Got up early to prep the pork butt, rubbing it with a spice mix (cumin, chili powder, black pepper, sea salt, paprika) and an oil mix (olive and sesame). I heat the oven to 500 then drop it to 225 as soon as the cuts go in. I'm anticipating a decent crowd, so I bought two big butts.
Later on today, I'm going to make the sauce with onions, garlic, ketchup, tomato sauce, molasses, and white vinegar.
When I sent out an invite, I specified if now the law then the spirit of the event: stuff you make yourself, stuff made with love, be it craft beer or rabbit terrine or Beijing dumplings or venison or fresh baked bread or any of the other dishes I hear people are bringing. I love it when people buy into the spirit of the day. This gives you hope for something that feels exceptional, particularly when it's the result of a group of people all pulling in the same direction.
No matter what happens, I know we're all eating well.
Until I get a new job, I've written down a list of iron rules that I will live by until the job comes along. I keep these to myself, but I committed to them absolutely and they mostly involve my writing, reading, exercise, and eating. It's a list designed, as such limitations go, to liberate me from the inessentials and to maximize my opportunities.
Speaking of which, point well taken, Matty. Jess thanks you and says the same thing. It is sometimes hard in the moment to remember.
Here's to Schrimnir and Heidrum! Tonight we feast!
From Bullfinch's Mythology:
Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts with his chosen heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the boar Schrimnir is served up to them, and is abundant for all. For although this boar is cooked every morning, be becomes whole again every night. For drink the heroes are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrum. When the heroes are not feasting they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day they ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when meal time comes they recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Day One
Day one on the dole.
I purposefully avoided the whole falling apart and growing a beard route last night and drank a mug of camomile tea over the half-pint of bourbon I really wanted. The technique worked. I got up early, applied for unemployment, set up direct deposit on the payments, and changed my official residence with the DMV. I have chore-work left: laundry and all that, but I wanted to make sure I wrote while my mind was fresh. I've been trying to write late in the night, after my mind has already been taxed by the day.
And this worked, too. I got out 2,000 effortless words all on one cup of coffee.
It turns out that they might pay for my teaching certification. I'm going to an orientation next week. It really does feel as though this was lucky for me. If I hadn't been forced out, who knows how long I would have pushed the broom.
*
I also wrote down a secret list my "iron rules" -- a list of positive commands that I will abide by during my job search. Nothing too extreme, but there's a power in writing such things down. It allows you to really sense your own limits. I only put down those that I knew for certain I could follow. The commands might not guarantee a job overnight, but they'll keep me from the gutter. That's for sure.
I purposefully avoided the whole falling apart and growing a beard route last night and drank a mug of camomile tea over the half-pint of bourbon I really wanted. The technique worked. I got up early, applied for unemployment, set up direct deposit on the payments, and changed my official residence with the DMV. I have chore-work left: laundry and all that, but I wanted to make sure I wrote while my mind was fresh. I've been trying to write late in the night, after my mind has already been taxed by the day.
And this worked, too. I got out 2,000 effortless words all on one cup of coffee.
It turns out that they might pay for my teaching certification. I'm going to an orientation next week. It really does feel as though this was lucky for me. If I hadn't been forced out, who knows how long I would have pushed the broom.
*
I also wrote down a secret list my "iron rules" -- a list of positive commands that I will abide by during my job search. Nothing too extreme, but there's a power in writing such things down. It allows you to really sense your own limits. I only put down those that I knew for certain I could follow. The commands might not guarantee a job overnight, but they'll keep me from the gutter. That's for sure.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Goo Goo Gets the Axe
Billy was outside, shoveling the stairs. I had just gotten the official word.
"Another soldier down, Bubbs. They shitcaned me."
He laughed at first, but then looked at my face, and knew I wasn't joking.
He threw the snow shovel against the stairs. "What the fuck!" he yelled.
Then he took me in his bear arms and we wept as brothers.
*
Throughout the day, the bad news trickled in. There were additional layoffs in Portsmouth, Manchester, and the other branches. People who'd been with the company for years were given the axe. Many had their hours dropped to part-time, including Eddy. He's in his fifties and now has to live off of working thirty-two hours a week. Same time last year he was easily hitting sixty per.
*
The Boss called me in. "I've never really done this before, and don't know what the fuck to do. So, I don't know, if you have any questions, call Donna."
"And that's it?"
The phone rang and he answered after giving me last week's paycheck. I punched out and drove home.
And that's it. The story of the W comes to a close.
*
Here's why I'm nervous. Obviously, I'm a position of uncertainty. I want to put my heart into the novel and into the job search and into the upkeep of the house, all without feeling like a burden to Jess. It's an awkward position. I'm glad I went through it, simply because the process is somewhat different than I imagined, and it's certainly different at this moment in my life. I underestimated the emotional reaction, which, when made official, almost had a physical impact, like a slap or a kick to the shins.
Five years ago? I would have probably been very excited to sit around reading all day and still get the government check. Now, there is the additional pressure of a home and a family. Now, I hear about other layoffs, and the fact that I'm not the only one is a cause for concern. I wish I was alone in all this. I wish I wasn't heading out there with hundreds of other hungry, ambitious, responsible, thoughtful people, all angling for car payments and mortgages and rice and pork tenderloin.
You know how it goes. If I write a book and it gets published and I end up teaching creative writing at a working class state school in middle Massachusetts, then I'll sit there in my hush puppies and think: thank goodness. This was all worth it. Thank goodness I went through it, so I could understand. Thank goodness for all those difficult events that shaped me and helped me realize at least a larger swath of the the human condition than might otherwise have been my lot.
But.
If I'm sitting down by the river, trying to fish for trout with a shoestring wrapped around my bunioned old toe, then maybe it will seem the beginning of the end.
And you think: well, that's not likely. And it isn't. But it's possible. And even if the chances are slim, they still have to be accounted for.
It's not as though new jobs are springing up. It's not as though FDR is chomping on his cigarette holder and smiling as the national intrafructure blossoms like a morning glory.
Angling for spins, positive and negative, is a sort of rude game we have to play under such circumstances.
What I'm most thankful for is this: it happens and I still have the fight in me. That never went away. I could write ten-thousand pages before the bells on the chuch strike midnight. I could wrestle the themes like Jaco and the Angel, all with the cat trying, inexplicably, to stick his asshole in my face. I could call on Muse or Machine and rest assured that at least one will answer. I have enough slight control over my own fate to state that, now and forever.
"Another soldier down, Bubbs. They shitcaned me."
He laughed at first, but then looked at my face, and knew I wasn't joking.
He threw the snow shovel against the stairs. "What the fuck!" he yelled.
Then he took me in his bear arms and we wept as brothers.
*
Throughout the day, the bad news trickled in. There were additional layoffs in Portsmouth, Manchester, and the other branches. People who'd been with the company for years were given the axe. Many had their hours dropped to part-time, including Eddy. He's in his fifties and now has to live off of working thirty-two hours a week. Same time last year he was easily hitting sixty per.
*
The Boss called me in. "I've never really done this before, and don't know what the fuck to do. So, I don't know, if you have any questions, call Donna."
"And that's it?"
The phone rang and he answered after giving me last week's paycheck. I punched out and drove home.
And that's it. The story of the W comes to a close.
*
Here's why I'm nervous. Obviously, I'm a position of uncertainty. I want to put my heart into the novel and into the job search and into the upkeep of the house, all without feeling like a burden to Jess. It's an awkward position. I'm glad I went through it, simply because the process is somewhat different than I imagined, and it's certainly different at this moment in my life. I underestimated the emotional reaction, which, when made official, almost had a physical impact, like a slap or a kick to the shins.
Five years ago? I would have probably been very excited to sit around reading all day and still get the government check. Now, there is the additional pressure of a home and a family. Now, I hear about other layoffs, and the fact that I'm not the only one is a cause for concern. I wish I was alone in all this. I wish I wasn't heading out there with hundreds of other hungry, ambitious, responsible, thoughtful people, all angling for car payments and mortgages and rice and pork tenderloin.
You know how it goes. If I write a book and it gets published and I end up teaching creative writing at a working class state school in middle Massachusetts, then I'll sit there in my hush puppies and think: thank goodness. This was all worth it. Thank goodness I went through it, so I could understand. Thank goodness for all those difficult events that shaped me and helped me realize at least a larger swath of the the human condition than might otherwise have been my lot.
But.
If I'm sitting down by the river, trying to fish for trout with a shoestring wrapped around my bunioned old toe, then maybe it will seem the beginning of the end.
And you think: well, that's not likely. And it isn't. But it's possible. And even if the chances are slim, they still have to be accounted for.
It's not as though new jobs are springing up. It's not as though FDR is chomping on his cigarette holder and smiling as the national intrafructure blossoms like a morning glory.
Angling for spins, positive and negative, is a sort of rude game we have to play under such circumstances.
What I'm most thankful for is this: it happens and I still have the fight in me. That never went away. I could write ten-thousand pages before the bells on the chuch strike midnight. I could wrestle the themes like Jaco and the Angel, all with the cat trying, inexplicably, to stick his asshole in my face. I could call on Muse or Machine and rest assured that at least one will answer. I have enough slight control over my own fate to state that, now and forever.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Band Members . . .
used to drop out to become Buddhist monks and I'm pleased that they still do so.
Although.
It troubles me, somewhat, still.
Although.
It troubles me, somewhat, still.
Big D, One of the Cats
I know people ascribe all sorts of strange qualities to their cats. And ours have theirs easily ascribed.
Big D, one of the cats, the male, sits on the windowsill as I shovel and rubs against me with great glee when I come back in the house. I went out back to clear the porch, and he climbed into the speaker columns to watch. I humanize him and get the clear impression he wants to help. I can"t read it otherwise.
Big D, one of the cats, the male, sits on the windowsill as I shovel and rubs against me with great glee when I come back in the house. I went out back to clear the porch, and he climbed into the speaker columns to watch. I humanize him and get the clear impression he wants to help. I can"t read it otherwise.
Three Times Plowed
My driveway is short and wide. Because we can only shovel to one side, it takes a deceptively long time to take care of.
I've been outside, trying to get it ready before Jess comes and we have to puzzle-piece our cars together to make them fit. While shoveling, a plow drove by and left a thick, heady clump of thick snow at the end. I shoveled that out. Fifteen minutes later, the guy comes back and does the same thing. I shovel it out again, and a curse escapes my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, same thing. I pull the shovel back and think about throwing it at him. It's hardly snowing. The street looks no different. Is he racking up hours? Is he taunting the poor shoveller?
*
Truth is, I feel better out shoveling than wallowing in my own thoughts.
I couldn't write and didn't have the mind for reading. Even from the great Portis.
A little music and optimism and back. That's what I'm working on now. That, and the promise of a warm shower. A small trace of fecal matter, unwiped but just barely, has started to trouble and itch me. I noticed it nearly an hour into the shoveling. By now, that small smear has me thinking in terms of chili oil. But no. I continue working. I shovel. I have my ipod on. I want to grow my beard longass. I want to finish up and still find quiet in the house and bake chicken for the the fam and cuddle up as though there were a fire burning.
*
I bought two shovels. One big, one small for whoever else. The big one is mine. It's light and broad and serves me well. I'm going to return to that shovel, and to the outside, and let the chicken slowcook so it will be ready for dinner.
I've been outside, trying to get it ready before Jess comes and we have to puzzle-piece our cars together to make them fit. While shoveling, a plow drove by and left a thick, heady clump of thick snow at the end. I shoveled that out. Fifteen minutes later, the guy comes back and does the same thing. I shovel it out again, and a curse escapes my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, same thing. I pull the shovel back and think about throwing it at him. It's hardly snowing. The street looks no different. Is he racking up hours? Is he taunting the poor shoveller?
*
Truth is, I feel better out shoveling than wallowing in my own thoughts.
I couldn't write and didn't have the mind for reading. Even from the great Portis.
A little music and optimism and back. That's what I'm working on now. That, and the promise of a warm shower. A small trace of fecal matter, unwiped but just barely, has started to trouble and itch me. I noticed it nearly an hour into the shoveling. By now, that small smear has me thinking in terms of chili oil. But no. I continue working. I shovel. I have my ipod on. I want to grow my beard longass. I want to finish up and still find quiet in the house and bake chicken for the the fam and cuddle up as though there were a fire burning.
*
I bought two shovels. One big, one small for whoever else. The big one is mine. It's light and broad and serves me well. I'm going to return to that shovel, and to the outside, and let the chicken slowcook so it will be ready for dinner.
