Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
12 August 2008
11 August 2008
This one won't make sense unless you follow the link, but then it suddenly becomes hilarious...
I have no idea how people keep their blogs going. Especially during the Olympics.
I've got Olympic fever so bad, it makes food poisoning look like the sniffles.
So what about those Olympic games? And what about those Olympic tastebuds? Well, how about goose liver and a 'thousand-layer' beancurd cake? Yum.
Yum?
Well, if it's good enough for a handful of diplomats, it's good enough for thousands of Tibetans, no? Well... no.
86 the melon cup for the peasants.
I've got Olympic fever so bad, it makes food poisoning look like the sniffles.
So what about those Olympic games? And what about those Olympic tastebuds? Well, how about goose liver and a 'thousand-layer' beancurd cake? Yum.
Yum?
Well, if it's good enough for a handful of diplomats, it's good enough for thousands of Tibetans, no? Well... no.
86 the melon cup for the peasants.
13 May 2008
Reflections on Food in Art #1
This is the first in a series of posts where we'll take a look at food depicted in visual art. By no means is this meant to be an exhaustive list, rather just the personal thoughts of one simple me to the representation of cuisine.
I could think of no better painting with which to begin this study than Picasso's Charnel House of c. 1945. On a table -- drawn in loose line -- sits a warm meal uneaten. On the floor below the table lies the remains of a tortured family, gagged and broken.
Such an image of unrequited sustenance and grotesque death conjures in my mind a scene from the Aeneid. Aeneas and his men have just been shipwrecked and the sailors are trying to strain loose grain that had tumbled from barrels into the water during the chaos of the storm. They will cook these grains on fires lit on the soaked shore. This marks the first time the Trojans had set foot on land since leaving Troy -- a Troy burning in flame. And as they had left the burning city, Aeneas had paused for just a moment in reflection and shock before the Temple of Ceres, goddess of grain. In Vergil's image, we see the forces of life and death subverted and reinstalled.
Likewise in Picasso's meditation of rage on the senseless killing of the Second World War, we see the necessary and the whole and the true perverted. All that remains is the casserole that speaks volumes more about senselessness and suffering than any voice ungagged ever could.
17 December 2007
LTSRPotatoes Vid! Coming soon!
The excitement rises. Like a blister.
Tonight, SNACKS (Tom Boram / Dan Breen) is coming over to the house and we're shooting the first LTSRPotatoes video! Yes, it will be a cooking show. And yes, it will ruin your opinion of cooking shows.
Beware.
03 December 2007
Is there a doctor in the house?
I've been eating food.
Haven't been near the computer in a few days. Too busy eating food. And then came down with a late-autumn sinus thing which actually makes tasting food impossible. Strange sensation.
On Sat we had a pre-birthday birthday thing for MJ -- this followed a massively stomach-filling trip to Akbar with Aaron for the afternoon buffet-- yesterday morning was a coffee-fueled brunch for Melissa's birthday and last night Dierker (whose birthday it also is) and family came over for some of my own Indian cooking.
And then this morning I wake up and can't breathe. Which leads me to the question of the week: why does stuff taste funny when you are sick?
I am counting on all you doctors out there to set me straight on this one. Post away.
Haven't been near the computer in a few days. Too busy eating food. And then came down with a late-autumn sinus thing which actually makes tasting food impossible. Strange sensation.
On Sat we had a pre-birthday birthday thing for MJ -- this followed a massively stomach-filling trip to Akbar with Aaron for the afternoon buffet-- yesterday morning was a coffee-fueled brunch for Melissa's birthday and last night Dierker (whose birthday it also is) and family came over for some of my own Indian cooking.
And then this morning I wake up and can't breathe. Which leads me to the question of the week: why does stuff taste funny when you are sick?
I am counting on all you doctors out there to set me straight on this one. Post away.
15 November 2007
Dada Food Review -- inspired by Jaap Blonk
food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food food
12 November 2007
I am trying to understand food humor
"I-am-dying-and-I-need-your-help".
I Googled this about fifteen minutes ago, and apparently no one in the history of recorded humanity has ever spoken these words in English one after the other (or at least as was ever reported to the Internet) ...
I wonder why this is.
I would think that, perhaps, this is one of the more common requests by people who are dying and need help.
That said, I'm very surprised that this phrase has apparently NEVER been uttered on or across the Internet.
In English, at least.
Perhaps Huns, Icelanders, and the Swiss are constantly asking for help, or not asking for help. Don't know. I'm handling a limited run here.
Perhaps this says something about the real value of Internet friends. I mean, could you imagine a MySpace comment that reads: "I am dying and I need your help"?
The response would be like: "So what?" or "I'm sure you'll love our new song!" [typed 15 hours later and in hopes to pick up more 'friends' from the return post as if the former statement would make the stiff feel more or less inclined to return a congeniality volley essentially].
So, let's try to fit this into a post that has something to do with food...
What if the person were dying of... spoiled cabbage?!?
Nah.
No, it really ain't that funny and it actually has nothing to do with food. Unless in fact it were darn funny and had anything to do with food. Like in "he's dying of gluttonous epicurean sea-urchin intake". And even then... well... yeah, though that would be relatively funny, it would still be... Well, it would actually be kinda funny.
I Googled this about fifteen minutes ago, and apparently no one in the history of recorded humanity has ever spoken these words in English one after the other (or at least as was ever reported to the Internet) ...
I wonder why this is.
I would think that, perhaps, this is one of the more common requests by people who are dying and need help.
That said, I'm very surprised that this phrase has apparently NEVER been uttered on or across the Internet.
In English, at least.
Perhaps Huns, Icelanders, and the Swiss are constantly asking for help, or not asking for help. Don't know. I'm handling a limited run here.
