tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-103889332024-03-06T23:47:03.074-05:00JMGarciaIIIAssorted musings from your humble scribe for hire. (PS Due to the reformatting mess, it's taking a bit of time to restore content, management regrets the error.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-90810394512173048902022-01-04T17:00:00.030-05:002022-01-16T17:07:03.433-05:00Table Read Theater - Triangulated (Rough Cut)
<p> To recap: With MANY executives not having the help reading/giving coverage, even if you submit your script(s) via the proper channels, it's an uphill slog to get The Person Who Greenlights to take a peek. So I created Table Read Theater, via which I record table readings of pilots, etc. I've written to make the content more digestible. Here is the (ROUGH CUT) of a sitcom pilot, "Triangulated." </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ccw8-Tre7rs" width="320" youtube-src-id="ccw8-Tre7rs"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-20260304191541688942021-12-30T17:08:00.002-05:002022-01-16T17:16:33.367-05:00Table Read Theater - The Lost Keys (Rough Cut II)<p> As you guys know, it's not easy to get your material to the attention of someone who can make you an offer the most prominent feature is a cubic acre of money coming to you on a regular basis. In the Covid Time, it's even harder, since the people who'd give your stuff (positive, we hope) coverage have all been furloughed. So, I decided to make it easier to chew and swallow by recording (properly!) many of my pilot drafts, and making them forwardable. It is a bit of work to get it done right, but to not trigger any of you with suspense issues, here is the second rough cut of The Lost Keys which I created in partnership with <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0873336/" target="_blank">Miriam Trogdon</a> (Last Man Standing, etc.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QhwC0QThOLA" width="320" youtube-src-id="QhwC0QThOLA"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-121285452563858752021-12-27T10:00:00.000-05:002022-01-16T17:20:41.946-05:00Cuban sandwiches, the right (i.e. only) way.Here is the RIGHT way to do this.<br />
<br />
Start by slicing pickles. NOT the sweet kind, and (ideally) not the ones that sit shelf-stably at room temperature. You need the crunch. I'spose you could get away with the pre-sliced ones, but I like my surface:mass ratio <span style="font-style: italic;">just so</span>, and the Pickle Industrial Complex will not comply. (I'll post my homemade ones in the very near future.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_W0pYKiWs_RUFcoom9hnkzzmk6hpPeoF4HP2j8QQYF2CxnoW7NyvOUhOJWkIm9YJWi2RWj3fOSLNzayOi3hjbaEXiUMkfRQ9tAyId8wWifnUc5RVINvQVb-ClI0LqV-5P0wFWQ/s1600-h/set0019+094.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_W0pYKiWs_RUFcoom9hnkzzmk6hpPeoF4HP2j8QQYF2CxnoW7NyvOUhOJWkIm9YJWi2RWj3fOSLNzayOi3hjbaEXiUMkfRQ9tAyId8wWifnUc5RVINvQVb-ClI0LqV-5P0wFWQ/s400/set0019+094.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955658645235938" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Take Cuban bread, or Cuban rolls or, if you live in the provinces, something in the egg bread family (which turns this from a <span style="font-style: italic;">Cubano </span>to a <span style="font-style: italic;">Medianoche</span>, because it's better to have a pretty authentic Sandwich B than a wildly inauthentic Sandwich A, but whatever) split them.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4lI-rkYGMO1-0ZywDmJWdBO8-ihHA1s2qxptPj2d_XJ5tIH6UgOFqMFqGritgtwyyAJLKU_IP8bINP-5YPI9BcpaplvMLtXqe_nMR-cx42P_X4WPLS9CdHE6514ccYM1-8apaw/s1600-h/set0019+095.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4lI-rkYGMO1-0ZywDmJWdBO8-ihHA1s2qxptPj2d_XJ5tIH6UgOFqMFqGritgtwyyAJLKU_IP8bINP-5YPI9BcpaplvMLtXqe_nMR-cx42P_X4WPLS9CdHE6514ccYM1-8apaw/s400/set0019+095.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955669634177042" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> and mustardize them. The classic choice is plain ol' yellow mustard<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpezXo8fDTyNB7SH6RYHdvW_UMej45qNMv-l2OlZxElgKOUqcGjeZbFq8m9MU8zfqo2bXaLESh3wAMiCeHUE3c_YBfQibxSHn5m-9FxOLAUSY8VoeNh1VdY-YusI6bJNM_mIhQA/s1600-h/set0019+096.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpezXo8fDTyNB7SH6RYHdvW_UMej45qNMv-l2OlZxElgKOUqcGjeZbFq8m9MU8zfqo2bXaLESh3wAMiCeHUE3c_YBfQibxSHn5m-9FxOLAUSY8VoeNh1VdY-YusI6bJNM_mIhQA/s400/set0019+096.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955675988310466" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>but I like the "deli" style mustard better. You do whatever you want. Some people, bless them, like mayonnaise in this sandwich. That's just bad-WRONG, but you do whatever. (I'm judging you with my thoughts.)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBghjjVS7sUTTEuje1GRPCKW-tJSxpEzhUB2arTQ6IMO4YBFZVZTUiZpEU4jCDkvVr3byNp3hPZ2WNxhIfq_N-VURQpPUQ5IZ_vSPToe6SypWpUZ-tvSb3mYlDXm2Pmyl3gjSoKw/s1600-h/set0019+097.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBghjjVS7sUTTEuje1GRPCKW-tJSxpEzhUB2arTQ6IMO4YBFZVZTUiZpEU4jCDkvVr3byNp3hPZ2WNxhIfq_N-VURQpPUQ5IZ_vSPToe6SypWpUZ-tvSb3mYlDXm2Pmyl3gjSoKw/s400/set0019+097.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955680808741442" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Then you lay down your pickle coverage. I love pickles, so I practically TILE the bloody thing.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UFexR4GD2p7QyrNtFww3GFBsBwTLcRPpYttBAhc-eH5jCvLinpHMc_FX2EDn5ta-5-eMZBX3e5FLO78XsuHMXFo8eXSWNu6iL3Ay-Iu2j9F4J1DqY6IVYoQ85EyZBJzAlqx1kg/s1600-h/set0019+098.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UFexR4GD2p7QyrNtFww3GFBsBwTLcRPpYttBAhc-eH5jCvLinpHMc_FX2EDn5ta-5-eMZBX3e5FLO78XsuHMXFo8eXSWNu6iL3Ay-Iu2j9F4J1DqY6IVYoQ85EyZBJzAlqx1kg/s400/set0019+098.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225330401022770" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Over the pickles you'll need to place a layer of ham. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpoUqAqETbGrSPkf4l1cvnmLEtLc4zQKane8D1u9GnZq6StiAFed1JmfLtxpO33Ghk0-yjO00ZWwst_OrXsZrUsbGhz49EwMtWw0YxWWmzBPfZfbj2JVDmCldRuQDOSS0_p5cYQ/s1600-h/set0019+099.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpoUqAqETbGrSPkf4l1cvnmLEtLc4zQKane8D1u9GnZq6StiAFed1JmfLtxpO33Ghk0-yjO00ZWwst_OrXsZrUsbGhz49EwMtWw0YxWWmzBPfZfbj2JVDmCldRuQDOSS0_p5cYQ/s400/set0019+099.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225370103982706" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Since I am an insufferable foodie, I use prosciutto (but not the hyper-fancy stuff). Either way, you want to make sure it's sliced so thin, as to be translucent. This allows you to plop it down in a wavy sort of way, which is key to get the right sort of chew and mouthfeel.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmmZP9-ZNkdFB_qLu3cHmzF8i2hhxRBkUyMKxukDvDTESyH2nzuGB8zboCS-bUR7EucM2ijdeoFVVCfCLYC-4op9cJErX6HgZc118gUu2_-HndOrpiWM9-hzhvdtmxYVUojM9Yg/s1600-h/set0019+100.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmmZP9-ZNkdFB_qLu3cHmzF8i2hhxRBkUyMKxukDvDTESyH2nzuGB8zboCS-bUR7EucM2ijdeoFVVCfCLYC-4op9cJErX6HgZc118gUu2_-HndOrpiWM9-hzhvdtmxYVUojM9Yg/s400/set0019+100.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225418248131010" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Next,the swiss cheese. Yes, it must be swiss cheese. Or, if you're insufferable as I am, capital-S-Swiss cheese (Emmentaler is a teeny bit preferable to Gruyere, but either is wonderful.)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ECsH1owOa74DGYsNcr7ukpo8GUYL63QwiE1wajfkI1Qz69Ed0mh4zvO3Y1njJmHuAmWyVIT9nyOCJyu_7a8J6Ut0wBMdDh6Jfo0Gji1i_JggUYWonoaDaUSj2tjJBQEx-hpXpQ/s1600-h/set0019+101.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ECsH1owOa74DGYsNcr7ukpo8GUYL63QwiE1wajfkI1Qz69Ed0mh4zvO3Y1njJmHuAmWyVIT9nyOCJyu_7a8J6Ut0wBMdDh6Jfo0Gji1i_JggUYWonoaDaUSj2tjJBQEx-hpXpQ/s400/set0019+101.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225495303919378" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>To get the right melting action, you will need to grate it. Yes, slices will work okay, but by the time the cheese is melted, the bread will be too dry and brittle.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98orjUKBxhQEl6FrjUJ-yAhDT-koTKCboLaJLyU860cYO8YrCQI5FJ4w44ulqOprDYOR2dDwy5fdMA1jREFUyVkwcoFMsZjYT_EITHYDlsaIhK_R6Ks6emC3hUWHLu-Hr7boqQw/s1600-h/set0019+102.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98orjUKBxhQEl6FrjUJ-yAhDT-koTKCboLaJLyU860cYO8YrCQI5FJ4w44ulqOprDYOR2dDwy5fdMA1jREFUyVkwcoFMsZjYT_EITHYDlsaIhK_R6Ks6emC3hUWHLu-Hr7boqQw/s400/set0019+102.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225528032089298" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Shredding it in the food processor is fine, but yields bad photos. So I hand grated. Just for YOU, Internet. Scoop it up and get ready to apply to the sandwich.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoB6KnW3F_acwKwFznpTqh99-xaZvS1jo-yOdQ7JtvCEdsM78PgCkBWy09ihoYJvHNmTgaYbdrFtrZYgR0-4h2Vn8asevHckyCNv2-1b-LoQsmVkc7_62DIc33iZyNRmmIWI_bw/s1600-h/set0019+103.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoB6KnW3F_acwKwFznpTqh99-xaZvS1jo-yOdQ7JtvCEdsM78PgCkBWy09ihoYJvHNmTgaYbdrFtrZYgR0-4h2Vn8asevHckyCNv2-1b-LoQsmVkc7_62DIc33iZyNRmmIWI_bw/s400/set0019+103.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222096260623410" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Like so.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YkZ5HEqlA0TefSAd-TcIUeg27gZ1tLuO5Z9GoFe0g9S9kmKNK94gh-Bxngp5c2DLwdlZV4pEie4g_y5772O-Xn6Je8hsxM3dP8kLe7yLprCysoT9oAID1wQ0M5imsII9VIR51w/s1600-h/set0019+104.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YkZ5HEqlA0TefSAd-TcIUeg27gZ1tLuO5Z9GoFe0g9S9kmKNK94gh-Bxngp5c2DLwdlZV4pEie4g_y5772O-Xn6Je8hsxM3dP8kLe7yLprCysoT9oAID1wQ0M5imsII9VIR51w/s400/set0019+104.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222091312781570" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>If you like to give the cheese a head start on the melting -- or you are a raving pyro -- you can use a kitchen torch.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KaN3u-oKXhROQVaPQcXt9n6TKTxnfz_EFCnHV3g6iSu9vdC7CXgToTSDLqBoeFlyDCYqfyFOU1554jDPRfJoQJetf-ZR1XhS-0STKYt2oS63CzWek4lPvo0j6V5nxJD8AwYLFQ/s1600-h/set0019+105.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KaN3u-oKXhROQVaPQcXt9n6TKTxnfz_EFCnHV3g6iSu9vdC7CXgToTSDLqBoeFlyDCYqfyFOU1554jDPRfJoQJetf-ZR1XhS-0STKYt2oS63CzWek4lPvo0j6V5nxJD8AwYLFQ/s400/set0019+105.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222084357645394" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Now, take your leftover roast pork (ideally a very citrus/garlic intensive roast pork, although that can be doctored up) which you have warmed up to about 125F (this is important)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJfksxZ9u5Xnb76YUxHXgQB_lFchcCrVjxKp7Xs7BVcK__8JXN6gj-G3VrLq8_NR154c_xa1HJKCltYHSZHjrsFe5qj8NAcEsGJFe1yG3gI66rj8McKeBrl8Z9JGyBABHUVVrfg/s1600-h/set0019+106.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJfksxZ9u5Xnb76YUxHXgQB_lFchcCrVjxKp7Xs7BVcK__8JXN6gj-G3VrLq8_NR154c_xa1HJKCltYHSZHjrsFe5qj8NAcEsGJFe1yG3gI66rj8McKeBrl8Z9JGyBABHUVVrfg/s400/set0019+106.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222070535453154" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> if you have roasted it properly, it should shred into luxuriant, pillowy nuggets of porcine goodness. Assemble atop the cheese (cold side cold, warm side warm). You want about a 3:2 pork:ham ratio. So that your whole assemblage looks like this.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsiFLgtOzBxDhH5uKCqpETa2d84lkpb3e5hitVrX8t1jHTEi5MkgqA7R0UHl8XWvLvlE2K0vTVRzwzSKTcvuUA3Hd0uB8UGX_NKp3Nh6xv2PmfvOOl2B7lUpfMh7qUW4FlWA0OQ/s1600-h/set0019+109.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsiFLgtOzBxDhH5uKCqpETa2d84lkpb3e5hitVrX8t1jHTEi5MkgqA7R0UHl8XWvLvlE2K0vTVRzwzSKTcvuUA3Hd0uB8UGX_NKp3Nh6xv2PmfvOOl2B7lUpfMh7qUW4FlWA0OQ/s400/set0019+109.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210226007857026" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Fold the bread around the filling. Place in a panini/sanwich press or, if you have a whole battalion to feed, use a griddle set to medium-high, buttered lightly -- <strong><em><u>DO NOT USE SATAN's LIPID, MARGARINE</u></em></strong> -- and toast the cheese side first until it JUST melts, and then flip over to warm the other side.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPQA72kjx16XJPUg4uIcMU3NhOQPg6d5BsflRpyoFDL-w_evhNgsn4f_qaKU1alaKe72L_rpJ1epHOF6LMifkKlHRIccosHhQMuXhRpRBO58_ct3A0iRIb-D0qKB-3z1rnBv1SA/s1600-h/set0019+110.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPQA72kjx16XJPUg4uIcMU3NhOQPg6d5BsflRpyoFDL-w_evhNgsn4f_qaKU1alaKe72L_rpJ1epHOF6LMifkKlHRIccosHhQMuXhRpRBO58_ct3A0iRIb-D0qKB-3z1rnBv1SA/s400/set0019+110.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210237925538834" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Eat.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMy-3MnfF581f6rAmqq8O7AgEMo3VlUEdahZSKPWq3ULRv26R3_iC2JV28VyvoesLmQ3ADqhNRX2TsiL8HUYZErxUbH7FmAwtwZn3wKU2OWBrKUHLv8S0zb0oNAVPM4x6RJmjUw/s1600-h/set0019+111.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMy-3MnfF581f6rAmqq8O7AgEMo3VlUEdahZSKPWq3ULRv26R3_iC2JV28VyvoesLmQ3ADqhNRX2TsiL8HUYZErxUbH7FmAwtwZn3wKU2OWBrKUHLv8S0zb0oNAVPM4x6RJmjUw/s400/set0019+111.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210240656429682" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>-J.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-85794875125786262422021-11-29T08:14:00.000-05:002022-01-16T16:54:35.071-05:00Giving thanks...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsr9dKEZcjcqxUWEda39QCkTt23mi3jXWNR0WakwtKh6B51dRuc7QHt4CM9dSa51uN26oRB1qvK0YkkHcuPIyvokN7o-6IJnU6yEGIwy_N8b90kv5jwl3SHDHmFnQb5lChdepndg/s1600/THX2015_Menu.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsr9dKEZcjcqxUWEda39QCkTt23mi3jXWNR0WakwtKh6B51dRuc7QHt4CM9dSa51uN26oRB1qvK0YkkHcuPIyvokN7o-6IJnU6yEGIwy_N8b90kv5jwl3SHDHmFnQb5lChdepndg/s320/THX2015_Menu.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>Today's entry will be a brief recap of Thanksgiving 2021. It's very important to stress the process of getting Thanksgiving up-and-running started sometime around February. It gives you something to do as you and Lou Bega dance to Lockdown Number Five.<br /><br />Anyway.<div><br /></div><div>If you are lucky, you will have a stationer nearby which carries <a href="http://crane.com/" target="_blank">Crane & Co.</a> or similar. If you are diligent you will be popping by on a semi-regular basis, and if you are assiduous, you will head directly for the clearance bin to the exclusion of all other temptations.<br /><br />
For it is there, the clearance section, on some fine day/evening in February when you will find Thanksgiving stationery, forlorn and forgotten-ish, at +/-90% off. You should pounce.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPRmFF-pHXJASXo47WRD8XvhiH2pJ7lgJ86xmakDk4ZmS040kXOqAfBeqF89YsN65dDyRidiGR7PEc92MBG67J26RRQgylF399kY69sL25bUbZZsYi9BaAYhoFnESGV9FT2FIDg/s1600/11062381_10207714013836853_4276123506377367563_o.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPRmFF-pHXJASXo47WRD8XvhiH2pJ7lgJ86xmakDk4ZmS040kXOqAfBeqF89YsN65dDyRidiGR7PEc92MBG67J26RRQgylF399kY69sL25bUbZZsYi9BaAYhoFnESGV9FT2FIDg/s320/11062381_10207714013836853_4276123506377367563_o.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>The same applies -- should you not have such accouterments at your disposal -- to tablecloths, napkins and serve/flatware (disposable is fine, provided they are attractive enough). (For these, I scour Williams-Sonoma, both my nearby stores and <a href="http://williams-sonoma.com/" target="_blank">online</a>, as they sometimes have different pricing and selection.)<br /><br />
February is the time to get this at ridiculous prices. If the inventory on clearance is large enough, and the prices low enough, you have my blessing and my example to grab every single last one of them. You may be unable to score such a bargain for Thanksgiving 2022 and then where will you be?<br /><br />
Weeping bitterly, as Scripture saith, leading a life of regret and remorse, that's where.<br /><br />
Anyway.<br /><br />
From such a happy February day, until November, you may rest easy; do try to put all of these where you won't forget.<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITQV_akOqhShDLTpxJtw_zt4jxkcoWm9UEoiBLGrhyphenhyphenfc14wogDNy6Iy6t3CpabfXisVCig1JMa_1LqH6-bIplyav5aOwd7lJvCxdOxw6KQZhkpGK-lWHg05OuJEtx5fozBiIZHQ/s1600/THX2015_Menu1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITQV_akOqhShDLTpxJtw_zt4jxkcoWm9UEoiBLGrhyphenhyphenfc14wogDNy6Iy6t3CpabfXisVCig1JMa_1LqH6-bIplyav5aOwd7lJvCxdOxw6KQZhkpGK-lWHg05OuJEtx5fozBiIZHQ/s320/THX2015_Menu1.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>Then, when Halloween is gone, you can start rehearsing. I normally make one of the components for a given dinner or lunch, and put my family through the test panel process for this year's variation on turkey (get a small breast, not a whole critter) or stuffing or mashed potato, etc. This will allow you to hone in on what you want to slap on your menu cards which you bought back in Feb. for 74¢ for a box of 12, instead of $16.99, like a retail-paying savage.<br /><br />
It's an inexpensive thought, but it lets people know, at an instinctive level, that you are going to give them a real treat and that you as host(ess) really care about them while they are under your roof (or airspace).<br /><br />
There are a couple of things to note from my previous Thanksgiving thoughts of 2015(!)...and they mostly center on the turkey.<br /><br />
This year, one of the turkeys proved to be the single best turkeys I have ever cooked. In fact, it's one of the best things I have ever cooked. So here is that, the abbreviated version:<br />
<ul><li>Brine the turkey 24h. (If you have a frozen turkey, brining and thawing simultaneously is a GREAT way to do two things -- quickly! -- at once.) My brine is 1½ gal. water, 1 gal. ice (8 lb.), 2 c. kosher salt, 1 cup sugar)</li>
<li>Remove from brine and air dry in the fridge another 24h.</li>
<li>Mix some of the herb rub (Incidentally, for oven roast turkey the seasoning rub is 50% kosher salt, 50% dried herb mix [3 parts sage, 2 parts thyme, 1 part marjoram] with a teeny bit of baking soda added in to the skin side to help with browning and crisping of same.) with about 3T of softened butter.</li>
<li>Apply this between the skin and meat.</li>
<li>Season generously with the rub, inside the cavity and outside.</li>
