinting away from me, about 40 yards into the woods. I saw toads and dragonflies, and I saw bluegill hovering in the shadows of logs in Crabtree Creek. I saw a girl changing her clothes on the other side of said creek; I guess she and her boyfriend were pretty comfortable. No, I didn't see any goodies.

(Listening to "Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong" by Radiohead

I hiked at a good pace for two and a half hours. I saw the occasional jogger or cyclist, but I was alone most of the time. It was just me, my Tilley hat (model T4), and my walking stick (it's actually a rake handle that I bought at a hardware store; it works famously). Aside from the outer extremity of my hike being close to the airport, I never would have thought I was so close to Yuppieville. It was nice. It was another one of those times when my mood and my location agreed. Therefore, I continued to enjoy myself by getting in the car and driving to The Back 9 Pub for some beer and journaling.

The Back 9 is a nice, unpretentious townie bar in a very pretentious part of Cary. Jackie is the bartender there. She has empty-glass radar. It's astounding. She's a good bartender, and, being fond of journaling in bars, I've seen a few bartenders. The other guys in the bar were having a lively and completely uninteresting discussion about spraying lawns. I had a couple of $2 Yuenglings and wrote a couple of pages.

"Want another Yuengling?" the bartender asked.
"You know, I think I'd better," I replied, "in case the world ends."
"You never know," she agreed, pouring my beer.

DOGGEREL, SELF-INDULGENT MASTURBATORY TWADDLE, AND THE TRANS-PACIFIC SLAW OF DEATH

(Listening to Pink Floyd)

I completed an irritating shift at Big Green 90 minutes ago. It was annoying because, in addition to the usual "background level" of irritation brought on by customers, it seemed to be a fertile day for people to bitch to me about their problems. If I invite someone to unload their cares into my ears, fine. I take satisfaction from that. It you're just going to be a martyr, shut the hell up. "I try and take care of every little thing around here, and this is the thanks I get," Saint X told me this afternoon. We'll just call her Saint X for the protection of the innocent. Oh, boo-hoo for Saint X; no one works hard but her. She's universally loathed at work. She looks 15 years older than her self-proclaimed 42 because she has smoked like a steam engine since she got her first period, and her repugnant self-absorption makes her resemble a stereotypical, kibbutzing old woman.

(Listening to Orishas)

When I self-righteously whine here in this blog, you are able to click away and look at cookware, mortgage calculators, or farm animal porn. When she bitches and whines, anyone within earshot must summon all possible fortitude. Unless you walk out on the job, you've got to listen to it. If you confront her about it, ugh. You'll wish you had just sucked it up and waited for the end of the shift.

More importantly, I came home and made slaw. I sliced up half of a head of green cabbage with my handy-dandy Santoku of Death (thinner and sharper than a standard Chef's Knife, and thus better for thinly slicing firm vegetables). I threw some tasty items into the Mini-Prep of Death:

A couple pieces of crystallized ginger
A demi-handful of candied tomato chunks
One garlic clove
2/3 cup or so of mayonnaise
A squeeze of lemon juice
A generous glug of sweet chili sauce
A packet of Texas Pete left over from takeout barbecue
Several tablespoons of apple cider vinegar
A tablespoon or so of sesame oil
A few shakes of coarse Kosher salt

It vibrated and shrieked in its characteristic manner, and I mixed the resultant goo into the bowl of cabbage. Tasty shit. A bit spicy. I call it the Trans-Pacific Slaw of Death.

(Listening to David Gray)

Ah, sometimes I get nostalgic when I listen to this album (White Ladder). It takes me back to the time I spent on Madison Street in Carlsbad, California. I had fallen in love with a black hole. The Emotional Black Hole wasn't her real name; it's just an affectionate little nickname I've given her. She was no worse than any other depressed, selfish stoner, but being in love with her was what a severe heroine addiction must be like: completely irrational, excruciatingly painful, and quite unhealthy. What a big ball of suck she was! Ah, those were the days. I extend my heartfelt thanks to all those people who endured my insufferable idiocy in those dark times. It took me quite a while to enjoy this album again, but I do. It's mine again.

(Listening to Eminem)

Ugh. What's this crap doing in here? Go home, punk.

(Orishas again)

Much better. My lovely and loving wife will be home from work soon, and we will have barbecue and Trans-Pacific Slaw of Death together. Perhaps we will go for a stroll in the sultry North Carolina evening. It's so wonderful to be alive and awake. It's great to be free of the Brown Pit of Sauron.

(Listening to Justin Timberlake)

Hmm... strangely catchy. And he boned Britney Spears and left her. No fool, this man.

What have I been up to?

1)Making North Carolina Polynesian Pulled Pork Barbecue (see below)

2)Actually talking to living human beings who make hiring decisions for the first fucking time in almost a year of job hunting

3)Watching the only state funeral I've ever seen, and it's strangely refreshing to see a truly major event on television that isn't sponsored by Pepsi or is "must-see tv" or features some slut-of-the-month writhing around on stage

4)Reading William Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, which I bought used for three bucks

5)Drinking Spaten Premium

The pineappley, vinegary marinade/braising liquid. This is a combination of Eastern North Carolina, Polynesia, and Mister Orange. 

