New Yam in the Hood

Grilled Sweet Potatoes with Chipotle Cream Sauce

It takes lots of paperwork to change the Thanksgiving Dinner Menu. Lots of paperwork.

First there's the Petition to Substitute which has to be signed by at least four people.

Then you have to get past the Recipe Review Board and the Intolerance Panel.

The Quantity Compensation Committee might demand a backup dish to be provided from the Approved List.

Fail to follow protocol and you could be looking at sanctions ranging from a few hours of Normal Family Derision to twelve months of Hell To Pay or a permanent place on the Wall of Remembrance.

"Remember when we had asparagus mashed potatoes?"

"Ewwwwww! Or how about the garlic cheese cake?"

"My favorite was the peanut butter stuffing. We had to throw away the entire turkey."

"No, no! My favorite was when the oven got switched off by mistake and nobody noticed until it was time to eat and the turkey was all raw and everything. Remember? We had to eat a cheese ball and drink beer until the turkey was done. Wait a minute, that wasn't so bad. Never mind."

Surprisingly, those mini-disasters did not qualify for the Wall of Remembrance. No, the Wall is a special place for Memorable Meals such as:

Scorched Cabbage with Pork that required the house to be aired out. In December.

Rubber Band Chocolate Mousse caused by many chunks of undissolved gelatin. One-quarter yum, three-quarters patooie.

Goat Neck and Honey Stew. Putting the "ewwwww" in stew.

Peanut Butter Salsa ice cream. No, it didn't taste better than it sounds. Worse. Much worse.

Cantaloupe Cream Soup in the Shell. One of those few things that actually tasted better coming up than going down.

As I am the only one in the family who not only enjoys but looks forward to my Special Candied Yams, a recipe honed to perfection over 25 years, I decided that it would be a safe bet and easy sailing through the Review Boards to propose a change to the "yam" part of the meal.

I was right! Not an eye was batted when I proposed grilling the yams outside and serving them with a smoked chipotle pepper cream sauce.

"You'll be grilling them outside?"

"Yes, Madam Board President, outside."

"Well, anything you do with a yam outside is fine by me. I presume you won't be bringing them back inside, then."

"Uh, negative, Madam Board President, the yams will be returned to the domicile whereupon they will be relegated to their own serving dish so as not to, uh, so as not to, that is, uh ... "

"Contaminate?"

"Yes, Madam Board President, thank you. 'Contaminate' the other delicacies."

Madam's eyes narrowed, her lips pursed as if sucking a very large lemon through a very small straw.

"Very well. Permission to Substitute granted for a probationary period of one meal. Case dismissed, next case!"

Great. I had permission, a plan but no recipe. More of a vague notion. Grilled yams and a spicy red sauce. I consulted my sidekick and expert chef, Emeril LeGoogle.

In short order I had a recipe put together but, alas, no experience. The Wall loomed.

Here's the blueprint:

Chipotle Cream Sauce
6-8 dried chipotle peppers, soaked in hot water (or simmered) for 15 minutes, peeled.
1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
some pepper soak water (from above)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
salt

Sauteé onions and garlic in a little butter. Put to one side.
Peel peppers and discard seeds, stems and skin.
Blend in a food processor onion mixture and peppers.
In a small skillet add cream and syrup to the mixture, blend and bring to a simmer. Sauce will be thick and you'll have to adjust it with cream and water.

I found the sauce to be a little bitter and thought lemon juice might help by providing some sweetness and tang.

Grilled Yams
2-3 medium sized yams, peeled, cut into 1/2 inch slices
olive oil
salt/pepper

Brush the yams with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Grill on a medium heat 5-10 minutes a side, depending on the yam, and pay more attention to the grill than I did to prevent burned spots. Brush with more olive oil if the yams dry out. When cooked the yams should be soft enough to easily insert a small knife, fork, skewer, etc

Although I wasn't totally pleased with the sauce and I scorched several of the yam slices, I tried a distraction with a nice presentation.



I prepared a serving for Madam Board President.

"Ummm," said Madam Board President thoughtfully, "as a rule I'm not a big fan of yams and, in fact, I'm a microscopic fan of candied yams."

Madam Board President fixed me with a stare and paused for effect.

I started to sweat.

She continued, "However, these yams are not quite as bad as I had expected. The spicy smoked pepper sauce complements the sweetness of the yam and they go together better than either one separately. To be honest, though, the sauce needs work and you'll have to improve it next time."

Next time, I thought?

"You are hereby granted a Recipe Extension for a period of one year to work out the kinks. Speaking of whom, where is Kink?"

Manchester 0, Dragonfly 1

"Hey, you guys, keep it down! I'm trying to watch the almost-not-quite World Cup-ish game on the tube here!"

"It's not a 'tube.' It's a High Definition Liquid Crystal Display Light Emitting Diode backlit Binford 3000 Strato-Viewer. Tube is so last year."

"Whatever. This is a Big Game and I'm watching it so pipe down. I've been waiting to see this game for over a decade. Or at least since this afternoon."

"Who's playing?"

"Manchester and some other team. Doesn't matter. Be quiet!"

"All right! All right! Excuuuuuuuuuuse me for breathing. I'll go play in the freeway or something. Hey, look, there's Kink outside."

Opening the back door …

"Hey, buddy boy, what are you doing outside? Having fun? Come in and get a Kat Snak."

"Meowwww-ffff!"

"Meowwww-fff? What do you have in your mouff, little buddy? Come on, give us a look, that's a good kitty."

"No, Kink, don't let it loose!"

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkkkk! Kink let a dragonfly loose in the house! A GIANT DRAGONFLYYYYYYYYY!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKK!!!! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!"

"That's no dragonfly! That's a pterodactyl!!"

"EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!! PTERODACTYL!! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!"

"Someone get a net!"

"Someone get a cricket bat! Did I say that out loud?"

"Someone get some duct tape."

"Duct tape?"

"Yeah, it's good for anything. We can stickify the dragonfly!"

"YOU GUYS KEEP IT DOWN I'M TRYING TO WATCH THIS VERY IMPORTANT GAME THANK YOU VERY MUCH AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!"

"Look! The dragonfly is buzzing around the kitchen light! He likes the light! Quick, turn off the kitchen light!"

**click**

"Oh My Gosh, it's heading to the TV! Quick, get the net!"

"I got it! I got it! I don't got it."

"GET AWAY FROM THE TV! I CAN'T SEE THE GAME! IT'S ONLY 20 SECONDS LEFT! CATCH THE DRAGONFRICKINGFLYADACTYL LATER!"

"I've got an idea! If we turn off the TV and turn on the porch light, the dragonfly will go out the back door all by himself! Ready? On three. One, two … THREE!!"

**CLICK** **beep fweep beep**

"AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH! THE GAAAAAAAAME!"

"YEAAAAAAAHH! THERE HE GOES! THERE HE GOES!"

"THE GAAAAAAAAME!!"

"HE'S OUT!! HE'S OUT!!"

"QUICK, SHUT THE BACK DOOR!"

"QUICK, TURN ON THE LIQUID TUBE DIODE THING!"

"QUICK, WHERE'S KINK?"

… and who could have predicted that, eh, Chris? No, Marv, you're not going to see an ending to a game like that if you live to be a hundred. Could you believe that last-minute play, Chris? No, Marv, I saw it live and on the instant replay and I still can't believe it. That's for sure, Chris, and I can tell you this is one game I'll be telling my grandkids about. What an ending. What an AMAZING, ASTOUNDING, AWESOME ENDING!! We saw Sport History tonight, Marv. Once in a lifetime, once in a lifetime. Well, that wraps it up for tonight. I'm Chris. And I'm Marv and we'll see you in a decade or maybe tomorrow. After that finale they might just retire the sport! Good-night, everybody!