<li>Sprinkle ¼t baking soda over the skin.</li>
<li>Place in the oven at 425°F (220°C-ish?) for the first 30 min, then drop the heat to 250°F (120°C?) and continue to roast until the white meat registers 160°F (70°C?) and allow to rest until the internal temperature drops to 130°F (55°C or so)</li></ul>
Hope that helps.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-82641726861177145222021-06-14T07:03:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:22:07.658-05:00Today is <a href="http://www.nationalbourbonday.com/" target="_blank">National Bourbon Day</a>. Which is a good thing, I s'pose, as Bourbon is a close 2nd in the category of My Favorite Ardent Spirits. We all know about my favorite Bourbon cocktail -- the Whisk(e)y Sour, details upcoming thereon -- but when the thermometer starts to creep upward, chasing the spike in humidity, something minty is called for.<br />
<br />
Now, it seems that normal people who grow mint have it overrun their yard. I end up with a terracotta pot of damp dirt and beige twigs. Still, <em>dum spiro, spero</em>. So, in order to not make nothing but a waterfall of mojitos all summer* long, here's my choice cocktail:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wdGBHHOqzMi_uibecrZKY9PNv2kSiQnpWyHeSwEaHgpXR-Htzgw6BftaQF2azzzZ0EwdhZJixKNgKz8AO6J781bsvGGmWEDH_4j-8QxBRugsS9fu_JzVW-Tr_4YugU5CZd1y/s1600/delete.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wdGBHHOqzMi_uibecrZKY9PNv2kSiQnpWyHeSwEaHgpXR-Htzgw6BftaQF2azzzZ0EwdhZJixKNgKz8AO6J781bsvGGmWEDH_4j-8QxBRugsS9fu_JzVW-Tr_4YugU5CZd1y/s1600/delete.jpg" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" /></a><strong>Joe's Julep</strong></div>
<div class="recipe">
<ul>
2 oz. Bourbon (my go-to for mixing is Maker's Mark)</ul>
</div>
1 oz. Rye (Templeton's is nice, if you're especially manly-manlike, add an extra ½ oz.)<br />
1 dash Peychaud's Bitters<br />
18 (!) mint leaves, any varietal, but Yerba Buena (<em>mentha nemorosa</em>) is optimal.<br />
1 oz. superfine sugar (just put regular sugar in the food processor and zap it for as long as your patience will allow)<br />
Now, here's the thing. You're really going to need a silver, as in .925 Sterling, cup. You can get away with silver-plated copper. (<a href="http://www.clarkeny.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/item_41152_catimage_1.jpg" target="_blank">Oh, just go on eBay, will you?</a>) It's actually important, and not merely decorative.<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
OK, I'll let it go this one time.</div>
<br />
Put mint and sugar in your silver cup, in that order...you need the sugar on top of the mint to act as a cushion, because you must muddle the mint <strong><em>very gently</em></strong>. Don’t crush the mint, because you will release bitter compounds. Add the liquids and stir like crazy. Load up<br />
the cup (I mean, realllllly pack it) with crushed ice and garnish with a healthy spring of mint, clapped between your hands to enliven same. <br />
<br />
* Summer in Miami lasting from March through November.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-87997584600279285732021-06-01T07:44:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:23:22.187-05:00My commencement speech, 1st draft<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Another gem from the archives</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDqDurVViv-c9hr7Y63d6k-5WwfEj0XxEclywsUiDPWWPOTk5YlgFiLmZ9Y31p872YJgQsty948rSmtvTj2De1ifT-eHm0cS5Pi1OLGb7PZ3rFlb_8jIIgGWi5YFjKOau7syO/s1600/delete7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDqDurVViv-c9hr7Y63d6k-5WwfEj0XxEclywsUiDPWWPOTk5YlgFiLmZ9Y31p872YJgQsty948rSmtvTj2De1ifT-eHm0cS5Pi1OLGb7PZ3rFlb_8jIIgGWi5YFjKOau7syO/s640/delete7.jpg" width="494" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIa4PBgJCJUEMLBUXnw8hv1L9WSd4u8m1xHjb-z9MkYmf_fOpLxH9yT25FSZ5AivpCVLyiRsR2YP1k88YcJS0e2cCNABchP0fQtsuUX6Q03_RDL_ba1NqKibj8TegdgO76wjG/s1600/delete8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIa4PBgJCJUEMLBUXnw8hv1L9WSd4u8m1xHjb-z9MkYmf_fOpLxH9yT25FSZ5AivpCVLyiRsR2YP1k88YcJS0e2cCNABchP0fQtsuUX6Q03_RDL_ba1NqKibj8TegdgO76wjG/s640/delete8.jpg" width="494" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-26137701801477505252021-05-25T14:57:00.001-04:002022-01-16T16:49:42.124-05:00The New Orleans trip.<p> New Orleans is one of my two favorite cities for a quickie getaway with She Who Decides. Great food -- if you're delicate of palate, you have my pity -- sensational people, great bars, and just a Glorious Vibe.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2TPmscuTbQgQHOv2mZrSXqNMKpUpwy3_uUPP4rkFSYT6S1MzjzdRZr0d8uoGI4c7TT8pEizFOcZK6i6FMvrDUTHErMR3AbydDW6YZ6d348N8NeiUpVyRdpH2Ea9t_wC9Dxb6lVTTSFey6x3B4kw_cw28muIw7Nsdnp6-ypJWUneN72wFEYA=s569" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="569" data-original-width="569" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2TPmscuTbQgQHOv2mZrSXqNMKpUpwy3_uUPP4rkFSYT6S1MzjzdRZr0d8uoGI4c7TT8pEizFOcZK6i6FMvrDUTHErMR3AbydDW6YZ6d348N8NeiUpVyRdpH2Ea9t_wC9Dxb6lVTTSFey6x3B4kw_cw28muIw7Nsdnp6-ypJWUneN72wFEYA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhilS-CuzFaVTfW22H1k09n5tNDAMbRb1jqX3JrWbkwSKZZdDmQMrUA37hpoc7zHAKGY4AhZlDROWbOkwBGtP6E7lnBEI3FxP9kdmdG0asTxs0DphFp8RqZFkEEyxoOH1oSFwjmndNT-V6J_rOOK1raQGyPdIA7GPPb7AeID7xgTgEeqvCSjA=s2000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhilS-CuzFaVTfW22H1k09n5tNDAMbRb1jqX3JrWbkwSKZZdDmQMrUA37hpoc7zHAKGY4AhZlDROWbOkwBGtP6E7lnBEI3FxP9kdmdG0asTxs0DphFp8RqZFkEEyxoOH1oSFwjmndNT-V6J_rOOK1raQGyPdIA7GPPb7AeID7xgTgEeqvCSjA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcCNwHujZ6WlpaxAqptfpje8eKuDlZJ9uQQhzG3_GCt9MZCh_tk3b8tofx5WfORMesWWH_xDkRxWaFjK_iUmkuo3Q6wE30S3SSNp9aLS6SMNmNIwCylGekPsBg5T__bRQuHsy39i1gWT_sbuXsetoCMdsCNt82rDOQvMLvR0LQzAowiJSfFw=s2250" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="2250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcCNwHujZ6WlpaxAqptfpje8eKuDlZJ9uQQhzG3_GCt9MZCh_tk3b8tofx5WfORMesWWH_xDkRxWaFjK_iUmkuo3Q6wE30S3SSNp9aLS6SMNmNIwCylGekPsBg5T__bRQuHsy39i1gWT_sbuXsetoCMdsCNt82rDOQvMLvR0LQzAowiJSfFw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Even the stuff you never think of (pizza, say) is shatteringly good.</div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-63348057623956822082021-05-11T10:30:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:24:17.659-05:00Speaking of lost skills...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/8113/798/1600/7a_1a.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/8113/798/320/7a_1a.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>If you look around online, you'll find shaving experts offering their suggested shaving starter kit. Aye, 'tis a good kit, too. So, in the interest of variety and all that, here's my everyday rig, although you new kids would do better to stick those guys' suggestions, since they are Professionals. Anyway, here's mine:<br />
<a href="http://i19.ebayimg.com/01/i/08/36/70/7a_1.JPG"></a><br />
<a href="http://search.ebay.com/search/search.dll?sofocus=bs&sbrftog=1&catref=C6&saaff=afdefault&ftrv=1&%3Bsspagename=h%3Ah%3Aadvsearch%3AUS&amp;amp;amp;amp;ftrt=1&fcl=3&frpp=200&from=R10&saslop=1&fss=0&satitle=gillette+adjustable+-%28fat%2Cblack%2Cthick%2C%29&sacat=-1%26catref%3DC6&sargn=-1%26saslc%3D2&saprclo=&saprchi=&fsop=1%26fsoo%3D1">Gillette Adjustable DE safety razor</a>. Contrary to popular opinion, I far prefer the <em>slim </em>handle, with the year codes I through N. The loss of heft is more than compensated by the added maneuverability. You should also find what setting works with your choice of blades and quit futzing with it. With the blades listed below, I am at #6.<br />
<a href="http://www.ebay.com/dsc/i.html?_sadis=200&_ipg=200&LH_TitleDesc=1&LH_SALE_CURRENCY=0&_from=R40&_sacat=0&_samihi=&_samilow=&_fpos=&_ftrt=901&_udhi=&_oexkw=&_sabdhi=&_ftrv=1&_udlo=&_sabdlo=&_adv=1&_sop=3&_dmd=1&_okw=&_fsct=&_nkw=israel+personna+%22super%2B%22&_in_kw=1&_ex_kw=">Israeli Personna “Super+” (aka “no-name” or "Crystal") DE razor blades</a>. These truly kick arse, at a ridiculous price. You can also score them on eBay.<br />
<a href="http://www.classicshaving.com/catalog/item/800550/422188.htm">Vulfix #2234 badger shaving brush</a> I even got it to match my scuttle. I can get my geek on just as impressively as anyone else, sue me.<br />
<a href="http://www.bigelowchemists.com/men/shaving/c-o-bigelow-premium-shave-cream.html">Proraso/Bigelow shaving cream</a> I found it, because it was insanely cheap and readily available at most Target stores. But then Target dropped it, and your options are now to buy it under the Bigelow brand (which also has it in a TSA-friendly size) at most Bath & Body Works OR get it at Amazon. This cream shaves as good as anything else out there AND the mentholated cooling thing when you rinse is so-o-o-o-o-o goooooood. Still, at $10, it's a very good deal. It also gets my Italophile side squirming with pleasure.<br />
<a href="http://www.sarabonnymanpottery.com/moss_scuttle.htm">The Moss Scuttle</a> While not strictly necessary -- you can get a lather going on the palm of your hand if you had to -- I wouldn't wanna shave without it ever again.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty neutral on the moisturizing aftershave. My skin manages to issue so much in the way of lipids that it's never been an issue so far. The posh guys are probably right in liking Trumper, so go with that, or <a href="http://www.gentlemans-shop.com/PBSCProduct.asp?ItmID=12139483">Truefitt & Hill's Ultimate Comfort</a>, if you want something unscented.<br />
<br />
Okay. Now go knock that 5 o'clock shadow off.<br />
<br />
-J.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-47443084117619241742021-05-02T10:49:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:25:20.751-05:00Butter. Lovely, easy, cultured butter.The lovely & gracious Kim introduced me, on Twitter, to the equally lovely and similarly gracious Ruth. Twitter, alas is the social media equivalent to HFCS. If you really want to know what happened to my blog, just visualize it being hacked into neat-ish 280-character chunks and fed to the Blue Bird.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
Ruth is an evangelist for good-and-good-for-you foods. Her merely saying "Quinoa tabbouleh" (granting the lovely and gracious Badger may have previously come up with such a concept even if she didn't get a chance to brand it as snappily) altered my worldview. Among the gospels of her evangelism is no-knead bread. This is what prompted Kim to introduce us, as æons ago, Kim was asking (again on Twitter) for thoughts on same, and I leapt insomniacally up and sent her my version, which involves a TINY bit of kneading (a riff on CI's, itself a riff on Leahy's original) and she loved it so much she wept profanely in joy for hours.<br />
<br />
So!<br />
<br />
Not a few minutes ago, I again insomniacally found my way on Twitter (sensing a pattern here), and I see that Ruth has posted on the matter of no-knead bread and cultured butter. <a href="http://t.co/h3GyphfJcP" target="_blank">She has a lovely photo of a lovely hunk of bread with a semi wrapped chunk of Europeanish cultured butter</a>. Which made me realize, "Wait a minute! <u><em><strong>I</strong></em></u> make cultured butter and it's unspeakably easy."<br />
<br />
So here it is.<br />
<br />
(This is for ¾ lb. butter and 1½ cups buttermilk.) <br />
<br />
Some important things to keep in mind:<br />
<em></em><br />
a) As you've heard me yell lo these many years, the flavor of pasteurized cream is infinitely preferable to ultra-pasteurized, and raw cream (if you can get it) is even better than THAT. <br />
b) The yogurt and sour cream/crème fraîche MUST contain live cultures -- the longer the list of live cultures, the better -- no gums, gelatin, etc. Do not use "Greek" yogurt in this, do not use nonfat/lowfat yogurt.<br />
<br />
1 qt heavy cream, the least processed/freshest you can find<br />
¼ c plain yogurt & ¼ c sour cream/crème fraîche (½ c total)<br />
¼ t coarse sea or kosher salt (OPT)<br />
<strong></strong><br />
1. Culture the cream: Combine creams and yogurt in large fanatically cleaned and sterilized jar with an airtight lid. Cover, and shake well to combine. Replace the lid with a FRESHLY LAUNDERED kitchen towel, securing it with a thick rubber band (I repurpose the ones that come with asparagus), and place in warmish area (the magic temperature is +/- 75F/24C) undisturbed for 24 hours. It should have a texture like "drinkable yogurt" when properly thickened. If you like a more cultured-y taste, let it go a total of 36 hours.<br />
<br />
2. Once your cream has your ideal thickness, doff kitchen towel, re-lid, and refrigerate until the cream is +/- 60F/16C, figure 2 hours. <em>You can store the thickened, cultured cream up to 5 days in the refrigerator until you are ready to make the butter; let it sit at room temperature until it reaches about 60 degrees before proceeding with step 3. </em><br />
<br />
3. Here we go: Have 1qt/1L of ice water on standby in the refrigerator. Pour your cooled cultured cream (say THAT 3x, fast) into the work bowl of your standing mixer with the whisk attachment, er, attached. (You can do all of this in a food processor, but that may require 2-3 batches.)<br />
<br />
If you have a splatter guard, now is the time to deploy, or just use cling wrap as best you can, unless mopping dairy off the walls is a long-held ambition of yours. <br />
<br />
Anyway. <br />
<br />
Whip the cream at maximum speed until the yellow (the better your cream, the yellower this will be)clumps separate out, call it 5 minutes. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEm5LiXdB6aiAPbfKUHpzbvOP38kzF2a4vdrUdlmr-UQ4qKmzl2PnZhIcAXdcYqsTqyWxSVdLn2DgxNL3Hg21OcNIORucJoLnvpenqHV5tWSc-7N8AkzNMpkC7xwWZeNThAtfcUQ/s1600/delete.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEm5LiXdB6aiAPbfKUHpzbvOP38kzF2a4vdrUdlmr-UQ4qKmzl2PnZhIcAXdcYqsTqyWxSVdLn2DgxNL3Hg21OcNIORucJoLnvpenqHV5tWSc-7N8AkzNMpkC7xwWZeNThAtfcUQ/s1600/delete.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEm5LiXdB6aiAPbfKUHpzbvOP38kzF2a4vdrUdlmr-UQ4qKmzl2PnZhIcAXdcYqsTqyWxSVdLn2DgxNL3Hg21OcNIORucJoLnvpenqHV5tWSc-7N8AkzNMpkC7xwWZeNThAtfcUQ/s320/delete.jpg" width="246" /></a>Strain this through a fine mesh strainer double-lined with cheesecloth set over bowl. Let it drain quietly, on its own, for 1 minute.<br />
<br />
4. Grap the corners of your cheesecloth and spin/twist to wring out the buttermilk, pushing and squeezing until not one drop more of buttermilk is issued. Put your butter in another bowl; refrigerate your buttermilk. You're halfway home.<br />
<br />
5. Here it comes. Splash about ⅓ cup of the ice water (you were wondering, weren't you?) over your butter and, with butter "floating like an island" in the ice water, fold and knead it, letting the water wash the butter to rinse it of any remaining buttermilk. Discard buttermilky water, and repeat until the water runs clear. This will take you about 5 or 6 washes. This has to be done because remaining buttermilk will VERY quickly accelerate the spoilage of your butter.<br />
<br />
After the final wash, drain the water. Then smash, knead and fold butter to squeeze out as much remaining liquid as your patience will allow. (Keep in mind that even the most posh butter is MAXIMUM 85% solids, so don't be too fanatical here.) <br />
<br />
Sprinkle butter with salt, if you are using for spreading on bread, and fold into butter until thoroughly incorporated. <em>The butter will keep for at least 1 month assuming you use reasonably fresh cream and you wash the butter well. You can also freeze them. (Don't panic if the buttermilk separates on thawing, just shake.)</em><br />
<br />
6. Divide butter between two 12" x 15" (30cm x 40cm) rectangles of parchment paper (waxed paper if you must). Shape each half of the butter into an approximate log shape. Fold the paper over the butter, then roll butter log up tightly, twisting the ends, to get a nice cylinder of buttery goodness. <br />
<br />
Or do what I do, put it in clean glass jars and refrigerate/freeze.<br />
<br />
-J.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-24079089053444791472021-04-26T11:45:00.000-04:002022-01-16T16:58:49.346-05:00Prom-nessWe are in that phase of Number One Son's last year where all the "Graduating Students" activities...stuff is going on. Banquets, presentations, etc., etc.<br />
<br />
With each, there is usually a letter sent home. This letter explains the details of that specific event. Attire, dates for sending in deposits (if any), contact persons and, where applicable, the rules and regulations governing the event.<br />
<br />
One such event is his Prom, and the letter arrived a few days ago. Given the nature of the event, the letter was (not unexpectedly) somewhat longer than usual, owing to the rules-and-regulations portion which was of an ample and generous size.<br />
<br />
In the process of getting all of the details of this event squared away, I sat down with Joey to make sure that all deadlines were met, that he was not out of compliance with any unforeseen rule. That sort of thing.<br />
<br />
It was then I ran into what he explained was "the Falcon rule."<br />
<br />
One of the things I have always noted is that EVERY rule that at first blush makes no sense is there because someone with an exceptional mind took advantage of the Roman ditty: "<i>Nulla pœna sine lege</i>." (Literally, "No penalty without a law (against it)." but more succinctly "It didn't say you couldn't.") <br />
<br />
For example, when I was at school, in my second year, the student handbook stated that one had to wear "lace up leather shoes" and then listed all of the UNacceptable forms of footwear: sneakers, deck shoes, etc. But then, in my THIRD year, that Forbidden Footwear list was amended to include -- and I am SO not kidding -- "bowling shoes."<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because someone wore such shoes the previous year and, when hauled before the Authorities on charges of Forbidden Footwearness, took the stand on his own behalf and noted that, wholly independent of the spirit (a subjective thing, he surely argued) of the law, in the LETTER of the law, there was no injunction against wearing bowling shoes. So was born the Bowling Shoe Rule, which has been enshrined in the school's Student Handbook, even to the present day.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
