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.