Perhaps this says something about the real value of Internet friends. I mean, could you imagine a MySpace comment that reads: "I am dying and I need your help"?
The response would be like: "So what?" or "I'm sure you'll love our new song!" [typed 15 hours later and in hopes to pick up more 'friends' from the return post as if the former statement would make the stiff feel more or less inclined to return a congeniality volley essentially].
So, let's try to fit this into a post that has something to do with food...
What if the person were dying of... spoiled cabbage?!?
Nah.
No, it really ain't that funny and it actually has nothing to do with food. Unless in fact it were darn funny and had anything to do with food. Like in "he's dying of gluttonous epicurean sea-urchin intake". And even then... well... yeah, though that would be relatively funny, it would still be... Well, it would actually be kinda funny.
16 October 2007
On Flying Pizzas and Astrophysics
Not sure what started the food fights. But once they started, there was no stopping them.
This was back in high school. In an all boy's catholic school in west baltimore, to be more precise. Among the things I remember about the cafeteria was that there was a huge over-sized portrait of the founder of the order of Religious Brothers that ran the place. He was a dead-ringer for Mr. Drummond from 'Diff'rent Strokes'.
Which is one of the reasons I remember the image of an opened-and-tossed pudding-cup staining his jowls.
The cafeteria was a dangerous place. If you weren't on the inside, you were toast. So, let me give you an insider's view.
Mind you: 1) I never actually took part in a food fight. I was what you might call an anthropological investigator -- at the time, I think the boys tossing the pizzas had another name for me. 2) I do not condone wasting food in any way; I will be the first to admit that what happened back then was immature and despicable... and obviously the fault of a lax administration.
It started off innocently enough... a whiplashed french-fry here, a spit-balled straw-wrapper there. Pretty soon there was meat and cheese flying through the air.
Coincidentally, one of our most celebrated food-tossers is now an astrophysicist. So go figure.
Anyway, let's get into one of the more audacious events. John drowning the Freshman.
See, the foodfights had become so common and the administration was so woefully unprepared to deal with them, that they started to get boring. You can only see so many flying cheeseburgers before they all start to run together.
So, John -- a boy thrice the scale of the ordinary nerd -- decided upon a campaign of direct guerrilla action.
I remember it like it was yesterday. The most disturbing food-fight technique I've ever seen demonstrated. John picks up a large cup of soda, walks over to a table of Freshmen, and doesn't fling the drink, nor toss it over his shoulder -- he actually removes the lid and proceeds to pour the soda directly onto an unwitting boy. This was food-fight gone bully-style. Bad news. Yet memorable. I've long thought this could make a perfect characterization in a high school movie.
The greatest of all food-fighters was the aforementioned astrophysicist. A man who could fling half a pizza thirty yards under the radar of the lone teacher-on-duty. A man who could take out a Channel-One TV with a half-eaten apple. A man who single-handedly could cause a riot among 200 high school boys using nothing other than a popsicle and a Sprite.
Immature? Absolutely. The stuff of legend? Right again.
The young astrophysicist was actually the only student I've ever known either when I was a student, or now as a teacher, who was such a threat to society that he actually got banned from the cafeteria. For two years.
Haven't seen a food fight in some time. Good riddance. Food is scarce these days and it seems that kids have more respect for it. They're busy getting in trouble in other ways. Good for them.
But there's something about that image of a pizza flying through the air that is so surreal, so stupid, so wrong. It just ingrains itself on yr brain and there-ever-after stands not as an image of waste, but an image of youth -- which, come to think of it, are two things often confused with one another.
This was back in high school. In an all boy's catholic school in west baltimore, to be more precise. Among the things I remember about the cafeteria was that there was a huge over-sized portrait of the founder of the order of Religious Brothers that ran the place. He was a dead-ringer for Mr. Drummond from 'Diff'rent Strokes'.
Which is one of the reasons I remember the image of an opened-and-tossed pudding-cup staining his jowls.
The cafeteria was a dangerous place. If you weren't on the inside, you were toast. So, let me give you an insider's view.
Mind you: 1) I never actually took part in a food fight. I was what you might call an anthropological investigator -- at the time, I think the boys tossing the pizzas had another name for me. 2) I do not condone wasting food in any way; I will be the first to admit that what happened back then was immature and despicable... and obviously the fault of a lax administration.
It started off innocently enough... a whiplashed french-fry here, a spit-balled straw-wrapper there. Pretty soon there was meat and cheese flying through the air.
Coincidentally, one of our most celebrated food-tossers is now an astrophysicist. So go figure.
Anyway, let's get into one of the more audacious events. John drowning the Freshman.
See, the foodfights had become so common and the administration was so woefully unprepared to deal with them, that they started to get boring. You can only see so many flying cheeseburgers before they all start to run together.
So, John -- a boy thrice the scale of the ordinary nerd -- decided upon a campaign of direct guerrilla action.
I remember it like it was yesterday. The most disturbing food-fight technique I've ever seen demonstrated. John picks up a large cup of soda, walks over to a table of Freshmen, and doesn't fling the drink, nor toss it over his shoulder -- he actually removes the lid and proceeds to pour the soda directly onto an unwitting boy. This was food-fight gone bully-style. Bad news. Yet memorable. I've long thought this could make a perfect characterization in a high school movie.
The greatest of all food-fighters was the aforementioned astrophysicist. A man who could fling half a pizza thirty yards under the radar of the lone teacher-on-duty. A man who could take out a Channel-One TV with a half-eaten apple. A man who single-handedly could cause a riot among 200 high school boys using nothing other than a popsicle and a Sprite.
Immature? Absolutely. The stuff of legend? Right again.
The young astrophysicist was actually the only student I've ever known either when I was a student, or now as a teacher, who was such a threat to society that he actually got banned from the cafeteria. For two years.