It turns out that last year, a certain young Mr. Falcon (then a teammate of Joey's) saw fit to take to the Prom, as his date for the evening a young lady some eight (!) years his senior*. While her (and their) conduct before, during and after the event was entirely acceptable -- unimpeachable, even -- and her background was also unblemished save for her being in her first year of some master's program, the matter drew the disapproval of several of the mothers chaperoning the event. (Historians have not recorded what, if anything, the chaperoning fathers may had had to say. Possibly an instance of suppression of dissent, although that would be mere conjecture.)<br />
<br />
The objectors made their grievances with the obvious gap in regulatory coverage known to the authorities and prevailing upon them we have now, enshrined in the letter to the parents of graduating students, is The Falcon Rule.<br />
<br />
Not that we were in the remotest danger of landing afoul** of it.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* That she was considered to be, and I quote Joey verbatim, "rocket hot" is not a relevant consideration for the Authorities in the formulation of policy and, possibly, may have added momentum for the decision.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">** If a certain young man doesn't, er, "show some initiative, and SOON" we won't have to worry about landing afoul of even the most minuscule of rules.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-41051515443102761432021-01-02T13:57:00.003-05:002022-01-16T17:27:28.310-05:00"It'll be fun!" they said.One day, roughly 2 weeks out from Christmas, my wife announced that a "free" chalet in Beech Mountain, NC would be available to us for the days around New Year's, as the owners -- I'd have to draw you a flowchart of our relationship to them -- would be spending that time in Hawai'i. Make a note of that.<br />
<br />
Also, kindly note that the census numbers encompassed by the "us" abovementioned was in the "10-12" range. Further note that my beloved had <i>announced</i>, rather than inquired.<br />
<br />
Resigned to my fate, as befalls any wise husband whose prime marital directive is to preserve peace in the valley come what may, I nodded assent. (Resistance is futile, and comes with the added cost of having argued and still lost.)<br />
<br />
Furthermore, my main writing partner <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1027107/" target="_blank">Karen</a> lives in the general area and I owed her a massive (7 file boxes worth) load of cookbooks, etc. and I figured, quite reasonably, this would have the effect of a palliative salve on all the things which would be happening to me over the week and the circumstances under which I'd be operating and, he said diplomatically, the interpersonal dynamics which would ensue and unfold as the days spent in close proximity wore on.<br />
<br />
In these sorts of narratives, there comes a point when the protagonist should have realized what Fate had in store. Sometimes, in fact, he does so realize and other times he does not. If the latter, not realizing adds a certain Shakespearean something, and in the former case, the air of inevitability tints the tale with its hue.<br />
<br />
For this protagonist, that moment came on the heels of a rather excellent dinner I had prepared and enjoyed in the bosom of my family. My sister, her husband, my niece and my cousin D (the prime mover in this episode) had come to have a Vacation Trip Council and Family Discussion. This at a time I would considered it exceedingly more profitable to retreat to my own head after a long day of having people inflicted on me and digest the evening's repast. But it was not to be, and so, the long evening wore on.<br />
<br />
It must be said, I have very, very little patience for these sorts of family meetings. Developing schedules and angendæ <i><u>for a vacation</u> </i>fiercely rubs me the wrong way. I'm afraid my irascibility may have made a showing during New Business portion of the proceedings when we (well, okay, they) were discussing what the menus should be for each evening and I was pressed as to why I couldn't say what'd be the bill of fare -- I'd be cooking, you see -- for each evening. Not knowing what's local, fresh, available, etc. in a remote and artic mountain lair 87 states away, I had no way of determining what I'd cook, never mind I usually have no idea what I'm cooking until the last moment even when I would be doing so in the comfort of my own very own kitchen. This seemed to vex them, and I may have responded to their vexation in the vein which my wife describes, pejoratively, as my "angry logic."<br />
<br />
I apologized later that evening to my cousin D (but a subsequent meeting had to ensue to discuss the matter, during which I explained myself and apologized some more) for the fact I was less compliant than usual. It was the right thing to do, and also the wisest, as we'd be in tight quarters for, essentially, a week.<br />
<br />
(Earlier I had told my wife that the lovely and gracious Karen had generously offered us lodgings at her rather nice place, something to which I was infinitely more amenable, but it was curtly explained to me that <strong>the point </strong>was to have this time <i>en famille</i> and on that note, this particular meeting was adjourned.)<br />
<br />
But, having a keen insight into the various personalities who'd be populating said tight quarters over that week, it'd be doing the truth a grave disservice to say I wasn't filled with trepidation and foreboding. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day was scrofulous with discussion on the matter of the trip. I smiled as best as I could and reflected on the fun my two boys would have skiing and sledding and the like. "Lie back, and think of England" sprung to mind and I'll leave it to your discretion to proceed further along that metaphor.<br />
<br />
And so, very early -- no, earlier than that -- in the predawn hours of the 27th we piled into the familial minivan and headed north in a caravan with my sister/BiL/niece/cousin. As I was getting ready that morning, people kindly packed my stuff for me* and forgot ALL of the stuff I had carefully put on my "Do NOT Forget" list and placed on the island in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
So off we went, me with the Very Bad GPS** which was brought along strictly because of its battery reserve as we'd be bringing umpteen electronics which would need all of the available 12V outlets the minivan offered. <br />
<br />
And off we went.<br />
<br />
About two hours into the trip we made our first stop.<br />
<br />
Let me interject at this convenient juncture that I <strong><u><em><span style="color: red;">HATE</span></em></u></strong> making stops on long trips. We stop for fuel and, while we're at it, purchase nourishment for consumption on the move, avail ourselves of the lavatories, and zoom off as shortly thereafter as is possible. But we had to make a stop for leg stretching because my BiL (about whom I will not hear a word against) was getting leg cramps. We took that time to stop for doughnuts, potty, and a small squirt of fuel. <u>After</u> which the other party decided to head to a nearby<i> Les Arcs Dourades</i> for edibles, which were not to the uniform liking of the passengers of Car B as some of them were given from our selection of doughnut-ative confections.<br />
<br />
And off we went.<br />
<br />
About two hours later we wound up stopping at a Cracker Barrel, a chain for which my sister has an inexplicable fondness. To me, it's not different than, say, Denny's but with some down-home themin'. Denny's-meets-Splash Mountain if you get my meaning. That took a generous hour off our travel time, but at least I got to check out the Daytona International Speedway during testing (THE race is coming up, and the Daytona 500 will follow thereafter). So that was OK-ish.<br />
<br />
The rest of the trip north was fine. Our caravan broke up because we insisted on using the cruise control at 80mph and Car B would sometimes speed ahead, other lag far behind and eventually they had to stop for fuel, not having done so at either of our brace of breakfast stops.<br />
<br />
All was fine until we got to Blowing Rock, NC when there was some significant discrepancy between the Very Bad GPS and the Mapquest directions and Google maps, alloyed by our (mine, especially) appalling sense of direction). As it works out, we made a wrong turn (up NC-194 to Valle Crucis, for those familiar with the territory) which involved about an hour of harrowing foggy, iced-over, steep mountain roads, which main feature seems to be:<br />
<br />
1- A complete lack of illumination<br />
2- Uphill U-turns<br />
3- No guardrails over the sheer cliffs<br />
<br />
It is at this brief intermission in the narrative I wish to single out the people in charge of these roads for the vilest possible abuse. Why they continue to draw a salary from the taxpayer teat is a mystery. Certainly *I* could keep those roads free of signage, illumination and guardrails for a fraction of the cost.<br />
<br />
At any rate, we reached a dead end, the Very Bad GPS*** had lost reception, the cellphones which had the Google maps likewise, and the printout from Mapquest required that we, basically, return to Miami and start over. We found a relatively flat spot with well over 2" of excess space for us to turn around and, in a textbook example of a 15 point turn, found ourselves heading back whence we came.<br />
<br />
One of the most interesting features of Beech Mountain is that no matter where you're going, it's uphill. Things are uphill both ways. You back out of the driveay and it's uphill. You drive back into the driveway and it's uphill again. It's amazing. The Slightly Less Talented Mr. Ripley should look into it for his museum.<br />
<br />
A mere 90 minutes of marriage-stressing uphill driving on harrowing foggy, iced-over, steep mountain roads and we were at the Chalet. The rest of the inmates had already arrived and had been setting up.<br />
<br />
As it turns out the Chalet had a number of interesting features reminiscent, to those of you familiar with BBC programming, of Colditz. There was -- and, unless something has improved over the last 28 hours, is: <br />
<br />
1- No WiFi (or Internet of any description), <br />
2- No cable (or TV reception of any description)<br />
3- No radio reception<br />
4- No cellphone reception. Which I knew would be the case, as it was decribed to us as "intermittent" which <b>always </b>means "nonexistent."<br />
5- No phone service. (Local only for outbound calls, and "local" is defined in a very narrow sense.)<br />
6- A suggestion, a hint of heat, in both radiators and water. (In fairness this improved as the days wore on.)<br />
<br />
Number Two Son, for those of you who know him, would not enjoy the cabin portion of the trip, wedded as he is to electronics and the like. We had brought a portable DVD player and a substantial selection of DVDs and that more-or-less held him at bay. But it was not a flawless plan, not without some limitations.<br />
<br />
At any rate, we were exhausted enough to go to sleep.<br />
<br />
The next day was something of an "orientation" day and it involved driving around to the various spots and seeing where to go for what, hours, prices, etc. Given the way the tribe functions, I figured it was very safe to head down to the base of the mountain, to the nearest supermarket, to get groceries and check my email, texts, etc. and still be back in ple-e-e-e-e-enty of time to head out on our exploratory trip.<br />
<br />
And off we went.<br />
<br />
Among one of the things we found is that, in a certain spot right outside the entrance to the Brick Oven Pizzeria, there is (very) occasional cellphone reception. It's between 5'-10' from the door (keeping one exposed to the elements, a fact I'd like you to keep in mind) and it seems to vary with the cars parked out front and the direction of the wind, but it's there. It was there I contacted Karen and made plans to drop off at her house the monumental quantity of books, and to be in an area with cellphone.<br />
<br />
Everyone else split off in one direction while I went to Chez Karen.<br />
<br />
As destiny would dictate, we needed to get chains for the minivan and I had to turn around. Only there was a traffic jam. Only I would have the knack for landing right in the middle of rush hour in Banner Elk, NC. So, by the time I was able to head out Karenwards, it was 5something p.m. Those whom I had left (the Tire Chain Committee) somehow failed to tell the rest of the crew that my head-out had been significantly delayed and, therefore, so would my return be. Also, for completely unexplained reasons they decided that, having ascertained the costs and schedules for skiing, etc., the prudent thing to do was not to enjoy the charming shops and emporia catering to tourists and thus while away a delightful afternoon, but, instead, return to the Chalet with all due speed. Where, as you recall, there is no cellphone reception. <br />
<br />
Karen and I had a lovely visit, I got to meet her beloved and the most recent person whom she had offsprung, and we talked shop for a good while as they plied me with excellent bourbon, during which time Karen's beloved offloaded the shipment of books. We agreed to somehow try to communicate on the morrow to talk further shop over lunch. I then went back up.<br />
<br />
The reception which greeted me was one of relief and exasperation. People were SO worried about me. (The irony being this was the best driving day of the whole trip.) Dinner had been made in my absence and it had not met with the unanimous acceptance of the assembled. I then suggested, which was something of a revelation to the tribe, that they could call any number from the hamstrung phone and it'd show up on a cellphone's caller ID before disconnecting, and one could then call the cabin back.<br />
<br />
That was, as they say, that.<br />
<br />
The next morning the chained-up minivan, on its way to decant the skiers and those whose idea of a delightful time revolves around observing other humans ski for hours on end, dropped me off at Fred's Mercantile, to be fetched by Karen at some point later that morning. Which they did. We went to lunch, I imparted some wisdom upon them on a select number of subjects and we visited the store, where I met some of her staff, who were very cool. While Karen tended to some business, I rearranged her cookbook section, as the really good stuff should be at eye level. We visited Karen's property, saw her surprisingly hairy horses and her trout pond -- trout is a big deal in those parts and one restaurant even touts trout along with its martinis on its signage -- and we stopped by the very cool Doc's Rocks, met Doc and proceeded back. We made plans to make plans, and they dropped me off at the front of the pizza place, where a suspicion of cellphone reception is, you'll recall, available. It was there, rooted to the spot where reception was sometimes to be had, I chose to await being exfiltrated by the chained-up minivan should they call/text me with an important update. Of course, it was snowing sideways as I waited. And waited, only to find out the crew was shopping at Fred's across the way, allowing me "time to be on the Internet." I trudged thereto and sat in the warmth.<br />
<br />
But there was an undercurrent of discontent. You see, there is an unfortunate "pack" mentality hardwired into some of the more benighted members of this expeditionary force and it is generally held that everyone doing Thing A (even if half the participants are abjectly miserable doing so) is, for inadequately explored reasons, immeasurably preferable to half doing Thing A, and the other half, Thing B.<br />
<br />
No, me either.<br />
<br />
That night I made gumbo for dinner. For reasons related to cookware, my heretical oven roux was not to be had, and I had to sit there and stir, which was fine as it kept me in kitchen solitude as people planned a big party for New Year's Eve. (More on that anon.) Speaking of cookware, even if much dated back to the Nixon administration, it was generally serviceable, except for the knives which were so useless that some maniac wielding them assaultingly against you would likely bruise you very badly. Several seemed to have, at some dim and distant point in their history, been serrated. The least dull of which was one that seemed a hybrid between a steak knife and a bread knife and had been sharpened, with varying degrees of success, repeatedly since 1975. So much metal had been taken off the edge that when I tried prepping onions on the cutting board, my knuckles repeatedly rapped on the wood, sounding as if someone lay without, seeking admittance to the Chalet.<br />
<br />
Gumbo is a problem sometimes, when the diners to feast thereon are of varying constitutions, from the delicate to the robust. Since we had a couple of such fragiles among the present, we had to keep the seasoning light, and pass around additional seasonings as we all reclined at table (which is not optimal) but all were generally pleased and I basked for a while, having allayed the grumblings of the Herd Party. Which was difficult, as these also were the same people as the Plan Ahead Party, who were not only mightily aggrieved I was elsewhere, but that I had no idea what my itinerary would be.<br />
<br />
To further calm those suspicious of my inexplicable desires to do what I preferred and do so spontaneously, I decided to subject myself to watching people ice-skate the next day. Now, there are those who enjoy ice skating. Such people will always be among us and I have made peace with their existence. Far more puzzling are those who enjoy watching other glide slowly, around a frozen oval, for two or three hours. But I gamely volunteered, even if I was in no mood owing to the fact I'd gotten minimal sleep trying to keep Numbah Two Son from bouncing off the walls with boredom the whole night through for the second night in a row. (This will feature prominently later.)<br />
<br />
That Sunday morning, having pre-prepared dinner -- my globally famous fabada, the recipe for which is found among my published works -- to be put in the slow-cooker, I had wanted to attend Mass but my saying so was met with mutiny, as such a thing was widely held to be suicidal. By the time I dressed, warmed up the minivan it was too late, even for a banzai run to St. Bernadette's. I sullenly went down to the supermarket, got milk and stuff for lunch and headed back. Since the grocery list included the fruit of the vine, and North Carolina still having to go a long ways to a sensible view of these things, I had to wait until noon to effect my purchases. I then called up to the cabin to say I was bringing lunch edibles, but the response I got featured the most loathsome words I could envision while on a group trip: "These people want to..."<br />
