Potatoes, a Recipe and the Workplace

(listening to "Paragon Rag" by Scott Joplin)

This is a lot of potatoes (15 or 16 pounds). I'm baking them for work. A coworker thought it would be cool to have a baked potato bar as a change from the typical pot luck. I was nominated to do it, so people chipped in some money for the supplies. I rendered a nice pile of bacon bits, steamed some broccoli, and chopped some chives. I also have a huge tub of sour cream, tubs of whipped butter, and some cans of chili. Loaded spuds will be had by all, and I even got a Trader Joe's pepper grinder (pre-ground pepper is worthless. It is a close relative to sawdust). My oven is full of big russets right now.

My brother wanted to know more about the food in the previous post. The prosciutto-wrapped tilapia in the previous post was very simple and very good. I put a piece of prosciutto on the cutting board. Then, a tilapia filet. Then, another piece of prosciutto. I rolled it up and decided to wrap another piece of prosciutto around it. I stuck a bamboo skewer through it. I might normally bake this, but I like to use the grill during summer to keep the cooking heat outside of the house. Lindz had mentioned asparagus earlier in the day, so I got some at the store. I tossed the 'sparagus with a bit of canola oil, salt & pepper, balsamic vinegar and maple syrup (all told, just enough liquids to coat the asparagus and leave a modest puddle in the Pyrex dish). I put the asparagus on the lower level of the grill, and the tilapia above it. I have a rectangular stainless grill grate doohickie that helped prevent lost asparagus. It all didn't take very long, and I was pleased with how all the flavors went together.

And now, some contemplation about work that might get some interesting comments:

I don't miss working for Starbucks. Retail sucks ass. My current workplace does indeed resemble Office Space, but a great many others do, too. Sometimes I get philosophical about what I'm supposed to do with my life; I come up with various ways of beating myself up for not having a more exciting, lucrative or noble job than I do. I've gotten the idea in my head that it's something to with my DNA. I am a Midwestern boy, of German descent and raised as a Lutheran. As such, I think that this has made me:
1)punctual
2)hardworking
3)not a vegetarian
4)a lover of beer
5)addicted to security and predictability
6)mortally afraid of not preparing enough food for a meal
7)a diligent pantry manager, always ensuring that it would take a nuclear war and years of subsequent anarchy to make me run out of canned corn or plastic wrap
8)unable and/or unwilling to sell myself to others. I loathe job hunting more than anything in the world. More than gargling bleach. More than being rubbed vigorously all over with a cheese grater and then being dipped in hot sauce.

My loving, devoted wife and I had a lengthy, beer-lubricated conversation about this the other night at our local bar. She does not subscribe to my theory that my magical inability to make lots of money and love doing it is due to my DNA. Still, I wonder: the anthropological and socioeconomic ground from which I sprang is suited to doing okay in adversity, not thriving in prosperity. I am descended from farmers, not captains of industry. My people don't think outside the box; they ensure that it is a good, strong box with all perfect 90-degree angles. As such, my people are the people you want to be during The Great Depression.

Anyway, there are a hell of a lot of people out there who make a lot of money. In many cases, they are stupid, rude, self-entitled and lacking in integrity. Many of them are not those things. Is there really such an easy explanation? Various members and friends of my wife's extended family (none of whom are Midwestern German-Americans) are hugely wealthy, notable people. They're good people, not thieves.

I am fiercely proud of my heritage, and I could not possibly love my family more than I do. But when baked potatoes are the most exciting thing going on at the office, I have to wonder what the hell is wrong with me.