"You ruined the game!"

"We saved the dragonfly!"

"Where's Kink?"

"He must have gone back out. Oh, look, open the door, here he comes!"

"What's he got in his mouth … "

Not Our Sponsor

In a word, BLECH!

In other words, ACK! YUCK! BARF-O! CHOKE! YAAAAK! ARGGA-BARGGA-BARGGA-BARGGA! PITOOIE!

File this under: Sounded good. Tasted not so much.

Kink wanted to bury it. Smart cat.

Evil Weevil Redeaux

Weevils. Paprika. Again.

Yes, again. Weevils ait my paprika!

I didn't even notice as I dumped them into my stew. No weevil screams. No weevil shouts of, "Weevil overboard!" Just shake, shake, shake, stir, stir, stir.

Only later when I removed the lid and stirred the sauce did I notice "foreign bodies." Dead foreign bodies. Floating.

I fished their little corpses out one by one, rather than starting over with dinner. According to the Food and Drug Administration weevils are "mostly" protein with some "crunchy bits." (Unless, of course, they've spent an hour in a stew hot tub.) I gave the sauce an extra good stir and ran some draglines along the bottom. No more weevils surfaced.

Note to self: buy sieve.

Unfortunately, I didn't discover the Weevil Holiday Resort in Paparika until I had dumped a sightseeing busload into my stew.

Unfortunately, I didn't discover the little freeloaders until they were free-styling in my sauce.

Fortunately, my family won't read this until tomorrow.

Eleven Two Two

Party Alert!

This is a Party Alert!

Twelve Two Two Fondue will be held exactly one month from today on, you guessed it, December 22nd!

Hence the name.

Twelve Two Two Fondue began as a fondue party on December 22, 2004 and has continued annually since.

This will be Twelve Two Two Fondue VI. Sort of like Rocky VI but with food and a plot.

You are all invited!

You are all invited around the World to host your very own Twelve Two Two Fondue party and webcast it, send us live pictures, stories, videos and your leftover cheese. (Waste not, want not. I always say that.)
It's twue that 12-22-fondue has been hosted in many countries and on all Seven continents. And, yes, I do count my friend the Polie who at least thought about eating cheese while in Antarctica. The penguins, of course, ate Fish Tacos.

So be there or be square. The Fonduemeister commands it.

Perspective

It was the best of nights. It was the worst of nights. It was the Fall of rain, and rain was falling.

There was a chill in the air but not enough to deter the mosquitoes who, judging from their size, had been feasting on pizza and beer.

Snugly wrapped in my Victoria's Secret Hot Devil outerwear I observed that nothing beats Fall camping.

From across the fire I heard, "I'm cold and I'm wet and I'm going to my tent. Whose idea was this anyway?" There was some shuffling and muttering that faded into the distance.

Snugly wrapped in my Victoria's Secret Hot Devil outerwear and silence I observed that nothing beats Fall camping.

The fire crackled and hissed as the drizzle met its doom but soon the drizzle turned into serious rain and I decided to turn in, too.

My tent, my domain. It needed fixing up because I just tossed my stuff in after I set it up. First, I inflated my Thermarest sleeping pad to the full Blue Whale setting for maximum comfort, redistributed the down in my personal sleeping enclosure ("sleeping bag" is so 60's) and checked the surroundings for any vermin who decided to join me for the night.

Safe and sound I snuggled down for a short not-quite-winter's nap. Dark-thirty would come soon enough and as camp cook I'd be expected to have hot coffee ready before dawn. That's a tough assignment because Dawn has coffee ready early!

I slept like a baby. That is, waking up every two hours crying, but otherwise I enjoyed the pitter patter of rain on the tent, the gentle wind and especially being snugly wrapped, etc, etc.

Dawn came all too soon and before I knew it I was standing over a hot stove brewing the first pot of coffee of the day. It was still raining, cold, and everything was wet, but the smell of brewing coffee revived my spirits and I was sure it was going to be a grand day.

Hark! Was that the sound of thunder? Er, no, it was the sound of grumble. Trudging towards me was an obviously unhappy camper.

"Top of the morning! Could I interest you in a cup of hot, freshly brewed coffee? Did I mention that it's free?"

"Whatever."

Not the reply I was expecting, usually people ask to have my baby for a cup of hot coffee on a cold wet morning, I just poured out a cup of brew and handed it over.

"How was your night?" I asked, knowing the answer.

Camper looked up and related a tale of woe, call it the Rime of the Ancient Wet Camper. Camper told me that he pitched his tent in a depression that filled up with water. His tent leaked. His sleeping bag got wet and then cold. He forgot his stocking cap so his head was cold, and his socks were wet so his feet were cold. He tried mopping up the water in his tent using a t-shirt but when he opened his tent to wring out the shirt, more rain came in than shirt wrung water went out. There was more woe to tell but I was all woed out and don't remember the details.

He was cold, wet and not a happy camper.

"So," he asked, "how was your night?"

I thought about how I had selected a site for my tent which was on harder, more uneven ground, but higher than the surrounding pasture. I thought about how I had planned for the Fall weather and, since it had been raining all day while I was packing, threw in some extra socks and clothes just in case. I thought about how I had re-sealed the seams of my tent so they wouldn't leak and how I had brought an extra ground tarp because I knew the ground would be wet when I pitched my tent.

I thought about my sleeping pad inflated to Blue Whale comfort and that I had brought an Indian blanket which made it Sleeps-Like-Blue-Whale.

I thought about how I was woken up hours before dawn by a sudden intensity of rain, but in my Blue Whale warmness quickly drifted back to the Land o' Squid and deep six sleep.

I thought that because I was prepared for the weather I had a great night, enjoyed it immensely and would look back on this weekend as a great camping experience.

Yep, one of the best nights ever.

"Well," he persisted, "how was your night?"

Not wanting to ruin his coffee I replied,

"Much the same, my friend, much the same."

Tortilla Warmer

Manjula Strikes Again

A recent edition of Manjula's Kitchen featured Spinach Salad with Walnut Ginger Dressing.

I was intrigued with the idea of using ginger juice which is obtained by grating fresh ginger onto a cutting board then squeezing the ginger pulp over a small bowl. The ginger juice drops out quite freely and it doesn't take much grating to obtain a tablespoon or so of juice. I'm sure I'll find other uses for this technique.

Here are the main ingredients: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, ginger juice, walnuts, salt/pepper/sugar and (not shown) lemon juice. These are buzzed up in a small food processor. Add a little water if the dressing is too thick, a function of the walnuts, I think.



Chop fresh spinach leaves into bite sized pieces and toss with chopped tomato and chopped apple.



Add the dressing, toss and finish with feta cheese. I didn't have feta, but I had some fresh goat cheese that worked out great. Note the sloppy presentation! Serving guests the salad looks better with the dressing drizzled around the leaves, garnished by the cheese and tossed just before serving.



And, finally, Baked Salmon with Rosemary. Salmon is placed on a bed of rosemary and sliced red onion, topped with rosemary and lemon, and baked at 500 degrees for 20 minutes.

Bacon Wrapped Twinkie?

If you value your health in the SLIGHTEST, do not go to this website.

You have been warned!

This Is Why You're Fat dot Com documents those gastronomic inventions that have to be seen (not eaten) to be believed.

Some of my "favorites" are:

Bacon Wrapped Pigs in a Blanket - actually, that doesn't sound too bad!

Deep Fried Chocolate Cake - slices of cake batter coated, deep fried and served with ice cream.

Ultimate Hot Dog - cheese infused hot dog, batter coated, deep fried, wrapped in bacon and deep fried again.