<br />
Nothing good can, has or ever will follow those words.<br />
<br />
When I returned, the crew was piling into another car and headed to skate, and explicitly disavowed to assist in the grocery offloading. Fine. Whatever. The skating voyeurs (by avocation or conscription) followed. We parked, walked 28 miles across a vast expanse of icy tarmac in a howling gale in -217°F weather, that we may stare at my BiL, niece, Numbah One and Numbah Two Sons and my cousin N (my uniformly awesome cousin, kind and gorgeous and sane; daughter of my cousin S & her husband P whose outlook on these doings seemed to coincide with mine) shking-shking in a slow, lazy oval, as my sister and cousin D (my generally, but not <em>quite</em> 100%-of-the-time awesome cousin) sat in the coffee shop in what seemed a less than genial mood. Since I was not feeling the love, I "whatevered" and repaired to the corner of the coffee shop that offered WiFi (but not, oddly, cellphone reception) and checked emails.<br />
<br />
It seems people who had left the Chalet at lunchtime to go skating were in an ill mood, having foregone lunch (yes, I know) such I had at the ready. But, being made of stern stuff, I could hold on, and made no noises along those lines. <br />
<br />
And off we went.<br />
<br />
We eventually (3pm!) found our way down to Frontier BBQ. <br />
<br />
Which was great.<br />
<br />
Now, for those among you not conversant with the regional variations of American BBQness, Western NC is known for a specific kind of meat and a specific kind of sauce. Although this restaurant seemed to cover a good chunk of the national spectrum, the thing to do is order what it's known for. My sister was seemingly adamant to order anything but. She asked about the brisket, the turkey, etc. to no avail, as those, not being a hit with the locals, are in short supply and run out early. <br />
<br />
Earlier than 3:30pm, at any rate.<br />
<br />
But, reality being as open to negotiation as mathematics and gravity, she ordered the house specialty and liked it. Everyone, famished to no end, feasted on porcine excellentness and back up the mountain we went.<br />
<br />
All this time, I had had a nagging worry in the back of my mind. The slow cooker we were using was one we had found at the Chalet and it was a 1970something model, still factory sealed. So it didn't automatically click to "warm" after X hours. It just stayed where'er you left it. I had left it on "low" with a time budget of 6 hours. But this was coming up on 10 hours and I had visions of the Chalet engulfed in fire, the authorities blaming the fool who left the crockpot far longer than strictly required.<br />
<br />
But all was fine.<br />
<br />
Since we had returned from lunch at 5:30pm (just as the place was getting crowded for dinner service with locals who must have generous lashings of Amish blood) dinner was not really in the offing, which was also fine.<br />
<br />
The plan for the next day was for most of us to clear out of the Chalet that my sister and cousin D would decorate it for the black tie (!) New Year's Eve festivities. Now, I am as ardent a fan of black tie as can be imagined, and regular readers will easily attest to this. But, to be brutally frank, there was simply no bloody way I'd be schlepping and donning formal raiments in the middle of frozen nowhere with 10 people in attendance, some of whom had seen me in diapers.<br />
<br />
I'd fix dinner with all the fanfare required, but that'd be as far as I'd extend myself.<br />
<br />
So we turned in for the night when a chattering Numbah Tow Son was sent downstairs by someone (not Numbah One Son) as he had awakened and simply wasn't going to sleep. This set off my beloved in spectacular fashion, as she ascribed his wakefulness to my sister and cousin D moving stuff around in decorative preparation for the 31st. They (mostly my beloved and D) had, as our Brit pals would say "quite a row" over the issue and something of a pall hung in the air from then on. In the interests of marital harmony I refrained from singing "I told you so!" in the ringing baritone such a development richly deserved.<br />
<br />
But I'd told her so.<br />
<br />
(In fact, I had told her earlier in the week that welllllllll before our scheduled departure date, she -- not I -- would be desperately eager to leave for the return trip home. This was not believed at the time.)<br />
<br />
The 31st dawned and we had decided to head to Doc's Rocks for a session of gem mining. his entailed going down the mountain and, at some point that entails unchaining the car's tires. Which made getting out of the Chalet, the roads thereto being slick with ice and slush. But we were limping gamely out to the main road which was inexplicably dry as a Soviet bureaucrat when some oaf stopped short, and my BiL was forced to halt, which in turn forced us to halt. There was simply no regaining traction.<br />
<br />
Until, I, the modern masculine embodiment of Cassandra, turned off the traction control and revved the whee out of the engine and we feinted and slewed haltingly forward and on to freedom and Doc's.<br />
<br />
Doc's was great, and the kids made out like bandits with the emeralds and sapphires thus obtained. Glowing with victory we eventually went to the Boone Mall (after my saying seventy-three and a half times to head there in the first place) for lunch. Which was great. Another, this time official, visit with Karen ensued while my family wandered around the mall and Numbah One Son became rabidly infatuated with Karen's assistant manager.<br />
<br />
My BiL had decided to return to Doc's and we headed back. Owing to the Very Bad GPS and all of the other navigational handicaps we have listed, we missed our turnoff and then proceeded to look for a spot to turn around and "make a U-turn as soon as it's convenient." Which just so happened to be in <strong><em><u>TENNESSEE</u></em></strong>, 45 minutes later and well dark, and getting cold and in some gorge somewhere where there was no cellphone reception. This, incidentally, proved an ideal spot to get a flat tire.<br />
<br />
So, here it is, at 7pm, somewhere between Tennessee and a hard place, and we had to decipher, with a failing flashlight how the Germans arrange the tire changing mechanism on the minivan, on an icy slope. If you can imagine Rube Goldberg as the designer of some East German camp interrogation equipment for dissidents, you can readily envision how the spare tire is retrieved. I'll spare you the fullness of details but suffice it to say that part of the process involves <i>removing the center console</i>. Removing the center console is not something I would ordinarily do even if to retrieve my last nitroglycerin tabled during a cardiac episode.<br />
<br />
It was at this point our collective Guardian Angels came off their mandated coffee break and got to work.<br />
<br />
Some VERY kind souls happened to live just seconds away from this desolate spot and offered my wife and Numbah Two Son shelter from the wind and cold, and were able to assist us in changing
the flat (most importantly, in retrieving the spare, the storage of
which would have stymied Indiana Jones) and getting us off on our way to
the Chalet complete with commonsense directions that worked as
advertised. The <em>bien-pensants </em>may sneer at "rednecks" and "hicks" and
even if these people wouldn't know basil from cilantro I will not hear a
word against them. As far as I am concerned, they are angels and that's that.<br />
<br />
This of course was only part of the issues with which we had to contend, because by this time temperatures had fallen well below freezing, we would be driving up the mountain, we no longer had chains and we were now on a space-saver spare whose main characteristics are exclusively in the realm of "the purely decorative." Keep in mind that, having arrived at the base of the mountain, we now had to deal with about an hour of harrowing foggy, iced-over, steep mountain roads, generously accessorized with their complete lack of illumination, uphill U-turns, and no guardrails over the sheer cliffs.<br />
<br />
We also had a very stressed flight crew, a marginal GPS and no sense of direction.<br />
<br />
So, not really overwhelmed with choices, we pressed on regardless, stopping at Fred's to get a puncture repair kit.<br />
<br />
And off we went.<br />
<br />
It is truly remarkable how long an hour of harrowing foggy, iced-over, steep mountain roads, generously
accessorized with their complete lack of illumination, uphill U-turns,
and no guardrails over the sheer cliffs can seem when one doesn't have GPS or cellphone reception. Even more so when driving with no chains and a decorative spare the width of which is comparable to a pencil of impressive girth.<br />
<br />
It is a good test of a marriage how well the spouses respond to sliding backwards down a glistening, white, iced, curvy road while standing on the brake pedal. An even better test is to do so three or four times within the hour, and best of all when you have no clue whatsoever where it is you are and, other than adrenaline fueled trial-and-error, have no earthly way to find out. We had missed Mass for what I considered somewhat questionable reasons, and thus wasn't quite ready to have St. Peter audit me just then. For somewhat mysterious reasons, the GPS's navigatrix decided to, just this once, give us accurate directions and, miraculously, we found the Chalet.<br />
<br />
It is in this state we arrived at the Chalet, decorated (to be fair, very, very nicely as my sister and cousin D tend to fuss and fret over such things) with people Ready To Party Down.<br />
<br />
If you've accurately read between the copious number of lines, you may arrive at the suspicion we were not Ready To Party Down. This I may safely confirm as more accurate than one might think possible. Two large glasses of a rather lovely Merlot barely made a dent; hardly neutralizing the quart-and-a-half of adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. I showered and, in honor of the people in black tie, put on my PJs.<br />
<br />
Dinner was served, and, other than the fireball generated by the Bananas Foster, it was a blur to me. Having dispatched the edibles, the People Ready To Party, rolled up their sleeves and began to party. I am not, as you might have gathered, someone who "parties." Even less so, someone who parties with 11 family members in a wooden cabin in the middle of a frozen nowhere after had to change a flat tire in a desolate gorge this side of Tennessee and then driven an hour across God's Illumination-Free Frigid Slip 'n' Slide of Peril.<br />
<br />
But the partying would begin with or without my assent and within too short a span, people, plastic cups in hand and sloshing a rather lovely Merlot were playing music I can't stand and full-throatedly saying "Whooooo!" which, I gather, makes it official that one is partying. My sister was sitting passively on the couch, I gather still sore from the moment of friction with my beloved, pointedly not sloshing Merlot or anything else, and not howling "Whoo!" under any circumstances whatosever. Number Two Son, whooing and Merlot notwithstanding, turned in early, demonstrating wisdom beyond his years. Midnight came at some point -- we had to guesstimate, as no two watches coincided -- and with a flourish of whooing and, for the sake of variety, sloshing <i>champagne</i>, we welcomed in 2013. Well, in my case it was more like telling 2012 to sod off, but you get the idea.<br />
<br />
During the course of this, my BiL, also a notorious non-whooer, non-slosher took my tire repair kit and, with Numbah One Son, charitably fixed the flat and replaced the punctured tire.<br />
<br />
(I owe him a generous bottle of something.)<br />
<br />
Everyone exhausted and the supplies of whoo and Merlot having run out, the Chalet fell quiet.<br />
<br />
At 6:30am, my alarmed wife awakened me to say we were behind schedule for leaving the Chalet -- those who know her will testify that being in a hurry is not among her set of skills -- and checking this episode off our bucket list. Hurriedly, excitedly, I packed the minivan as fast as my depleted frame would allow. A quick loading of my wife's travel cup with coffee and off we went.<br />
<br />
But, of course, the story simply canNOT end there. We still had an hour hour of harrowing foggy, iced-over, steep mountain roads, albeit with daylight, uphill U-turns,
and no guardrails over the sheer cliffs. This allowed us to see exactly how far and agonizing the fall would be and the geological characteristics which would greet our skeletal systems upon the conclusion of our rapid descent. We also still had a wonky sense of direction, a recalcitrant GPS and no chains. It stands to reason that our car would get stuck in the ice for minutes on end, until we managed to rock the tires as we played with the traction control and got unstuck, eventually, each time we were mired in the slick ice patches. <br />
<br />
This, of course, is only compounded by our getting lost until another kind soul was seen exiting her cabin and, asking if we need help, told us to follow her and we gamely followed her to freedom.<br />
<br />
For once, the road went downhill off Beech Mountain and we were coasting in neutral at pretty impressive speed, our brakes squealing from the heat generated by riding them for miles nonstop. We got to the base of the mountain and fueled up.<br />
<br />
Homeward!<br />
<br />
Only, no so much. For North Carolina, you see, is that state which good traffic engineering forgot (there are myriad signs that point in TWO directions for the same destination, among other delights). It had one more cruel trick up its sleeve and, in conspiracy with the GPS and my wife's iPhone promptly sent us along a path that, although I cannot conclusively prove it, I am convinced took us home by way of Louisiana.<br />
<br />
And that, friends, is what I did on vacation.<br />
<br />
-J.<br />
<br />
* Something I abhor with a purple passion, so ya know.<br />
** SatNav for the rest of the Anglosphere.<br />
*** Get a Garmin. No, they didn't pay me for this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-50144868542601011332020-06-20T10:51:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:29:24.958-05:00Something foodie for the summer.I'm trying to get back to blogging regularly, a process which, incidentally, you have the high privilege
of witnessing. As is usual for me whenever I have to pick myself up and dust myself
off – some days I feel as if I have a black belt therein – I go for the edibles
and the potables.<br />
<br />
Today is no exception.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This was prompted by a brief exchange I had on Twitter (you should hang out on Twitter with us,
it's nice) in which I gloated, without the merest chemical trace of shame or
compunction on the matter of my KILLER gazpacho. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ovah heah (by which I mean the northern hemisphere) gazpacho
season is upon us yet again, and as your go-to Iberic, it is incumbent upon me to
set everyone straight on the procedural gazpacho process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When you stagger into a tapas bar in, say, Sevilla, you
will spy with your little eye a glass pitcher. Said pitcher it would seem to the
casual and inattentive observer – not you, natch, but the casual and
inattentive observer – to contain some sort of coral-colered milkshake. But no;
rather this is for-real gazpacho. (You're as likely to get this in a bowl as
you are in a glass, FWIW.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
The gazpacho you will find around the Anglosphere inevitably
has a glaring defect. Basically it resembles a semi-Iberic bloody mary mix; thin,
runny and overly tomatic.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What people don't realize is that gazpacho evolved as a way
to redeploy leftover bread during the tomato season – kindly note that it
shares more than section of DNA with panzanella – which were mortar-and-pestled
with EVOO and assorted other veggies until a very velvety soup resulted. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This soup requires a blender in fine fettle, a food
processor will not work properly (you need a VERY fine puree-ing action AND aeration
. The foodiest types will have you straining through a chinois, but I don't, as
I like the added heft provided by the solids.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
(this makes 4 servings)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
1 oz stale "rustic" bread, crust optional<br />
½ lb. ripe tomatoes, peeled and stemmed (somewhat overripe
tomatoes are fine and, if you were to use, oh, 8-10 oz. of tomato juice of the "passata"
type, it'd be OK)<o:p></o:p><br />
¼ lb. white or yellow onion (ideally a sweet onion, but this
is optional; Spaniards like sharp flavors)<o:p></o:p><br />
¼ lb. cucumber<o:p></o:p><br />
½ lb. red bell pepper (some recipes will suggest green bell
pepper, but I happen to HATE that vegetal taste…do whatever you want)<br />
1-2 cloves garlic (In Spain they LOVE their raw garlic…tread
lightly)<o:p></o:p><br />
1 t sherry vinegar (if you don't have go 50-50 with red wine
vinegar and a young, cheap balsamic)<o:p></o:p><br />
¼-½ cup extra-virgin olive oil (depending on your
preference) and if you have some fancy pants unfiltered stuff that cost a
zillion dollars, this is the time to break it out.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Cut tomatoes in large cubes (you should have about 1½
cups). Squish out the seeds over a strainer set into a bowl. With a spatula,
press down to release the "jelly" from the seeds. Discard the seeds.
Put the strainer BACK over the bowl and add the tomato cubes. Salt them, and
let them release the tomato water into the bowl with the jelly. Figure 30 min.</div>
<br />
Tear the bread into chunks, place them in the bowl with
the tomato fluid. Stir this so the bread can soak up the tomatoness and is soft-ish,
say 1 or 2 minutes. Place the tomato chunks and the soaked bread in the blender
vessel.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Peel and dice the onion (you should wind up with +/-1 c).