Haven't seen a food fight in some time. Good riddance. Food is scarce these days and it seems that kids have more respect for it. They're busy getting in trouble in other ways. Good for them.
But there's something about that image of a pizza flying through the air that is so surreal, so stupid, so wrong. It just ingrains itself on yr brain and there-ever-after stands not as an image of waste, but an image of youth -- which, come to think of it, are two things often confused with one another.
11 October 2007
Food Divine with Itself
Upstairs frenzied in knife slices, pointing fingers, barked laughs, and spumes of red dust; downstairs candlelit smoky aware, laughs and yelps yelping laughs, and flowing wine weighted into glassy hollow devious.
Upstairs preparation come together whole in holy helpless improvised recipe. Sestina myth writer, cut yr tofu into floppy diamonds.
The garlic went off like land mines on the refugee tender tongue.
Full-assault food. Pickled red cabbage caverns dusty with cayenne pepper. Seitan thrice sautéed in crusty Old Bay paprika fix.
Food that works on yr glands.
But not all hot and sweaty. Sweet lemon peppers and rosemary crushed and mixed with minced Greek oregano, simmered in margarine and Atlantic sea-salt and drizzled over wild rice and oats stuffed into gnarly bell peppers. Pears slow cooked in Brandy and white wine flourished with raisins and served with milky Chai. Krishna stuff.
Chick Peas rolled in olive oil, shuddered red pepper, and coarse salt. Cucumber sliced raw and served on plate with ice.
Early Sunday morning I fell into a deep sleep. No dreams. Just the sensation of olfactory memory flashbacks occasionally dragging me forth into half-consciousness like ghosts hungry in the pre-dawn mist.
Ah, Food.
07 October 2007
Tales from the Big Head
Still recovering from the experience of cooking for seventeen people last night. What a night! Posted above is a pic of Jorge holding the Spinach and Soy Salad.
There will be a bigger and bolder post on this tomorrow, but for now may it suffice to say that I've got a ring finger swollen to twice its normal size (jalapeno oil under the nail) and I haven't been able to focus my mind all day (raw peppers... Portuguese liqueurs...)
Last night's theme: extremes.
On the hot side: Seitan sautéed in Old Bay and Cayenne pepper.
On the cold side: An icecube. (literally).
Ok. So tomorrow you get the whole story (I've gotta go rest my finger).
10 September 2007
Kids' Game
Watched a 10-month-old eat last night.
He was really into the mashed potatoes. Liked peas too. And he bore a striking resemblance to Henry Rollins.
Kids are funny about food. I've got a niece who won't eat anything but chocolate and French fries. Talk about living the life. If I could eat nothing but chocolate and French fries and maintain a reasonable weight and metabolism, you'd never see me out of the house. I'd sit in the kitchen all day with the Hershey's and the Utz.
I bet that would get really gross after a while.
But kids can pull off food-things that adults can't touch. Example: baby-food. Why do we spend money buying food for our most vulnerable human friends that we wouldn't feed our cats?
Baby-food sucks.
Babies know this. Ever watched a baby being fed? That face they make? Uh-huh. That's the beginning of profanity right there.
But they deal.
My kids' favorite is sushi. Every couple of weeks I pick up a pack of Nori sheets from the grocer and roll avacados and cucumbers for dinner. The kids have helped me discover a few things, too. I think it was their idea to put strawberries in the sushi. Talk about genius. If you've never eaten strawberries with sticky rice and seaweed, you just haven't lived.
Funny. When I was a kid, my favorite was Count Chocula. And I don't just mean that it was my favorite high-octane teeth-rotter. I mean it was my absolute favorite food. Count Chocula and bowling-alley pizza. More proof that I was a born Epicurian.
He was really into the mashed potatoes. Liked peas too. And he bore a striking resemblance to Henry Rollins.
Kids are funny about food. I've got a niece who won't eat anything but chocolate and French fries. Talk about living the life. If I could eat nothing but chocolate and French fries and maintain a reasonable weight and metabolism, you'd never see me out of the house. I'd sit in the kitchen all day with the Hershey's and the Utz.
I bet that would get really gross after a while.
But kids can pull off food-things that adults can't touch. Example: baby-food. Why do we spend money buying food for our most vulnerable human friends that we wouldn't feed our cats?
Baby-food sucks.
Babies know this. Ever watched a baby being fed? That face they make? Uh-huh. That's the beginning of profanity right there.
But they deal.
My kids' favorite is sushi. Every couple of weeks I pick up a pack of Nori sheets from the grocer and roll avacados and cucumbers for dinner. The kids have helped me discover a few things, too. I think it was their idea to put strawberries in the sushi. Talk about genius. If you've never eaten strawberries with sticky rice and seaweed, you just haven't lived.
Funny. When I was a kid, my favorite was Count Chocula. And I don't just mean that it was my favorite high-octane teeth-rotter. I mean it was my absolute favorite food. Count Chocula and bowling-alley pizza. More proof that I was a born Epicurian.
03 September 2007
Beware the Wedding Chicken
Ok. So I was gone for a couple of days wrapped up with events related to my sister's wedding.
Ah... wedding food, the pros and cons.
On the plus side, there was an excellent tasting veggie option of a conch-shell sized noodle filled with ricotta cheese. In my mind, I sort of visualized this situation in which vegetarian Scots found themselves inventing the world's first veggie haggis substitute.
On the con side, the salad. My brother-and-law spent about ten minutes botanically analyzing the contents of our bowls. We know there were dandelions in there. Perhaps stalks of grass, too. If it was grass, it wasn't that bad. For eating grass, that is. But you're not going to see sod on my pantry shelf anytime soon.