El Niño - giant "taco" made out of a pepperoni pizza folded over ground beef, onions, cheese, lettuce and sour cream

Deep Fried Brat Loaf - bratwurst, sauerkraut and bun, batter coated and deep fried

(there's definitely a theme to these dishes!)

And, finally, my favorite, two taste treats in one, the Taco Burger:

Jack-in-the-Box taco stuffed into a Jumbo Jack Burger with Cheese.

Ain't it purdy!



So, what would you do if you could create a taste treat likely to kill you?

Me, I'd create an enchilada dinner taco: chicken enchiladas and refried beans with extra beef, cheese, lettuce and sour cream in a taco shell.

Oh, hang on, I've already done that.

Nevermind.

Lowku

Leaves fall on the cat
He dreams of birds in the sun
He chases them all

Doodle Jump

I have a new addiction! We all need those.

This one is a game that you can play on your iPhone or iPod Touch called Doodle Jump.

The object is to get your little doodle guy to jump from one platform to the next earning points as you go. The more platforms you jump the higher your score. To help you along the way are springs that boing you past several platforms, a propeller cap a rocket pack that fly you to great heights. Of course, to make it challenging you have to grab the cap and pack while jumping. The platforms are not in a straight line so you have to constantly move the iPhone back and forth to "steer" the doodle guy left and right. Also, he can only jump so high so you have to guestimate which platform he can reach in a jump. Miscalculate and you've got an ongoing plummeting to one's demise situation followed by starting over from scratch.

To impede your progress there are a series of challenges: moving platforms, platforms that break under your weight, platforms that pop when you land on them and others that pop if you don't land on them soon enough. There are elevator platforms that move up and down, and very tricky platforms that you have to move into position with your finger while keeping the doodle guy from missing and plummeting to his demise and the end of your high score aspiration.

There are also hazards like a variety of monsters that you can land on for a boost, but if you hit them on the way up your doodle is knocked cuckoo and plummets to his demise. There are also black holes and an alien spaceship to make you disappear, presumably the same as plummeting to your demise.



As with any great addiction my main problem is finding enough time to tend to it. Typically I'm engrossed in a game concentrating on the moving platforms, avoiding the aliens, when Kink decides to conduct a Gravity Experiment.

What to do? Dodge the alien or sweep up the debris in the kitchen? You're right, the experiment is over and the debris can wait.

What I can't wait to do is play again! Must. Doodle Jump.

To make time I've started going to appointments early. Like way early.

"Excuse me, sir, but your appointment isn't until tomorrow."

"No prob. I can wait." Boing, boing, boing ...

Did I mention that Doodle Jump goes "boing, boing, boing?" Oh, yeah, and pop, pop, and sproing, and whoosh, and thuppa-thuppa, and gronga-gronga-gronga, and, of course, the ever disheartening plummeting to one's demise sound, a long Doppler-shifted whistle into the abyss.



After much consideration and experimentation, I found a great way to extend my game play. By mounting my iPhone on the steering wheel of my truck I can "steer" the doodle guy while driving. Perhaps that would be better written steer the doodle guy while "driving."

I can't take full credit for my invention, though. Judging from what I see on the road lots of people are playing Doodle Jump.

Hey, gtg, doodle guy's calling me.

l8r

Not Half

"Yes, sir, what'll it be tonight?"

"Uh, I'll have a half of ESB."

"Sorry, squire, we're all out of halves."

"OK, make it a pint."

"Right, pint of ESB coming up."

That was "our little joke," a jest among friends, an amusement, a diversion at my local pub. I'd go in and ask for a half-pint but, alas, they'd be out of halfs and I'd be forced to drink a pint. Or four.

On some nights four was half way.

In darts if I got about half-way, say, to 150, I could go out with triple 20, triple 20, double 15. But not after four. Who am I kidding? Not after zero!

Half full or half empty?

Me, I'm a half-empty kind of guy. Yes, it's twue. Half-empty. That's because I knew it was full at one time but now it's not. It's half-empty and going down. I mean, it's nearly December! What happened to July? Did we even have a July? I don't remember, which raises an interesting question: Is the year nearly empty or is it nearly full? Do we start with a full year and empty it out or do we start with an empty year and fill it up?

Going back to the glass half empty thing, if it's nice and sunny, bright and happy, then the contents of the glass are evaporating and going down, but if it's cloudy and raining, dark and mournful, then the contents of the glass are filling up.

Therefore, according to that logic, if your glass is half empty you should be bright and happy, but if its half full you should be cloudy and sad.

I was thinking about opening up a restaurant half way between Houston and Austin. Actually, that point is in the middle of nowhere, although since it's somebody's ranch I guess it's somewhere, at least to the rancher. Anyway, I was going to call it the Half Way House. Coming or going it would be half way. However, since a "half way house" is a place where you go to recover from something I figured it probably wasn't a great idea. After all, I've heard of Centerville and Middleton but never Halfway City.

So, here we are smack dab half way through November. Fifteen days behind us and fifteen days in front of us.

What to do, what to do. The first half of November was pretty good. I'd hate for things to go downhill from here, glass half empty or not.

I know!

I'll do it all over again. I'll simply subtract 15 from each day which makes tomorrow November 16-15 or November 1st. I don't know why I didn't think of this before.

Now, if only I can get every day in December to be the 25th I'll have it knocked.

Pineapple Man

If someone told me 20 years ago that today I'd be growing pineapples on my computer I would have said, "Whatever you're drinking I'll have a double!"

(probably a piña colada)

Last of the Last

Creole Crab Dip

Makes about 2 1/2 cups
Active time: 15 minutes Start to Finish: 15 minutes

2 garlic cloves
1 cup sliced bottled roasted red peppers
1 1/2 tsp red wine vinegar
1/4 cayenne pepper
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 lb crabmeat, picked over
1 1/2 Tbsp finely chopped chives

*With motor running, drop garlic into a food processor and chop.
*Stop motor and add roasted red peppers, vinegar, cayenne and 1/2 tsp salt to food processor and purée until smooth. Add mayonnaise and process until combined.
*Transfer roasted red pepper mixture to a heavy medium pot and heat or a low heat. Gently stir in crabmeat and cook until just heated through, then stir in chives.

That's it.

That's it. That's how Gourmet Magazine ends 70 years of recipes, articles, reviews, stories, interviews and celebrating all things food.

That's it. The final recipe from the final issue of Gourmet. RIP, November, 2009. The "Thanksgiving" Issue. Big, brown, roasted turkey on the cover, no different than the 69 previous big, brown, roasted Thanksgiving turkeys.

Only this is the last one. No more turkey. No more "discoveries" that Martha Washington can haz the best turkey recipe evah: put the turkey into a hot oven and cook until it's done.

Marvelous!

Adios Gourmet. It's been a good run.

You know, the thing I noticed about the final issue was the smell. Rather, the lack of smell. In recent years some of the major advertisers in Gourmet have been perfume companies who placed sachets of perfume or scratch-n-sniff pads on the pages. Seriously, there's nothing more off-putting when you're reading a recipe or trying to follow it in the kitchen than to be smacked in the nose with Chanel No. 5 or whatever.

I wrote a letter to Gourmet about the perfume ads but never got a reply. I suggested that perfumers develop scents more in line with kitchen smells: BBQ No. 5, or Bacon No. 5.

Yeah, I'd wear Bacon No. 5. I'd wear No. 6, 7 and 8, too!

Back to Gourmet. I subscribed to Gourmet for nearly 20 years. I would have made 20 years and beyond if the magazine hadn't folded! Duh. I even bought the annual recipe books, the Best of Gourmet. They line my kitchen bookshelf along with Julia Child, Emeril Lagasse, Alton Brown, Molly Wizenberg, James Beard, Jamie Oliver and many, many others.