Add the onion to the blender. Peel and add the garlic cloves.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Peel, seed (a spoon works nicely, but do whatever you
want) and dice the cucumber (this should be just under ¾ cup), and add to blender.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Remove the stems, ribs and seeds from the bell pepper and
then dice (figure 2 c of diced red pepper). Add to blender.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Add the sherry vinegar. If your blender sensibly allows
you to dial the speed up, start on low and progress upward until you are going
full speed. If not, start with the smallest possible pulses until you get to
top speed. Whiz this all at maximum velocity until you don't see ANY flecks of
anything. Slowly (slower than that!) add the EVOO to emulsify – think mayonnaise
– and when it's 100% smooth, taste and season with salt and pepper. Blitz it at
max velocity for about 30 seconds.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Serve in chilled shooter glasses or in bowls,
accessorized with – slivered/diced as finely as your patience will allow – cucumbers,
onions and/or tomato, and a swirl of EVOO.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgqjN8hPvM20G4PlvFlQKy1BzdFIBlPzuH_wvQPcgryg05KyaeRPqtSzqysynzQwYaNh5KUXBYR2q1lIvLb3Nwl2fbSo6VWjW5hROHwUFSmDiUscyi3JxzfuXX0uqSz0t3jYnaQ/s1600/delete.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgqjN8hPvM20G4PlvFlQKy1BzdFIBlPzuH_wvQPcgryg05KyaeRPqtSzqysynzQwYaNh5KUXBYR2q1lIvLb3Nwl2fbSo6VWjW5hROHwUFSmDiUscyi3JxzfuXX0uqSz0t3jYnaQ/s320/delete.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-5191596849631281622020-05-24T09:00:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:31:04.001-05:00Civilized Cheapskateness, 1st in a series.If you are a semi-sentient reader, you will know that at the very top of the automotive desirability pyramid reside giga-dollar collectible, classic cars. With a few notable exceptions -- another post for another day, perhaps -- at that rareified air reside vintage Ferraris.<br /><br /><div>
You could drop, without much effort, not just millions on one, but <em>tens </em>of millions. Even today, that's real money. No getting out the door with one of these for under $200K.<br />
<br />
But what if you're not "there" yet? What if your sense of style is coincident with the æsthetic properties of a Ferrari <em>d'epoca </em>like a latter day Steve McQueen, but your budget is, um, not?<br />
<br />
Don't stress. I got this.<br />
<br />
Kindly note one of those covet-worthy classic Ferraris. In this case the 330GTS, a quintessential open-air race-bred sports machine. Italian engineering and design and craftspersonship and (it must be said) quirks and idiosyncrasies. It is beautiful, it is glorious to drive, it is rare, it is elegant and it will appreciate in value.</div><div> <br />It also weighs in at between $275K-$375K.<br />
<br />
If you have that kind of disposable coin, God bless you. For the rest of humanity, read on.<br />
<br />
Then there is the Alfa Romeo Duetto* Spider.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIf8UZ_lsfB59OWIk1MTc6ItQRL1VWhToVAVcN6CYA2u0D4_L5hnMcV36FKKYgnc3EhXa-psCGJ2VG4wVvy_GZP-Pwpt6WB6jOBuxTTzSSzFM3xr_buLjW7Utv5N4uwVpggRN/s1600/deletealfa04.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIf8UZ_lsfB59OWIk1MTc6ItQRL1VWhToVAVcN6CYA2u0D4_L5hnMcV36FKKYgnc3EhXa-psCGJ2VG4wVvy_GZP-Pwpt6WB6jOBuxTTzSSzFM3xr_buLjW7Utv5N4uwVpggRN/s320/deletealfa04.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In this case the Duetto, you have a quintessential open-air race-bred sports machine. Italian design and craftspersonship and (it must be said) quirks and idiosyncrasies. It is beautiful, it is glorious to drive, it is rare, it is elegant and it will appreciate in value. <br />
<br />
It also weighs in at MA-A-AYBE $50K for a stunning example.<br />
<br />
That's a lot easier coin to swing.<br />
<br />
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<br />
They look kinda...similar, don't they?<br />
<br />
That is because Italian sports cars' designs are usually farmed off to coachbuilders such as ItalDesign-Giugiaro, Pininfarina, Zagato and Bertone. In this case, the common thread is the hand of Battista Pininfarina who designed both of these (the Duetto would be the last car he designed prior to his demise) at approximately the same time.<br />
<br />
The two main factors accounting for the price differential are rarity and mechanical complexity.<br />
<br />
1- The Ferrari made fewer than 1,000 of these 330s, whereas Alfa made 10,000 of these Spiders.<br />
2- The Ferrari had a 12 cylinder engine, and the Alfa only a 4 cylinder engine.<br />
<br />
Other influences included all the deluxe-ness the Ferrari had as standard (leather seats, etc.) which the Alfa had as option. (In 1967, when both of these were new, the 330 GTS cost $16K, and the Alfa $4K.) Performance-wise, the Ferrari did 0-60 in +/-7 seconds, and the Alfa in +/- 9 seconds.<br />
<br />
What the Alfa brings is something that Alfa has ALWAYS brought, and that is an ability to punch above its weight. Being lighter and having a more, um, precisely tuned suspension it could definitely keep up with the Ferrari on a winding road or twisty track. These days, you are likely to make essentially the same visual impact upon the casual observer with the Alfa as you would with the Ferrari.<br />
<br />
And about the performance?<br />
<br />
You can do all kinds of fun stuff to the Alfa. The basic design remained in production until 1994, which means you can retrofit (and remove) pretty easily more modern engines. The "twin-spark" engines (2.0L or 1.8L Turbo) will simply drop in with only a slight modification to the hood. If you go crazy and get one of the Turbo motors, you are looking at +/-240 horsepower in a car that barely weighs a ton.<br />
<br />
Summer's almost here. Go get one.<br />
<br />
-J.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* They dropped the "Duetto" part of the name after 1967, but enthusiasts use it to refer to all the "long-tail" models made until 1969.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-7328069518797259612020-03-16T17:31:00.010-04:002022-01-16T17:38:27.513-05:00Timing is everything.If you cast your mind back, you'll recall I was commissioned by the formidable <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm2007766/" target="_blank">Paul Brett</a> to write a feature film.<div><br /></div><div>Because I am wired wrong, I jumped into it headfirst and, working hand-in-hand with the director (who unearthed the story) had a draft that impressed the EP, the producer, the director and (most importantly) me...7 months ahead of schedule. SEVEN.</div><div><br /></div><div>The only catch is that I delivered it last week. As in...JUST before the entire planet <b>SHUT THE %$#& DOWN</b>. Allegedly pre-production would start in a couple of months, but it gets complicated since the part of India where this would shoot has one month out of the year where it is not a) eleventy zillion degrees, b) raining sideways bullets, or c) both.</div><div><br /></div><div>Grr.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-50603053796391126442019-12-23T15:34:00.001-05:002022-01-16T18:49:36.315-05:00How the Grinch is making a valiant effort to steal the Christmas trip.One of the things we, as a family, <s>argue like civet cats about</s> discuss, is travel destinations. Given the way my work schedule, uh, works means I don't have the luxury of stringing enough days together for a proper vacation...nor am I all that flexible about when I <em>can </em>string what days I can.
This is all compounded when family announces they are going to visit ____ and would we like to come along. The problem with this is that we're not really what you'd call "joiners." Even those among the household who join on impulse regret it three picoseconds after being dragged into some bucolic endeavor.
A particular nuisance are the trips which happen around Christmas. <div><br /></div><div>Something gets into the brothers-in-law (severally, too, which is worse) and they announce plans to head up to Gatlinburg, or Stowe or some other benighted spot which features certain elements I abhor:
1- Altitude </div><div>2- Forests </div><div>3- Snow </div><div>4- Outdoorsness </div><div><br /></div><div> We have established pretty clearly I am not one for outdoor pursuits, I hate being cold, I hate parkas and anoraks and thermal undergarments and scarves and ski caps, I hate fleece, I hate Polartec and Goretex, I hate snow, I hate conifers and I especially hate being in the the middle of nowhere... particularly when all of the foregoing is happening simultaneously. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I prefer doing -- color me reactionary -- is visiting friends I rarely get to see. Granted, sometimes this entails schlepping to some major city up north. To compensate for having wintry fun inflicted upon me, we usually leave the kids (theirs and ours) with an aged relative and go off gallivanting on New Year's Eve to someplace where black tie is required.
Now, I realize we live in a pluralist society and having to array oneself in black tie (or its distaff equivalent) might be someone's idea of an unacceptable <s>terrorist</s> insurgent interrogation technique. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I love it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which is the polar opposite of the feelings I harbor for snowbound activities.
Anyway, this year it seems we're Washington, DC-bound. You might recall that due to manifest imbecility on the part of American Airlines our summer trip thereto was nipped in the bud. So we're making up for lost time...the advantage of which is that -- oops, so sorry -- we shan't be able to drive eleventy zillion hours to freeze. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, while we may be cold at least there will be musea and activities and restaurants. </div><div><br /></div><div> -J.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-79346265464068985012019-12-13T17:41:00.016-05:002022-01-16T17:47:34.031-05:00L.A., Confidentially<p>Just back from my monthly schlep to L.A.</p><p>Had a very good meeting with Greg The Manager, feel very fortunate to have him repping me, as the various projects I took to Content London begin to take shape.</p><p>I even got to pitch one (with <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1471730/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0" target="_blank">Ethan</a>) over at Hulu, where we got to go straight to Tippity Top Executive and Also The Second Most Tippity Top Executive. The 30ish minute meeting dragged well into the 90 minute mark, with them asking serious, and seriously intelligent questions.</p><p>Fingers crossed.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-6706840998118076342019-10-01T21:07:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:41:04.359-05:00A (practical) history lessonIt's 1521. You're a chieftain of some lovely Pacific island. You have the most women, the biggest hut, your pick of outrigger canoes. Life is good. Then some big ships show up. "Great. MORE Europeans." The Europeans make friends with your rival chieftain from the other side of the island. You snub everyone. The Europeans take the snub as a snub and choose to attack you. But they misjudge the tide and leap into water waist deep in full armor, and too far to use their weapons.
<div></div><div></div><div>You slaughter them all, especially the leader.</div><div></div><div></div><div>
That leader was Magellan. Immortalized by the Magellan Straits and also that GPS* thingy, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magellan">among other things</a>.</div><div></div><div>
You?</div><div></div><div>
You're chief Lapu-Lapu and you're immortalized by a tiki drink served in a cored-out pineapple, most famously at Walt Disney World's Polynesian Resort's Tambu Lounge. This past Labor Day** we went to this very spot. My wife had the selfsame beverage. Verily she loved it and has developed a fondness therefor and I was commissioned to replicate it.</div><div>
</div><div>Like so.</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387790703798208306" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikXqkb8k_dGpeWRkoICmp7XBpPeWExHaU2xV9VpnSPIPVCgKnBymopqQAHY696M4r3SpBC_P35bGIWKQ0oJIfJ1CdYV7-u4tYTEroykXT4qVsCWksejnFyXYWur-tgaVW25L8u6w/s320/set0019+123.JPG" border="0" /> You start off with a pineapple. Note the corer. US$3 on eBay. Before I get more carried away with this, let me say I cannot say enough good things about this cheap-o corer. Yes, you can get fancier ones, made of stainless steel with sharper blades and finer teeth. These will give you less jagged pineapple rings, if that means that much to you. I, personally, couldn't care less about the aesthetic qualities of the rings...so the extra 600% premium isn't worth it.
</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387790712270969106" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzbqUdqtoZCP-Ur14mIgAIsUs9h27iwnXR_PKElHdelHKDx1O6m0lG6ye9rAxaNgL9T1Vy8GaMc1pROwmz-eLPUMI3_kxdEnd0xO7R5v_wIqmwhUT3Of4Jdk3bLjLmixO0a27cg/s320/set0019+124.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>You lop the top off, much like Lapu-Lapu's warriors seemed to have preferred. (Hence the name?)</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387790723164005682" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYrPBxn-ys0w_aaAs58dKdAOVwctsq6uNAn2Yf9pdae22Ovdcfy3xjoyCZg4sq2HtCUjCte83uP9Zl8QERbtmIHL5YDGXHmFzBFQFCqqMZXhjEf8dptVW0KKtfWXnQ5u_KWBUcBg/s320/set0019+128.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>All you have to do to core out the pineapple is center the corer right on the, er, core of the pineapple and drive the corer in, twisting with slight downward pressure. When you get down as far as you want, you pull up as with a manual corkscrew.</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387790730574405298" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwX5CAfTw_ISYkVxmpoXgJsRN4MZN96NuBwPKTkeD3KqmvNZZkmkLto4f0GWxgFbfz4NxgzDTyyXYeEascclZawNO5fd7u69Xiv0LZ4mUWmAkmHat6UsoAn__6nchA47tB9DyiA/s320/set0019+131.JPG" border="0" /></div><div><em>E</em><em>t <a class="l" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','','0CAkQFjAA')" href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/voila">voilà</a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387790739540678338" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKvSws7BrfnzaPFYbtYfLvkawv4YspysMG0_uSmj3aSsTT_TMJ-vXewdnFLFAy6qwlHiZOpj76u53L15Bz-qJ8vVt6jwwtJxr1uUUNNd9jLQNM1fk1v5I7qrhwZNmIfNDsilQ2w/s320/set0019+132.JPG" border="0" /></em></div><div><strong><u>TIP</u></strong>: Place the pineapple being cored inside bowl of some kind, as there WILL be juice spouting forth generously and you want to capture said juice. This will also keep your wife from exhibiting displeasure.</div><div></div><div></div><div>
1 tsp Simple "2:1" syrup </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387793379668960946" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNJZzLbujF7qkfxDOth95Jr2Fhb2KPpRB45hNKqiRHXFKhMgC2XOInGUdMzrHG2IK0rS7KvN4yw-VoY11TwpuxBaorLTqAL5dGmF3Dram8fOMM0UXJffGXPZTr44LvAwg7JEiPQ/s320/set0019+136.JPG" border="0" /> <div>1 tsp Passion fruit syrup (50-50 passion fruit pulp and 2:1 sugar syrup)<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387793357941544802" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvbSjm0h3RkJ5vXgC75kzSnr7E-HzDsAJw2u-Wz8T4f8CxoLShxzVCujIeGn-Vv4mqDfnM0COa51TzM-vlOtaDlTgXVo1kTJ3xN8zHw6dsr5hqN1JFTGw_S9PFV2mZfRpux5Brw/s320/set0019+133.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>1 tsp Orgeat </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387793363094850658" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28v587rY75jSMK3EOVVMDhGpbhNiDVh-y-ak4cCOet5DnogW2XBmiEBYFNPzwEufM7CNvKaRyHQoCUNZC0hFsi2-9KIhCXiHxExoJAjToIUEIx4su8hTnUevn1k8y_0hs1dh4XA/s320/set0019+134.JPG" border="0" />2 oz Orange juice (absent any fresh-squeezed, I suggest Florida Natural)<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387794097335506930" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_01CC5db9Uh8QjcXM_BURbl6mlWy3TPh3JE7mvhk0psGR1HEEFrSUYBT36Wgp4vrfijLMuuiFK5RU-5vuDISZ-0NOsjs4nw1lhj6e5SuN0f2-BF-p572G0DyRfbnHiD4_zEG8nw/s320/set0019+139.JPG" border="0" /> <div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387794101260110082" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2sJj5MqXLCvWxhGHBn0UwjVJ9pg1GLVAyrLEM7L2-b9bo_8ZXr4CIpeKKIWQVBa207kF8-sS1UgSd2MCC9mhHMx49DEKwevSqNI9nKDRE-bW0wKfbzv4f0b4_-1ALXJOjwm8sw/s320/set0019+140.JPG" border="0" />2 oz Pineapple juice (absent any fresh-squeezed -- you'll recall above I said you wanted the fresh juice -- I suggest Dole)</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387794111320835186" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi21YO6_efVu5hxOXTGZ4Odyl_ZLoXFcb4gxgf2AesvXrHYbteEwjZYbGL-y775u39UK_ps299-Q0ucXtXOqeauCdmmHp_HIpnBt_lxCQlu6pqUlyqjCYKSRDEEVvyulnrNgVL9ew/s320/set0019+141.JPG" border="0" /> <div>2 oz Dark rum (Bacardi 8 in this case)
<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387793389685158050" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 302px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHCCmDuBES5kz7igIPxIjt-m-7wEQM2bzwVvRarIqk398rHGiSvND6t5JwF4AiW3mMGf4GMhx3amVbSZT81ZrZMqvN_jAjmDzIq9l64JCNvF6aq6GAmQ-Ruhy526iBO29p3CVA9Q/s320/set0019+137.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>2 oz White Rum (I like Cruzan Aged Light, but I was trying to finish up the Bacardi Silver)</div><div></div><div>[Picture would have gone here, but Joey was getting hollered at by my beloved.]