My cousin gave great kudos to the bride and groom for refraining from serving the wedding-chicken. I think wedding-chicken must be a special breed. I'm sure I saw them displayed at the State Fair last week. Prize-winning wedding-chickens. They're lean, they're mean, and they come with some weird sauce.
Finally we came to dessert. Why is it that only at weddings do folks serve desserts that no one wants to eat? I don't understand why people spend $500 on a cake covered in velvet and shellac when a $12 sheet-cake from the supermarket would do the trick. And don't tell me that I'm just not sophisticated. It is a proven fact that no one actually prefers wedding cake to sheet cake. And if you do, well you're the freak. Go see a doctor. There's something wrong with you.
That said, the desserts at this wedding were pretty darn tasty. We especially liked the chocolate dollops with sliced peanut ears made to look like little mice. Yummy.
All in all, I'd say that this wedding was a gastronomical success. I didn't meet anyone who had anything less than stellar to say about their entree, be it sirloin, salmon, or veggie haggis. And the wine kept flowing and the band kept the dancefloor shaking.
And not a wedding-chicken seen all night.
Congrats to the bride and groom.
Ah... wedding food, the pros and cons.
On the plus side, there was an excellent tasting veggie option of a conch-shell sized noodle filled with ricotta cheese. In my mind, I sort of visualized this situation in which vegetarian Scots found themselves inventing the world's first veggie haggis substitute.
On the con side, the salad. My brother-and-law spent about ten minutes botanically analyzing the contents of our bowls. We know there were dandelions in there. Perhaps stalks of grass, too. If it was grass, it wasn't that bad. For eating grass, that is. But you're not going to see sod on my pantry shelf anytime soon.
My cousin gave great kudos to the bride and groom for refraining from serving the wedding-chicken. I think wedding-chicken must be a special breed. I'm sure I saw them displayed at the State Fair last week. Prize-winning wedding-chickens. They're lean, they're mean, and they come with some weird sauce.
Finally we came to dessert. Why is it that only at weddings do folks serve desserts that no one wants to eat? I don't understand why people spend $500 on a cake covered in velvet and shellac when a $12 sheet-cake from the supermarket would do the trick. And don't tell me that I'm just not sophisticated. It is a proven fact that no one actually prefers wedding cake to sheet cake. And if you do, well you're the freak. Go see a doctor. There's something wrong with you.
That said, the desserts at this wedding were pretty darn tasty. We especially liked the chocolate dollops with sliced peanut ears made to look like little mice. Yummy.
All in all, I'd say that this wedding was a gastronomical success. I didn't meet anyone who had anything less than stellar to say about their entree, be it sirloin, salmon, or veggie haggis. And the wine kept flowing and the band kept the dancefloor shaking.
And not a wedding-chicken seen all night.
Congrats to the bride and groom.
30 August 2007
All Praise the Mighty Falafel!
MJ made falafel this evening.
I cook almost every night, but for some reason I was occupied this evening so MJ took over the duties.
I know that different folks have different feelings about falafel. For me, it always reminds me of Louie's Bookstore Cafe in Baltimore.
I've posted before about my time working at Louie's. For a while I was a dishwasher. However, once they realized that I was indeed the most inept dishwasher on Earth, I got sent up to work the front of house in the bookstore.
Allow me to give some description. This joint was located in the Mount Vernon neighborhood of Baltimore in an old warehouse / loft sort of building.
The front of the place looked out onto Charles St. via a huge plate window. This is where the bookstore was. Even in my juvenile state, I was sure that without a doubt we were the most kick-ass bookstore in town. This was back before the big chain bookstores had really taken over. I still challenge any Barns-and-Un-Noble to ever even find half the stuff we had in regular stock. Everything from the complete Black Sparrow catalogue to hand-printed chapbooks. We had it down.
Anyway, back to the falafel.
I guess there's something about working in a restaurant that sets you against eating its food. Not that the food here was bad; by the contrary, we served up some mean sandwiches and great post-symphony desserts. It's just that you kinda get bored with what's at home in the kitchen each night, you know?
Except for the falafel.
Louie's falafel sandwich -- three dollops in a pita with lettuce, tomato, and white tangy sauce -- was a worthy benefit in the days before health-insurance and FICA. (BTW: what the heck is FICA? Is this a benefit of some sort? I honestly have no idea what this is or why these people take money out of my paycheck.)
Back to the falafel.
This sandwich was in my most humble opinion, the greatest sandwich ever served under the shadow of Baltimore's Washington Monument. I watched love affairs live and die within olfactory resonance of these sandwiches. I watched the wealthiest of Baltimoreans pick lettuce out of their teeth thanks to these sandwiches.
Needless to say, there will be more about Louie's in future posts.
I cook almost every night, but for some reason I was occupied this evening so MJ took over the duties.
I know that different folks have different feelings about falafel. For me, it always reminds me of Louie's Bookstore Cafe in Baltimore.
I've posted before about my time working at Louie's. For a while I was a dishwasher. However, once they realized that I was indeed the most inept dishwasher on Earth, I got sent up to work the front of house in the bookstore.
Allow me to give some description. This joint was located in the Mount Vernon neighborhood of Baltimore in an old warehouse / loft sort of building.
The front of the place looked out onto Charles St. via a huge plate window. This is where the bookstore was. Even in my juvenile state, I was sure that without a doubt we were the most kick-ass bookstore in town. This was back before the big chain bookstores had really taken over. I still challenge any Barns-and-Un-Noble to ever even find half the stuff we had in regular stock. Everything from the complete Black Sparrow catalogue to hand-printed chapbooks. We had it down.
Anyway, back to the falafel.
I guess there's something about working in a restaurant that sets you against eating its food. Not that the food here was bad; by the contrary, we served up some mean sandwiches and great post-symphony desserts. It's just that you kinda get bored with what's at home in the kitchen each night, you know?