About 10 years ago, having kept all the Gourmets since I started my subscription, I had a great purge. I simply couldn't keep much less keep track of all the magazines and recipes. Something had to be done. So, I went through each magazine with my handy dandy clipping tool and I extracted all the recipes I thought I might possibly cook, and articles that I might read again given a hundred years or so. Recipes like "bacon wrapped shrimp with Thai dipping sauce" survived, while "beet fritters" went to the landfill. Harsh, but it had to be done.

Looking at the ultimate Gourmet I asked myself what recipes would I keep and to be honest, this rare issue is a winner from aubergine to zucchini. I balked at "deviled eggs with pickled beets" but I might give it a try for old time's sake if for nothing else. (Actually, I was encouraged by the direction to "discard the beet mixture" which moved this recipe from the No Way category to Maybe.)

So, there you have it. Seventy years of turkeys, beets, titanium spoons, impossible to find ingredients and, all in all, wonderful food, wonderful times, wonderful experiences and always the excitement of what the next month would bring.

I'll miss Gourmet. Yeah, sometimes I took it for granted but I always looked forward to the next issue, knowing it was just a few weeks away.

As for the November issue, it's a keeper. Uncut, as it were. It goes on the Kitchen Bookcase with the other big guns.

On, and for a touch of irony, on the back cover the advertisement is for Chanel Coco Mademoiselle, and the model looks like she's starving ...

Oh, Yeah?

I've been told that posting a picture with a few comments isn't really blogging and barely in the spirit of National Blog Posting Month.

Oh, yeah? OH, YEAH?

Well, Ms. Smarty Pants, check this out ...


(insert picture below)


Oh, gee, no picture. Too bad, so sad.

Coulda had a cute picture of Kink in a Basket, but nooooooooooooo. You had to go and complain and all.

Bet you're sorry, now.

If Like was Like ...

If Life was like UNIX things would be so easy.



Thank you, xkcd.

Double Trouble

If you think you've got trouble when this happens ...



... just wait until THIS happens!

Gravity of the Situation

These are my Tiki Shakers: Tiki Salt and Tiki Pepper.

Aren't they just wonderful? Genuine ceramic. They were on sale. I couldn't believe my luck!

My family thinks they are special, too, so special that we should only get them out of the special locked cupboard in the garage attic on Very Special Occasions, like during a total solar eclipse. I think one's coming up in 2045 and I'm going to be ready. Totally.



Which brings us to the subject of Gravity and Kink. (You knew that Kink was going to be part of this story somehow. Not to disappoint.)

Kink has been experimenting with Gravity for some years now. He's consistent with his experimental approach, although results vary widely.

Here's the blueprint:

1. Locate an object near an edge approximately 1 meter or greater from the floor.
2. Push the object to the edge and observe as potential energy is minimized and kinetic energy is maximized.
3. Observe intently for at least one second.
4. Assume a nonchalant air of aloofness.
5. Lick tail.

(I recall doing all but Step 5 in Physics Lab which probably explains why I got a "C.")

Not all of Kink's gravity experiments have been captured on film, although many have been observed. Most are harmless consisting of pencils, keys, plastic bits and pieces, newspapers and magazines. The basic rule is this:

If you don't want it on the floor, don't put it on a shelf (or countertop or chair or table or, well, you get the picture.)

Here's the aftermath of one of Kink's early gravity experiments: my (ex) favorite coffee cup.



Gravity experiment number 2 involved an object less sentimental, although it still brought a tear to my eye, but you would not believe the mess it created. OK, you'll get SOME idea.



So, knowing Kink's insatiable curiosity about gravity and its effects, imagine my horror when I discovered this!



Nobody in the family owned up to encouraging Kink to experiment with the heirloom Tiki Shakers but I'm pretty sure they didn't walk out of the locked attic cupboard by themselves.

My guess is that Kink simply miscalculated the date of the next total solar eclipse.

Yeah, that's it.

Turkey Talk

"So, what do you guys want for Thanksgiving this year?"

"Anything but turkey!"

"No turkey!"

"What? Turkey again? Can't we have something else?"

Apparently, they misunderstood the question. The question wasn't whether or not to have turkey, that was a given. The question was what to have with the turkey. Side dishes. Appetizers. Drinks. Desserts.

We've had rice, Southern "dirty" rice, Bill's Southern spicy "dirty" rice, étouffée and jambalaya stuffings, cornbread stuffing, cranberry this and that, root vegetables including parsnips, carrots, roasted (boiled, baked, mashed, twice mashed, thrice mashed with cheese and baked) potatoes, sprouts, this, that and the other thing sometimes fried, steamed, baked, scalloped, but never microwaved.

It's too much. Too much! You've got to whittle down the side dishes or you just can't eat it all, even after a week of trying.

Imagine my surprise when such opposition came to the main, and fixed, event - turkey.

The turkey is the centerpiece of the dinner. The Guest of Honor. The Che de la Resistance.

I've roasted my turkeys using many recipes. My favorite recipe, however, was dictated by Martha Washington (yes, George's wife) who wrote:

Place the bird in a hot oven and cook until done.

Seriously, you will never find a better recipe than that, and, all things considered, it's been the best regardless of what Robert Siegel would say.

But, no turkey? I was at a loss for words much less ideas, so I enquired further.

"OK, no turkey. What do you want instead?"

The conversation degenerated quickly ...

"How about tofu?"

"Yeah, sculpted into the shape of a turkey and tasting like turkey!"

"How about turkey sausage?"

"Yeah, sculpted into the shape of a turkey and tasting like turkey!"

"How about a big ham?"

"Yeah, sculpted into the shape of a turkey and tasting like turkey!"

"How about a goose or a giant salmon?"

"Yeah, sculpted into the shape of a turkey and tasting like turkey?"

I decided it was time for an intervention.

I said, "How about a fresh, young turkey sculpted into the shape of a turkey and tasting like a turkey?"

The crowd considered the option and voted and surprise, surprise, turkey won by a landslide.

Feeling good about the election I went out on a limb and announced:

"And this year I'm going to put the turkey in sideways instead of straight in the oven."

Silence filled the room.

"Sideways?"

"You mean you're going to put the pan in this way instead of that way?"

Harrumph, mumble, mumble, grouse, grouse, more harrumph.

"No, we've decided that if we're going to have turkey it's going to be nothing fancy, no "Gourmet magazine" turkey, just regular old standard turkey like we have every year. Just so it's sculpted like turkey and tastes like turkey.

Well, you know, I replied, if I try real hard I think I can do that.

Now, what about side dishes. Sweet potatoes anybody?

"Ewwww, yuck, no, not sweet potatoes again!"

"Akkkkkkkk, anything but sweet potatoes!"

"Didn't we have sweet potatoes last year? Can't we have something different?"

I sighed. OK, no sweet potatoes. What would y'all like instead?

"How about tofu! Sculpted to look like and taste like sweet potatoes …"



Slowly, I turned …

Roti See, Roti Do

The Roti.

Indian flat bread. Perfection of such a simple recipe (flour, water and heat) has eluded me for years. My rotis come out like little hubcaps, Frisbees, disci, platters, cutting boards and Space Shuttle heat shield tiles. Yes, I make those for NASA out of flour and water in my very own kitchen. Years of perfection, I tell you.

No longer. I am now the Roti King, or at least the Prince of Rotis.

What changed?

I found a mentor who showed me the way, a veritable Yoda of Indian cooking:

Manjula Jain

Manjula has posted a series of Indian cooking videos on YouTube, just search for "manjulas kitchen" to find them. There's nothing like seeing a dish being cooked to understand what is meant by phrases like "reduce the liquid until the sauce thickens" or "add enough water to form a soft dough." How reduced, how soft? Those are questions that a cook answers while gaining experience, usually at the expense of not getting it right.