</div><div></div><div>Put this all in a shaker with about 6oz of cracked ice. Then you shake...</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387794127087397746" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 229px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWKjDQrQ0ZoTY180zVCAnZw_LJ01uU9oDVapmi3si6b9F9VqC4qoHpPUHTtB6RPZWoE5OrbzmJahzrlODK6oS6kai7lXQ4etlPtQOFYHjKtFf7mbaJDczVMTK0Lbu_QUMeH88AA/s320/set0019+143.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>...and shake. <em>Until the tin of the shaker frosts over</em>.</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387794118226200066" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 203px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOKfyDiobmlix7IhvXrEhEUbO-E-jL4oR1SYTv6-nZUa_cgZbf2qB_soacdSr2atZhKrOO3W0KPDkutZuzYbLWvbwQs3fJtSXajBDodv4iQfenJdqT-PB4DXsHUYTzev6lWXYyA/s320/set0019+142.JPG" border="0" /><strong><u><em>TIP:</em></u></strong> With any drink calling for syrups, juices, etc. and you're only using ONE measuring vessel (i.e. a jigger or shot glass) do so in this order: syrups THEN juices THEN any flavored liquors or liqueurs THEN the spirits.</div></div><div></div><div>
And here you are.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQnXzCQULQX4hXVNb7NQoHklrtlOQrF84gW9-jHiW6aorvSAMCdGUrtej4iiPKa__mRYMXM5EwQovzkJYmnAnDWp0BjS6r6R60aUhaWgz8zCdyPJz-c-grjBzR2dvVevynf18Xw/s1600-h/set0019+152.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387794519236617698" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQnXzCQULQX4hXVNb7NQoHklrtlOQrF84gW9-jHiW6aorvSAMCdGUrtej4iiPKa__mRYMXM5EwQovzkJYmnAnDWp0BjS6r6R60aUhaWgz8zCdyPJz-c-grjBzR2dvVevynf18Xw/s320/set0019+152.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">(all photos -- both the excellent and unsuitable ones -- courtesy of Joey)</span>
</em></span><div><div><div><div><div><div>
<div></div><div>-J.</div>
<div></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">*SatNav to the rest of the Anglosphere.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">** First Monday in September to the rest of the Anglosphere.</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-65769768510861780532019-06-19T17:03:00.000-04:002022-01-16T17:40:10.030-05:00Karen v Joe, Pt 2<span style="font-size: small;">Assiduous readers may recall </span><a href="http://somehavehats.typepad.com/some_wear_clerics/2009/03/so-you-know.html" target="_blank" title="compare & contrast"><span style="font-size: small;">an entry here</span></a><span style="font-size: small;">, about a year and a half ago, wherein we illustrated some of the simpler ways to distinguish between the lovely and gracious Karen and me (i.e. Joe).</span><br />
<div class="entry-content">
<div class="entry-body">
Here are a few others.<br />
<br />
Karen:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a7254b970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Ipad_touch_mock_up" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a7254b970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a7254b970c-320wi" /></a> <br />
Joe:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5614970b-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Sizeguide_dir_lrg" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5614970b " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5614970b-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Karen:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5777970b-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="1143122808_d01dfd0e9e" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5777970b " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5777970b-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f53fa970b-pi" style="display: inline;"></a> <br />
Joe:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a728a4970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="1959-alfa-romeo-veloce-spider" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a728a4970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a728a4970c-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Karen:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f59e4970b-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Blizzard" border="0" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f59e4970b " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f59e4970b-800wi" title="Blizzard" /></a> <br />
<br />
Joe:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5a93970b-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Heatwave" border="0" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5a93970b image-full " height="254" src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f5a93970b-800wi" style="height: 177px; width: 72.6%;" title="Heatwave" /></a> <br />
<br />
Karen:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f664f970b-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Levis_jeans" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f664f970b " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef0133f17f664f970b-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Joe:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73936970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Untitled" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73936970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73936970c-500wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Karen:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a737f4970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="No_country_for_old_men_movie_poster_onesheet" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a737f4970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a737f4970c-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Joe:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73af7970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Pulp-fiction-poster-orig1" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73af7970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73af7970c-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Karen:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73c62970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Starbucks-cup-Michelle1" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73c62970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73c62970c-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
Joe:<br />
<a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73d1e970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="457691236_c911f5a4fa" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73d1e970c " src="http://web.archive.org/web/20120130135707im_/http://somehavehats.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c064d53ef013484a73d1e970c-320wi" /></a> <br />
<br />
There. Now you know. (Some more.)</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-45738324201465062192012-12-23T08:05:00.000-05:002022-01-16T16:28:47.729-05:00Mountainous MeThis is the story of how it came to pass that I will be traveling, Deo volente, to the High Country.<br />
<br />
My views on The Great Outdoors are a very poorly kept secret. But Woman wanted to get away and Woman loves the Mountains and the Prairies (whereas I reserve my love primarily for the Oceans, White with Foam) and a friend offered their cabin in the Blowing Rock area. She said yes, immediately, and then told me that I was to say yes. <br />
<br />
Then she started circulating the news of this cabin's availability to our family circle, suggesting A Family Vacation would be a delight, and how we didn't see these people but once a year (somewhat inconveniently forgetting there just might be a really good reason therefor) and wouldn't it be lovely? A cynical person would think this was a classic, textbook definition of a passive-aggressive gambit. <br />
<br />
Not I, obviously, but a cynical person.<br />
<br />
But!<br />
<br />
She didn't know I had an ace up my sleeve. The lovely and gracious Karen Hall lives, like, RIGHT THERE. And for whatever my views on winter wonderlands in the provinces, Karen is on the very short list of people who'd get a kidney from me. I also had - for reasons well afield of this post - to send Karen a cubic acre of books (the presence of which have been rather a point of friction within the Home) and for what it'd cost to UPS them there, I might as well spend it on fuel and hand-deliver them. I also have a bottle of weird Scotch for which Karen had a special need (which did not involve her drinking it) and a bottle of bourbon (which did).<br />
<br />
Besides, Karen is delightful company and we have much to go over which'd spare me having to be in ceaseless, close proximity to some members of my gene pool who, by the 12th hour, begin to test my family history of hypertension. Color me reactionary, but I am of the antiquated school of thought which holds that what little leisure time I have left is really not to be spent acquiring a facial tic.<br />
<br />
Karen, having insider knowledge, would be someone ideally suited to point out activities that would engage and delight our roving mob of Iberics (by now numbering <strong><u>ten</u></strong>, with a stray Celts or two) in a manner that'd prove cheap, time consuming and fun.<br />
<br />
Because - and sorry I didn't point this out sooner - but here are the instructions we got in an email re. the cabin: <br />
<br />
"<tt><span>I think there is a DVD player in the tv but no cable. Bring cards, games,digi </span></tt><tt><span>players etc. Internet wifi is available around 10 minutes away at Fred's general </span></tt><tt><span><span class="il">store</span>. We have books just poke around. </span></tt><tt><span>Cell phone service is hit and miss from the chalet. Starting at Fred's and </span></tt><tt><span>almost everywhere else there is service." </span></tt><br />
<tt><span></span></tt><br />
<tt><span></span></tt>This, as the more astute among you might've surmised, isn't exactly, y'know, <em>selling</em> it to me.<br />
<br />
After some deliberation I willingly volunteered (in my family that is not an oxymoron) to do all the cooking. Everyone puts in $X per head, and I cook. That keeps me in the kitchen a good chunk of the time, instead of wandering around like a visually impaired zombie, looking for cellphone reception. One of those evenings will be Fabada Night to which the lovely and gracious Karen will be the guest of honor.<br /><br />Besides, she may be inspired to put digit to keyboard after meeting this zoo, given her penchant for dark comedy.<br />
<br />
That's the story thus far.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-38599240494684412512012-04-30T10:09:00.000-04:002022-01-16T16:29:34.477-05:00Dad, 1934-2012<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On April
25th, at +/-6am, after fighting Alzheimer's AND Parkinson's...my dad
died.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From a
stroke. (A rather in-character thing.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">It has been, among many
other things, surreal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Given
the fact he suffered from both Alzheimer's and Parkinson's his death was
something frontmost in our minds, but we expected more of that long, slow
decline. (Dementia-wise, we was 80% gone, so we still had some time to go in
that department.)</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Earlier in my
life, my dad and I didn't have an eye-to-eye relationship. Not something worthy
of a book or film, but we had not-infrequent moments of friction. We had
different personalities, and not always compatible ones. He had reached some
rather lofty pinnacles on the strength of a forceful personality and it drove
him crazy I didn't respond to that personality the way he expected me to. My
sister was the one of us he "got" the best. He simply didn't know what to make
of me half the time. I think it frustrated him he didn't know how to "reach"
me.<br /><br />As he was diagnosed and progressed downward, those moments became
fewer and fewer, and I am infinitely grateful for that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">When you have someone in your family with a
terminal anything, the sword of Damocles in your life is That Telephone
Call.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">My mom called my wife at
6:18am. My wife immediately erupted into wracking sobs. Freudians say men marry
their mothers, and I, having got that backwards, married my father. My wife and
my dad adored each other. I used to joke that marrying my wife was the only
thing I had ever done of which my dad approved unreservedly. Believe it or else,
of all the people whose reaction was especially difficult, my wife's was by far
the worst. In fact, my mom was pretty much holding it together until my wife
showed up and turned up the waterworks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I also used to say, after having gotten married,
that my wife had four parents and I had four in-laws. It is no exaggeration to
say my dad loved my wife deeply. Which, in case you're keeping score at home, is
the better of the various options.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Anyway, upon hearing the news, I logged in and
informed all the various people (there were tons, but 3-4 emails sufficed) of
the sad news, got dressed and went to my parents' house. When I got there, there
were eleventy police cars and two of the big ambulances. Paramedics and police
were scurrying around, filling paperwork busily.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(My father would have noted acidly that these days
you can't even die without filling out government forms.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">His body was still in the hospital-style bed where
he slept the last two years of his life. The doctor told us that by the
symptoms, it seemed very likely he had suffered a massive,
fatal, stroke.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Little by
little, police and paramedics filtered out, and the funeral people were called.
My mom sat by his bed, staring absently nowhere, caressing his
forearm.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Not being Wired That
Way, I had never seen the body of someone who has just died. Don't recommend it
much, truth be told. The blood that is pumped around the body stops circulating
and begins to collect downward, draining the face, etc. of color. A green pallor
results. I suggest you avoid.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We then had to begin to make Those Final
Arrangements. We deferred to my mother for decisions. After all, this was the man
with whom she shared 55 years, triumphs and defeats and joys and worries and
hopes. Her husband, her call.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Closed casket or open? I said closed, so it stayed
open. Which church, St. X or St. Y? How's the Mass going to go? Etc. (Memo:
Leave, in writing, EXACTLY, down to the last nano-detail, how you want yours to
go. I can very easily see disagreements during bereavement turning hideous. More
on my preferences later on.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">On the closed
casket thing, although people were too polite to say so, I was right. When they
"prepare" your body, it simply does <strong><u>not</u></strong> look like you. It just doesn't. People look down
and, instead of remembering you, they think to themselves "What the HELL did
they do to his nose?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">In my
case, this, bizarrely, turned to be a blessing, because that didn't look like my
dad. That looked like a wax statue of my dad as done under the guidance of a
relatively competent police sketch artist. I don't know if I could have held it
together had it looked like my dad; as it was I managed to do pretty good at the
composure thing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Not flawless,
though.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Around noon, the
funeral people hauled off my dad's body, my mom and wife went to the cemetery to
prepare the burial site, my sister went somewhere to micromanage something to
the Nth degree, my brother-in-law went to help arrange travel for distant relatives and
friends and I was left alone to go home. So I stopped in noon Mass. Praying
for the repose of my dad's soul struck me as a noble and capital notion and
precisely what he would have wanted and one of the very few things I could do
that was the way he would have wanted it, rather than something someone
thought of as "nice."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(For
these purposes, I shut down. I realize my way of coping is via humor -- and VERY
dark humor at that -- and that normal people would not see things in that light
so...best to just shut down and let everyone do what they're going to do anyway.
Like the Penguins of Madagascar said: "smile and wave, boys, smile and
wave.")</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After Mass I returned
home and showered and, as I was drying my face, I spontaneously burst into sobs. For maybe 10,
15 seconds. I was struck by both the brevity and intensity, and that -- other
than the odd, brief, choking up -- was that. I miss my dad, and I realize the
admittedly long-shot miracle for which we had been praying for was never going
to materialize. I know he was a PITA very often, but I miss my dad. I
know he was "almost all gone" for the last two years, but I miss my dad. For all
his cantankerousness, obstinacy, intransigence...he was wise and kind and
pathologically honest and unfailingly decent. And I miss him.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Not really sure what happened to Saturday.<br /><br />I
swear I could see it knocking on my door but next thing I know, it's
<em>Sunday</em>. Damned if I can see where it went. May have something to do with
loitering in PJs all day, trying to soothe some ravaged spots in my heart.
Trying, desperately, not to have the recurring thoughts of "Wow. Dad's
<em>gone</em>." Or imagining that I'd visit my parents' house and his hospital
bed is not there; that his nurses, who developed a fierce affection for him,
aren't there chatting with him; that he won't hear Joey's voice and,
in a clear baritone, call him over -- Joey was the last person my
father <strong><u><em>always</em></u></strong> recognized -- to ask how school was going.<br /><br />Whatever
happened to Saturday evaporated in the raw, stinging, effort to not think along
these lines. Whenever the odd forbidden thought entered my mind's perimeter, I
would dispel it by counter-thinking how painful his penultimate days were. His
last few months were slashed by hallucinations he was falling, and him tearfully
calling for his "mommy." His brain function was impaired to such an extent that
quite often swallowing was a hazardous event, since choking was not unlikely and
neither my mother nor whichever the nurse on duty at that moment were strong enough to lift him to
perform the Heimlich maneuver.<br /><br />His palate -- irony of ironies for a man
whose <em>violin d'angre </em>was as a wine taster and reviewer -- had also degraded to the point that
anything short of sucrose-sweet was perceived as venomously
bitter.<br /><br />Over the last few weeks whenever I stopped to visit him, he was
always looking down at the ground and then immediately looked up, his face inevitably cast
with a look of bewildered surprise. "Who is THIS now?" seemed to be the
intermittent thought his mind was transmitting to the best of its moribund
abilities. I always entertained him with brief conversations of "I saw [former
partner of his firm] and he sends greetings." or "I'm sending that paperwork to
the Division of Corporations." or "We're having a meeting with the investors to
see if we're all on the same page."<br /><br />That sort of thing.<br /><br />It's both
a trope and a truth that he's not suffering now, that "he's in a better place." Cold comfort today, but one
likely to warm up as the weeks and the shock and the grief sublimate into the
mundane, workaday realities to which we must all return.<br /><br />The Funeral Mass
was said by a lifelong -- I used to joke "they were fetuses together" -- Jesuit
priest friend of his. He held it together, even though I know it was tough for
him. Obviously, not everyone held it together. My niece and TFBIM were each a
rocket-hot mess. My BiL, who otherwise is as Spartan as they come,
surprisingly was practically Italian in his emotions. Joey,
looked as though someone had taken all of the stuffing out of him, his eyes
welling at selected moments, but he wanted to comfort my mother and, at the age
of 14, did his manful best to maintain an even strain. He spend the downtime of
these last few days pacing with a Rosary in his hand, praying for his
grandfather's eternal rest. Davy, in his own way, tried to be a
comfort, distributing tissues as if he was a commissioned agent in the Tissue
Sales Force.<br /><br />My sister had pretty much run out of tears, and my mother
ran out just prior to the Mass, prior to the casket being closed, when she
kissed his forehead and asked him to wait for her. She then slumped in her seat,
broke down for a good half minute, muttering "I can't do this, I can't do
this..." with the whole of her grandchildren embracing her quietly, not knowing
what to do or say or even if there was anything to be done or said. Then she
stood up, dabbed at her eyes, and said: "OK. I'm done crying."<br /><br />The Mass
was a blur to me. I only remember snippets and snatches and sections. Joey read
from the </span><a href="http://drbo.org/x/d?b=drb&bk=25&ch=3&l=1#x" target="_blank"><span style="color: #116d6c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Book of Wisdom (3:1-9)</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> as he had practiced it, not wanting to
let his grandfather down by eaither stumbling. I remember staring at the ceiling, breathing deeply,
as certain phrases ("...have fallen asleep in the hope of the Resurrection...",
etc.) made my eyes start brimming hotly. I focused on innocuous architectural
features. I counted curlicues, yellow flowers. Whatever.<br /><br />The homily spoke
about Catholic faith, and specifically my Dad's. I was stunned to hear from the
pulpit how approvingly my dad spoke of me, as this was news to me.
<br /><br /><em>That </em>was close.<br /><br />Afterwards, as my sister was issuing
instructions at length, and explaining the rationale for the instructions issued
at even greater length, I was conducting a brief census of who was there. In
these circumstances, we are always surprised by who shows up and who doesn't.
Those who surprised me by their presence I will regard with fathomless gratitude
and affection. A lot of these folks had no compelling reason to be there, and
they were not even remotely expected to, but came they did anyway. I am grateful
for, and to, them.<br /><br />At last we got to the cemetery. Towards the back, underneath a
spreading umbrella tree -- a tree which my dad always hated, FWIW -- my dad had
selected his plot. Ever practical, he got it all the way in the back that,
when others were being buried, nobody would step over his gravesite. The hearse
stopped, and all of us pallbearers took hold of "our" handles and hoisted,
placing the casket on the mechanized bier which would lower it to the earth. We
all assembled, as the priest sprinkled Holy Water and committed my father's body
back to the dust whence we all came, I thought I was not only going to lose it,
but lose it in such an Olympic, epic, Homeric, way that many generations from
now, children would recount the incident in song and adults speak of it in
hushed, reverential tones for all time.<br /><br />And then.<br /><br />My Guardian
Angel directed my gaze towards the cemetery director, a man in his late 50s
whose hair and eyebrows had been dyed a very ridiculous dark auburn, and badly
at that. (So badly dyed, in fact, that I could clearly see the skin beneath had been stained and tinted by the hair dye.) </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The tonsorial tragedy which had befallen this unfortunate, looking as
though someone had liberally laced his shampoo with both burgundy and black shoe polish, was
the balm my ragged system needed so very desperately. I stared fixedly at him,
as he was ideally situated so that staring at his impressive black-cherry
shellac coif gave casual observers the impression that my gaze was resolutely
upon the priest as he recited the final prayers. There were a few stifled
sniffles of genuine emotion, but I realized <em>I'm going to hold it together.