Snowstorm with Bubbs
The snow caused the branch to shut down early. I was the only one to show up.
The Boss said to me, "Hey, don't tell anyone, but I've heard from the owners and we're struggling. I'm probably going to have to lay you off on Friday."
He seemed a little teary eyed. I don't usually see much emotion in him.
"You see," he continued, "it's either reduce everyone to 32 hours, in which case Billy quits and I'm screwed, or cut one guy."
My first thought was: poor Billy. The last time I left, supposedly for good, he nearly started balling. He's an emotional guy. Since I don't drive the big truck, the new driver beats me on the driving side. Since, despite having been there, on and off, for three years, the others still beat me on seniority, I'm beaten there, too.
Go on unemployment, take two weeks to finish the novel, not so bad. I still had an emotional reaction, and I'm not sure why. Sure, there were financial concerns, but also because a job becomes homelike after a certain amount of time, and you begin to see it as part of what constitutes you.
I've also gotten, after a long period of silence, a few nibbles, maybe even bites, at potential jobs just in the past few days, including a small, freelance writing gig and a marketing position.
*
After a few, brief, early morning runs, the Boss closed the branch and sent me home.
When I started on my way, the radio dj's were joking about "the horrible storm of a mere three inches of fluff."
And so it was.
By the time I got to Route 119, people were starting to skid off the highways, and I even began skidding, despite my snow-friendly car and conservative driving speed.
Snowstorms, like whiskey, make music sound better.
Since I bought Jess one of those single cup brewers for Christmas, I began to wonder if my mom would give me her ancient drip coffee maker, since she never uses it. Two weeks of solid writing. Sixty-thousand words. That's a lot of fresh ground coffee. Balzac, the great French writer, used to go into debt to get enough coffee to write. No need for that, here.
*
I'm going to make the most of having a near free day by turning to the novel. It's been slow go for the past four days because there's been so much going on around the house. Still, it's better to be inspired and have little time than to have lots of time and jackshit to write about.
The Boss said to me, "Hey, don't tell anyone, but I've heard from the owners and we're struggling. I'm probably going to have to lay you off on Friday."
He seemed a little teary eyed. I don't usually see much emotion in him.
"You see," he continued, "it's either reduce everyone to 32 hours, in which case Billy quits and I'm screwed, or cut one guy."
My first thought was: poor Billy. The last time I left, supposedly for good, he nearly started balling. He's an emotional guy. Since I don't drive the big truck, the new driver beats me on the driving side. Since, despite having been there, on and off, for three years, the others still beat me on seniority, I'm beaten there, too.
Go on unemployment, take two weeks to finish the novel, not so bad. I still had an emotional reaction, and I'm not sure why. Sure, there were financial concerns, but also because a job becomes homelike after a certain amount of time, and you begin to see it as part of what constitutes you.
I've also gotten, after a long period of silence, a few nibbles, maybe even bites, at potential jobs just in the past few days, including a small, freelance writing gig and a marketing position.
*
After a few, brief, early morning runs, the Boss closed the branch and sent me home.
When I started on my way, the radio dj's were joking about "the horrible storm of a mere three inches of fluff."
And so it was.
By the time I got to Route 119, people were starting to skid off the highways, and I even began skidding, despite my snow-friendly car and conservative driving speed.
Snowstorms, like whiskey, make music sound better.
Since I bought Jess one of those single cup brewers for Christmas, I began to wonder if my mom would give me her ancient drip coffee maker, since she never uses it. Two weeks of solid writing. Sixty-thousand words. That's a lot of fresh ground coffee. Balzac, the great French writer, used to go into debt to get enough coffee to write. No need for that, here.
*
I'm going to make the most of having a near free day by turning to the novel. It's been slow go for the past four days because there's been so much going on around the house. Still, it's better to be inspired and have little time than to have lots of time and jackshit to write about.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Fuel for the Hours
OH, the troubles of the week are deep. Too deep for the light of the web. But they're there. With the eels, no doubt!
And it feels like a bolt has been thrust between my forehead and ear. It really does. From the mid-left forehead to the inside of my right ear.
*
If it seems that the problem with this forum is that the material that would be most revealing, difficult, insightful, or challenging oftentimes has to be left out, then it gives us hope.
See! That's what fiction is for! You can wrangle with those themes in stories and leave yourself out of it. All fuel for other hours.
Bubbs has recovered nicely from her surgery. I made nachos for dinner, and tried to roast peanuts but burnt them, sadly. Instead of hitting shuffle, I'm listening to albums and artists. I suspect this is because my attention span, once again focused on books, is taking root and sucking up the necessary nutrients.
I fucking love Charles Portis. Please read him someday. I'm reading him now. Despite everything, he makes me deeply happy, and I wonder why so few comic novels make the canon -- Huck Finn! The Trial! What else is there?
And it feels like a bolt has been thrust between my forehead and ear. It really does. From the mid-left forehead to the inside of my right ear.
*
If it seems that the problem with this forum is that the material that would be most revealing, difficult, insightful, or challenging oftentimes has to be left out, then it gives us hope.
See! That's what fiction is for! You can wrangle with those themes in stories and leave yourself out of it. All fuel for other hours.
Bubbs has recovered nicely from her surgery. I made nachos for dinner, and tried to roast peanuts but burnt them, sadly. Instead of hitting shuffle, I'm listening to albums and artists. I suspect this is because my attention span, once again focused on books, is taking root and sucking up the necessary nutrients.
I fucking love Charles Portis. Please read him someday. I'm reading him now. Despite everything, he makes me deeply happy, and I wonder why so few comic novels make the canon -- Huck Finn! The Trial! What else is there?
Anton wrote from me in Brooklyn, reminded me that two of the members of the Hold Steady used to be his upstairs neighbords.
Meaning: at least one of my most vicious hangovers occured beneath the near famous as they made their morning coffee.
He told me he hardly knew them, and that they listened to their own music a lot. They could have been working, it's true, but I know there are musicians who secretely enjoying listening to their own works. If Picasso almost certainly masturbated at the beauty of the females he drew, then certainly we can expect a little air guitar from Johnny Napalm as he grooves to his own riffs. And, of course, that's one of the delights of the musical ear: you hear new and unexpected things, even if they came from your mitts.
Ah, that gentle mix of the new and familiar; the roots of aesethetics.
*
Mikey's passion for the Hold Steady wore off on me, and, yes, it was the lyrical specificity that drew me in. Such specs are old -- some old blues guys would give you the name of the post office clerk that wronged then, and the time of the day, the cost to the cent of whatever was in their belly. The vague sometimes aims at some type of universality, as if by being vague we have a better shot at not seeming dated by the time the product is finally off the press. Plus, I imagine we have a learned instinct to be indirect, because of lawyers.
Yet the Hold Steady use the vague, too, and use it well. Consider these lines:
'Cause most kids give me credit
For being down with it
When it was back in the day
Back when things were way different
When the Youth of Today
And the early 7 Seconds
Taught me some of life's most valuable lessons
There's gonna come a time
When the scene'll seem less sunny
It'll probably get druggy
And the kids will seem too skinny
There's gonna come a time
Where she's gonna have to go
With whoever's gonna get her the highest
There's gonna come a time
Where the true scene leaders
Will forget where they differ
And get big picture
'Cause the kids at the shows
They'll have kids of their own
And the sing-along songs will be our scriptures
Whoahoho We gotta stay positive
For those of you who haven't heard the song, imagine a mix of Springsteen nostalgia, Husker guitar buzz, and Misfits crew o' dudes sing-along choruses. In other words: enough to distance the singer from the words and make you wonder if he's playing a character. Longing for the past meeting with a shaky legged nervous energy.
But the vague part, and what tickles me about this, is the switch between "the scene" and "the personal," and yes, I know the band are being allusive here.
And I like it because, well, that's the way my memories and fears seem to work, too. But it involves leaving gaps and not putting two and two together. Why mention the girl? Why give that sense of betrayal? I thought this was about moshing and being creative and being a kid and being optimistic and all that good stuff!
Meaning: at least one of my most vicious hangovers occured beneath the near famous as they made their morning coffee.
He told me he hardly knew them, and that they listened to their own music a lot. They could have been working, it's true, but I know there are musicians who secretely enjoying listening to their own works. If Picasso almost certainly masturbated at the beauty of the females he drew, then certainly we can expect a little air guitar from Johnny Napalm as he grooves to his own riffs. And, of course, that's one of the delights of the musical ear: you hear new and unexpected things, even if they came from your mitts.
Ah, that gentle mix of the new and familiar; the roots of aesethetics.
*
Mikey's passion for the Hold Steady wore off on me, and, yes, it was the lyrical specificity that drew me in. Such specs are old -- some old blues guys would give you the name of the post office clerk that wronged then, and the time of the day, the cost to the cent of whatever was in their belly. The vague sometimes aims at some type of universality, as if by being vague we have a better shot at not seeming dated by the time the product is finally off the press. Plus, I imagine we have a learned instinct to be indirect, because of lawyers.
Yet the Hold Steady use the vague, too, and use it well. Consider these lines:
'Cause most kids give me credit
For being down with it
When it was back in the day
Back when things were way different
When the Youth of Today
And the early 7 Seconds
Taught me some of life's most valuable lessons
There's gonna come a time
When the scene'll seem less sunny
It'll probably get druggy
And the kids will seem too skinny
There's gonna come a time
Where she's gonna have to go
With whoever's gonna get her the highest
There's gonna come a time
Where the true scene leaders
Will forget where they differ
And get big picture
'Cause the kids at the shows
They'll have kids of their own
And the sing-along songs will be our scriptures
Whoahoho We gotta stay positive
For those of you who haven't heard the song, imagine a mix of Springsteen nostalgia, Husker guitar buzz, and Misfits crew o' dudes sing-along choruses. In other words: enough to distance the singer from the words and make you wonder if he's playing a character. Longing for the past meeting with a shaky legged nervous energy.
But the vague part, and what tickles me about this, is the switch between "the scene" and "the personal," and yes, I know the band are being allusive here.
And I like it because, well, that's the way my memories and fears seem to work, too. But it involves leaving gaps and not putting two and two together. Why mention the girl? Why give that sense of betrayal? I thought this was about moshing and being creative and being a kid and being optimistic and all that good stuff!
Monday, January 26, 2009
And While You're at it, Mikey
Stuff came up so you'll get part two tomorrow, but I'm adding a few suggestions for Mikey:
Husker Du's New Day Rising
Jawbox
late period Government Issue
Dinosaur Jr.'s You're Living All Over Me
and Superchunk
Maybe you know all these. Maybe not.
I have a lengthy reply on the subject of The Hold Steady, specificity, early blues, early Bruce Springsteen, Charles Bukowski, but it'll all be folded into part two, cornbread style.
Husker Du's New Day Rising
Jawbox
late period Government Issue
Dinosaur Jr.'s You're Living All Over Me
and Superchunk
Maybe you know all these. Maybe not.
I have a lengthy reply on the subject of The Hold Steady, specificity, early blues, early Bruce Springsteen, Charles Bukowski, but it'll all be folded into part two, cornbread style.
Puzzling Incidents
Listening to Songs: Ohia's cd, Let it Rain. Never listened to it much until now. It is apt. I'll let you figure the figuring.
Bubbs is with me and her presence presents a stacked moral conundrum. First of all, I felt strange about even getting her spayed. We had no choice, since we have one male kitten and one female and don't want to run a nursery. Since Big D showed the first signs of sexual activity, she was the one to go under the knife, lest there already be Big D Juniors in her belly.
There weren't. She is wobbly, but seemed to recognize me when I brought her out of the carrier. She is lying by my side now. Her face is a little puffy and her eyes are unfocused. But she wants to be close and has occasionally started purring when I touched her ears.
The vet seemed sketchy. I'd never used him before but he came up first, alphabetically. He ended up charging me an extra sixty for shots. I told him I didn't have the money. I didn't. He shrugged. I said I'd find a way to get it. He took her in.
"She's in heat," he said, rubbing her belly. "That's an extra thirty."
Then he turned, as if remembering my situation, and looked away. "I will waive the fee."
*
When I picked her up, he took nearly fifteen minutes to charge my credit card. I had to pay partly on the card, partly with money lent to me by the Boss.
When I got out to the car, I looked at the receipt. He had accidently undercharged me by one-hundred dollars.
Fuck.
I put her in the car and stood outside in the cold.
I shut my door and started walking back to the office.