Pork shoulder, marinated in pineapple goo overnight, seared on the grill, and braised for four hours (it's falling apart). 

Here's Venus in front of the sun. You don't see that every day. 

HOUSE SHOPPING

I'm listening to NPR. They're talking about the Venus Transit, Ronald Reagan, and Guantanamo Bay.

In addition to my new ability to stay up past 7:30 pm, buying a house is the latest thing in my life. Lindz and I have made an offer on a house we like. It is exciting, and I don't know how much of it has really sunk in yet. I've never had my own walls, never in my whole life. This house is a 1220 sq ft ranch on .34 acres in Raleigh. The back windows don't even have drapes or blinds because the back yard is so thick with trees. I was sitting on the deck yesterday evening with Lindz and the realtor. It was our second showing, and I was drifting off into a sweet, gauzy state while the conversation hopped from furnaces to fixtures to termite inspections. Must have been the birds in all those trees.
I am a barely employed ne'er-do-well at the moment, despite the loving objections of my wife. My decision to leave Brown Hell doesn't really help my income. The only reason any of this is happening is the fact that I have married very well. I didn't expect any of this when I asked Lindsey to be my last girlfriend. She inherited a few bucks from her late grandfather, which makes a down payment. Her dad has been an excellent source of advice, and he's helping us a great deal. She also has a real job. We'll have payments, of course, but it won't be rent. A crucial difference.
I yearn for the ability to be more than a passenger in all of this. We've been equal partners in choosing a house, but my lack of a career is a drain on my pride. I suppose I can't complain; countless wives have fared far worse. But I want a real job again! Where are the fucking jobs? What am I doing wrong? I do not suffer from any male insecurity about being overshadowed by my wife; I just don't want to wear a damned green apron for a living anymore. I want to use my brain. I want a little respect. Serving four-dollar cups of sickly sweet designer coffee to these ignorant, complacent, absentee-parenting, SUV-driving, Atkins-Diet-crazed, cell-phone-addicted suburbanite yuppie trash does not serve that end. Yes, it's a petty generalization, but I can't let myself get bogged down by details while I'm ranting. I bitched less when I was Report Specialist at my beloved DermTech in San Diego.
Now that I'm done whining and feeling sorry for myself, I'm going to finish my Liberty Ale, take a shower, and go to my shit job.

SO THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE TO SLEEP PAST 2:45 AM

Yes indeed, I've done an inconsiderate, irresponsible thing, and it felt great. No feelings of loyalty whatsoever. I guess you assholes at The Brown Company are going to have to keep dealing with turnover. Meanwhile, I was able to actually see my wife and drink coffee in the morning!

Too bad there's nothing but crap out there as far as jobs are concerned. I can make $30K a month from home......

WEAR MY ASS AS A HAT

I'm listening to King Crimson.

I'm drinking a glass of Shipyard Export Ale (from Shipyard Brewing Co. in Maine). It's deep gold in color, and it's wonderfully smooth and balanced. Notes of pine and butter, followed by a nice hop snap.

Now, it's Elvis ("Spanish Eyes").

Well, I've come to a much belated decision. I'm quitting one of my jobs. It's a particularly miserable job at a certain shipping company that uses brown trucks. I'm always hesitant to quit a job because I'm a cowardly routine addict. I've suffered before as a result of this disease, and it's a cruel malady indeed. It also made me stay in some shitty relationships out of some feeling of loyalty.
Anyway, working my ass off before the sun comes up every morning without any satisfaction is not my gig. Hard work is great. Being a cog in a machine is quite another matter. I couldn't even spend any quality time with my wife during the week.
I won't get into the details of why it sucked so bad, at least not beyond a few key points:
1)shitty schedule
2)only 20-25 hours a week, so I have to work another job
3)the management's absolute indifference to employees' misery
4)conscientiousness and attention to detail are drawbacks if they slow your production
5)you get to see a printout of how you fail to meet expectations every day
6)I already sprained my lumbar once. I don't know about you, but I wasn't very enamored of needing my wife to take my shoes off for me.

Now, I will be even more impecunious than ever. I will have more time to search for jobs that don't exist. More importantly, I will make breakfast for Lindsey each morning, and send her off to work with her tea. I will do crazy things like go for walks and write and read. Until now, my hobbies have been primarily sleeping and eating junk food (no time or energy to cook real food), along with spending money on crap I don't need just to divert myself from the problem.
I am excited. Being poor sucks, but I was a grumpy son of a bitch at these two jobs, and still pretty poor. Now I can braise pork shoulders for hours and hours and hours, and maybe brew beer.