I'm really going to really hold it really together</em>.<br /><br />Sometimes, the
littlest things prove the greatest blessings.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-48132581970970427122011-03-10T09:25:00.001-05:002022-01-16T17:39:14.033-05:00Because you askedDear Internet,<br />
<br />
As a foodie, I'm faced with a certain dilemma. One the one hand I could stand to eat hunks of cow on a regular basis, yet my vanity isn't down with that and my sense of mortality seconds the motion. The solution is to "stretch" the beef component, so my tastebuds get to groove on all the beefy deliciousosity without needing to wrap myself outside a steak the size of a hubcap.<br />
<br />
So, here is one of my fave ways of doing just that. Beef Negamaki.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit270IWUiarEsDeh-cSPvyzSKrbXH5c0O8ytysRHWJmLKuq3YK4APB1vRQtv8Jgd5JVh2JzIZdThi7WCnf9n_0YdnL7LRILuIwMhyphenhyphenqACgv4WyYgROfzG0jB8oCSpoYE3BLw3P2Yg/s1600-h/Picture+001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383287816058402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit270IWUiarEsDeh-cSPvyzSKrbXH5c0O8ytysRHWJmLKuq3YK4APB1vRQtv8Jgd5JVh2JzIZdThi7WCnf9n_0YdnL7LRILuIwMhyphenhyphenqACgv4WyYgROfzG0jB8oCSpoYE3BLw3P2Yg/s320/Picture+001.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> Start with a fairly small portion of none-too-precious (any member of the "round" family) beef. Tenderness is not an issue, but deeply beefy flavor <em>is</em>.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiMZTEr2x3UpB7gR0Kb81kowEQPH2SfymwJDD7LTgrOgNB5gUBnRunrUlXV0TuxENHIGe6BzUWAWkSR3mAzwHWSj9eQEHhm-t_X_GENDyzl0HrPs7QqMXFLkLdTcUwaV0jWC96fw/s1600-h/Picture+002.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383296405993010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiMZTEr2x3UpB7gR0Kb81kowEQPH2SfymwJDD7LTgrOgNB5gUBnRunrUlXV0TuxENHIGe6BzUWAWkSR3mAzwHWSj9eQEHhm-t_X_GENDyzl0HrPs7QqMXFLkLdTcUwaV0jWC96fw/s320/Picture+002.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> Wrap the beef in plastic. (Cheapskate that I am, I use the same wrap whence it came.) Whack it with a meat mallet. You want it as thin and flattened as possible without tearing.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4x4xOnInSxS3VCxkaVpvlAJkGyN04yIthDpsTjjbdtCkTXyiins3uy1UMkTUN6kWPtGsvkDQ58s3IO8DECqi2Kqo8_N-9BZYjbfiAIeW1LAhWMzWirppTP38l4rHJwdHGl_wiw/s1600-h/Picture+003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383300700960322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4x4xOnInSxS3VCxkaVpvlAJkGyN04yIthDpsTjjbdtCkTXyiins3uy1UMkTUN6kWPtGsvkDQ58s3IO8DECqi2Kqo8_N-9BZYjbfiAIeW1LAhWMzWirppTP38l4rHJwdHGl_wiw/s320/Picture+003.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> Once flattened, put trimmed scallion/green onion/spring onion/these things segments along the length. Roll up tight. You should be able to wrap twice around, otherwise use a toothpick to secure. (figure 1/2 lb. beef for 6 scallions)<br />
<br />
Now, make a glaze/dipping sauce.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLS0RibRWbP0O3Fan5MO9h1uu8dQaX5W0Djxogiw4U2NXOE-94KXtPPVh-4ieSx_61uKUfFsxG56taQSxaO-9r6noZ014WmXZziUHbkVEKPW8LjgeCl4zD_MW8H2AkkBA0jBaxg/s1600-h/Picture+004.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383304995927634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLS0RibRWbP0O3Fan5MO9h1uu8dQaX5W0Djxogiw4U2NXOE-94KXtPPVh-4ieSx_61uKUfFsxG56taQSxaO-9r6noZ014WmXZziUHbkVEKPW8LjgeCl4zD_MW8H2AkkBA0jBaxg/s320/Picture+004.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> Let your taste be your guide. I like soy sauce, sesame seeds & peanut oil (w. a dash of sesame oil), TINY bit of fresh garlic and fresh ginger, TINY bit of red pepper flakes, lemon and [not pictured] a smallish spoonful of light brown sugar. Stir to dissolve sugar. Adjust to taste. (In my case the proportions of soy:lemon:oil are 3:1:1, but taste and adjust as you go.)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9VeXmTmUy06sSwNcXoGzD9stEOMxXoFtf0I4WHhKtGMliu-pxyjdm_JAVXfup3gzvQhhOGtSyb2oKoMrIkC8TN3UJfWASG8r40kVlH_9xL4yScLBVS7jn-_q1XFNSbJfTv3fLw/s1600-h/Picture+005.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383313585862242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9VeXmTmUy06sSwNcXoGzD9stEOMxXoFtf0I4WHhKtGMliu-pxyjdm_JAVXfup3gzvQhhOGtSyb2oKoMrIkC8TN3UJfWASG8r40kVlH_9xL4yScLBVS7jn-_q1XFNSbJfTv3fLw/s320/Picture+005.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>Coat the beef LIGHTLY with peanut oil -- or whatever you're not allergic to -- for two reasons, so the beef doesn't stick to the grates and so the seasonings don't draw out the juices of the beef. That done, salt and pepper the beef rolls and throw on the grill. (It was raining so we used the indoor grill.)<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383987895727730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBMKPUdh3e0tn2qw6E3glOZFhMCAMiLMmsPjMfJ1KyVRDN5SrgQXTpaaks-va1xZNKMjHl_vXuMUz0lMHPL7wtVl0Kxko8yZaEcB67f-gvp__kWa3V9nq4kcV12uYVp-704DIwQ/s320/Picture+006.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Flip over and brush the TOP SIDE with the glaze/soy thing. You want it to caramelize, not burn. Then you flip over again and glaze the other side. Repeat. You want a deeeeeeeeep brown crust.<br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049383996485662338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3uu5A7C8i4s9ltk8TBm3uVKQRVDcFDLfri5l_jxsP_i_-zkKDw9G5L0eXs2ewajhhMnN8Ff8wmHddOxyqCb5j1nl6QyE1CwC5mPnQUefpBvbsdfPyzj2QqrOVifnIsxDobvCxw/s320/Picture+007.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Give the remaining glaze a quick boil (microwave is fine) to thicken up and eliminate any microbial interlopers. (A TEENSY bit of cornstarch/water solution will help if you like your glazes the consistency of, say, BBQ sauce.) Plate with some spinach salad on the side and veggie potstickers. (More on that soon. I had some saved up in the freezer.)<br />
<div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049384000780629650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRWg5r_WeKTZPxJpU1-67LJyV9pi7VkCUyEt2D_KgpJ0C4r5TB-qJPWtj22lfLu0GW8Vy3B4UZsrv3fymZwgyQisOfm8svPAYXef2Kv4_NN5et28Urf96sDypFH0gj3akbtH1Ig/s320/Picture+008.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></div>The spinach is dressed with a miso-wasabi dressing, note the dipping sauce and the sake cups with the STELLAR Sam Adams Black Lager, because I'm geeky like that. You're supposed to slice the beef into bite-sized rolls, <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/images/recipes/recipe_results/thumb/photos/109190.jpg">like this</a>. <br />
<br />
But it was late. <br />
<br />
And we were hungry. <br />
<br />
And I forgot.<br />
<br />
-J.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-33969183243463243452011-03-09T18:04:00.001-05:002022-01-16T17:39:24.179-05:00Missed me?<span style="font-family: verdana;">Being all Papist and stuff, we observe a fast on Ash Wednesday. Iberic tradition holds the fast to keep until after sunset (or, as it's called in Spain, "lunchtime") and even then, no meat or poultry need apply. So, I made one of TFBIM's faves, Black (i.e. Squid Ink) Spaghetti and Shrimp with Puttanesca Sauce.<br />
<br />
First you need garlic (I used 4 big cloves, you non-Mediterraneans'll probably wanna halve that), sliced as finely as your patience your allow.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUxIO35FFzNLdjqBoFhv6vIzNOBxsPfg_1bePr0ngYhmoTmzl90_k4mADRKe0YcaerB2Ah4e6osRGgcMVRYRK0wrA7dubs1Vwvijo9ZGDJp0PiBJ3xmbe8Kay9d_QdCYkEKSXwg/s1600-h/Picture+001.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050792226067707842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUxIO35FFzNLdjqBoFhv6vIzNOBxsPfg_1bePr0ngYhmoTmzl90_k4mADRKe0YcaerB2Ah4e6osRGgcMVRYRK0wrA7dubs1Vwvijo9ZGDJp0PiBJ3xmbe8Kay9d_QdCYkEKSXwg/s320/Picture+001.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Several of you have emailed me asking what "as finely as your patience your allow" means. It means this:</span><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgEyJmNZntCA3-mLgv4jycu6JW7qfez8bQbXyBhpG8ub3eO6R8GPeglEoaIT8hWaIzEDJORnYr65W188_g3lHNJgajHgbwyzDkBB3wELgAgIy2raCSpJo6UAy1WG0-JH7W8z1v2Q/s1600-h/Picture+002.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050791959779735410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgEyJmNZntCA3-mLgv4jycu6JW7qfez8bQbXyBhpG8ub3eO6R8GPeglEoaIT8hWaIzEDJORnYr65W188_g3lHNJgajHgbwyzDkBB3wELgAgIy2raCSpJo6UAy1WG0-JH7W8z1v2Q/s320/Picture+002.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Take a small yellow onion, and chop it to the limits of your patience, also.<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050790821613401922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQYzp8TUVotmy-eJOKLAwevBhrwgSvmEqqh-YPirNTPuviQInSEogTHFPQQ0MO0x4goBgdODWPLfLEj0mzJAq4hz9PkJmIzAoqFxmhxDJ0-I5B1AAcaH_SQgS4q20kA-JLu20Yg/s320/Picture+009.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Assemble the rest of the ingredients.<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050791972664637346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSdVieyOKBJ5N0KzsIbZ3JWmtD4RyiJKjsvtMz2MX8wkB0HX9-z20uQlO1Sn0SQBAJCn05T_N3pbUADs6PpNi39FtcnVUhHFQUCXWtP0irqN0lczCaogAtPodsbU4-_e4E2kmTw/s320/Picture+005.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Anchovy paste (I like Amore, and in this case I prefer the paste over the whole fillets, because these dissolve far better in a sauce), capers, squid in spaghetti, red pepper flakes. [Not pictured: Shrimp, & dried herbs (oregano, thyme & marjoram)]<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050791968369670034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWCgiSjvc0UVnP-4xjGfrZd2eClWYkNBb1-tAoPOOahBSWs34A34SR4OC2zE4Calbw_s8GqTfdg2Wzq0Btc-B2uZ7yFBMJwMEeBRjNOClYArx0vhZ4gxtTZpn5_gMi7_epEZYvzw/s320/Picture+004.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /> Oh, and also olives (I prefer Gaeta) which I marinated in herbs and EVOO. You'll need both the olives and the marinating EVOO.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-Z7ku3ClcLF0IX3d9QTd235833z1fkaOj6TOi8-vrnyQuUo2L7RXtCkQ1uJoVcWLjdyYVeD-9McDijM8CFChqkZSnlk5GqmDfM1R1RoBN7Ek8__NDJPAoooVGmk-aTMoSXba-A/s1600-h/Picture+003.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050791964074702722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-Z7ku3ClcLF0IX3d9QTd235833z1fkaOj6TOi8-vrnyQuUo2L7RXtCkQ1uJoVcWLjdyYVeD-9McDijM8CFChqkZSnlk5GqmDfM1R1RoBN7Ek8__NDJPAoooVGmk-aTMoSXba-A/s320/Picture+003.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Oh, and tomatoes. This is my favorite brand. You can use crushed, chopped or strained, depending on your desired chunkiness. I like it medium chunky, hence the "chopped."</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfxJdUUSG4KRMw1f9mfE2X8EOqfdK5kfmTl6ZJ9teUZprojMaUb8-H-7oowXEgSriw20l65cJede6HAkmn-vqiyUS-4SHsmo-yXe2JinRmECiZLa4okPSnWG2ovZ-t7y0pxP81w/s1600-h/Picture+006.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050791976959604658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfxJdUUSG4KRMw1f9mfE2X8EOqfdK5kfmTl6ZJ9teUZprojMaUb8-H-7oowXEgSriw20l65cJede6HAkmn-vqiyUS-4SHsmo-yXe2JinRmECiZLa4okPSnWG2ovZ-t7y0pxP81w/s320/Picture+006.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">Put a couple of tablespoonfuls of the marinating EVOO in a skillet over medium heat.</span><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6NWDVbHPPH4DFkHvcky36dIIJ97Z_ocnXSHcCmdZWfQtLfRclbMyGIbb-v4_4fElVxkl1h_tT60jKaOUppYzmeWE5_WNAedt-wkB7dwC-28lWjLbMN2A9c_bNtTYDTWFmYb5DrQ/s1600-h/Picture+007.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050790804433532706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6NWDVbHPPH4DFkHvcky36dIIJ97Z_ocnXSHcCmdZWfQtLfRclbMyGIbb-v4_4fElVxkl1h_tT60jKaOUppYzmeWE5_WNAedt-wkB7dwC-28lWjLbMN2A9c_bNtTYDTWFmYb5DrQ/s320/Picture+007.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Once it starts shimmering add red pepper flakes to taste. I use 1/4 teaspoon, you might want to start with just a pinch and work on up therefrom. You want the flavor of the flakes to permeate the oil.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0KbCsh4sSIlfunOlNtVOIgnmFCfy6Ge3S0OP4GqlkihZow4MRPoiQPpFbk-NbFszutvX_j1YhISeSBGNmP6epltsDYvGfkmq6FgaKcGwRBuTj9LA53W3atx03vaw-V8bJvsXbQ/s1600-h/Picture+008.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050790817318434610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0KbCsh4sSIlfunOlNtVOIgnmFCfy6Ge3S0OP4GqlkihZow4MRPoiQPpFbk-NbFszutvX_j1YhISeSBGNmP6epltsDYvGfkmq6FgaKcGwRBuTj9LA53W3atx03vaw-V8bJvsXbQ/s320/Picture+008.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Throw in the garlic slices, again you want the flavor to be shot through the oil also. However, you don't want it to brown, so after 10-15 seconds...</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-eaq09-LYPG-AuTNvCHekWhuRkQ6eXY2sYyjSlY4VXSUylmzO7H9tzCy9sZT2AgojlGT4zA7-lY2Uv7KNa1DZGATbB6hJUJPXtS30A2zQqca-UkJAYO0g-uSlrpGZOyeYZOTTg/s1600-h/Picture+010.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050790825908369234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-eaq09-LYPG-AuTNvCHekWhuRkQ6eXY2sYyjSlY4VXSUylmzO7H9tzCy9sZT2AgojlGT4zA7-lY2Uv7KNa1DZGATbB6hJUJPXtS30A2zQqca-UkJAYO0g-uSlrpGZOyeYZOTTg/s320/Picture+010.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> You toss in the onions, stir a bit and then add the anchovy paste (about two inches, and NO it's not a worm...sheesh). Cook over medium-low heat until the onions become translucent.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9iDCRiQajYRqu_-T_YM2wT8IUzUdiqKfP2m3Wjt7uwvcl-aKzzESmKkAVNi2qXLW1hzcZ5CuiZ0C6atGz05ZNF9uNqmuzZeFmqvYH8yvB243g-S4XQMzNrQdm1bNkKFBt0hlfA/s1600-h/Picture+011.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050790830203336546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9iDCRiQajYRqu_-T_YM2wT8IUzUdiqKfP2m3Wjt7uwvcl-aKzzESmKkAVNi2qXLW1hzcZ5CuiZ0C6atGz05ZNF9uNqmuzZeFmqvYH8yvB243g-S4XQMzNrQdm1bNkKFBt0hlfA/s320/Picture+011.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Add the tomatoes. Stir. Taste. <img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050789679152101138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy26Rh6vGQk5GCKNrw_Gh6Mg8Qg0ogGw8MTRbKBxRcIsjA9vKUmUjpA1rA1CpAF-IgJWhbw-m2xhtsgHuGTSCx6qPsZGzo_DOOON-G0Zhcbs70of_EIiXZcax8qpWrekrzUHUl7Q/s320/Picture+012.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Cook until the brightness is muted a little. Adjust salt and pepper. Keep the salt on light side, because the capers (about which, more anon) will also add saltiness. Put a large pot full of water to boil. Once boiling add a good tablespoon of salt and then toss in the pasta. When it's <em>al dente </em>(7-8 minutes, but start tasting at about 5 minutes, because there are a lot of variables at play here) drain the pasta (leaving behind a couple of ounces of the water). And return to the pot, set heat to low, add shrimp. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><div><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><em>You may be tempted to get humongous shrimps (or prawns). Don't. Get someting in the "31-40" size, or slightly smaller. You want, ideally, for the shrimp to be half a mouthful, that you may twirl pasta and spear shrimp for the best taste...and still have it fit in your mouth. The ones here are 31-40s, and those were a touch large. 41-50s would be better. However, the smaller the shrimp, the easier it is to overcook. So watch it!</em></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIfeljrIdtKfYFV9JdyxQXJqSqXNt_xJENsamh6jW85VhAbgiImZiWwA0Susxe-Gd6iQX-_DpaBjf6FZB599VaNTfmKr70KdcZA-9Gktj5LCPw-OEcVoBntpfUniHj0K-R3RsIQ/s1600/Picture+014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050789666267199218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIfeljrIdtKfYFV9JdyxQXJqSqXNt_xJENsamh6jW85VhAbgiImZiWwA0Susxe-Gd6iQX-_DpaBjf6FZB599VaNTfmKr70KdcZA-9Gktj5LCPw-OEcVoBntpfUniHj0K-R3RsIQ/s320/Picture+014.jpg" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Stir. When the shrimp <strong><u><em>start</em></u></strong> changing color, add the sauce, stir and take the pot off-heat. The residual heat will continue to cook the shrimp. You should end up with something like this:</span><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYsTVmaMSP5lb09g3TvLTiN9XmLijzmsmd59Of3yEYiXPTmvX2aqb5zkJUHIahvamwWI7j2ptcGEW2C3ZiIVdOEFlK4yLc7oDrBQwc6rNTUTw4T2s3I29p_o3AVE_K5UWwy7HRw/s1600-h/Picture+016.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050789653382297298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYsTVmaMSP5lb09g3TvLTiN9XmLijzmsmd59Of3yEYiXPTmvX2aqb5zkJUHIahvamwWI7j2ptcGEW2C3ZiIVdOEFlK4yLc7oDrBQwc6rNTUTw4T2s3I29p_o3AVE_K5UWwy7HRw/s320/Picture+016.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> And the capers.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzfG-ifDV-8Etp5l3E9tMhnzQeXavw11wMTFlxqhy2sKm61q62tXp7GZyHyrGiTcBOKVtIQqdw9LkG4BF6u1r4irZoM25qVX31oNNEzDQQ6aeOqG2hG-sgJgNeNtS_4q7ejelDg/s1600-h/Picture+015.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050789657677264610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzfG-ifDV-8Etp5l3E9tMhnzQeXavw11wMTFlxqhy2sKm61q62tXp7GZyHyrGiTcBOKVtIQqdw9LkG4BF6u1r4irZoM25qVX31oNNEzDQQ6aeOqG2hG-sgJgNeNtS_4q7ejelDg/s320/Picture+015.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">If you are allowing yourself some of the fruit of the vine and the work of human hands, open the wine. You want something not too heavily oaked, with decent fruit and acid. This "lightweight" Chardonnay is ideal, with juicy pineapple-ish notes that play off the mild spiciness and good acid to counteract the saltiness.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXk-mKXsZRZbY7sNddcwB5gaFyAfRrZ8TtYisJSnW0R8r6n30qD4umfah6AJICMHAAbQrC_3qIijt0MbmZeSyDFqQahVX0cYiK0xWSJDlX4S7sG_vKACHBEqeUQkx-NcE2E8BXA/s1600-h/Picture+013.jpg"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Have <img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050789670562166530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXk-mKXsZRZbY7sNddcwB5gaFyAfRrZ8TtYisJSnW0R8r6n30qD4umfah6AJICMHAAbQrC_3qIijt0MbmZeSyDFqQahVX0cYiK0xWSJDlX4S7sG_vKACHBEqeUQkx-NcE2E8BXA/s320/Picture+013.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><br />