I went back to the car and turned around perhaps two times.
I thought of how long it took for him to charge me. He didn't speak English well. I don't know if he ever understood me, or if he was, underneath his bumbling outward nature, a charitable person, and was taking pity on me.
And then I thought: I'm going to have to wait another fifteen minutes while he processes my card again, while the cat stays out in the cold. It was a long enough drive ahead: I opted for a vet near the W, not near my home.
I got in the car and drove off, with one-hundred dollars to my name.
It was a dark drive home. I listened to Dinosaur Jr. Instead of hitting shuffle, I've started listening to artists on my ipod, and shuffling between their songs (the answer to Mikey's comment is that I didn't listen to the songs in order, which may have been a mistake, but it worked.)
The Dufflebag just knocked and told me it's dinnertime. I'm off to go eat and will write more later.
Bubbs is with me and her presence presents a stacked moral conundrum. First of all, I felt strange about even getting her spayed. We had no choice, since we have one male kitten and one female and don't want to run a nursery. Since Big D showed the first signs of sexual activity, she was the one to go under the knife, lest there already be Big D Juniors in her belly.
There weren't. She is wobbly, but seemed to recognize me when I brought her out of the carrier. She is lying by my side now. Her face is a little puffy and her eyes are unfocused. But she wants to be close and has occasionally started purring when I touched her ears.
The vet seemed sketchy. I'd never used him before but he came up first, alphabetically. He ended up charging me an extra sixty for shots. I told him I didn't have the money. I didn't. He shrugged. I said I'd find a way to get it. He took her in.
"She's in heat," he said, rubbing her belly. "That's an extra thirty."
Then he turned, as if remembering my situation, and looked away. "I will waive the fee."
*
When I picked her up, he took nearly fifteen minutes to charge my credit card. I had to pay partly on the card, partly with money lent to me by the Boss.
When I got out to the car, I looked at the receipt. He had accidently undercharged me by one-hundred dollars.
Fuck.
I put her in the car and stood outside in the cold.
I shut my door and started walking back to the office.
I went back to the car and turned around perhaps two times.
I thought of how long it took for him to charge me. He didn't speak English well. I don't know if he ever understood me, or if he was, underneath his bumbling outward nature, a charitable person, and was taking pity on me.
And then I thought: I'm going to have to wait another fifteen minutes while he processes my card again, while the cat stays out in the cold. It was a long enough drive ahead: I opted for a vet near the W, not near my home.
I got in the car and drove off, with one-hundred dollars to my name.
It was a dark drive home. I listened to Dinosaur Jr. Instead of hitting shuffle, I've started listening to artists on my ipod, and shuffling between their songs (the answer to Mikey's comment is that I didn't listen to the songs in order, which may have been a mistake, but it worked.)
The Dufflebag just knocked and told me it's dinnertime. I'm off to go eat and will write more later.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
In Brief
I have to take Bubbs in to get spayed tomorrow. There was a brief time a few years ago when I took over all my mother's household expenses and paid for surgeries for her cats, but they were effectively her cats. This is the first time I've taken in a cat I consider my own.
Needless to say, there is a different emotional resonance. It's been on my mind. I love that cat, and worry about the effects. It is, of course, a necessity: against our knowledge we picked up a male and a female and we don't want incest babies climbing up the shades.
*
It's ten o'clock and I'm finally settling in. I vowed to write today, and now is my only chance, so I'm making this short.
*
I also didn't get to the store in time to properly cook tonight, so I'm marinating my meat for the week overnight. I'm marinading my pork with lime, chili oil, vinegar, and spices. I'm marinating my chicken in paprika, brown sugar, fish sauce, and, again, lime. They'll be ready to cook tomorrow night.
While keeping an eye on the boy, I cooked up some jalapeno cornbread, based loosely on the recipe in the Moosewood Cookbook. It made me want to bake bread more. I found a bread baking book that noted how cumin is an underused spice in breadmaking, so I added about a teaspoon to the mix. I'm not sure if it added anything noticeable, but it certainly didn't hurt.
I ate the cornbread with hot pepper jelly. The jalapenos, after cooking, turned very mellow and added just the slightest kick, but with a nice, solid, crunchy texture. I used a coarse ground cornmeal, but in the future will food process it or buy a finer grind -- Jess likes the crunchiness but I find it a distraction.
That's it: applied to two more jobs, looked after the Dufflebag, and listened to three albums from The Hold Steady, back to back.
Needless to say, there is a different emotional resonance. It's been on my mind. I love that cat, and worry about the effects. It is, of course, a necessity: against our knowledge we picked up a male and a female and we don't want incest babies climbing up the shades.
*
It's ten o'clock and I'm finally settling in. I vowed to write today, and now is my only chance, so I'm making this short.
*
I also didn't get to the store in time to properly cook tonight, so I'm marinating my meat for the week overnight. I'm marinading my pork with lime, chili oil, vinegar, and spices. I'm marinating my chicken in paprika, brown sugar, fish sauce, and, again, lime. They'll be ready to cook tomorrow night.
While keeping an eye on the boy, I cooked up some jalapeno cornbread, based loosely on the recipe in the Moosewood Cookbook. It made me want to bake bread more. I found a bread baking book that noted how cumin is an underused spice in breadmaking, so I added about a teaspoon to the mix. I'm not sure if it added anything noticeable, but it certainly didn't hurt.
I ate the cornbread with hot pepper jelly. The jalapenos, after cooking, turned very mellow and added just the slightest kick, but with a nice, solid, crunchy texture. I used a coarse ground cornmeal, but in the future will food process it or buy a finer grind -- Jess likes the crunchiness but I find it a distraction.
That's it: applied to two more jobs, looked after the Dufflebag, and listened to three albums from The Hold Steady, back to back.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Dissolves with Deceiving
A theoretical disaster, today, but peaceful. Here are the bad parts in order:
1. The Dufflebag's audition, all the way in Providence, Rhode Island, turned out to be a scam, and the "agency" wanted credit card info and a couple of grand to "train" him.
2. We stopped afterwards at the Newport Cremery in Smithfield, where it took took so long to get a table we felt the waitstaff were taunting us. I had a decent burger and fries. Jess got a veggie burger with steamed veggies. The veggies were still slightly frozen, so we sent them back, and they were returned, on the same plate, obviously microwaved, but now white and dry, although cooked. Vomitous. We originally were planning on getting their supposedly famous ice cream, but couldn't wait to get out of there. So we didn't.
3. We watched Control, the Ian Curtis biopic, which I've been excited to see. It is a photographer's film -- visual and rich with black and white contrast. The music, to me, is still powerful. However, as a life, there simply wasn't that much going on. Sorry, Ian. Or at least that was our sense from the film. At one point, Jess, knowing the ending, was cheering for Curtis to hang himself, just to get it over with.
But now the skies are clear and cold. We're listening to good music, and cuddled up on the couch. Jess has dozed off, giving me a few minutes to write.
The cd is Devendra Banhart's Cripple Crow. I used to listen to it intently on the farm. It still sounds good. Great, even. Yes, great.
Let's consider the positives:
1. Ian liking the Unsane when I played them for him.
2. . . . and still curious about acting despite our bad experience today.
3. Pizza at Dario's in Lunenburg tonight. Completely made up for the awful pizza experience on Friday, detailed below. Praise be to garlic! We just got a pie and all drank water, bringing the bill for a family of three to a whopping twelve bucks. Cheaper than Mikey D's but actually good and everyone left full. Next time, I'm going with just Jess and we'll go for the putanesca.
4. And, okay, I didn't get a word written, but I will, tomorrow. Jess is going to a baby shower, leaving me to look after the Dufflebag and work on the novel. And I'll do both. I will do both. Today, I drove long distances. And if that isn't part of being an American writer, I don't know what is.
5. Have I told you about Billy's flask yet? Just wait.
6.
1. The Dufflebag's audition, all the way in Providence, Rhode Island, turned out to be a scam, and the "agency" wanted credit card info and a couple of grand to "train" him.
2. We stopped afterwards at the Newport Cremery in Smithfield, where it took took so long to get a table we felt the waitstaff were taunting us. I had a decent burger and fries. Jess got a veggie burger with steamed veggies. The veggies were still slightly frozen, so we sent them back, and they were returned, on the same plate, obviously microwaved, but now white and dry, although cooked. Vomitous. We originally were planning on getting their supposedly famous ice cream, but couldn't wait to get out of there. So we didn't.
3. We watched Control, the Ian Curtis biopic, which I've been excited to see. It is a photographer's film -- visual and rich with black and white contrast. The music, to me, is still powerful. However, as a life, there simply wasn't that much going on. Sorry, Ian. Or at least that was our sense from the film. At one point, Jess, knowing the ending, was cheering for Curtis to hang himself, just to get it over with.
But now the skies are clear and cold. We're listening to good music, and cuddled up on the couch. Jess has dozed off, giving me a few minutes to write.
The cd is Devendra Banhart's Cripple Crow. I used to listen to it intently on the farm. It still sounds good. Great, even. Yes, great.
Let's consider the positives:
1. Ian liking the Unsane when I played them for him.
2. . . . and still curious about acting despite our bad experience today.
3. Pizza at Dario's in Lunenburg tonight. Completely made up for the awful pizza experience on Friday, detailed below. Praise be to garlic! We just got a pie and all drank water, bringing the bill for a family of three to a whopping twelve bucks. Cheaper than Mikey D's but actually good and everyone left full. Next time, I'm going with just Jess and we'll go for the putanesca.
4. And, okay, I didn't get a word written, but I will, tomorrow. Jess is going to a baby shower, leaving me to look after the Dufflebag and work on the novel. And I'll do both. I will do both. Today, I drove long distances. And if that isn't part of being an American writer, I don't know what is.
5. Have I told you about Billy's flask yet? Just wait.
6.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Bad Slice
Right now I'm taking a quick break. I'm printing up a headshot of the Dufflebag for tomorrow when we head to Rhode Island where he's going to audition for a show on a kid's television network.
*
I had one of the top five worst pieces of pizza in my life today at the Papa Gino's in Lexington. I'm so broke, and to shell out the five bucks for dogfood killed my spirit.
When I say it tasted like cardboard, I'm not saying it in the usual, metaphorical sense. It tasted, strongly, of actual cardboard. I am lucky I didn't break a tooth on the crust. Its saving grace was that it was small -- hardly enough food for a child. Despite it causing my ears to go numb from tasting so horribly, I managed to get it all down, since I was hungry and hadn't eaten anything all day other than a few slices of dry bread for breakfast. It was either that or eat nothing.
It was the type of pizza that is so bad, you wonder if there shouldn't be laws passed that prevent such horrible food from being served. It went beyond industrial pizza. At some point, someone in the chain at that restaurant should have had a flicker of guilt and thought: we can't possibly serve this to a paying customer.
But I give the world too much credit. I'd rather have them robbing me of my five bucks than, say, a grandmother. And I could only assume some sort of sociopath cooked and served and overheated that wretched slice, instead of hacking the neighbor into bits. It could only have been either someone deprived of all moral agency through slavery or someone without any moral sense at all who quickly slipped it into the "to go" and handed it to me, hoping I'd be long gone before I'd opened it and discovered I'd been served a lesson in roadside hucksterism.
Rotten. Rotten. Rotten.
The only local pizzas that have come close to being as bad were served to me in Nashua, at a little place behind Home Depot (it must have been shut down -- if it's still open, there truly is no order to the universe) and at the Pizza Pizzazz in Pepperrel, MA (where, aside from my pie being horrible food, they also got my order screwed up. I waited so long for it -- noting the whispering, it seems something went wrong the first time -- I didn't want to wait another twenty minutes.)
*
To a hungry man, a bad slice transcends the laziness and cynicism that must have produced it.
The bad slice is a shot to the gut. It's a curb stomp. It's a direct hit on your nuts with a slapshot.
It's a rigged shellgame.
And I fell for it. Sucker!
*
I had one of the top five worst pieces of pizza in my life today at the Papa Gino's in Lexington. I'm so broke, and to shell out the five bucks for dogfood killed my spirit.
When I say it tasted like cardboard, I'm not saying it in the usual, metaphorical sense. It tasted, strongly, of actual cardboard. I am lucky I didn't break a tooth on the crust. Its saving grace was that it was small -- hardly enough food for a child. Despite it causing my ears to go numb from tasting so horribly, I managed to get it all down, since I was hungry and hadn't eaten anything all day other than a few slices of dry bread for breakfast. It was either that or eat nothing.