Except for the falafel.
Louie's falafel sandwich -- three dollops in a pita with lettuce, tomato, and white tangy sauce -- was a worthy benefit in the days before health-insurance and FICA. (BTW: what the heck is FICA? Is this a benefit of some sort? I honestly have no idea what this is or why these people take money out of my paycheck.)
Back to the falafel.
This sandwich was in my most humble opinion, the greatest sandwich ever served under the shadow of Baltimore's Washington Monument. I watched love affairs live and die within olfactory resonance of these sandwiches. I watched the wealthiest of Baltimoreans pick lettuce out of their teeth thanks to these sandwiches.
Needless to say, there will be more about Louie's in future posts.
19 August 2007
Cows Can't Breathe in Outer-Space
You know, I just think it's weird that if you search 'NASA' on YouTube you get a bunch of mess about UFOs and alien cover-ups.
I'm looking for pictures of the planet Saturn and I wind up inundated with the comments of UFO freaks and alt-9/11 theorists. Listen, nothing against freaks and theorists, folks of both varieties tend to be among my closest friends and allies. But come on, do you really think any agency as screwed up as NASA would be able to cover-up contact with inter-galactic beings? These are people who eat Hardee's for lunch and whose greatest threat to humanity is that their O-class model rocket might interfere with FAA-controlled air-space. They are busier putting up corporate satellites than tracking alien threats. Jeez.
Nonetheless, all the talk about aliens got me thinking.
If critters from a distant nebula actually did find their way to Elkridge, what would they want to eat?
Met a guy while camping in the Patapsco Valley recently who swore by the Rt. 1 Taco Bell. Somehow, I believe that interstellar super-geniuses would be smart enough to stay away from that mess. As a matter of fact, one afternoon, my wife made the mistake of stopping by there with the kids whilst in a rush somewhere. They all filled up on gorditas and nachos and they all got sick. Now when the kids are misbehaving, I threaten them by telling 'em we'll have lunch at Taco Bell.
Maybe they'd stop by Daniel's biker bar. It's a destination for many a traveler, and I bet there's room enough in the back lot for a moderate-sized space-craft. And bikers are good representatives of humankind. Might give the aliens a few tips on sporting up their rigs while they're at it.
Most likely though -- if I know the mindset of a super-genius extra-terrestrial -- they'd wind up at the supermarket. Salad-by-the-pound is decent on Tuesdays and right now they're running a special on Morningstar.
Which reminds me. I bet super-genius extra-terrestrial alien life forms are vegetarians. After all, cows can't breathe in outer-space.
I'm looking for pictures of the planet Saturn and I wind up inundated with the comments of UFO freaks and alt-9/11 theorists. Listen, nothing against freaks and theorists, folks of both varieties tend to be among my closest friends and allies. But come on, do you really think any agency as screwed up as NASA would be able to cover-up contact with inter-galactic beings? These are people who eat Hardee's for lunch and whose greatest threat to humanity is that their O-class model rocket might interfere with FAA-controlled air-space. They are busier putting up corporate satellites than tracking alien threats. Jeez.
Nonetheless, all the talk about aliens got me thinking.
If critters from a distant nebula actually did find their way to Elkridge, what would they want to eat?
Met a guy while camping in the Patapsco Valley recently who swore by the Rt. 1 Taco Bell. Somehow, I believe that interstellar super-geniuses would be smart enough to stay away from that mess. As a matter of fact, one afternoon, my wife made the mistake of stopping by there with the kids whilst in a rush somewhere. They all filled up on gorditas and nachos and they all got sick. Now when the kids are misbehaving, I threaten them by telling 'em we'll have lunch at Taco Bell.
Maybe they'd stop by Daniel's biker bar. It's a destination for many a traveler, and I bet there's room enough in the back lot for a moderate-sized space-craft. And bikers are good representatives of humankind. Might give the aliens a few tips on sporting up their rigs while they're at it.
Most likely though -- if I know the mindset of a super-genius extra-terrestrial -- they'd wind up at the supermarket. Salad-by-the-pound is decent on Tuesdays and right now they're running a special on Morningstar.
Which reminds me. I bet super-genius extra-terrestrial alien life forms are vegetarians. After all, cows can't breathe in outer-space.
16 August 2007
Babci's Kitchen
My grandmothers could not have been different.
On my mother's side was a woman whose sauté pan never needed cleaning, so to speak, and whose every dish tasted primarily of gravy.
And on my father's side was a woman who woke at 7AM to start cooking dinner.
Let's concentrate on the latter for this post.
Though born in the US, Babci had been taken back to Poland as an infant and had grown up there. She returned to Jersey City as a teenager and lived most of her life along the wake of the filthy Hudson.
Somewhere along the line she'd learned to cook.
Her dinners were nothing less than legendary. A salad of cucumbers and onion in a thick tart sauce followed by a strapping chicken soup with carrots and noodles where the long, thin strips of chicken would just fall apart in your mouth. Then came the pirogues. Followed by the kielbasa. Followed by the sauerkraut. Followed by more kielbasa. Followed by a sprig of white grapes as a palate cleanser.
And then she brought out dinner.
How in the heck did people eat like this? They didn't have any money, and everything she made was like a subtle reflection upon that fact. The ground sausage ubiquitous, but never a single piece of meat that even remotely resembled anything related to anatomy. The sauerkraut steeped in vinegar that would just last for days and days and days. The bone marrow that comprised the chicken broth.
And yet she would make these enormous, labor-intensive meals every day.
Her kitchen was like a sauna. I have memories of her sweltering in that tiny room, listening on the TV to the priest on the local church show. In the harsh light of mid-afternoon, that room became a site for metaphysical kung-fu.
