Materialism seems to be interfering with my lust for life

Last night, Lindsey and I returned from a weekend at Lake Norman, North Carolina. Her parents have a condominium next to the lake, and we are often their guests. I am exceedingly fond of my in-laws, and we have a good relationship. In addition to this, their condo is an absurdly pleasant place to be. Allow me to rewind:

Friday afternoon: Traffic abounds on Interstate 40. Independence Day traffic, in addition to typical Friday traffic, is a major irritant. Mind you, it is nothing compared to the volume one sees in SoCal, but there are some handicaps:
1)Perpetual construction. These people can't seem to get the lead out of their ass and finish a freeway.
2)A couple of accidents.
3)Retarded fucking drivers. North Carolinians cannot drive. They tailgate. They slow down to stare at accidents. They drive slowly, perfectly matching speed with the neighboring car, in the fast lane (they drive in formation like this for miles). They have not mastered the use of turn indicators. Their speed varies between 60 and 80 miles per hour (each individual vehicle, that is). Take your tobacco chewin', shit kickin', wife beatin', NASCAR-watchin' ass and your Mustang GT back to Driver Education. I though California drivers were bad, but at least they got in my way less of the time.

One of these morons almost shaved the right side of my car off at the very last exit. The shoulder is not for high-speed passing, peckerwood.

That being said, we made it. The transition from fatigue to conviviality was instantaneous.

Within five minutes of dropping my bags in the guest room, I was in an Adirondack chair, wine glass in hand, toes in the sand, surrounded by friendly conversation. Their condo is close enough to the beach to allow a game of catch between one person whose ankles are wet and another person whose feet are in the patio shrubbery. The neighbors are all either retirees or professionals who vacation there. Every last one of them is pleasant, articulate, and gracious (if any of them aren't, I guess they stay in their living room). Each time I visit the lake, I meet someone new, and all the regulars know me. I have married the daughter of their favorite neighbors (Hub and Andie are very well liked). They inquire about our welfare, and we chat about everything from buying houses to fishing to politics. This is all happening as the sun goes down in front of us.

Friday evening passed very pleasantly, and Saturday did not disappoint. Coffee and breakfast were followed by a few hours of idle television watching. I accompanied my wife and mother-in-law for some shopping. We looked at furniture first. This has become strangely mesmerizing to me since getting married. Perhaps a nesting thing. I have some work to do in order to persuade Lindsey of the merits of staining a piece of furniture orange. The real substance of the day followed, however.

We were tasked to shop for dinner. The neighbors had all agreed to meet for a potluck dinner on the beach. I was honored with providing the family's offering, and I had decided to do ribs. Unfortunately, these were not photographed.

Ribs of the Orange Wino(Costillas al Borracho Naranjo)
Time, start to finish: about five hours
The goods:

Two racks of pork ribs
Half of a large onion
Two large, ripe pineapples
An entire head of garlic
Plenty of soy sauce (probably at least 1/4 cup)
Salt and pepper
Apple cider vinegar
A splash of olive oil
Cornstarch
White wine as necessary
The juice of a lemon

The hardware:

Two cookie sheets
A grill (this one had an upper rack)
Plenty of aluminum foil
A blender
One of those cheap disposable aluminum roasting pans
Two pairs of tongs
A saucepan
One beach

I turned the oven on to 275 degrees. I sliced the pineapples without removing the skin. This adds structural integrity on the grill. I put them in the cheap roasting pan. I cut about 1/3 of a pineapple, in chunks, in the blender. I put the onion, in chunks, in there too. I peeled the garlic and put it all in there. I dumped in the soy sauce, some vinegar and wine, a bit of oil, and some pepper (I decided not to make it spicy, but next time I'll toast a guajillo pepper and throw it in there). I believe I added a couple of tablespoons of cornstarch last, but I doubt it matters what order the additions go in. I pureed this until it was a slushy consistency. If I had a food processor, I could have done it thicker. As long as it's thick enough to stick to the meat and pineapple, it will do. I removed the whitish membrane from the concave side of the ribs and put one rack on each of the cookie sheets. I poured most of the goo on the ribs. I dumped the rest (about 1/4) on the pineapple. I added a bit more soy sauce for additional saltiness. I flipped and shuffled them for even coverage. I covered them with foil and set them aside. I covered the ribs with foil and put them in the oven. I did some reading, and I chatted with some folks down on the beach. I switched the pans of ribs hourly for even heating.

After three hours or so of baking, I carefully poured the pan juices from the ribs into a saucepan. I sprinkled a bit of salt on them, re-covered them and put them back in the oven. I also put the goo from the pineapple pan in the saucepan. I turned it on to medium in order to start reducing it. I believe I added some more vinegar and salt. Taste often. I skimmed the fat with a spoon and discarded it (there was a lot). I adjusted the heat so it maintained a steady bubble.

After four hours or so of baking, I turned off the oven. The sauce had reduced by about an inch or so. I added the lemon juice and thickened it with some more cornstarch. I turned off the heat and covered it. I fired up the grill. I soaked some mesquite chunks (hickory would be good, too). I started grilling the pineapple a few minutes before the ribs. I put the ribs on the upper rack, just for smoke and color. I had the saucepan full of goo sitting next to the grill. When the pineapple was nice and marked and semisoft, I pulled it all off. I sauced the ribs off-grill. It was pretty good, and people seemed to like it. Many had not seen grilled pineapple before.

I ate some of my own cooking, plus some of the vast spread that everyone else brought. The culmination was the banana pudding. I think Sue, a very nice neighbor, made that one. Gooey, vanilla wafer-studded bliss.

We digested and drank wine. Some neighbors, Alan and Jolita, invited us up for munchies and wine. We didn't exactly need to eat more, but said munchies came from Dean & Deluca. We sipped a dignified and stony Barolo, a good cab, and a decent Valpolicella. A and J are grownups with good taste, some money, and what appears to be good perspective on life. Their two daughters were in bed. It rained intermittently. Fireworks shot off here and there. We sipped, ate and talked until after midnight. We enjoyed deep and varied conversations. It was so enjoyable; I felt like an adult.

Someday, I want to actually buy stuff at Dean & Deluca with my very own money. I want to invite people over, rather than being a lucky guest eating someone else's truffle mousse paté (Good Lord, that was good). Am I a materialistic person? I love life and people, not things. But I have made a worrying observation: money aids in the enjoyment of life. I can cook good food with basic, inexpensive ingredients. Great. But I can't afford to go home to visit my family for a week. I can't take my wife on a honeymoon. I don't exactly have future college tuition stuffed into my mattress, either.

Why does money spoil my fun? We have a good life. We have all we need and much more. But why do I find myself in a black funk after driving around shiny, cosmopolitan Downtown Charlotte? Because I can't check into a nice hotel and eat my way through all those restaurants? Perhaps looking through the shop window gets tiresome after a while. If I want a $165 Viking saucier, I would like to actually buy it.

But that's not it.

Perhaps all I want is the choice whether or not to buy it. Perhaps I would simply enjoy the feeling of not being out of place in a good wine shop. I've had money before, albeit never very much. My current circumstances reflect an intersection of low income, reasonably good taste, entry into home ownership, and more introspection than my former life allowed. I don't try so hard to distract myself anymore. I can't afford distractions anymore. This is a good thing. It builds character. The dust and debris of character building are bitching and whining.