It was the type of pizza that is so bad, you wonder if there shouldn't be laws passed that prevent such horrible food from being served. It went beyond industrial pizza. At some point, someone in the chain at that restaurant should have had a flicker of guilt and thought: we can't possibly serve this to a paying customer.
But I give the world too much credit. I'd rather have them robbing me of my five bucks than, say, a grandmother. And I could only assume some sort of sociopath cooked and served and overheated that wretched slice, instead of hacking the neighbor into bits. It could only have been either someone deprived of all moral agency through slavery or someone without any moral sense at all who quickly slipped it into the "to go" and handed it to me, hoping I'd be long gone before I'd opened it and discovered I'd been served a lesson in roadside hucksterism.
Rotten. Rotten. Rotten.
The only local pizzas that have come close to being as bad were served to me in Nashua, at a little place behind Home Depot (it must have been shut down -- if it's still open, there truly is no order to the universe) and at the Pizza Pizzazz in Pepperrel, MA (where, aside from my pie being horrible food, they also got my order screwed up. I waited so long for it -- noting the whispering, it seems something went wrong the first time -- I didn't want to wait another twenty minutes.)
*
To a hungry man, a bad slice transcends the laziness and cynicism that must have produced it.
The bad slice is a shot to the gut. It's a curb stomp. It's a direct hit on your nuts with a slapshot.
It's a rigged shellgame.
And I fell for it. Sucker!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
On Catalogues
Blogger seems to occasionally eat my comments, or make it hard for me to post them, so I want to reply to a few here.
As for the glasses, Walmart is considered a deal, but the eyeglass bloggers, and they do exist, insist on better deals if you use the internet. Since I already have a script, I'm going to give it a try once I get my tax refund.
Mikey asked about the name of the Springsteen cd alluded to in a previous post. It was Devils and Dust. And while you're at it, if you want a serious challenge, how about the back catalogue of The Fall and Guided by Voices?
Or, the ultimate challenge . . . nah, I can't even say it . . . it's too much . . . .
As far as the food contest, I'm sure the podcasts will clear that all up. I haven't heard back, even though I've written twice. I am willing to practice.
I remember seeing a surprisingly compelling documentary on Kobayashi in which he explains that the great challenge of his sport is to bring yourself almost to the point of death. I need that 3000 bucks. I will do it.
And as for the nightclub, it is opening early next month. Details will follow: I tend not to name names if there's the slightest chance it will impact my job. That's just for the record.
*
Today, the Boss called us in and explained he was cutting all our hours. I am temporarily reduced to thirty-two a week, and this after resolving to find a weekend job. Billy, who often works sixty hours a week, and supports his girlfriend and, to a lesser extent, her daughter, was harder hit by the news that he is limited to just over forty. All day, he looked pale.
*
I wore my ipod in the W today, carefully kept safe under my sweatshirt. It was transformative.
There is a categorical difference between music that you tolerate and music that you care about. The gulf is wide.
*
Bubbs is the smaller of the two cats, and the one who most insists on being close to me when I write. I got home late so I haven't turned to the novel yet. But Bubbs is here, my notes are out, and I'm ready to begin.
As for the glasses, Walmart is considered a deal, but the eyeglass bloggers, and they do exist, insist on better deals if you use the internet. Since I already have a script, I'm going to give it a try once I get my tax refund.
Mikey asked about the name of the Springsteen cd alluded to in a previous post. It was Devils and Dust. And while you're at it, if you want a serious challenge, how about the back catalogue of The Fall and Guided by Voices?
Or, the ultimate challenge . . . nah, I can't even say it . . . it's too much . . . .
As far as the food contest, I'm sure the podcasts will clear that all up. I haven't heard back, even though I've written twice. I am willing to practice.
I remember seeing a surprisingly compelling documentary on Kobayashi in which he explains that the great challenge of his sport is to bring yourself almost to the point of death. I need that 3000 bucks. I will do it.
And as for the nightclub, it is opening early next month. Details will follow: I tend not to name names if there's the slightest chance it will impact my job. That's just for the record.
*
Today, the Boss called us in and explained he was cutting all our hours. I am temporarily reduced to thirty-two a week, and this after resolving to find a weekend job. Billy, who often works sixty hours a week, and supports his girlfriend and, to a lesser extent, her daughter, was harder hit by the news that he is limited to just over forty. All day, he looked pale.
*
I wore my ipod in the W today, carefully kept safe under my sweatshirt. It was transformative.
There is a categorical difference between music that you tolerate and music that you care about. The gulf is wide.
*
Bubbs is the smaller of the two cats, and the one who most insists on being close to me when I write. I got home late so I haven't turned to the novel yet. But Bubbs is here, my notes are out, and I'm ready to begin.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Ten Songs I Listened to Tonight
- "Joseph's Song" The Angels of Light
- "Beautiful Land" Nina Simone
- "End of Time" Danzig
- "Hard Travelin'" Woody Guthrie
- "I Want Her Back" The Five Budds
- "You Can Do Anything" Moby Grape
- "What She Said" The Smiths
- "New York City Serenade" Bruce Springsteen
- "Sometimes Always" Jesus & Mary Chain
- "Open All Night" Bruce Springsteen
I told Billy that I was tired of eating ramen noodles. I tried to find something to eat last night, and finding nothing to my tastes, squirted pink frosting in my hand.
"You had frosting for dinner? That's worse than me!"
Tonight I wanted something more than frosting. I remembered that I had a leftover plantain from this weekend. I fried that -- I must say, doing a better job than I did on Saturday -- and microwaved two of Jess's hotdogs.
It was salty and good. I don't know what I'll do for lunch tomorrow. I'm set with breakfast -- I carefully divided the the marinated pork into four plastic baggies on Sunday. I cook the tortillas in my skillet and add the park while they're heating, to save time. With hotsauce, they are more delicious than I deserve, and the eating kills a good ten minutes of the commute.
I'm going to stay with some sort of tortilla next week: good combination of heat and efficiency.
"You had frosting for dinner? That's worse than me!"
Tonight I wanted something more than frosting. I remembered that I had a leftover plantain from this weekend. I fried that -- I must say, doing a better job than I did on Saturday -- and microwaved two of Jess's hotdogs.
It was salty and good. I don't know what I'll do for lunch tomorrow. I'm set with breakfast -- I carefully divided the the marinated pork into four plastic baggies on Sunday. I cook the tortillas in my skillet and add the park while they're heating, to save time. With hotsauce, they are more delicious than I deserve, and the eating kills a good ten minutes of the commute.
I'm going to stay with some sort of tortilla next week: good combination of heat and efficiency.
Gnossiennes 1. Lent
Billy sang to me: "What happens when your need to survive kills the thing you love?"
Bruce Springsteen. Off an album I don't have. I said, "That's good. Which one is that?"
He told me and offered to lend it to me. He got it from his car, but it was so horribly scratched that I had to refuse the loan.
He looked sad.
"Don't give up on your dreams, Goo Goo."
"Fuck my dreams," I told him. "All they ever made me is . . ."
"Broke?"
"Yeah, broke. No more dreams. I just have to be a . . . "
"A worker."
"Yeah, a worker," I said.
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Yep. Nothing wrong with that."
"Fuck it, Goo Goo. I've got to get out of this place. It's eating me up. I want to learn shit, but I'm too busy to learn the new stuff that'll get me out of here. There's no fucking way fucking out."
"We should fight on," I said.
"Yeah. Let's fight on."
*
The Boss started violently vomiting, so he took the truck and drove home. I finally had the ambition to bring my ipod in. I hooked it up in the truck during my runs. It made the driving easier. I didn't want to listen to the filler about Obama, of whom there isn't much to say yet, the most notable part of inauguration being, I'm told, Aretha Franklin's hat.
*
I worked late and stopped at my mother's house to pick up a few things. I searched online, and sure enough, there are not only sites about buying cheap prescription glasses online, but blogs about buying them as well and I already feel relieved and well informed. I'm going to use my tax refund to get a new pair, finally pay off the old ones, and then, with whatever is left, put money into the house.
I'm also looking for a weekend job. I've worked seven day weeks before, and it eventually wore me down. But I'm also pretty tolerant of a high work load. I've already applied to a weekend driver position and as the bouncer at a Worcester area club that is opening up at the end of the month. I'd rather do the driving -- night hours will kill both my attempt again at a writing career, my longass Mondays, and my energy reserves. But it might open doors. I keep knocking.
Once, people believed in vocations, in callings. And you only had to hear it.
I've heard it. But I suspect it was just ghosts and gremlins, doing their mischief. There are all sorts of nightsounds that can deceive you into thinking there are monsters under the bed.
*
I'm trying to enter a WBCN eating competition. I've sent an email to the station and am waiting to hear more. Once again, expect updates and insights as I learn more.
Bruce Springsteen. Off an album I don't have. I said, "That's good. Which one is that?"
He told me and offered to lend it to me. He got it from his car, but it was so horribly scratched that I had to refuse the loan.
He looked sad.
"Don't give up on your dreams, Goo Goo."
"Fuck my dreams," I told him. "All they ever made me is . . ."
"Broke?"
"Yeah, broke. No more dreams. I just have to be a . . . "
"A worker."
"Yeah, a worker," I said.
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Yep. Nothing wrong with that."
"Fuck it, Goo Goo. I've got to get out of this place. It's eating me up. I want to learn shit, but I'm too busy to learn the new stuff that'll get me out of here. There's no fucking way fucking out."
"We should fight on," I said.
"Yeah. Let's fight on."
*
The Boss started violently vomiting, so he took the truck and drove home. I finally had the ambition to bring my ipod in. I hooked it up in the truck during my runs. It made the driving easier. I didn't want to listen to the filler about Obama, of whom there isn't much to say yet, the most notable part of inauguration being, I'm told, Aretha Franklin's hat.
*
I worked late and stopped at my mother's house to pick up a few things. I searched online, and sure enough, there are not only sites about buying cheap prescription glasses online, but blogs about buying them as well and I already feel relieved and well informed. I'm going to use my tax refund to get a new pair, finally pay off the old ones, and then, with whatever is left, put money into the house.
I'm also looking for a weekend job. I've worked seven day weeks before, and it eventually wore me down. But I'm also pretty tolerant of a high work load. I've already applied to a weekend driver position and as the bouncer at a Worcester area club that is opening up at the end of the month. I'd rather do the driving -- night hours will kill both my attempt again at a writing career, my longass Mondays, and my energy reserves. But it might open doors. I keep knocking.
Once, people believed in vocations, in callings. And you only had to hear it.
I've heard it. But I suspect it was just ghosts and gremlins, doing their mischief. There are all sorts of nightsounds that can deceive you into thinking there are monsters under the bed.
*
I'm trying to enter a WBCN eating competition. I've sent an email to the station and am waiting to hear more. Once again, expect updates and insights as I learn more.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Stated brief with random tunage
1,100 words tonight that seemed to write themselves. Felt as though I could have gone on, but I left off mid-event to guarantee a starting point tomorrow evening.
Ten tracks from the randomized playlist:
Ten tracks from the randomized playlist:
- "Mescal Rite 1" Tomahawk
- "Sally Go 'Round the Roses" Tim Buckley
- "Going Up to Live in Green Pastures" Ralph Stanley
- "Are You a Hypnotist?" The Flaming Lips
- "Have You Heard?" ZZ Top
- "Littlest Things" Lily Allen
- "Fistful of Love" Antony and the Johnsons
- "Slow Fade" Teenage Fanclub
- "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" The Beatles
- "Magic Toy Missing" Meat Puppets
In Which Billy Rips His Crotch
Billy ripped the crotch of his jeans while loading this unit on to my truck. By the end of the day, he had fixed the rip with three large pieces of duct tape. Even then, the slack in the material caused his pants to continually threaten to fall down.
*
I was busy today at work and had to think more about HVAC than novel writing. But I did get to deliver a tiny drain plug to my mother's street and I used the opportunity to drop off her roasting pan. I also stumbled across a cd in the garage that I've been trying to find for months, Black Francis's Bluefinger, one of my favorite sets of driving music.
The disc is a collection of songs that center around the life and death of Herman Brood, the Dutch musician and painter. I enjoy Francis' mix of surreal imagery with heartfelt sorrow. Such is, after all, how I see the world at times, and the crunchy but clear guitar tones only serve to make the wheels spin with teeth-clenching joy. We'll get there yet, sailors.
*
After dropping off the pan, my mother told me she'd broken a tooth.
"But I don't have dental insurance so I can't do anything about it."