It turns out that my failure to produce nice, soft, pliable, chewy, delicate rotis lay in how I cooked them, rather, overcooked them, undercooked them and basically botched the process.

Manjula taught me several things about making rotis:

1. How thin to roll them.
2. Use a very hot, iron skillet or griddle.
3. Turn them twice, and on the second turn press and rotate.

The first time I tried making rotis after watching Manjula I felt the Power in my fingertips. My first rotis came out restaurant perfect. I was amazed, and you will be too. Now, rather than dreading the thought of trying to cook Indian bread I'm looking up more bread recipes to extend my range.

Thank you, Manjula!

And, now, watch as Manjula does the roti.

No Comment

I am not going to comment on the fact that Christmas decorations are up at the Mall. The giant tree which, I swear, they took down in July is back up. Why bother? Why not just leave the thing there year round.

I am not going to comment on the fact that Kroger's had Christmas plates, glasses, candles and cards on display a full week before Halloween, however, not a single Trick-or-Treater dressed as either Santa Claus or a reindeer. (Did get one retro Ninja Turtle which was refreshing.)

I am not going to comment on the number of house decoration company trucks I've seen in the neighborhood. No sooner was the Harley riding inflatable skeleton deflated than Frosty the Snowman rolled into view.

I am not going to comment on Gourmet Magazine going out of business after 70 years, once again teaching me the lesson of never subscribing to a magazine, even one you've subscribed to for over 20 years, for more than one year at a time. Hopefully Mr. Google will be a source of recipes for Baked Armadillo with Fireant Stuffing.

I am not going to comment on the golfer who hit the side of my house and when I went outside he hit a ball to almost exactly the same spot. I learned two things about that golfer. One, he has a bad slice. Two, he has no friends because as they drove by in their carts I shouted over the fence, "Which one of you morons has the bad slice?" and his "friends" ratted him out with gales of laughter, derision and what sounded like dog noises.

I am not going to comment about the effect of beer on golfing.

And, finally, if asked if I have my Christmas shopping done yet or even started my standard reply will be,

"No comment."

November 55th

November 5, 1605

Guy Fawkes and fellow conspirators are caught attempting to blow up the House of Parliament building in London along with King James I and the entire Protestant, and even most of the Catholic, aristocracy and nobility who were inside.

November 5, 2009

Cabinet work is complete and the new 55-inch LCD LED HD TV has been installed. Guy Fawkes might have understood the words "cabinet work" but the rest would be a mystery. Actually, it's mostly a mystery to me which is why I live on Default Street.

I'm sure that tonight there's a documentary on Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot if only I could figure out how to change the channel.





The Original Poem for Guy Fawkes Day

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd (or by God's mercy*)
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring. (Holla*)
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Food Pyramid Redesigned

Looks reasonable to me!

How would you order YOUR food pyramid?

Kink at Three - Happy Birthday!

Kink's official birthday is October 1, but he didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so it's taken me a month to get the film developed. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Oh, yeah, you're right. I have a digital camera. Rats, foiled again!

Kink became quite the Mighty Hunter this year and he can catch a leaping lizard faster than you can say "Orphan Annie."

I think it's because of the night vision goggles I bought him last year.

Floored

"There's furniture in the kitchen."

I wiggled the newspaper to indicate "transmission received" and feeling all Maine-like for no particular reason other than it's Fall Back week muttered an "Ay-yup" for emphasis.

"Oh, I get it." (She's a fast study, my daughter.) "The guys had to move all this stuff from there to here because they're going to paint the floors there."

"Refinish."

"Whatever. How long is this stuff going to be in here?"

I put down the paper, fixed my daughter with The Glare and transmitted the answer telepathically.

"Oh, until the floor is dry, cured or whatever, about two days."

I'm glad I learned telepathy. It saves a lot of time.

Paying the Piper

Or in this case the plumber.

It all started with a damp patch in the front yard which led to a call to the Lawn Sprinkler guys who said: Not our problem.

Then it was a call to the plumber who said, "Youse gots a bad problem." The solution to the problem involved, in part, tearing a giant hole in the closet of a person who wasn't too terribly happy about the giant hole.

Once the plumber finished, the hole remained. It had to be fixed by the House guy. So, I called the House guy to fix the hole in the sheetrock.

Hilarity ensued.

Yeah, said House guy, we can fix that hole for about $300. Deal, I said. I should have stopped there, but noooooooo.

Hey, House guy, while you're here do you think you could do something about our gutters that seemed to have settled into the wrong angle, that is, they dangle and the rain puddles in a triangle, the plants below they do mangle.

House guy said, Fo Shizzle!

And, while you're at it, House guy, how about that trim that's starting to wear, and our hardwood floors need refinishing and I could sure use some carpentry magic on this cabinet so I could buy a HD TV and what about this and what about that.

House guy was very accommodating. Very accommodating, indeed! Nothing was impossible, it just took time and money.

The moral of the story is that I could have done this stuff a little at a time over several years, but as a professional procrastinator I'd lose my certification! Not worth it. Better to do it all at once. Oh, and let's throw in a new washer and dryer, especially if it has a computer in it. Oh, and how about the lights in the garage that haven't worked in 10 years.

House guy said, Fo $hizzle!

Did I mention new toilets? How could I be so remiss??



Ain't they purty?

Train Story

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot was poured …

"One for the road, Doc?"

"Sure, why not," Doc replied smiling at barkeep Leo. Doc and Leo had been friends for years and Doc knew that Leo didn't have to ask "one for the road." It was their joke and the punchline was always the same.

"Nasty out there," Leo observed watching the rain lash against the dark windows of the pub. The wind howled as each lash was delivered against the window as if in punishment.

"Yeah, I'd hate to be driving out in that, but … later, my friend, travel calls."

Leo continued, "At least it's not as bad as the Storm of 1899 when the train went into the abyss."

Doc downed-in-one the shot of Scotch, slid off the barstool somewhat unsteadily, and made his way to the door attempting, unsuccessfully, to pull his overcoat on and wave to Leo.

"G'nite," and Doc disappeared into the storm.

The short walk to the train station was uneventful though wet and cold. Rain bucketed down in sheets and the wind was relentless. Doc clenched his overcoat around his throat and trudged on.

Once aboard the train Doc found his carriage, stowed his gear on the overhead rack, shook out his coat and settled in to the seat next to the window.

On time, the train lurched forward and soon speeded down the track with a rhythmic clackity-clack.

Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Rock-chalk-jayhawk.

Doc looked out the window but saw little. Just a few lights in the distance, dribbles of rain streaming across the window and not much else.

Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack.

Doc's eyes closed.

There was a bump and a train whistle.

Doc awoke with a start and looked around alarmed. All was well, but he was not alone. A passenger sat across from him, dripping wet.

"Oh, hello," Doc stammered wiping condensation from his glasses on his handkerchief, "I must have dozed off! Ha. Ha."

Unmoved the passenger stared straight ahead. Though he didn't blink, water dripped from his eyelids, coursed down his cheeks and puddled on his shirt.

Attempting small talk Doc said, "Nasty night, eh? Good thing we're on a train, what?"

The passenger looked at Doc and with a wry grin, a touch of irony, said, "Oh, yes, good thing we're on a train. Good thing we're on this train. Yes, this train." And, the passenger's eyes drifted towards the black windows, streaked with rain.

Doc mulled the words, "this train," and after a long pause during which the passenger's eyes neither blinked nor turned from the rain streaked window, asked, "This train? Is there anything special about this train?"