And she never once said a word in defiance of that heat. She'd just go in there and chop chop, knead knead.
That kitchen was so much more than a place to cook food. It was a daily theatre of war between my grandmother and demon reality.
On my mother's side was a woman whose sauté pan never needed cleaning, so to speak, and whose every dish tasted primarily of gravy.
And on my father's side was a woman who woke at 7AM to start cooking dinner.
Let's concentrate on the latter for this post.
Though born in the US, Babci had been taken back to Poland as an infant and had grown up there. She returned to Jersey City as a teenager and lived most of her life along the wake of the filthy Hudson.
Somewhere along the line she'd learned to cook.
Her dinners were nothing less than legendary. A salad of cucumbers and onion in a thick tart sauce followed by a strapping chicken soup with carrots and noodles where the long, thin strips of chicken would just fall apart in your mouth. Then came the pirogues. Followed by the kielbasa. Followed by the sauerkraut. Followed by more kielbasa. Followed by a sprig of white grapes as a palate cleanser.
And then she brought out dinner.
How in the heck did people eat like this? They didn't have any money, and everything she made was like a subtle reflection upon that fact. The ground sausage ubiquitous, but never a single piece of meat that even remotely resembled anything related to anatomy. The sauerkraut steeped in vinegar that would just last for days and days and days. The bone marrow that comprised the chicken broth.
And yet she would make these enormous, labor-intensive meals every day.
Her kitchen was like a sauna. I have memories of her sweltering in that tiny room, listening on the TV to the priest on the local church show. In the harsh light of mid-afternoon, that room became a site for metaphysical kung-fu.
And she never once said a word in defiance of that heat. She'd just go in there and chop chop, knead knead.
That kitchen was so much more than a place to cook food. It was a daily theatre of war between my grandmother and demon reality.
09 August 2007
Pansies au gratin?
I hope it rains today.
We need rain. My flowers are dead, my bushes are dying. MJ did some gardening last night just to help them over the hump of this heat wave. And you know, it's a little bit hazy so the heat doesn't really catch up with you until it's too late to realize that the heat index is 105 degrees. Maybe that's not so hot for some of you out there. Good for you. Maybe you'd like to come over here, take care of three kids, clean a 50 gallon turtle tank, and keep everyone fed and happy in an old house without air conditioning in temperatures where it's hot enough to fry an egg on the street. Hell, and I'm lucky... this is only a passing heat wave. I can't imagine what hell it must be like in Baghdad where it's twenty degrees hotter than this and you have the occasional city block blown up. But I digress.
What I really wanted to talk about was flowers.
My flowers may be long dead, but that doesn't erase them from my mind. Daisies, Black-eyed Susans, Poppies, and Sunflowers... these are the petal-bearers of my domain. I'm also a big fan of the pansy. The pansy is a damn sturdy flower. Never understood why its name got co-opted to mean the precise opposite. Go figure.
I recall the first time I ever visited Chapel Hill, NC. This was around 1993 when bands like Archers of Loaf and Superchunk were making the hometown of the University of North Carolina an indie-rock Mecca of sorts. I was there in a van on tour with the guys only to find out our show that night had been cancelled. After a nap in the parking lot of a donut shop, we decided to spend the days seeing what Chapel Hill had to offer and trying to find a bill that we could hop on for the night.
By three in the afternoon, things were looking down. We didn't have enough gas money to get to our next gig in Atlanta, and nothing had come together in terms of setting up an ad hoc set anywhere in town. Chapel Hill's main drag only being a few blocks long at the time, it soon became clear to us that walking up and down the half-mile stretch looking for opportunity would only suffer us the fates of the law of diminishing returns.
I sat along a curb by myself, dejected.
Along came a vagrant of the nicest sort. Sitting down next to me, the vagrant picked a flower and promptly ate it. We stared at one another. "So long as you have flowers, you will never go hungry," the vagrant spoke and then vanished.
The guys found me sitting on the curb. They had good news. We'd been picked up on a bill for that evening and were promised gas money to Georgia.
***
Now, truth be told, my little garden in Elkridge is a mess. I do get a lot of flowers, though it tends to look more like foliage mandated by the Ladybird Johnson act than by anything worthy of the Victory Garden. MJ swears half my 'flowers' are really blooming weeds.
No matter. MJ plants really nice flowers along with tomatoes and herbs. My favorites are her pansies.
I wonder what they taste like.
We need rain. My flowers are dead, my bushes are dying. MJ did some gardening last night just to help them over the hump of this heat wave. And you know, it's a little bit hazy so the heat doesn't really catch up with you until it's too late to realize that the heat index is 105 degrees. Maybe that's not so hot for some of you out there. Good for you. Maybe you'd like to come over here, take care of three kids, clean a 50 gallon turtle tank, and keep everyone fed and happy in an old house without air conditioning in temperatures where it's hot enough to fry an egg on the street. Hell, and I'm lucky... this is only a passing heat wave. I can't imagine what hell it must be like in Baghdad where it's twenty degrees hotter than this and you have the occasional city block blown up. But I digress.
What I really wanted to talk about was flowers.
My flowers may be long dead, but that doesn't erase them from my mind. Daisies, Black-eyed Susans, Poppies, and Sunflowers... these are the petal-bearers of my domain. I'm also a big fan of the pansy. The pansy is a damn sturdy flower. Never understood why its name got co-opted to mean the precise opposite. Go figure.
I recall the first time I ever visited Chapel Hill, NC. This was around 1993 when bands like Archers of Loaf and Superchunk were making the hometown of the University of North Carolina an indie-rock Mecca of sorts. I was there in a van on tour with the guys only to find out our show that night had been cancelled. After a nap in the parking lot of a donut shop, we decided to spend the days seeing what Chapel Hill had to offer and trying to find a bill that we could hop on for the night.