"Okay, Mom. See you next Monday," I said with false cheerfulness.
I get word of a dire incident upon every visit. There are limits to my means, both psychic and financial. Sometimes you just have to board the ship and set sail.
Off into the snow white seas! Crank the tunes, take a sip of coffee mixed with white chocolate cocoa, and mix up what blurs and what gets seen.
And, if by the end of the day I didn't want to be sitting at a bar in Berlin, twenty years ago, then for all I know I was nowhere.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Billymix
At the end of the month, I'm having a few friends over for slow-cooked pork and homemade beer.
Billy claims to be coming. His girl is going away on vacation, so we have plans to drink beer and listen to music when the party ends. I told him I'd make a "billy mix" on my ipod, with Springsteen, Fogelberg, Sinatra, Lightfoot, and other artists known for sentiment and sincerity. He wants to hear music he can cry to. Music that makes him think about his grandfather. I will do my best.
The long winter has given me my fill of drink, but this seems like something I must do, simply on the grounds of friendship alone.
Billy claims to be coming. His girl is going away on vacation, so we have plans to drink beer and listen to music when the party ends. I told him I'd make a "billy mix" on my ipod, with Springsteen, Fogelberg, Sinatra, Lightfoot, and other artists known for sentiment and sincerity. He wants to hear music he can cry to. Music that makes him think about his grandfather. I will do my best.
The long winter has given me my fill of drink, but this seems like something I must do, simply on the grounds of friendship alone.
Sconestab
I added something like 3,500 words to my draft today, making it one of my most productive days. See what happens when work doesn't get in the way?
At one point, I had to lock the cats in the basement because they kept jumping on to the laptop. It made me feel bad, and, when I opened the cellar door, I thought they'd be pissed at me, but they seemed particularly happy to see me. Maybe they can distinguish between an Evil and a Good Goo Goo. The one who let them back upstairs was the good.
They are now here with me and the Slapster, arms tucked in the so-called "meatloaf" position.
Despite my back, I shovelled the driveway again to get rid of plow buildup. Our driveway is small, but there's been so much snowfall that I have to hand carry the shovelfulls over and toss them beyond the fence -- otherwise the buildup will obstruct the view. I took my time. I bent at the knees. The shovelling occured without incident.
I thought of making jalapeno scones today, but will keep the ball rolling and read. If I have time left over before I have to drive to the school tonight, I'll make a stab at the scones.
I also finally managed to sign up to the itunes store. I didn't do this to buy anything, but so that I could get the coverart for the cds I've ripped. It added an additional level of excitement to see the artwork uploaded, even if it is sometimes inaccurate -- my copy of "Heroes" was given the jacket off what seems to be a recording of orchestrated Bowie tunes.
Some of the inaccuracies were welcome. For example, a readily available best of cd of my favorite old punkers was given the cover to one of their early, rare singles. Seeing it brought me back.
Something like one-hundred cds didn't get their art returned. I'm told there's a time consuming way of adding it anyway, but I'll give it a pass. Having the art is pleasant, but not necessary.
I'm also excited that I finally found my copy of Wai Notes, which I've been looking for, but took it for lost.
At one point, I had to lock the cats in the basement because they kept jumping on to the laptop. It made me feel bad, and, when I opened the cellar door, I thought they'd be pissed at me, but they seemed particularly happy to see me. Maybe they can distinguish between an Evil and a Good Goo Goo. The one who let them back upstairs was the good.
They are now here with me and the Slapster, arms tucked in the so-called "meatloaf" position.
Despite my back, I shovelled the driveway again to get rid of plow buildup. Our driveway is small, but there's been so much snowfall that I have to hand carry the shovelfulls over and toss them beyond the fence -- otherwise the buildup will obstruct the view. I took my time. I bent at the knees. The shovelling occured without incident.
I thought of making jalapeno scones today, but will keep the ball rolling and read. If I have time left over before I have to drive to the school tonight, I'll make a stab at the scones.
I also finally managed to sign up to the itunes store. I didn't do this to buy anything, but so that I could get the coverart for the cds I've ripped. It added an additional level of excitement to see the artwork uploaded, even if it is sometimes inaccurate -- my copy of "Heroes" was given the jacket off what seems to be a recording of orchestrated Bowie tunes.
Some of the inaccuracies were welcome. For example, a readily available best of cd of my favorite old punkers was given the cover to one of their early, rare singles. Seeing it brought me back.
Something like one-hundred cds didn't get their art returned. I'm told there's a time consuming way of adding it anyway, but I'll give it a pass. Having the art is pleasant, but not necessary.
I'm also excited that I finally found my copy of Wai Notes, which I've been looking for, but took it for lost.
Rolling
All animals are upset. All three. All outside the bathroom door, banging to get it. They didn't expect me home early. They are pounding and whining. As Jess once said of them, "I know people can excited to see you, but not falling over excited."
*
I was sent home today. It was absolutely dead and there was no work. Last time this happened, Keith had to go, so now it was my turn. Plus, I threw out my back. It seemed to get better by Saturday night, but now I feel shooting pains in the back of my legs when I stand up. Without any truck runs, I would have spent the whole day on my feet.
"Shagoo's getting old," Billy said to me.
"Fuck that. My back's been giving out since I was fifteen."
But I also thought of all the great sickly writers. For good reason: when you're laid up, you get more work done. Hemingway had a bad back and had to write standing up.
Blindness. Bad backs. Asthma. Gout. Dysentary. Opium addiction. Hangnails.
Oh, those writers have seen and known the lot.
*
Bad for the pocket book means good for the novel.
I grabbed a cup of coffee, finished Pnin, and went on to read a Kipling short story and the first part of John Fante's Dreams From Bunker Hill, his last novel, written by dictation to his wife after his eyesight failed him.
During the reading, I wrote down pages of notes for my novel, and am back feeling like a writer again and not a would-be baker.
I was so excited to write that I untied my boots while driving, so that I could throw them off faster and get right to work. Which I did. And now, I'm taking a break but the break is broken now, too, and I'm back to work.
Flush. Autosave. Publish. The animals are happy. I'm happy. We're rolling.
*
I was sent home today. It was absolutely dead and there was no work. Last time this happened, Keith had to go, so now it was my turn. Plus, I threw out my back. It seemed to get better by Saturday night, but now I feel shooting pains in the back of my legs when I stand up. Without any truck runs, I would have spent the whole day on my feet.
"Shagoo's getting old," Billy said to me.
"Fuck that. My back's been giving out since I was fifteen."
But I also thought of all the great sickly writers. For good reason: when you're laid up, you get more work done. Hemingway had a bad back and had to write standing up.
Blindness. Bad backs. Asthma. Gout. Dysentary. Opium addiction. Hangnails.
Oh, those writers have seen and known the lot.
*
Bad for the pocket book means good for the novel.
I grabbed a cup of coffee, finished Pnin, and went on to read a Kipling short story and the first part of John Fante's Dreams From Bunker Hill, his last novel, written by dictation to his wife after his eyesight failed him.
During the reading, I wrote down pages of notes for my novel, and am back feeling like a writer again and not a would-be baker.
I was so excited to write that I untied my boots while driving, so that I could throw them off faster and get right to work. Which I did. And now, I'm taking a break but the break is broken now, too, and I'm back to work.
Flush. Autosave. Publish. The animals are happy. I'm happy. We're rolling.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Brief Entry: Fish Sauce
I've started using a lot of fish sauce in my cooking.
Since the novel writing has halted, I just spent some time researching the history of fish sauce, and even discovered that Worcestershire descends from it, and that the Romans had their own variety.
I also found this enjoyable article on how it's made.
Since the novel writing has halted, I just spent some time researching the history of fish sauce, and even discovered that Worcestershire descends from it, and that the Romans had their own variety.
I also found this enjoyable article on how it's made.
We walked in the snow to Cliff's, a local breakfast haunt that I suppose people tolerate because there's nothing better around and they don't have the ambition to drive to Parker's or the Scotch Pine Farm. I had a leaden, dry pancake. The coffee, I'll admit, tasted good in a necessary way -- not in the way that I had any sense it was a decent cup.
*
Last night I made griddle cakes stuffed with white cheddar and jalapenos and plantains stuffed with spinach. Both were okay: first time making them so it was a learning experience.
I marinated some pork tenderloin overnight in a pomegranate marinade and cut it into strips for my breakfast this week. I'm going to divide the up so that I can wrap them into tortillas and eat them on the ride into work.
I also cooked mushrooms for lunch and topped them with a reduction from the pork dish. Right now, I'm marinating chicken breast, cut into thirds, in lime juice and peppers. That will be the daily protein and I'll broil that some time this evening.
For a quick snack, I made a slit in two jalapenos and stuffed them with the remaining cheddar before broiling them in the toaster oven. I topped them with a light sprinkle of sea salt. Simple and delicious.
Other than that: writer's block. Staring at the blank screen, trying to work on the novel. Hanging with the cats. Watching the snow fall white onto the street and the cars below.
Maybe I'll just read some fiction and hope to find inspiration there.
*
Last night I made griddle cakes stuffed with white cheddar and jalapenos and plantains stuffed with spinach. Both were okay: first time making them so it was a learning experience.
I marinated some pork tenderloin overnight in a pomegranate marinade and cut it into strips for my breakfast this week. I'm going to divide the up so that I can wrap them into tortillas and eat them on the ride into work.
I also cooked mushrooms for lunch and topped them with a reduction from the pork dish. Right now, I'm marinating chicken breast, cut into thirds, in lime juice and peppers. That will be the daily protein and I'll broil that some time this evening.
For a quick snack, I made a slit in two jalapenos and stuffed them with the remaining cheddar before broiling them in the toaster oven. I topped them with a light sprinkle of sea salt. Simple and delicious.
Other than that: writer's block. Staring at the blank screen, trying to work on the novel. Hanging with the cats. Watching the snow fall white onto the street and the cars below.
Maybe I'll just read some fiction and hope to find inspiration there.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Big D Went a-Courtin'
Aside from a brief intermission at Starbucks, it would ten o'clock last night before I had a chance to sit down and unwind. The tech from Lorden oil had just left, so I grabbed my copy of Pnin and headed for the couch.
Big D, my cat, climbed up after me and started kneading the blanket. I hardly paid attention, but then noticed a rather forceful and rhythmic thrusting of his tiny hips.
I picked him up and spun him around.
"Hey little guy," I told him. "Anyway you can not hump my leg right now?"
He turned around and went back at it. I picked him up, and he seemed to smile at me, with woozy eyes. I looked at my leg. He had left me a present.
"Holy shit, you little bastard. You just splooged on my leg. What the fuck!"
My last thought was that I shouldn't tell Jess about the incident, since it would give her days of amusement at my expense, but, sure enough, when we woke up, I couldn't help but to tell her.
"Big D took advantage of you? Do you feel violated?" she asked me, when she could finally regain her composure.
*
My back is out of whack due to lack of exercise, the weather, and work, so I turned over on my side quickly this morning and threw it out.
It's difficult to stand. Difficult to walk down the stairs.
I've had back problems since I was in high school, so this is nothing new. In fact, it's a blessing, since I need to sit on my ass and read and write this weekend.
Big D is with me, sleeping on the cd's that I'm trying to rip to my laptop.
UFC tonight? Still on. Just wish I had a cup of coffee.
Big D, my cat, climbed up after me and started kneading the blanket. I hardly paid attention, but then noticed a rather forceful and rhythmic thrusting of his tiny hips.
I picked him up and spun him around.
"Hey little guy," I told him. "Anyway you can not hump my leg right now?"
He turned around and went back at it. I picked him up, and he seemed to smile at me, with woozy eyes. I looked at my leg. He had left me a present.
"Holy shit, you little bastard. You just splooged on my leg. What the fuck!"
My last thought was that I shouldn't tell Jess about the incident, since it would give her days of amusement at my expense, but, sure enough, when we woke up, I couldn't help but to tell her.
"Big D took advantage of you? Do you feel violated?" she asked me, when she could finally regain her composure.
*
My back is out of whack due to lack of exercise, the weather, and work, so I turned over on my side quickly this morning and threw it out.
It's difficult to stand. Difficult to walk down the stairs.
I've had back problems since I was in high school, so this is nothing new. In fact, it's a blessing, since I need to sit on my ass and read and write this weekend.
Big D is with me, sleeping on the cd's that I'm trying to rip to my laptop.