As Doc's words hung in the damp air the passenger slowly turned his head and fixed his gaze on Doc. "Oh, yes," he said, "this train is very special. Very special indeed. In fact, it's called the London Special, didn't you know that?"

Doc thought for a moment but couldn't make the reference. London Special? No, he hadn't heard of that.

Turning to the passenger Doc said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with the London Special, although I do take this train every week. It's my regular commute train. Nothing special about it as far as I know."

The door at the end of the carriage opened and the Conductor walked down the aisle. "Evening, Doc," the Conductor said, "nasty night out. We might be a few minutes late into King's Cross."

Doc nodded and the Conductor continued to the next car.

"See?" Doc said to the passenger, "just a few minutes late. Not a big deal. Not a lifetime."

"Not a lifetime," the passenger mused, his eyes distant, "not a lifetime."

"Let me tell you a story," the passenger said, "a story about a train like this on a night like this with passengers like you and …" His voice trailed off.

"It was a dark and stormy night. The Conductor asked if it was safe and the word came back that it was safe enough, but, more importantly, we had to make schedule. That's what it was all about. Not the Hokey Pokey, but making schedule. So, off we went, on time and full of passengers."

"The night drew worse. Rain lashed the windows with such ferocity that passengers squealed with each thunderclap. The carriages rocked two and fro. It was a dreadful ride."

"The tricky part was Lands Bridge over the Down River. It was an old railway bridge, creaky on the best of days and terrifying on every other. It was so dangerous that the Company stationed men to signal the train if the bridge was deemed unsafe."

"So, one night, just like this night, the train to London approached the bridge during a bad storm. The waters had risen. The rain lashed down unmercifully and the bridge was unsafe."

"The lads in charge of signaling the train had been making merry and were quite merry, indeed. They played their cards and drank their rum and warded off the cold and rain."

"In short, the bridge washed out, the signal was not sent and the train plummeted into the abyss with no survivors."

Doc was fascinated by this story, "No survivors?" he said inquired.

The passenger paused. "No. Not everyone who should have died was on that train. There was one survivor. Tragic. One of the watchmen at the bridge was, shall we say, fond of the spirit and was well overly fond of the spirit that night. Yes, he was drunk as a skunk. He failed to light the lantern signaling the train that the bridge was inundated with water and, thus, the train crashed into the abyss losing all hands, feet, heads and bodies of all passengers on board. Legend has it that he was so filled with remorse that he hanged himself on the first anniversary of the calamity."

"Hanged from the very bridge the train failed to cross."

By this time Doc was beginning to feel sort of creeped out. He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the window and, clackity-clack, clakity-clack, fell asleep.

The train rumbled on in the dark.

In his dreams Doc heard screams of panic and despair, but they were dreams and he dreamed and dreamed, and dreamed ,,, "

"Tickets! Tickets, please!"

Doc awoke and tried to shake off the sleep.

"Tickets!" the Conductor shouted, "Tickets!"

Doc rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out his ticket.

"Here it is," he said, "my ticket" and he held it aloft like a prize at the County Fair.

The Conductor punched the ticket and turned to move to the next carriage.

Doc interrupted him.

"Excuse me, sir, but you didn't punch my friend's ticket. He must have wandered off." Doc held aloft the ticket the passenger left on the seat.

The Conductor examined the ticket, turn to Doc, smiled and said,

"Nice one, Doc, nice one! An old ticket for me to punch. Cute. Some sort of All Hallows Eve trick?"

"I don't understand," Doc protested, "my friend was here and I dozed off and, …"

The Conductor dropped the ticket on the seat, looked down and smiled. "Doc," he said, "you've been here the whole time all by yourself. You're such a kidder! Whatever. We're about to arrive. See you next week."

Doc shook it off. Must have been a dream.

Doc picked up his stuff and made his way to the aisle, when he looked down at the seat opposite where the passenger had been sitting and noticed a ticket lying there. He bent down and picked it up. The seat was damp, almost wet and so was the ticket.

Before Doc could call the conductor back to check the ticket, he looked at it himself. It was a regular ticket from Manchester to London. One way. October 31, 1899.

Doc double checked.

1899.

Doc stepped off the train. The clouds had broken and the rain was lessening. Doc shoved the ticket deep in his pocket and walked to the car park. Another day, he thought, not a lifetime.

Penance

NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month is upon me.

November. NaBloPoMo challenges me to post something every day. I've done it successfully since 2006 and don't plan to ruin my streak this year, although, judging from my October output, exactly Zero, I'm not off to a good start.

As a wise friend of mine once said, "Excuses are no substitute for success."

November, bring it on!

Hamburger Florentine

There's a lot to be said for a good hamburger.

Choice ground beef cooked to perfection over an open fire. Complemented with fresh lettuce, tomato, cheese, mayonnaise and mustard.

There are local variations that include chilis, mushrooms, onions, sauerkraut and, "Excuse me, but do you happen to have some Grey Poupon?"

Whatever.

The basics are simple. Good meat cooked well and accompaniments.

So, why do I feel slighted after preparing a grand Hamburger Dinner to contrast it with what the cats ate?

We had hamburgers.

The cats had Tuna Florentine and Chicken Tuscany, with a side order of Succulent Ocean Bits and washed down with L'eau de Houston 2009.

For some reason my hamburger tasted a little dry.

The Four Stages of Leak

There are Two Universal Truths:

Concrete cracks.

Plumbing leaks.

You may have noticed that this posting is not titled "The Four Stages of Crack."

That leaves Leak.

As in drip. drip. drip. drip. Leaks never fix themselves. They only get worse. Just ask the Grand Canyon.

*sigh*

It all started with noticing that part of the front yard was damper than other parts of the front yard where things were dying for lack of water. We had cactus to the east and a jungle to the west. At first we thought it was a misaligned sprinkler head, which we corrected, but the damp spot got damper. And Damper. And DAMPER. AND WETTER!!

Recently, the damp spot turned into a pond.

More recently, the pond turned into a lake.

Very recently, I have been having a good time fishing carp and bass out of our lake until it was pointed out to me that I should not be fishing in my own front yard, unless I had lakefront property, which I don't. (Damn! I'll have to cancel that boat order.)

As Scoobie Doo would say, "Ruh roh!"

I called my plumber whom I HEART and told him "I think I have a problem."

Of course, I've never called my plumber just to wish him a good day or to tell him the Houston Texans are sure to win the Super Bowl. (I'll probably NEVER make THAT call.) Anyway ...

Shortly later ...

My plumber arrived, surveyed the property and pronounced those fateful words one dreads to hear, "I'm pregnant."

Uh, no, that wasn't it. I wish!

This was it: You have a small leak.

Note that in Nature there is no such thing as a "small leak." In the Universal scheme of things Niagara Falls is a "small leak." The Grand Canyon is the result of a "small leak."

I'm sort of torqued off that Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon didn't have to call a plumber!

Seriously, what's up with that???

To make a long and sordid story short, the leak appeared to be where the City Water supply joins the house.

"Appeared." That is, not *exactly* identified. After hours of digging in the mud why was that? Well,

Unfortunately for me, the builder, now sunning himself in Acapulco I suspect, situated that connection underneath the concrete slabs that support our multi-ton air conditioning compressors.

Yes, the water supply connection is located under concrete.

Why?

To make repairs Interesting! Exciting! Expensive! Muddy! Possibly Impossible!

To give you a clue, one of the proposed fixes involved helicopters. Skyhooks. Seriously. Airbourne Plumbers.

I had no idea. I think they construct their parachutes out of $100 bills. Apparently they're light and strong but fall somewhat faster than chutes made out of Euros.

Now we're going through the Four Stages of Leak.

The first stage is Shock. What? A leak? Where? OMG!!!! Leeeeeaaaaaakkkkkkkk!