By three in the afternoon, things were looking down. We didn't have enough gas money to get to our next gig in Atlanta, and nothing had come together in terms of setting up an ad hoc set anywhere in town. Chapel Hill's main drag only being a few blocks long at the time, it soon became clear to us that walking up and down the half-mile stretch looking for opportunity would only suffer us the fates of the law of diminishing returns.
I sat along a curb by myself, dejected.
Along came a vagrant of the nicest sort. Sitting down next to me, the vagrant picked a flower and promptly ate it. We stared at one another. "So long as you have flowers, you will never go hungry," the vagrant spoke and then vanished.
The guys found me sitting on the curb. They had good news. We'd been picked up on a bill for that evening and were promised gas money to Georgia.
***
Now, truth be told, my little garden in Elkridge is a mess. I do get a lot of flowers, though it tends to look more like foliage mandated by the Ladybird Johnson act than by anything worthy of the Victory Garden. MJ swears half my 'flowers' are really blooming weeds.
No matter. MJ plants really nice flowers along with tomatoes and herbs. My favorites are her pansies.
I wonder what they taste like.
07 August 2007
The Price of Freedom
I am always the last one on the gravy train.
Jeez, I mean, if I had known that $50 entrees came with the lifestyle of the average congressman, I'd have begun campaigning years ago.
Sure we've all heard about the golf trips and the cruises and the prostitutes, but c'mon, now we're talking about free rounds at the Capital Grille!
And some lawmakers want to put an end to this?!?
According to a report by David D. Kirkpatrick in the August 7, 2007 edition of the New York Times, young lobbyists are feeling the pinch of congressional reform. Apparently many of these poor K Street serfs are missing out on many of the social perks their predecessors took for granted, and all on account of the appearance that catching a congressman's tab on a prime rib and drinks at a major Washington social institution that caters to the political elite could possibly be construed as a minor bribe.
Go figure.
I sure wish I got more free dinners. And that's why I'm running in the next congressional election.
My platform?
'Lobbyists have the right to buy me dinner!'
I mean, if you can't trust the judgment of a well-fed congressman, then tell me just who in this world can you trust? Why, I'd even go so far as to say that to deny lobbyists the right to wine and dine our political representatives in Washington is to support terrorism!
I mean, without steak and wine -- let alone the complimentary Martini -- how do you expect anything to get done in this country? Our national defense depends upon free Cosmopolitans!
Jeez, I mean, if I had known that $50 entrees came with the lifestyle of the average congressman, I'd have begun campaigning years ago.
Sure we've all heard about the golf trips and the cruises and the prostitutes, but c'mon, now we're talking about free rounds at the Capital Grille!
And some lawmakers want to put an end to this?!?
According to a report by David D. Kirkpatrick in the August 7, 2007 edition of the New York Times, young lobbyists are feeling the pinch of congressional reform. Apparently many of these poor K Street serfs are missing out on many of the social perks their predecessors took for granted, and all on account of the appearance that catching a congressman's tab on a prime rib and drinks at a major Washington social institution that caters to the political elite could possibly be construed as a minor bribe.
Go figure.
I sure wish I got more free dinners. And that's why I'm running in the next congressional election.
My platform?
'Lobbyists have the right to buy me dinner!'
I mean, if you can't trust the judgment of a well-fed congressman, then tell me just who in this world can you trust? Why, I'd even go so far as to say that to deny lobbyists the right to wine and dine our political representatives in Washington is to support terrorism!
I mean, without steak and wine -- let alone the complimentary Martini -- how do you expect anything to get done in this country? Our national defense depends upon free Cosmopolitans!
I used to eat turtles.
I used to eat turtles.
If I squint and think hard, I can still conjure the taste in my mouth.
See, my mother was born into post-War working class Philadelphia. She grew up in a house where beef stew was a three-day affair. So she always had this yearning to live the aristocratic life. And in the Philadelphia of the day that meant one thing: Bookbinder's.
Bookbinder's was / is a restaurant whose history dates back to the 1860's. Its heyday was in the Gilded Age, and it prided itself on its seafood and steaks. Today it prides itself on it's $50 entrees.
Now, nothing against Philadelphia -- I happen to love the city very much; and nothing against seafood -- it's health benefits are known the world over. But putting the two together: Philadelphia and seafood. Hmm.
Have you seen the Delaware River?
This must be where the turtles come in.
See, Bookbinder's is also known for its exquisite sherry-drop soup: the Red Snapper. And, make no mistake, by 'red snapper' we're talking about turtle (the 'red' in the title is analogous to 'red' [Manhattan] versus 'white' [New England] clam chowder). This is a soup prepared in a five-hour window of ritual. From the turtle meat simmering in beef broth, to the waiter serving the bowl accompanied by a glass of sherry [eww...], this soup reeks of aristocratic boredom.
My mom loved it, though.
So I remember as a kid, my mother and father dressed me up in some outrageous late '70s velvet suit and took me to Walnut Street for an evening at Bookbinder's. The only thing I remember was the Snapper soup. And, yeah, it pretty much tasted like you'd think a turtle would taste. Sort of a pungent flavor with a lamb-like texture. Not so much 'fishy' as perhaps 'swimmy'.
Yup. Nothing says 'yum' like an aggressive reptile boiled in a stew.
I've seen this stuff in cans at the grocery store and have actually been tempted to buy it -- not to eat, but just to cook up and smell to see if my childhood memories of the stuff were accurate. But I've got an aquatic turtle by the name of Hermes who lives in an aquarium in the corner of the kitchen.
I think he'd be disturbed by the smell.
If I squint and think hard, I can still conjure the taste in my mouth.