UFC tonight? Still on. Just wish I had a cup of coffee.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Screw the Sea Urchins
I broke in the pressure cooker Jess gave me with Charlie's chili recipe (see comments to "The Mystery of Jerry" entry). I enjoyed the process and results. Ian, who can be picky, seemed pleased and ate nearly all -- a feat he generally only reserves for junk food.
*
After dinner, the copper pipe leading to the washing machine burst, saturating our kitchen floor. We called up our friends at Lorden Oil in Townsend. The service tech who arrived later told me he had taken care of something like a hundred calls today. The cold breaks the bones of these old houses. But not ours! What initially seemed like a cf tried and true turned out not so bad. He put a valve to stop the line and told me the next step -- which he didn't have time for tonight since we were an unplanned stop -- would be quick and painless.
*
My birthday karaoke party was rescheduled for tomorrow, but has now been rescheduled for January 2010. Too many conflicting schedules among the tried and true. My brother told me, "Just come up to Nashua for the UFC tomorrow! We'll celebrate." So I will. Originally, I was thinking of frying squid with limes and chiles. After paying a big bill, I shifted into a more frugal mode and came up with two small dishes: cheddar stuffed grilled jalapenos and fried plantains with spinach that sounded good and ended up costing little. A buck for the peppers and plantains. Four something for the spinach, with much left over for sandwiches and salads, and four for the cheese, with some no doubt left over for general munching. A regular old Thoreau of the teethsmashing set, I am.
Tomorrow, I need to pick up some pork butt at Blood Farm for a party next weekend. I can't buy it then because I'll need to get it in the oven by seven a.m.
I also bought some pork that I'm going to marinade and make into savory breakfast burritos. A little radish? Sure, sure. I eat weird in the mornings. Just ask Jess. I suspect by now she has nightmares in which she wakes to find me skewering sea urchins by the light of the moon.
*
After dinner, the copper pipe leading to the washing machine burst, saturating our kitchen floor. We called up our friends at Lorden Oil in Townsend. The service tech who arrived later told me he had taken care of something like a hundred calls today. The cold breaks the bones of these old houses. But not ours! What initially seemed like a cf tried and true turned out not so bad. He put a valve to stop the line and told me the next step -- which he didn't have time for tonight since we were an unplanned stop -- would be quick and painless.
*
My birthday karaoke party was rescheduled for tomorrow, but has now been rescheduled for January 2010. Too many conflicting schedules among the tried and true. My brother told me, "Just come up to Nashua for the UFC tomorrow! We'll celebrate." So I will. Originally, I was thinking of frying squid with limes and chiles. After paying a big bill, I shifted into a more frugal mode and came up with two small dishes: cheddar stuffed grilled jalapenos and fried plantains with spinach that sounded good and ended up costing little. A buck for the peppers and plantains. Four something for the spinach, with much left over for sandwiches and salads, and four for the cheese, with some no doubt left over for general munching. A regular old Thoreau of the teethsmashing set, I am.
Tomorrow, I need to pick up some pork butt at Blood Farm for a party next weekend. I can't buy it then because I'll need to get it in the oven by seven a.m.
I also bought some pork that I'm going to marinade and make into savory breakfast burritos. A little radish? Sure, sure. I eat weird in the mornings. Just ask Jess. I suspect by now she has nightmares in which she wakes to find me skewering sea urchins by the light of the moon.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Gas
Scientists have discovered the presence of methane on Mars, confirming what I've longed believed: that there are cows hidden beneath the red planet's surface.
*
I pulled the Boss inside and begged, during the slow winter hours, to come up with a training manual for new employees.
This, you see, would serve a twofold purpose. They would have to actually train me, one. And, two, I would include the new part numbers.
As some of you who follow this blog know, we changed metal suppliers two years ago, but everyone still calls the parts by the number assigned by the old manufacturer.
After, to my surprise, gaining his assent, and his computer, I fired off a message to Billy: "The old ways are dead. Here comes Goo Goo the Sheriff."
From out in the warehouse, I heard him scream. "Goo Goo the Sheriff! Shegooo. Shegooooooo. SHUGOOOOOOO!"
And, for the rest of the day, he called me Shugoo. Apparently, I have a new nickname.
*
My glasses broke again. The glue no longer holds. I called up Lenscrafters, to see if they would release my prescription to me, since I lost it. With little effort and much kindness on their part, it was faxed to my work immediately, where the Boss, despite being warned it was coming, immediately transferred it to the recycled paper bin. I figured this might happen, and knew where to look when it wasn't in its place.
I'm going to try to find a website where I can buy inexpensive glasses, the type they give you in the military. And these will serve me well for all practical purposes.
*
Oddness. I wrote previous about my Tony Hawk hoodie (Billy calls him Anthony Hawk), which turned out to be a perfect warehouse uniform in terms of fit and comfort. For my birthday, she gave me a handknitted scarf. It was the sort of present I would have been embarassed by in years past, but, as with the sweatshirt, it has turned out to be unexpectedly useful, as I can switch it from open to tight around the neck or even up around my ears as the warehouse temperate fluctuates dramatically. Because of the position of the docks, the temp can drop from about 65 to about 15 in seconds. Frozen sweat. Unpleasant! The scarf works wonders.
*
In yesterday's post I mentioned Jess's special number, 34. Well, ahem. The powerball was, in fact, 34, and we netted ten beans, having hit the powerball three times, once with an added nonpowerball number.
"I can't believe it," the Boss said. We have tons of 34's."
Jess texted and asked me if I believe her now.
"It sure is weird," I wrote back. I realized this wasn't enough and added an additional "lllllooooooovvvvveeeeeee" moments later, to save my sorry ass.
*
The mystery of Jerry, or Gerry, has been solved. His name was indeed Gerry and he was one of my first students at Mass BJJ when I first started the beginner's program there. He was probably among the first five students I trained.
He wasn't an electrician. He works for an HVAC contractor and thought he saw me in the building when he was picking up parts.
I owe someone a bag of mushrooms.
*
Met Anthony for coffee after work. He's brewing his own sake and suggested he might write about his experiences online. I guess the big trick is to keep the rice heated to 86 degrees Farenheit for three days, without the rice drying out.
We talked about writing. He, too, is working on a book. As for the rest of the conversation, with topics ranging from eccentric artist geometers to the semiotics of feces to Axl Rose, we'll leave that as a conversation between friends. Mostly because I don't want any artist geometers showing up at my house and blasting me into the second dimension where, I'm told, the food is much, much worse. All the good stuff requires a wholesome dollop of time.
*
I have a few notes for the novel. Dinner? Done. Blog? Done, almost. A little shower and a little writing and I just might have Jess time before the night enfolds us all.
*
I pulled the Boss inside and begged, during the slow winter hours, to come up with a training manual for new employees.
This, you see, would serve a twofold purpose. They would have to actually train me, one. And, two, I would include the new part numbers.
As some of you who follow this blog know, we changed metal suppliers two years ago, but everyone still calls the parts by the number assigned by the old manufacturer.
After, to my surprise, gaining his assent, and his computer, I fired off a message to Billy: "The old ways are dead. Here comes Goo Goo the Sheriff."
From out in the warehouse, I heard him scream. "Goo Goo the Sheriff! Shegooo. Shegooooooo. SHUGOOOOOOO!"
And, for the rest of the day, he called me Shugoo. Apparently, I have a new nickname.
*
My glasses broke again. The glue no longer holds. I called up Lenscrafters, to see if they would release my prescription to me, since I lost it. With little effort and much kindness on their part, it was faxed to my work immediately, where the Boss, despite being warned it was coming, immediately transferred it to the recycled paper bin. I figured this might happen, and knew where to look when it wasn't in its place.
I'm going to try to find a website where I can buy inexpensive glasses, the type they give you in the military. And these will serve me well for all practical purposes.
*
Oddness. I wrote previous about my Tony Hawk hoodie (Billy calls him Anthony Hawk), which turned out to be a perfect warehouse uniform in terms of fit and comfort. For my birthday, she gave me a handknitted scarf. It was the sort of present I would have been embarassed by in years past, but, as with the sweatshirt, it has turned out to be unexpectedly useful, as I can switch it from open to tight around the neck or even up around my ears as the warehouse temperate fluctuates dramatically. Because of the position of the docks, the temp can drop from about 65 to about 15 in seconds. Frozen sweat. Unpleasant! The scarf works wonders.
*
In yesterday's post I mentioned Jess's special number, 34. Well, ahem. The powerball was, in fact, 34, and we netted ten beans, having hit the powerball three times, once with an added nonpowerball number.
"I can't believe it," the Boss said. We have tons of 34's."
Jess texted and asked me if I believe her now.
"It sure is weird," I wrote back. I realized this wasn't enough and added an additional "lllllooooooovvvvveeeeeee" moments later, to save my sorry ass.
*
The mystery of Jerry, or Gerry, has been solved. His name was indeed Gerry and he was one of my first students at Mass BJJ when I first started the beginner's program there. He was probably among the first five students I trained.
He wasn't an electrician. He works for an HVAC contractor and thought he saw me in the building when he was picking up parts.
I owe someone a bag of mushrooms.
*
Met Anthony for coffee after work. He's brewing his own sake and suggested he might write about his experiences online. I guess the big trick is to keep the rice heated to 86 degrees Farenheit for three days, without the rice drying out.
We talked about writing. He, too, is working on a book. As for the rest of the conversation, with topics ranging from eccentric artist geometers to the semiotics of feces to Axl Rose, we'll leave that as a conversation between friends. Mostly because I don't want any artist geometers showing up at my house and blasting me into the second dimension where, I'm told, the food is much, much worse. All the good stuff requires a wholesome dollop of time.
*
I have a few notes for the novel. Dinner? Done. Blog? Done, almost. A little shower and a little writing and I just might have Jess time before the night enfolds us all.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Mystery of Jerry
2,500 words on the novel tonight, so I'm written out. Nearly.
*
The Powerball is up to over 100 million. The guys at work decided to each put in five bucks. I told them I didn't have five to spare.
Billy offered to loan me the five and I refused, because I don't have five now or even later to spare.
"Okay, Goo Goo. You cook up some of that delicious chicken of yours and I'll pay you five for it."
I stared at him. "If that's what you want."
I like barter.
"Only one thing," he continued. "Can you put those mushrooms in there. Those wild mushrooms."
"I've never cooked with wild mushrooms."
"Well, whatever they were, those fucking mushrooms."
(For the record, regular old white buttons.)
"And another thing, no bone in the chicken. I hate eating around the bone."
I growled. "Fuck that. Chicken tastes better on the bone. Learn to eat like a man. As for the shrooms, consider it done."
And he slipped me a fiver.
*
When I returned, Eddy told me that some guy came in looking for me.
"Are you looking for money?" Eddy told me he asked him.
Billy chimed in. "His name was Jerry. He was an electrician. He said he knew you from jiu-jitsa."
Billy always pronounces it jiu-jitssssa.
He looked at me knowingly. "I told him I'd dethroned you."
"Are you sure he name was Jerry? I can't think of any Jerry. Was he older? Younger? Big guy?"
Both of them, with their heads together, couldn't agree on a single physical detail other than his name, which I'm willing to bet a bag of mushrooms on that they both got completely wrong.
*
So now I'm going to cook myself dinner, finally, and work on lunch for tomorrow, which I'll divide up between Billy and myself.
Dinner is steamed pork buns from the asian market.
Lunch is brown rice with collard greens, mushrooms, bean sprouts, and bone-in chicken nuggets. Fish sauce will meet cajun-type seasonings. Dashes of sesame oil will give it that pleasant earthy quality. Greens and reds and whites. Crunch parts, nearly burned parts.
Billy paid five for it. He's going to eat well.
*
The Powerball is up to over 100 million. The guys at work decided to each put in five bucks. I told them I didn't have five to spare.
Billy offered to loan me the five and I refused, because I don't have five now or even later to spare.
"Okay, Goo Goo. You cook up some of that delicious chicken of yours and I'll pay you five for it."
I stared at him. "If that's what you want."
I like barter.
"Only one thing," he continued. "Can you put those mushrooms in there. Those wild mushrooms."
"I've never cooked with wild mushrooms."
"Well, whatever they were, those fucking mushrooms."
(For the record, regular old white buttons.)
"And another thing, no bone in the chicken. I hate eating around the bone."
I growled. "Fuck that. Chicken tastes better on the bone. Learn to eat like a man. As for the shrooms, consider it done."
And he slipped me a fiver.
*
When I returned, Eddy told me that some guy came in looking for me.