The second stage is Denial. It's not a real leak. It's runoff. The neighbor watered our yard as a prank. It's always been like that.

The third stage is Anger. How dare it leak! Stupid pipes! Stupid builder! Stupid water! Stupid gravity! Stupid Bill Gates!

The fourth stage is Acceptance. OK, here's my checkbook, Visa card, first born and car. Let me know when it's over. Be gentle.




We are somewhere between Stage 1 and Stage 2.

Personally, I'm looking forward to Stage 3!

Stay tuned to Part 2.

Not So Hot

My friend, Genevieve, reports from the South Pole.

Yes, she lives at the South Pole.

In case you're thinking of going down there to cool off, better check this out!

As Seen From Outer Space

They say that three strikes and you’re out.

They say three’s company.

They say that the third time’s the charm.

They say that three coffees is six two few.

They say. They say. They say.

I’m tired of “they say.” I want to make the rules. I want to have my say.

Bill says: Three strikes and you’re out unless you really tried in which case you get two more, but only if Bill Sez.

Bill says: Three’s company. You can stay three days, then pack up and get out, but only if Bill Sez.

Bill says: Third time’s not the charm. Second time’s the charm, then you’re a moron, especially if it takes you three times to park your car. Bill don’t have to Sez on this.

Case in point. I pulled into my local grocery store as I usually do by turning right into Entrance Number One and proceeding to what I call the Down Aisle which lines me up with the store entrance and in close proximity to the cart return rack. Entrance Number One is the premier entrance to professional shoppers like me. Close to the front door. Close to the cart return rack. Perfectly lined up for egress to the street and home. (I love using the word “egress.” So few opportunities.)

So, cruising on auto-pilot, guiding my vehicle to Parking Nirvana, imagine my surprise as I came face-to-face, nose-to-nose, toe-to-toe, bumper-to-bumper with a large vehicle driven by a very small person going Up the Down.

Up the Down?

UP THE DOWN! That’s like driving on a One Way street the Other Way. That’s like climbing Up a ladder when I’m climbing Down the same ladder. That’s like, that’s like ...

I began to sputter. In French. Zut alors! Up zee Down!

Not only was this inconsiderate moron driving Up the Down but he was driving what can only be called a Land Barge, a huge vehicle of universal proportions.

A Chevy Suburban would have been dwarfed by comparison. So would a Ford Excursion or a Humvee.

This vehicle was truly huge. It would be like driving an aircraft carrier on wheels. That huge. I’m surprised he didn’t have tugboats guiding him Up the Down.

It’s inconceivable this wrong-way Peachfuzz captain was going the Wrong Way. Up the Down!

I squeezed to one side to let Captain Moron do his thing and begone. Fortunately, he slid by at zero miles per hour, standard operating speed for morons and disappeared behind me.

But, then, before I could mutter zut alors again, Captain Moron proceeded to go down the next parking aisle. Down the Up!

What?

Not content to drive Up the Down, now he drives Down the Up!

I pulled out my moron ledger and scribbled, “Strike Two.”

Now, a more forgiving type might have excused Captain Moron for having mistaken the Up aisle for the Down aisle, and then the Down aisle for the Up aisle.

Except for one thing.

The parking lot aisles are marked by H U G E A R R O W S that can be

Seen.

From.

Space.

Seriously.

There they are in the photo below copied graciously from the good people at Google*. Giant, white seen-from-outer-fricking-space Arrows pointing Up the Up and Down the Down!

The bottom line is that if you can’t navigate a parking lot then you need to be restricted to a bicycle.

And soft food.

And that’s because, Bill Sez.




*(Google, who makes Life better and brings better Life to you!)

OMG this is so OMG!

I am a Facebook friend of Christine!

That's the person holding the tuba-thing in the video picture below.

Yes, Ms Irlweg!

I'm "Ms Irlweg's" Facebook friend.

OMG, OMG, OMG!




(All joking aside, yes, this is very cool and I will be strutting my cool-a-tude tomorrow. Watch for it.)

Video at Eleven

My daughter said, "We ought to tape our dinner table conversations!"

I said, "Do you really want to see that stuff in court?"

United Breaks Guitars Part 2

Dave Carroll and the Sons of Maxwell continue the saga of his broken guitar:





Revisit the original story here!

Close Encounter with a Penguin

Canadian Bacon

Scrambled eggs with bits.

Buckwheat blueberry pancakes.

Cottage cheese.

Bacon, bacon, bacon!

Coffee and cranberry juice.

Ich bin ein Canadian!

(Oh, Rafters Six Ranch, north of Calgary.)

Gumbo

Might as well start with a picture of the finished product.

People stop me on the street and ask, "What's you secret to great gumbo?" I get that ALL the time.

Can't hardly step out of my house without the paparazzi flashing in my face and shouting for gumbo recipes. "Bill! Bill! Show us your gumboes!"

If it gets any worse I'll be forced to live in a bunker at an undisclosed location.

Srsly.

So, anyway, here's my secret, but I'm telling you in advance you're not going to like it. Most people when they think about a Secret Recipe assume it has a Secret Ingredient, like monarch butterfly tongues or porcupine spleen or Kate Gosselin's bathwater. But, that's just hogwash.

The world has asked for it so here it is.

The secret to my World Famous Gumbo is: patience.

Yeah, I knew you'd be disappointed. I can hear the sighs from here; either that or it's the burrito I had for lunch.

But, really, that's it. Patience. You can't rush a good gumbo. It takes 2-3 hours to make a gumbo and if you try to bang one out in seven minutes you're only going to get a heap of disappointment.

The basis of a good gumbo, however, is different than the secret of a good gumbo. The basis of a good gumbo is the roux. And a successful roux requires, you guessed it, patience.

Lately I've been using Danno's recipe for a roux which is three-quarters of a cup of white flour mixed with a half cup of oil. I've been using peanut oil with good success.

In a cast iron pot over a medium heat whisk (pronounced 'Hwhisk') until smooth and cook slowly until the roux is done.

What is done?

Well, that depends on how dark you want your gumbo. A gumbo will only be as dark as the roux and there are several stages: light, blonde, peanut, light chocolate, dark chocolate and mahogany. Oh, I suppose there's "burnt," too.

A roux requires patience because you have to stir it constantly while it's cooking. No slacking off and letting it sit for a while because it will scorch and once that happens it's ruined. There is no way to fix a scorched roux except to pretend you like scorched gumbo.

There's probably a reason why we haven't seen Doritos with Extra Scorch Flavor on the shelves.

Or the McSneaker. Now with extra Scorching! Not only does it have that great Burned Tennis Shoe smell but it tastes like one too!

The bottom line is that it takes about 40 minutes to get a roux to the chocolate stage, like the gumbo in the picture.

Once the roux is ready you can add in the other ingredients in sequence: sausage and the Trinity.

The Trinity is the basis for a lot of Southern cooking: onion, celery and bell pepper. You can use any kind of onion, Spanish, yellow or white, and any kind of bell pepper, green, red, yellow or orange, depending on what kind of color combination you want in your gumbo.

After the vegetables have softened, add the stock, some spices, cover and let it simmer for 90 minutes to two hours. This is the time the gumbo works its magic, the flavors mingle and it develops character.

How do you know it's working? After an hour or so someone in the house should call out, "Hey, what's that wonderful smell?" Unless you scorched the roux in which case they're likely to say, "Aw, man, sneakers again?"

Here's the blueprint directly from Danno with modifications made by me because I didn't have some of the ingredients but I had other stuff and, anyway, gumbo is an art not a science.