By the way, I'm just not showing up tomorrow at work. It's a shitty thing to do, and I wasn't brought up that way, but fuck 'em. I have my reasons. I said, "If something doesn't change, I won't be back on Monday." I was blown off by my supervisors (they are brainwashed, stupid, or they simply like their jobs - maybe all three). If I gave two weeks' notice, they'd probably make me train my successor which is a big pain in the ass. Several people told me that I was a rarity in that particular work area, in that I was the only one that hadn't quit. I guess that says something about me. Hopefully it's an admirable trait somewhere.

What my hair looks like in the morning 

Here is my unimpressive profile in front of an impressive backdrop. 

BUCOLIC NASCAR COUNTRY

Few things are more welcome than that elusive agreement of mood and surroundings. It's great to be content where you are. This occurred over the past few days, a period of time that some call Memorial Day weekend.
A three-day weekend, first of all, is the shit. I've never appreciated time off work so much as I do now. I love to get away from The Sorrow Mines.
Lindsey and I left Raleigh Friday evening. I had worked both jobs, so I was worthless and unmotivated. We shoved some stuff in our bags and got in the car. Traffic sucked.

Hey, North Carolina Drivers:
1) There's a slow lane and a fast lane, not just two slow lanes.
2) Stop tailgating me.

Hey, All Drivers:
1) If you slow down to stare at an accident, you should have your eyes gouged out.
2) How do you feel about having that cellular phone shoved into your rectum sideways?

Anyway, it was still a hell of a lot better than San Diego traffic. We arrived at our destination in Davidson, NC. It is a condo on Lake Norman. Things got a whole hell of a lot better.
Lindsey and I found ourselves sitting in Adirondack chairs on the sand, sipping wine in the company of her excellent parents and their excellent neighbors. The sunset was, well -- I was in the mood for it. The clouds, minute by minute, kindled themselves into a sky-filling swirl of colors that have no names. Orange, pink, red and yellow won't quite do. It was finished in fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. The sipping and talking continued.

I awoke the next morning to sweet rolls and a complete lack of work. I luxuriously drank dozens of cups of coffee while sitting on the patio watching ducks, ospreys and boats. I made an omelet for Hub, my father-in-law. I paddled around aimlessly in the kayak, and I didn't capsize. The day continued like the curves of a woman lying in a hammock. Swimming, eating, drinking, sand between the toes. Phil, a neighbor, was the recipient of a surprise birthday party that evening. Food, alcohol and conversation abounded. Everyone was nice, and I met new people. My miserable skill at retaining names is less of a problem around nice people. A bit of rain interrupted, but without much effect.

The next day dawned, and yet more coffee met its demise. I watched Hub fly his radio-controlled airplane. Phil, the birthday boy, set two full coolers out behind his patio. He said that a great deal of beer was left. It was still ice cold, and he insisted that I help my self to as much as I wanted. Such rotten luck! A veritable ocean of Heineken, Guinness and numerous other refreshments. We amused ourselves with a sailboat that had washed up in a previous storm. With a little work and scavenging, it was seaworthy (tame lakeworthy, to be more precise). Swimming and shopping occupied the day, and even work made an appearance, albeit in a friendly guise: wallpaper stripping. Hub and Andie are redecorating. I sipped beer all day. My eyes moisten with happy tears at the mere recollection of it.

I cooked dinner that evening. Cooking for a willing audience is one of my very favorite activities. Here's the rundown:

I puréed some fresh pineapple with soy sauce, onion, ketchup and pepper. A bit of oil, too, I think. I poured this goo over sliced pineapple and boneless pork chops. I marinated it for four hours.
I baked some sweet potatoes, wrapped in foil.
I heated up the grill and soaked some mesquite chunks in water.
I quartered some zucchini lengthwise.
I put all the marinade goo in a saucepan and heated it up to a slow bubble.
I put a metal smoking pan in the lava rocks and grilled the pineapple and zucchini.
The smoke was coming on strong, and I moved the produce to the upper rack. I grilled the pork chops. I toasted some ciabatta on the grill, too. We dined on the patio, overlooking the sparkling lake.
I served the bubbling goo on the side as a pineappley, salty barbecue sauce. We slit the wrinkled skins of the sweet potatoes to reveal their orange flesh. Andie served a bottle of La Crema Chardonnay, a tasty bottle (not too buttery, nice and dignified). The pineapple slurry did its job; the swine was nice and tender.
Later, when we regained the power of movement, we made s'mores. I continued to sip complimentary beer. My inner cheapskate, glutton and wino were all content.

Anyway, this briefly summarizes a very satisfactory weekend. Not much was anything but divine. My inept attempt at giving Lindsey a sailboat ride comes to mind (Aeolus, the god of winds, did not wish us to get further than fifteen feet from our point of departure). Hub and Andie's incomprehensible differences of opinion about drapes were only amusing. Something about seams. The moral(s) of the story:

1)This blog is not all bitching.
2)Free beer is terrific.
3)Work sucks, and you should do what you can to avoid it.