"Are you looking for money?" Eddy told me he asked him.
Billy chimed in. "His name was Jerry. He was an electrician. He said he knew you from jiu-jitsa."
Billy always pronounces it jiu-jitssssa.
He looked at me knowingly. "I told him I'd dethroned you."
"Are you sure he name was Jerry? I can't think of any Jerry. Was he older? Younger? Big guy?"
Both of them, with their heads together, couldn't agree on a single physical detail other than his name, which I'm willing to bet a bag of mushrooms on that they both got completely wrong.
*
So now I'm going to cook myself dinner, finally, and work on lunch for tomorrow, which I'll divide up between Billy and myself.
Dinner is steamed pork buns from the asian market.
Lunch is brown rice with collard greens, mushrooms, bean sprouts, and bone-in chicken nuggets. Fish sauce will meet cajun-type seasonings. Dashes of sesame oil will give it that pleasant earthy quality. Greens and reds and whites. Crunch parts, nearly burned parts.
Billy paid five for it. He's going to eat well.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
37
It is my birthday, and I have thus far received more pleasant gifts this year than in any year since childhood. I'm not sure why: good ale, seaweed, some early and late period Springsteen, a magnificent cake, a high-quality chef's knife, a well-crusted pizza, a t-stat -- I feel like some sort of king.
*
This was the second Christmas since my stepsister killed herself. Jess spoke to my stepmother about what had happened and she became choked up. "I just have to pretend she's on vacation," she said. "It's the only way I can deal with it."
*
"Somebody is booting in the bathroom," one of the contractors told us. Twenty minutes later, Eddy stumbled out. Billy asked him what was wrong. "Ah, just an upset stomach." He rubbed his nose, smoked a cigarette, and went back to work.
*
I spent a post work hour buying brillo pads and a mortar and pestle. I drank a smooth cup of coffee at Starbucks and read from Pnin. I thought of some further ideas for my novel and scribbled them on a scrap piece of paper. While driving to pick up pizza, I got more ideas and tried to write while driving. Not smart, I know. But I was alone on the sidestreets and drove slowly. I wonder if I can make sense of my writing. I've done this before and have lost ideas buried in an jolting, overlapping scrawl.
*
And now I'm waiting for Jess and Ian to show up with the cake.
I have another nickname. Jess calls me, sometimes, "PB" or "her PB." PB is short for polar bear. I don't mind the cold and sometimes leave the house forgotting to put on my coat. Sometimes she even calls me "a PB."
They made me a cake in the shape of a PB. The bear is smiling and shitting out brown jelly beans. I don't know what flavor the beans are because they have yet to arrive and I haven't tried it. And this is assuming the cats haven't somehow gotten into it. The cats grown by turns more noble and affectionate, and then more clever and devilish.
It is the finest cake I've ever seen. I suppose, in there, was a deep warmth, and sometime unlike what I've felt before, and this has something to do with a concrete shift from thinking about being "in a relationship" to thinking in terms of being in a family. I don't know why the bear made me feel this way, or what there was outside of this in the experience of the past month that would evoke such thoughts and come to be symbolized the cake. But it did.
*
While waiting, I went through a box still unpacked from the farm. A CD fell out -- a collection of Beethoven's choral works. To my memory, it is the only music I bought there, not counting the Glenn Campbell collection I bought specifically for the ride there.
The funny part is, I don't remember listening to it once. I remember listening to a lot of Devendra Banhart and Entombed while on the farm. Why those twin poles? And why no peace in the Ludwig Van?
It's my birthday and I'm bound to think about such accidental matters.
*
This was the second Christmas since my stepsister killed herself. Jess spoke to my stepmother about what had happened and she became choked up. "I just have to pretend she's on vacation," she said. "It's the only way I can deal with it."
*
"Somebody is booting in the bathroom," one of the contractors told us. Twenty minutes later, Eddy stumbled out. Billy asked him what was wrong. "Ah, just an upset stomach." He rubbed his nose, smoked a cigarette, and went back to work.
*
I spent a post work hour buying brillo pads and a mortar and pestle. I drank a smooth cup of coffee at Starbucks and read from Pnin. I thought of some further ideas for my novel and scribbled them on a scrap piece of paper. While driving to pick up pizza, I got more ideas and tried to write while driving. Not smart, I know. But I was alone on the sidestreets and drove slowly. I wonder if I can make sense of my writing. I've done this before and have lost ideas buried in an jolting, overlapping scrawl.
*
And now I'm waiting for Jess and Ian to show up with the cake.
I have another nickname. Jess calls me, sometimes, "PB" or "her PB." PB is short for polar bear. I don't mind the cold and sometimes leave the house forgotting to put on my coat. Sometimes she even calls me "a PB."
They made me a cake in the shape of a PB. The bear is smiling and shitting out brown jelly beans. I don't know what flavor the beans are because they have yet to arrive and I haven't tried it. And this is assuming the cats haven't somehow gotten into it. The cats grown by turns more noble and affectionate, and then more clever and devilish.
It is the finest cake I've ever seen. I suppose, in there, was a deep warmth, and sometime unlike what I've felt before, and this has something to do with a concrete shift from thinking about being "in a relationship" to thinking in terms of being in a family. I don't know why the bear made me feel this way, or what there was outside of this in the experience of the past month that would evoke such thoughts and come to be symbolized the cake. But it did.
*
While waiting, I went through a box still unpacked from the farm. A CD fell out -- a collection of Beethoven's choral works. To my memory, it is the only music I bought there, not counting the Glenn Campbell collection I bought specifically for the ride there.
The funny part is, I don't remember listening to it once. I remember listening to a lot of Devendra Banhart and Entombed while on the farm. Why those twin poles? And why no peace in the Ludwig Van?
It's my birthday and I'm bound to think about such accidental matters.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Liberal Squirt
In short.
I woke up early, having slept little, and set to shoveling with Jess. Our neighbor is older and had a hip surgery before we moved in, and it seems the unofficial duty of our household to dig her out as well. And so we did. Two something hours of labor. Thus our appetite was justified when I head over to Charlie's for his thickly crusted pizza. He let me in on the embarassing details of where he got the recipe and I got him dizzy on microbrews. We listened to the Undertones and I was roused out of my benadryl stupor (damn cat allergies) to invoke the ghost of William of Occam.
Home. Quick nap. Calzones with Dad.
I returned to finish ripping another set of cds -- the last, in fact, from one of my wallets, marking a milestone (for the record, the last one to go was Jeannie C. Riley's Harper Valley P.T.A.)
Another milestone: I marinated chicken in sesame and olive oils, with crawlfins pepper, and cooked it perfectly. I struggle with chicken. This was juicy. I splashed a liberal squirt of fish sauce on the bone-in nuggets, dropped them onto a bed of brown rice, and buried the lot with a fistful of bean sprouts. Lunch for tomorrow, boyo!
And that's it. I'm rushing to savor the last minutes of the weekend with Jess before the end transforms, as if by black magic, into the work week.
I woke up early, having slept little, and set to shoveling with Jess. Our neighbor is older and had a hip surgery before we moved in, and it seems the unofficial duty of our household to dig her out as well. And so we did. Two something hours of labor. Thus our appetite was justified when I head over to Charlie's for his thickly crusted pizza. He let me in on the embarassing details of where he got the recipe and I got him dizzy on microbrews. We listened to the Undertones and I was roused out of my benadryl stupor (damn cat allergies) to invoke the ghost of William of Occam.
Home. Quick nap. Calzones with Dad.
I returned to finish ripping another set of cds -- the last, in fact, from one of my wallets, marking a milestone (for the record, the last one to go was Jeannie C. Riley's Harper Valley P.T.A.)
Another milestone: I marinated chicken in sesame and olive oils, with crawlfins pepper, and cooked it perfectly. I struggle with chicken. This was juicy. I splashed a liberal squirt of fish sauce on the bone-in nuggets, dropped them onto a bed of brown rice, and buried the lot with a fistful of bean sprouts. Lunch for tomorrow, boyo!
And that's it. I'm rushing to savor the last minutes of the weekend with Jess before the end transforms, as if by black magic, into the work week.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Now I Read Pnin
I'm reading Pnin at Starbucks, getting ready to write.
This week was pivotal in the creation of the novel, because I finally saw where the plot was going and was able to figure out the narrative arch. That makes life easier: there's a little more room for stating what is necessary, rather than searching and hoping to find the thread.
But the thread was found, and we can all breath easy.
Then, it's back to the house to spend time alone with Jess. We might watch The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, which we've been meaning to get to all week. And we might drink Hobgoblins and stage another impromptu disco party, as we did last night. (Ask her. She'll tell you. She had never heard the Scissor Sisters before. Nor had she seen such moves.)
But now, it's time to work.
Pnin is great, by the way. So readable it's hard for me to put down, even to stir the octopus.
This week was pivotal in the creation of the novel, because I finally saw where the plot was going and was able to figure out the narrative arch. That makes life easier: there's a little more room for stating what is necessary, rather than searching and hoping to find the thread.
But the thread was found, and we can all breath easy.
Then, it's back to the house to spend time alone with Jess. We might watch The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, which we've been meaning to get to all week. And we might drink Hobgoblins and stage another impromptu disco party, as we did last night. (Ask her. She'll tell you. She had never heard the Scissor Sisters before. Nor had she seen such moves.)
But now, it's time to work.
Pnin is great, by the way. So readable it's hard for me to put down, even to stir the octopus.
Playlist
- "Milano Mosh" Stormtroopers of Death
- "Black Peter" Grateful Dead
- "Roll on Sweet Don (Heaven and Hell)" Don Drummond and Roland Alphonso
- "Serpent Charmer" Iron & Wine
- "Blues Stay Away from Me" Lonnie Johnson
- "Soggy Beavers" Boston Spaceships
- "Dedications to the One I Love" Laughing Hyenas
- "Triptych: Synagoga Satanae" Celtic Frost
- "I Heard My Mother Praying for Me" Hank and Audrey Williams
- "Fable of the Brown Ape" Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
Octopus Loaf
Unfortunately, we had to cancel the party tonight because of the threat of the storm. I'm not too happy about it, but so it goes.
As for the octopus dish, it turned out very well. The octopus was tender and mild -- almost too mild. I suspect I could have given this dish to just about anyone and they would have to be told that there was octopus in it. If I did it again, I would use a little less tomato and more octopus.
I'm pleased that my hot sauce is popular in the house. It is being used up at a faster rate than Frank's, the household favorite. I noticed this today when using it to season my dish.
*
I walked to the local used book store and picked up a book on bread and another on the relationship between serial killers and the Black Dahlia murders. I'm generally not so interested in that subject matter, but the book was cheap, beautifully designed, and focused on what seems a really off the wall subject. There are pictures of serial killer victims next to Dali paintings. That's all I needed to see. Ah, psychology! The mysteries! The depth of the cavernous human mind. Coffeetime!
As for the octopus dish, it turned out very well. The octopus was tender and mild -- almost too mild. I suspect I could have given this dish to just about anyone and they would have to be told that there was octopus in it. If I did it again, I would use a little less tomato and more octopus.
I'm pleased that my hot sauce is popular in the house. It is being used up at a faster rate than Frank's, the household favorite. I noticed this today when using it to season my dish.
*
I walked to the local used book store and picked up a book on bread and another on the relationship between serial killers and the Black Dahlia murders. I'm generally not so interested in that subject matter, but the book was cheap, beautifully designed, and focused on what seems a really off the wall subject. There are pictures of serial killer victims next to Dali paintings. That's all I needed to see. Ah, psychology! The mysteries! The depth of the cavernous human mind. Coffeetime!
In Which the Plural of Octopus is Revealed
I picked up a bag of frozen baby octopodes at the Asian market, not quite knowing what to do with them. I found this recipe on the Internet, and I'm making my own version of it. I've added capers, green olives, and crawlfins pepper and I've substituted Hobgoblin (a mild, English dark ale) for the wine.
While boiling the octopodes, I put a cork in the water. I saw someone do this on Top Chef. Apparently, it is a traditional way of keeping the meat tender. Fortunately, I had a real cork left over from last night: the Allegash Curieux not only got me resoundingly drunk but it also gave up its cork for the day's meal.
The kittens were driven to a fine fury by the smell, and poor Bubbs singed off at least twelve good whiskers trying to get at the pot. Lessons learned, Bubbs!
As I learn more about cooking, part of my knowledge has to do with preparing for the onslaught of the animals. They hit me in all directions, and I need to stay on my toes unless I want a floor littered with crushed capers to clean up when the dishes are done.