Danno's Gumbo Recipe

Okra Gumbo with Chicken & Andouille Sausage

1/2 Cup Vegetable Oil

3/4 Cup All Purpose Flour

4 Tbsp Creole Seasoning

1 Cup Onions, diced

1/2 Cup Red Bell Pepper, diced

1/2 Cup Celery, Diced

1 1/2 Cups Andouille Sausage, diced

3 Tbsp Garlic, chopped

1 Cup Okra, trimmed and sliced
 (didn't have okra)
6 Cups cold Chicken Stock (I used hot chicken stock made with Knorr Chicken Stock cubes.)

3 Fresh Bay Leaves

4 Chicken Thighs, deboned, cut into 1 inch cubes and seasoned liberally with Creole Seasoning
 (I used fresh shrimp, frozen bay scallops and fresh tilapia)
2 Tbsp Worcestershire Sauce

Hot Sauce to taste

Kosher Salt to taste, if necessary

2 Tablespoons Italian Parsley, chopped

1/4 Cup Thinly Sliced Green Onions

Creole Boiled Rice
 (My rice cooker did the job.)
Fresh French Bread (I made corn bread, instead)

Mix your onion, celery, and bell pepper together: The Holy Trinity.


Heat the oil in a cast iron dutch oven over medium heat. Whisk in the flour to make a milk chocolate Roux

Add the Andouille, 1 Tbsp of Seasoning, and 3/4 of the Holy Trinity, cook, stirring often, for about ten minutes or until the vegetables soften. Add the cold stock, remaining seasoning, okra, remaining trinity, and Garlic.

Bring to a Boil. Bring this down to a simmer, add the thigh meat and let it go for at least 2 hours, stirring occasionally.

(For seafood gumbo I let the sausage and Trinity cook for 90 minutes. Then I throw in pealed shrimp (B flat or C major), chopped or not. It's up to you. After 30 minutes more I add the scallops and fish because they don't need much cooking and if you overcook them they will simply fall apart.)

About 10-15 minutes before you’re ready to serve, remove the Chicken from the bone and add the meat back to the pot. Add the Worcestershire, Hot Sauce, and 1/2 of the Green Onions.

Serve with Creole Boiled Rice, crusty French Bread, and a good cold beer (I like Dixie or Abita Amber).
Garnish with green onions, and the parsley.

Death of a Chefsman

It is with great and profound sadness that I report the death by cancer of my friend Bill Moran.

I knew that Bill had been ill for several years and travelled from his home in south Texas to Houston for treatment. We planned many lunch dates only to be broken by extended treatment schedules or other inconvenient circumstances and, in fact, we never met one-to-one.

Regardless, I considered Bill a friend, confident, mentor and collaborator for all things food-related. We traded recipes, gave tips on new restaurants and discussed several books we would write about southwestern cuisine.

Now, that's all gone like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. Where there was light and laughter only smoke remains.

I don't know how long Bill's website, The Texas Chef will be up but it's worth a visit to read his recipes and get a sense of who the man was. He was passionate about that unique combination of Mexico and food and his love for flavorful, homestyle cooking will hopefully live on.

Happy trails, Bill, and pay attention when they say "the plate is hot."

Your friend forever,

bill

We're Number One!

Twelve Two Two Fondue is back on top, Google Number One hit for the phrase:

rent a snake

We had dropped to Number Two after a real snake rental shop in Zaire made a brief foray into the Intertubes. However, as of today the competition has slithered off into the brush.

We're Number One!

We're Number One!

Hey, don't knock it. At least we're Number One in something!

United Makes It Right

Kudos from Twelve Two Two Fondue to United Airlines for making things right with Dave Carroll (see below) and his broken guitar saga.

United Airlines will donate $3000 to a musical charity helping kids.

Dave sought no personal compensation.

Furthermore and unexpectedly, Taylor Guitars is making a personal donation to Dave and the Sons of Maxwell in the form of a few musical instruments. Good on you, Taylor, you were the good guys all along!

Dave Carroll, we are not worthy. You asked yourself the question "What can I do about this situation" and came up with a solution that highlighted the problem, put forth your point of view and left the "answer" wide open.

Perfect.

Now, if it's not too much to ask, do you think you could write a song about a Barky Dog?

United Breaks Guitars

They say that Revenge is a dish best served cold, but here's an example that's sweet and hot.

Here's the story:

Musician Dave Carroll with the Sons of Maxwell were traveling on United Airlines to Nebraska via Chicago O'Hare when passengers noticed baggage handlers throwing guitar cases.

Turns out they broke Dave's guitar and his heart.

United Airlines admitted fault, but Dave was finally told after a year of chasing red herrings and wild geese that he would not be compensated for his loss.

So, Dave promised the last person to finally say "no" to compensation (Ms. Irlweg) that he would write and produce three songs chronicling his experience.

Hello, United Airlines, they say that any publicity is good publicity. I'm not so sure about that!

Hello Marlo!

Marlo Iris Armstrong
7lbs 15oz
21 inches
born 1:53am, 6/14/09

Came >This< Close

I came >this< close to living on "The Shelf" Thirty Years Ago.

Whoa! Dodged that bullet!

Helen has fortitude with a Capital F to have put up with me all these years as friends, kids, pets, neighbors, random people on the street, dead fish and the Intertube will attest! (some of them unpaid for this endorsement)

So, here's to you, Sweetie! Thanks for taking me off the Shelf.

Sorry, Baby.

Sorry, Baby, but, you know, all good things ...

Last forever?

*sighs* Not quite.

What?

Those late nights. Me watching the door. You didn't pick up on that?

I thought you were preoccupied. Busy. Focused. I didn't think it was about me ...

No, sweetie, it was never about you. You've been strong and I love you so much, but ...

There should never be a "but" after that.

Yes, well, Time marches on and, well, this is good-bye. I'm moving on.

With her?

Yes.

Please, not that I'm begging, but out of curiosity, why?

Totally gratuitous. Slimmer. Faster. More colorful. Oh, and you know that little clasp? It's gone.

I could tape my clasp down.

You're grasping.

You used to grasp ...

OK, I think this conversation is over. I've made up my mind. I'm moving on. You should, too.

Easy for you to say, but where will I go?

How about with the Boy?

The Boy? But, he's just ...

Just what? Tall? Tanned? Ripped? Young? Am I missing something?

Do you think the Boy would like me?

Baby, get ready to have your keys pounded, your video overheated and your memory blown out!

I'll see you from time to time?

Yeah, we'll network. You can count on that. Now, scoot, before I change my mind!

Look, there's the Boy now! Ciao! Oh, Boy ... Boy! Want to play a game?

The Image of France

This to me is the perfect image of France.

A perfect slice of cheese, showing delicate textures, on a perfect scrap of bread held by perfectly manicured fingers in perfect exposure and focus.

That and hyperbole.

Good-bye, Kiddo.

"Hello, Kiddo."

That was the first line that David "Bill" Carradine spoke to Uma "Beatrix Kiddo" Thurman in the Quentin Tarantino's epic Kill Bill Volume 2.

Such a playful play on words.

KB2 is my favorite film of all time because of the tight dialog. It's been reduced so much that you couldn't take out another word. No fat in this film.

Wo Fat. He was the villain in the TV show "Hawaii 5-O" but totally irrelevant to this story.

(I just thought "no fat" "wo fat" - never mind)

I first came across the actor David Carradine in the 70's TV show "Kung Fu." We watched it every week. Riveting stuff. In fact, that show with it's oriental mysticism set many of us off on eastern philosophical journeys. Carradine's character, Kwai Chang Caine, became a role model for physical and mental excellence. We all strived to carry that urn of glowing embers into the snow!

So it is with a touch of sadness that I mourn the passing of David Carradine. He's had memorable impacts on my life and I wish him the best in the Great Beyond.

Good-bye, Kiddo. Safe journey.

France?