</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Have a blessed Lent.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">-J.</span></div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-67243144678591050762010-09-23T20:21:00.000-04:002022-01-16T16:29:50.975-05:00Well, it's a start.After much effort, toil, angst, deliberation and frenetic Craigslist-surfing...I managed to get the very first component towards my (eventual) Tiki habitat. I managed to buy a bar and (I think) a pretty bloody nice one at that. It has only a couple of tiny dings and chips, but nothing that even someone as manually unskilled as I can't set right. Those teeny flaws aside, it's practically new.<br />
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Below is the "overall view" of the beast.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtU4nwEl2tMrfrpME6QzZSJCLocvtK5d1F3V7riWR3iEl_gYLPcqimLiZE66G3Qmet9LL2ZBqMUqW7HPJ1I-mGyWl8FzK5y3SaFkXP602vussEkE9mqG5r-IUVKqy4r7daZ3rSQ/s1600/P1010725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520293960850799106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtU4nwEl2tMrfrpME6QzZSJCLocvtK5d1F3V7riWR3iEl_gYLPcqimLiZE66G3Qmet9LL2ZBqMUqW7HPJ1I-mGyWl8FzK5y3SaFkXP602vussEkE9mqG5r-IUVKqy4r7daZ3rSQ/s320/P1010725.JPG" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="http://tikiroom.com/img/25589x4c9b75e6.jpg"></a> It weighs a TON...that slab o'granite top does not help and, even worse, makes it ridiculously top-heavy when all you have are one and a half men (me & Joey) to schlep it from the wifely minivan to the back room via the obstacle course of a hypercluttered garage, tall steps and rugged lawn terrain. Ona a dolly that was missing a wheel, and was wa-a-a-a-a-ay too small for the bar's footprint. So I had to stop every 10 feet, for Joey to shove an old sneaker where the missing wheel wasn't, so I could adjust the bar atop the dolly's rickety frame. Even worse when the grownup in the equation is supposedly down with the flu. It took 2½ hours to go from driveway to back room. But I am nothing if not committed.<br />
<br />
Or, perhaps this is proof I <em>should </em>be.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGIrj0f7NvbX9HFM4zlKPmVypFI6wiuqfaJnSAsvqA5Q6w80zAkj4GjJtcTD7tfJRjrNsVLFnXZ4dfuv_djt7F13pztqXWZy7MCzaMW2Qj0gomyBZvCxKFyUoMf_l_h_BZfb2NA/s1600/P1010726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520293968451360306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGIrj0f7NvbX9HFM4zlKPmVypFI6wiuqfaJnSAsvqA5Q6w80zAkj4GjJtcTD7tfJRjrNsVLFnXZ4dfuv_djt7F13pztqXWZy7MCzaMW2Qj0gomyBZvCxKFyUoMf_l_h_BZfb2NA/s320/P1010726.JPG" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>I'm slightly embarrassed to state in public how little I paid for this thing. I spotted it on CL and it was being sold by a storefront church which seems to have been using it (probably donated, I'm guessing) as a hallway table. Three grown men, from that church's rehab program groaningly placed it in the wifely minivan, which was then practically in wheelie mode all the way home. All of the other semi-acceptable bars I had seen on CL for the last year -- did I mention I was patient? -- were running in the $150-$300 range and this was not only FAR nicer, but also FAR cheaper. When I got there I was pleasantly surprised to see it more "tikiable" than I expected, with rattan-like panels and a workable color. It's supposedly a Bombay Co. model, but it has a Tommy Bahama-ish kinda feel to it. (See next)<br />
<br />
Above is a closeup of the ornamental detail. (See what I mean about the Tommy Bahama thing?) So the question is this: How could I tikify those column-ish/rosette things (they look like they will pry off cleanly and relatively easily)? I was thinking of a shallow-ish set of wooden plaques with something (anything!) more tiki-ish, and possibly replacing those grooved columny details with something bamboo-y.<br />
<br />
And, of course, placing a proper tiki dead center.<br />
<br />
Any suggestions?<br />
<br />
-J.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">P.S. For those who are interested in following the progress of my eventual tiki habitat, be warned...this will go GLACIALLY slow, as I have very little in the way of time and even littler in the way of DIY skills and even littler than that in $$ my beloved wife will allow me to spend on such a project. Even if the projected space is the size of a medium phone booth.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-15076087702055408002009-10-05T16:02:00.007-04:002022-01-16T16:30:16.261-05:00The Cuban SandwichHere is the RIGHT way to do this.<br /><br />Start by slicing pickles. NOT the sweet kind, and (ideally) not the ones that sit at room temperature. You need the crunch. I'spose you could get away with the pre-sliced ones, but I like my surface:mass ratio <span style="font-style: italic;">just so</span>, and the Pickle Industrial Complex will not comply.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_W0pYKiWs_RUFcoom9hnkzzmk6hpPeoF4HP2j8QQYF2CxnoW7NyvOUhOJWkIm9YJWi2RWj3fOSLNzayOi3hjbaEXiUMkfRQ9tAyId8wWifnUc5RVINvQVb-ClI0LqV-5P0wFWQ/s1600-h/set0019+094.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_W0pYKiWs_RUFcoom9hnkzzmk6hpPeoF4HP2j8QQYF2CxnoW7NyvOUhOJWkIm9YJWi2RWj3fOSLNzayOi3hjbaEXiUMkfRQ9tAyId8wWifnUc5RVINvQVb-ClI0LqV-5P0wFWQ/s400/set0019+094.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955658645235938" border="0" /></a>Take Cuban bread, or Cuban rolls or, if you live in the provinces, something in the egg bread family (which turns this from a <span style="font-style: italic;">Cubano </span>to a <span style="font-style: italic;">Medianoche</span>, but whatever.) split them<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4lI-rkYGMO1-0ZywDmJWdBO8-ihHA1s2qxptPj2d_XJ5tIH6UgOFqMFqGritgtwyyAJLKU_IP8bINP-5YPI9BcpaplvMLtXqe_nMR-cx42P_X4WPLS9CdHE6514ccYM1-8apaw/s1600-h/set0019+095.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4lI-rkYGMO1-0ZywDmJWdBO8-ihHA1s2qxptPj2d_XJ5tIH6UgOFqMFqGritgtwyyAJLKU_IP8bINP-5YPI9BcpaplvMLtXqe_nMR-cx42P_X4WPLS9CdHE6514ccYM1-8apaw/s400/set0019+095.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955669634177042" border="0" /></a> and mustardize them. The classic choice is plain ol' yellow mustard<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpezXo8fDTyNB7SH6RYHdvW_UMej45qNMv-l2OlZxElgKOUqcGjeZbFq8m9MU8zfqo2bXaLESh3wAMiCeHUE3c_YBfQibxSHn5m-9FxOLAUSY8VoeNh1VdY-YusI6bJNM_mIhQA/s1600-h/set0019+096.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpezXo8fDTyNB7SH6RYHdvW_UMej45qNMv-l2OlZxElgKOUqcGjeZbFq8m9MU8zfqo2bXaLESh3wAMiCeHUE3c_YBfQibxSHn5m-9FxOLAUSY8VoeNh1VdY-YusI6bJNM_mIhQA/s400/set0019+096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955675988310466" border="0" /></a>but I like the "deli" style mustard better. You do whatever you want.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBghjjVS7sUTTEuje1GRPCKW-tJSxpEzhUB2arTQ6IMO4YBFZVZTUiZpEU4jCDkvVr3byNp3hPZ2WNxhIfq_N-VURQpPUQ5IZ_vSPToe6SypWpUZ-tvSb3mYlDXm2Pmyl3gjSoKw/s1600-h/set0019+097.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBghjjVS7sUTTEuje1GRPCKW-tJSxpEzhUB2arTQ6IMO4YBFZVZTUiZpEU4jCDkvVr3byNp3hPZ2WNxhIfq_N-VURQpPUQ5IZ_vSPToe6SypWpUZ-tvSb3mYlDXm2Pmyl3gjSoKw/s400/set0019+097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389955680808741442" border="0" /></a>Then you lay down your pickle coverage. I love pickles, so I practically TILE the bloody thing.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UFexR4GD2p7QyrNtFww3GFBsBwTLcRPpYttBAhc-eH5jCvLinpHMc_FX2EDn5ta-5-eMZBX3e5FLO78XsuHMXFo8eXSWNu6iL3Ay-Iu2j9F4J1DqY6IVYoQ85EyZBJzAlqx1kg/s1600-h/set0019+098.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UFexR4GD2p7QyrNtFww3GFBsBwTLcRPpYttBAhc-eH5jCvLinpHMc_FX2EDn5ta-5-eMZBX3e5FLO78XsuHMXFo8eXSWNu6iL3Ay-Iu2j9F4J1DqY6IVYoQ85EyZBJzAlqx1kg/s400/set0019+098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225330401022770" border="0" /></a>Over the pickles you'll need to place a layer of ham. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpoUqAqETbGrSPkf4l1cvnmLEtLc4zQKane8D1u9GnZq6StiAFed1JmfLtxpO33Ghk0-yjO00ZWwst_OrXsZrUsbGhz49EwMtWw0YxWWmzBPfZfbj2JVDmCldRuQDOSS0_p5cYQ/s1600-h/set0019+099.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpoUqAqETbGrSPkf4l1cvnmLEtLc4zQKane8D1u9GnZq6StiAFed1JmfLtxpO33Ghk0-yjO00ZWwst_OrXsZrUsbGhz49EwMtWw0YxWWmzBPfZfbj2JVDmCldRuQDOSS0_p5cYQ/s400/set0019+099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225370103982706" border="0" /></a>Since I am an insufferable foodie, I use prosciutto (but not the hyper-fancy stuff). Either way, you want to make sure it's sliced so thin, as to be translucent. This allows you to plop it down in a wavy sort of way, which is key to get the right sort of chew and mouthfeel.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmmZP9-ZNkdFB_qLu3cHmzF8i2hhxRBkUyMKxukDvDTESyH2nzuGB8zboCS-bUR7EucM2ijdeoFVVCfCLYC-4op9cJErX6HgZc118gUu2_-HndOrpiWM9-hzhvdtmxYVUojM9Yg/s1600-h/set0019+100.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmmZP9-ZNkdFB_qLu3cHmzF8i2hhxRBkUyMKxukDvDTESyH2nzuGB8zboCS-bUR7EucM2ijdeoFVVCfCLYC-4op9cJErX6HgZc118gUu2_-HndOrpiWM9-hzhvdtmxYVUojM9Yg/s400/set0019+100.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225418248131010" border="0" /></a>Next,the swiss cheese. Yes, it must be swiss cheese. Or, if you're insufferable as I am, Swiss cheese (Emmentaler is a teeny bit preferable to Gruyere, but either is wonderful.)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ECsH1owOa74DGYsNcr7ukpo8GUYL63QwiE1wajfkI1Qz69Ed0mh4zvO3Y1njJmHuAmWyVIT9nyOCJyu_7a8J6Ut0wBMdDh6Jfo0Gji1i_JggUYWonoaDaUSj2tjJBQEx-hpXpQ/s1600-h/set0019+101.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ECsH1owOa74DGYsNcr7ukpo8GUYL63QwiE1wajfkI1Qz69Ed0mh4zvO3Y1njJmHuAmWyVIT9nyOCJyu_7a8J6Ut0wBMdDh6Jfo0Gji1i_JggUYWonoaDaUSj2tjJBQEx-hpXpQ/s400/set0019+101.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225495303919378" border="0" /></a>To get the right melting action, you will need to grate it. Yes, slices will work okay, but by the time the cheese is melted, the bread will be too dry and brittle.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98orjUKBxhQEl6FrjUJ-yAhDT-koTKCboLaJLyU860cYO8YrCQI5FJ4w44ulqOprDYOR2dDwy5fdMA1jREFUyVkwcoFMsZjYT_EITHYDlsaIhK_R6Ks6emC3hUWHLu-Hr7boqQw/s1600-h/set0019+102.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98orjUKBxhQEl6FrjUJ-yAhDT-koTKCboLaJLyU860cYO8YrCQI5FJ4w44ulqOprDYOR2dDwy5fdMA1jREFUyVkwcoFMsZjYT_EITHYDlsaIhK_R6Ks6emC3hUWHLu-Hr7boqQw/s400/set0019+102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389225528032089298" border="0" /></a>Shredding it in the food processor is fine, but yields bad photos. So I hand grated. Just for YOU, Internet. Scoop it up and get ready to apply to the sandwich.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoB6KnW3F_acwKwFznpTqh99-xaZvS1jo-yOdQ7JtvCEdsM78PgCkBWy09ihoYJvHNmTgaYbdrFtrZYgR0-4h2Vn8asevHckyCNv2-1b-LoQsmVkc7_62DIc33iZyNRmmIWI_bw/s1600-h/set0019+103.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoB6KnW3F_acwKwFznpTqh99-xaZvS1jo-yOdQ7JtvCEdsM78PgCkBWy09ihoYJvHNmTgaYbdrFtrZYgR0-4h2Vn8asevHckyCNv2-1b-LoQsmVkc7_62DIc33iZyNRmmIWI_bw/s400/set0019+103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222096260623410" border="0" /></a>Like so.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YkZ5HEqlA0TefSAd-TcIUeg27gZ1tLuO5Z9GoFe0g9S9kmKNK94gh-Bxngp5c2DLwdlZV4pEie4g_y5772O-Xn6Je8hsxM3dP8kLe7yLprCysoT9oAID1wQ0M5imsII9VIR51w/s1600-h/set0019+104.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YkZ5HEqlA0TefSAd-TcIUeg27gZ1tLuO5Z9GoFe0g9S9kmKNK94gh-Bxngp5c2DLwdlZV4pEie4g_y5772O-Xn6Je8hsxM3dP8kLe7yLprCysoT9oAID1wQ0M5imsII9VIR51w/s400/set0019+104.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222091312781570" border="0" /></a>If you like to give the cheese a head start on the melting -- or you are a raving pyro -- you can use a kitchen torch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KaN3u-oKXhROQVaPQcXt9n6TKTxnfz_EFCnHV3g6iSu9vdC7CXgToTSDLqBoeFlyDCYqfyFOU1554jDPRfJoQJetf-ZR1XhS-0STKYt2oS63CzWek4lPvo0j6V5nxJD8AwYLFQ/s1600-h/set0019+105.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KaN3u-oKXhROQVaPQcXt9n6TKTxnfz_EFCnHV3g6iSu9vdC7CXgToTSDLqBoeFlyDCYqfyFOU1554jDPRfJoQJetf-ZR1XhS-0STKYt2oS63CzWek4lPvo0j6V5nxJD8AwYLFQ/s400/set0019+105.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222084357645394" border="0" /></a>Now, take your leftover roast pork (ideally a very citrus/garlic intensive roast pork, although that can be doctored up) which you have warmed up to about 125F (this is important)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJfksxZ9u5Xnb76YUxHXgQB_lFchcCrVjxKp7Xs7BVcK__8JXN6gj-G3VrLq8_NR154c_xa1HJKCltYHSZHjrsFe5qj8NAcEsGJFe1yG3gI66rj8McKeBrl8Z9JGyBABHUVVrfg/s1600-h/set0019+106.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJfksxZ9u5Xnb76YUxHXgQB_lFchcCrVjxKp7Xs7BVcK__8JXN6gj-G3VrLq8_NR154c_xa1HJKCltYHSZHjrsFe5qj8NAcEsGJFe1yG3gI66rj8McKeBrl8Z9JGyBABHUVVrfg/s400/set0019+106.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389222070535453154" border="0" /></a> if you have roasted it properly, it should shred into luxuriant, pillowy nuggets of porcine goodness.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSiGjvuBpw4aNlYEHyg_NEDs_A92DUQpyKAYqa48kplCv9kHNo7xZ9oePElpS9MmBdyeRhNG1x_ocI-PBAdWlyf2pozdl8vFFGqWReAFWWER9r2VcdRBMeY6RMiJlQTXMQQ3mkw/s1600-h/set0019+107.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSiGjvuBpw4aNlYEHyg_NEDs_A92DUQpyKAYqa48kplCv9kHNo7xZ9oePElpS9MmBdyeRhNG1x_ocI-PBAdWlyf2pozdl8vFFGqWReAFWWER9r2VcdRBMeY6RMiJlQTXMQQ3mkw/s400/set0019+107.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210197987545634" border="0" /></a>Assemble atop the cheese (cold side cold, warm side warm). You want about a 3:2 pork:ham ratio. So that your whole assemblage looks like this.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsiFLgtOzBxDhH5uKCqpETa2d84lkpb3e5hitVrX8t1jHTEi5MkgqA7R0UHl8XWvLvlE2K0vTVRzwzSKTcvuUA3Hd0uB8UGX_NKp3Nh6xv2PmfvOOl2B7lUpfMh7qUW4FlWA0OQ/s1600-h/set0019+109.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsiFLgtOzBxDhH5uKCqpETa2d84lkpb3e5hitVrX8t1jHTEi5MkgqA7R0UHl8XWvLvlE2K0vTVRzwzSKTcvuUA3Hd0uB8UGX_NKp3Nh6xv2PmfvOOl2B7lUpfMh7qUW4FlWA0OQ/s400/set0019+109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210226007857026" border="0" /></a>Fold the bread around the filling. Place in a panini/sanwich press or, if you have a whole battalion to feed, use a griddle set to medium-high, buttered lightly -- DO NOT USE MARGARINE -- and toast the cheese side first until it JUST melts, and then flip over to warm the other side.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPQA72kjx16XJPUg4uIcMU3NhOQPg6d5BsflRpyoFDL-w_evhNgsn4f_qaKU1alaKe72L_rpJ1epHOF6LMifkKlHRIccosHhQMuXhRpRBO58_ct3A0iRIb-D0qKB-3z1rnBv1SA/s1600-h/set0019+110.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPQA72kjx16XJPUg4uIcMU3NhOQPg6d5BsflRpyoFDL-w_evhNgsn4f_qaKU1alaKe72L_rpJ1epHOF6LMifkKlHRIccosHhQMuXhRpRBO58_ct3A0iRIb-D0qKB-3z1rnBv1SA/s400/set0019+110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210237925538834" border="0" /></a>Eat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMy-3MnfF581f6rAmqq8O7AgEMo3VlUEdahZSKPWq3ULRv26R3_iC2JV28VyvoesLmQ3ADqhNRX2TsiL8HUYZErxUbH7FmAwtwZn3wKU2OWBrKUHLv8S0zb0oNAVPM4x6RJmjUw/s1600-h/set0019+111.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMy-3MnfF581f6rAmqq8O7AgEMo3VlUEdahZSKPWq3ULRv26R3_iC2JV28VyvoesLmQ3ADqhNRX2TsiL8HUYZErxUbH7FmAwtwZn3wKU2OWBrKUHLv8S0zb0oNAVPM4x6RJmjUw/s400/set0019+111.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389210240656429682" border="0" /></a>-J.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10388933.post-12886335612537927302009-09-04T05:18:00.002-04:002022-01-16T16:30:36.812-05:00Dinner.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4x5rltOJEK2VSRWjjGyQf0h5NxF-SbRV2S_oNJuFLO6eyZ6La7VDKp3p7ps_OMGHWEkm21D10_9h7zlbBRNG-aX-Bz408HnHjiIisLxpTO0FgRrRzWpUbjpHAxUx8iSEKovLdw/s1600-h/Dolphinfish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4x5rltOJEK2VSRWjjGyQf0h5NxF-SbRV2S_oNJuFLO6eyZ6La7VDKp3p7ps_OMGHWEkm21D10_9h7zlbBRNG-aX-Bz408HnHjiIisLxpTO0FgRrRzWpUbjpHAxUx8iSEKovLdw/s400/Dolphinfish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377647851566661410" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYntCcVmyrYdj-47bMEqLE9cHoEPvDROMgb6BTIXrDxI34gulJPRC23KmGUMXoZeg0N_ByiZPWRRe3A6YVlX5kQSEi7Y1CaXdU9nStcszFqtLjs2qBsqAS9vn2K_PX8GjMGMNpZQ/s1600-h/monkpea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYntCcVmyrYdj-47bMEqLE9cHoEPvDROMgb6BTIXrDxI34gulJPRC23KmGUMXoZeg0N_ByiZPWRRe3A6YVlX5kQSEi7Y1CaXdU9nStcszFqtLjs2qBsqAS9vn2K_PX8GjMGMNpZQ/s400/monkpea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377539379767512642" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1