See, my mother was born into post-War working class Philadelphia. She grew up in a house where beef stew was a three-day affair. So she always had this yearning to live the aristocratic life. And in the Philadelphia of the day that meant one thing: Bookbinder's.
Bookbinder's was / is a restaurant whose history dates back to the 1860's. Its heyday was in the Gilded Age, and it prided itself on its seafood and steaks. Today it prides itself on it's $50 entrees.
Now, nothing against Philadelphia -- I happen to love the city very much; and nothing against seafood -- it's health benefits are known the world over. But putting the two together: Philadelphia and seafood. Hmm.
Have you seen the Delaware River?
This must be where the turtles come in.
See, Bookbinder's is also known for its exquisite sherry-drop soup: the Red Snapper. And, make no mistake, by 'red snapper' we're talking about turtle (the 'red' in the title is analogous to 'red' [Manhattan] versus 'white' [New England] clam chowder). This is a soup prepared in a five-hour window of ritual. From the turtle meat simmering in beef broth, to the waiter serving the bowl accompanied by a glass of sherry [eww...], this soup reeks of aristocratic boredom.
My mom loved it, though.
So I remember as a kid, my mother and father dressed me up in some outrageous late '70s velvet suit and took me to Walnut Street for an evening at Bookbinder's. The only thing I remember was the Snapper soup. And, yeah, it pretty much tasted like you'd think a turtle would taste. Sort of a pungent flavor with a lamb-like texture. Not so much 'fishy' as perhaps 'swimmy'.
Yup. Nothing says 'yum' like an aggressive reptile boiled in a stew.
I've seen this stuff in cans at the grocery store and have actually been tempted to buy it -- not to eat, but just to cook up and smell to see if my childhood memories of the stuff were accurate. But I've got an aquatic turtle by the name of Hermes who lives in an aquarium in the corner of the kitchen.
I think he'd be disturbed by the smell.
02 August 2007
Real Taste
Had an excellent dinner last night.
A light salad with red cabbage followed by a main course of spaghetti with tomatoes and olives and a side of collard greens and bakery-fresh bread. And a healthy dose of conversation among friends throughout.
This is what dinner is all about. Simple food well prepared and shared over a good talk.
One of the biggest mistakes folks make in the kitchen is falling into the trap of complex food preparation. I think this is partly a result of the restaurant-chain mentality. KFC uses thirteen herbs and spices, so I have to use thirteen herbs and spices. Chilis makes an onion that looks like an exploding demon, so I have to make an onion that looks like an exploding demon. I think this is the reason a lot of folks opt for ready-made frozen meals rather than bother to cook.
It doesn't have to be this way.
Notice just how amazing a fresh organic tomato tastes. Bite into a real South Carolina peach. Sprinkle real extra virgin olive oil on a slice of fresh bread with a dash of basil from the garden.
Eating simple is the way to eat.
American restaurant cooking so often fails because it mistakes flashy sauces and spices for genuine flavor. By contrast, when you order insalata caprese in Roma, what you get is tomato that tastes like tomato and mozzarella that tastes like mozzarella. And you never forget it.
Here's a call to arms to all home cookers: let's make simple food that tastes like what it is. No more silly sauces, no more masking the true flavor of the food in a coating of varnish.
This is not to say that spices are bad. Quite the contrary. Blue Crabs belong with Old Bay. Hungarian dishes deserve paprika. Rather, what I'm driving at is this: there are a lot of chain restaurants who are trying to cover up the fact that their cooking is sub-par by dressing up their dishes in phony candies. Don't fall prey.
Remember: it's your kitchen. And you can always best tell the freshness of a tomato by biting into it.
A light salad with red cabbage followed by a main course of spaghetti with tomatoes and olives and a side of collard greens and bakery-fresh bread. And a healthy dose of conversation among friends throughout.
This is what dinner is all about. Simple food well prepared and shared over a good talk.
One of the biggest mistakes folks make in the kitchen is falling into the trap of complex food preparation. I think this is partly a result of the restaurant-chain mentality. KFC uses thirteen herbs and spices, so I have to use thirteen herbs and spices. Chilis makes an onion that looks like an exploding demon, so I have to make an onion that looks like an exploding demon. I think this is the reason a lot of folks opt for ready-made frozen meals rather than bother to cook.
It doesn't have to be this way.
Notice just how amazing a fresh organic tomato tastes. Bite into a real South Carolina peach. Sprinkle real extra virgin olive oil on a slice of fresh bread with a dash of basil from the garden.
Eating simple is the way to eat.
American restaurant cooking so often fails because it mistakes flashy sauces and spices for genuine flavor. By contrast, when you order insalata caprese in Roma, what you get is tomato that tastes like tomato and mozzarella that tastes like mozzarella. And you never forget it.
Here's a call to arms to all home cookers: let's make simple food that tastes like what it is. No more silly sauces, no more masking the true flavor of the food in a coating of varnish.
This is not to say that spices are bad. Quite the contrary. Blue Crabs belong with Old Bay. Hungarian dishes deserve paprika. Rather, what I'm driving at is this: there are a lot of chain restaurants who are trying to cover up the fact that their cooking is sub-par by dressing up their dishes in phony candies. Don't fall prey.
Remember: it's your kitchen. And you can always best tell the freshness of a tomato by biting into it.
27 July 2007
There is a God.
I humbly submit that the contents within this little brown bag constitute the greatest achievement of human accomplishment since the polio vaccination (and they taste better).
Wow. What a potato chip.
Now I know that some of you may spurn my pleasure with cries of, "but beer flavored potato chips are so... UNHEALTHY!"
Alas. That is why in time of true nutritional dilemma, I err on the side of Mark Twain: 'Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.'
Here's more about the chips.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