Jess took for a birthday breakfast meal at Scotch Pine Farm in Pepperell. I went for the florentine eggs benedict with the kicked up home fries. It was perfect, although next time I'll see if I can get the homefries kicked up (applewood bacon, onions, peppers) without the additional cheddar cheese.
The food was great, yes, but we also got to see the fold of Scottish longhorns out in their pen, as well as a pair of healthy, handsome goats.
I would like to note that Scottish cattle are also called Hairy Coo. I learned that from wikipedia.
And, speaking of pleasing alternative names, my current toilet reading is Dave Dewitt's excellent The Chile Pepper Encyclopedia. I hardly open it without learning some new, interesting bit of information: odd facts about the history of hot sauces in this country, the effect of peppers on human skin, and even this, which my friend Jason will find noteworthy and since he reads this blog I'll include it here:
The tabasco pepper's other name? The bird pepper.
Okay, kids. Back to the octopodes!
While boiling the octopodes, I put a cork in the water. I saw someone do this on Top Chef. Apparently, it is a traditional way of keeping the meat tender. Fortunately, I had a real cork left over from last night: the Allegash Curieux not only got me resoundingly drunk but it also gave up its cork for the day's meal.
The kittens were driven to a fine fury by the smell, and poor Bubbs singed off at least twelve good whiskers trying to get at the pot. Lessons learned, Bubbs!
As I learn more about cooking, part of my knowledge has to do with preparing for the onslaught of the animals. They hit me in all directions, and I need to stay on my toes unless I want a floor littered with crushed capers to clean up when the dishes are done.
Jess took for a birthday breakfast meal at Scotch Pine Farm in Pepperell. I went for the florentine eggs benedict with the kicked up home fries. It was perfect, although next time I'll see if I can get the homefries kicked up (applewood bacon, onions, peppers) without the additional cheddar cheese.
The food was great, yes, but we also got to see the fold of Scottish longhorns out in their pen, as well as a pair of healthy, handsome goats.
I would like to note that Scottish cattle are also called Hairy Coo. I learned that from wikipedia.
And, speaking of pleasing alternative names, my current toilet reading is Dave Dewitt's excellent The Chile Pepper Encyclopedia. I hardly open it without learning some new, interesting bit of information: odd facts about the history of hot sauces in this country, the effect of peppers on human skin, and even this, which my friend Jason will find noteworthy and since he reads this blog I'll include it here:
The tabasco pepper's other name? The bird pepper.
Okay, kids. Back to the octopodes!
Friday, January 9, 2009
Beers of the Weekend
This list includes two beers from two weekends ago that I didn't get around to mentioning. Last weekend, I spent my money on less important things, like food.
Weihenstephaner Korbinian
Double Bastard Ale
Blanche De Bruxelles White Beer
Dogfish Head Brewery Raison d'etre
Hobgoblin
and, the one I'm most excited about:
Allagash Curieux
Weihenstephaner Korbinian
Double Bastard Ale
Blanche De Bruxelles White Beer
Dogfish Head Brewery Raison d'etre
Hobgoblin
and, the one I'm most excited about:
Allagash Curieux
Kids Cry Today
"Did kids today cry more?" I asked Billy.
"Oh, my nephew cries all the time," he told me. He has a nephew that's the same age of the Dufflebag.
"Did you ever cry out of frustration when you were a kid? I don't think I ever did."
"Oh yeah. I cried all the fucking time."
"I don't think I did," I told him. "It was only later when I became a big pussy. I did once put a message in a bottle and throw it out the window for someone to help me. My Mom was making me stay in my room. Did you cry because you had to do homework."
"Oh yeah. Actually, my Mom didn't make me do it. When I went to live with my uncle, he laid the hammer down. My Mom didn't do shit. I used to walk around the streets of Malden when I was eight."
"What happened with your Mom?" I asked him. I was originally told by someone else that Billy was an orphan. I never brought it up with him. That's the ways of men. I figured if he wanted to tell me, he would.
"My Mom kicked me out of the house when I was twelve and a half."
"She kicked you out when you were twelve and a half!"
"She had a nervous breakdown and told me I had to get out. Basically gave me a carton of cigarettes and told me to get lost. I didn't see her again until I was seventeen. My uncle raised me. He made me do homework. I hated him for it. But that's what I needed. I needed my ass kicked." The phone rang. "I'll tell you about it some other time."
"Oh, my nephew cries all the time," he told me. He has a nephew that's the same age of the Dufflebag.
"Did you ever cry out of frustration when you were a kid? I don't think I ever did."
"Oh yeah. I cried all the fucking time."
"I don't think I did," I told him. "It was only later when I became a big pussy. I did once put a message in a bottle and throw it out the window for someone to help me. My Mom was making me stay in my room. Did you cry because you had to do homework."
"Oh yeah. Actually, my Mom didn't make me do it. When I went to live with my uncle, he laid the hammer down. My Mom didn't do shit. I used to walk around the streets of Malden when I was eight."
"What happened with your Mom?" I asked him. I was originally told by someone else that Billy was an orphan. I never brought it up with him. That's the ways of men. I figured if he wanted to tell me, he would.
"My Mom kicked me out of the house when I was twelve and a half."
"She kicked you out when you were twelve and a half!"
"She had a nervous breakdown and told me I had to get out. Basically gave me a carton of cigarettes and told me to get lost. I didn't see her again until I was seventeen. My uncle raised me. He made me do homework. I hated him for it. But that's what I needed. I needed my ass kicked." The phone rang. "I'll tell you about it some other time."
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Goo Goo Please
I've spent most of the night installing a programmable t-stat -- an early birthday gift from my father. Because of our weird wiring in the house, it proved to be trickier than we thought it would be. But, I did it. I actually installed a t-stat.
But the main reason I'm on here is to relate a story Jess told me.
She claims to have heard a story on the radio today that a 240 pound bear attacked a zoo visitor this week.
The bear's name? Goo Goo.
Now, with knee problems limiting my ability to move around, I'm only a little under that weight now. And, as most of you know, my nickname in the W is Goo Goo.
Coincidence? Or should someone better feed me a salmon, pronto?
But the main reason I'm on here is to relate a story Jess told me.
She claims to have heard a story on the radio today that a 240 pound bear attacked a zoo visitor this week.
The bear's name? Goo Goo.
Now, with knee problems limiting my ability to move around, I'm only a little under that weight now. And, as most of you know, my nickname in the W is Goo Goo.
Coincidence? Or should someone better feed me a salmon, pronto?
Quitting the Nairobi Trio
Those of you who haven't read Jim Knipfel's book Quitting the Nairobi Trio absolutely should. It tells the true story of the author, a talented, nearly blind writer who is locked in an insane asylum and there finds comfort in the works of Ernie Kovacs while scheming to get out.
I found used copies on amazon for as low as forty cents, which is a huge fucking pity considering how well-written the book is.
*
The W ruins everything.
I've absolutely shattered two pairs of glasses there, so now I put my glasses on a shelf as soon as I get in. Yesterday, I forgot to do this immediately, and my glasses fell off my head five minutes into my shift and the left lens popped out.
I used some crazy glue to fix it. I've used crazy glue on them before, so I was putting glue on glue, causing an inevitably spilling over onto the lens. Plus, it was the crazy glue "pen" which requires prodding and manipulation to work, resulting in accidental strings of permanent cf.
The lens popped out yet again today, and required a liberal pouring of glue to put it back in place. It was as though I stuck it back in with industrial plaster. It looks as though I have absentmindedly smeared toothpaste on my glasses like some damn mathematician.
I wreck glasses. Just this year, one pair was smashed in the W, beyond repair. Another was lost, and then found, and then dropped and stepped on during the move to Townsend. Perhaps I can repair them, although it's unlikely. The ones I wear now have been broken multiple times.
I need to find an Internet site that will sell me cheap, sturdy, military type glasses. Whatever soldiers wear, that's what I want.
Because I'm broke, I can't afford a real pair. After all, I went through this entire week with only a few dollars in my pocket. I spent those dollars on an egg sandwich at a gas station. I was driving, opening up the package, and attempting to eat at the same time. Since I tried to open the package with my teeth, and since this worked somewhat better than expected, I also added a large dollop of diced eggs and mayonnaise to the already compromised left lens.
*
I made today's lunch last night, using whatever was lying around the house. The end result: brown and black rice with tuna and seaweed. I bought the package of seaweed for .99 cents at the Asian market in Littleton.
I had never tried cooking seaweed before. I crumbled some up and put it in with the rice.
When it was done, I pulled it out in long sheets, and it smelled like fish. It looked as though I was pulling it straight out of the Atlantic. It wasn't nice little miso soup seaweed. This was probably harvested with a crooked stick.
And, since I didn't soak it first, it was covered in sand!
As I ate, I thought: I wonder what beach that sand is from. Is it in China? The Sudan?
Despite it's sandiness, the dish was pretty good. I got the sauce right: a mix of chili, fish sauce, and soy sauce.
It was the type of nutrient dense dish of necessity that is warming and pleasing, and yet is something I would never, ever serve to another human being.
Part of that is the color. Because of the black rice, it looked like a big brown porridge, brimming with thick, serpent like green sheets of seaweed. Dead snakes in a cow's anus, if you will.
And part of it is that there is food we eat out of necessity that is near good. Good enough. Something we imagine only we would enjoy because it suits our own little needs in terms of nutrition and calories and flavor. And it suits them to such a fine degree that it isn't likely anyone else should be asked to tolerate it. And we even savor the rougher parts. It's a particular broken aesthetic. It is humble, but not self-denying, since there remains in there some buried impulse to create a dish that brings about a profound comfort.
*
Speaking of food, my mother invited me over for a "pizza party" on Tuesday. Now, because my favorite topping is anchovies, and because I rarely eat pizza, I never get to enjoy my favorite pie. The Dufflebag only likes cheese and Jess goes in more for veggies. But it began to bother me. It's my fucking birthday. I want salty fish. Bring on the salty fish!
Now, the logistics of the pizza party entail me paying for most of the pizza and then asking my mom for a ten spot to cover it. A special sale, I'll tell her.
But how do you feed four people when each has particular tastes? I pride myself on my flexibility when it comes to food and will adapt to company, since I enjoy most everything. In fact, I am suspicious of picky eaters, and I consider them to be moral failures, as well as artistic.
But to satisfy my own selfish desires, even on my selfish day, would entail the purchase of three pies for four people: one bland, one vegetal, one brutal. And I'm broke.
So.
I thought about it.
I'm on the fence.
Likely to shelve my anchovy cravings for yet another year.
But I won't do it without murmurs of despair. Oh, salty fish! How I long for thee!
(My problem here was later obviated by an invitation from Charlie, but I'll leave the details for a Sunday evening entry. Suffice to say the mention of good sausage causes my dognose to leave off the scent of the fishbones and lead me elsewhere. Deliciously elsewhere.)
I found used copies on amazon for as low as forty cents, which is a huge fucking pity considering how well-written the book is.
*
The W ruins everything.
I've absolutely shattered two pairs of glasses there, so now I put my glasses on a shelf as soon as I get in. Yesterday, I forgot to do this immediately, and my glasses fell off my head five minutes into my shift and the left lens popped out.
I used some crazy glue to fix it. I've used crazy glue on them before, so I was putting glue on glue, causing an inevitably spilling over onto the lens. Plus, it was the crazy glue "pen" which requires prodding and manipulation to work, resulting in accidental strings of permanent cf.
The lens popped out yet again today, and required a liberal pouring of glue to put it back in place. It was as though I stuck it back in with industrial plaster. It looks as though I have absentmindedly smeared toothpaste on my glasses like some damn mathematician.
I wreck glasses. Just this year, one pair was smashed in the W, beyond repair. Another was lost, and then found, and then dropped and stepped on during the move to Townsend. Perhaps I can repair them, although it's unlikely. The ones I wear now have been broken multiple times.
I need to find an Internet site that will sell me cheap, sturdy, military type glasses. Whatever soldiers wear, that's what I want.
Because I'm broke, I can't afford a real pair. After all, I went through this entire week with only a few dollars in my pocket. I spent those dollars on an egg sandwich at a gas station. I was driving, opening up the package, and attempting to eat at the same time. Since I tried to open the package with my teeth, and since this worked somewhat better than expected, I also added a large dollop of diced eggs and mayonnaise to the already compromised left lens.
*
I made today's lunch last night, using whatever was lying around the house. The end result: brown and black rice with tuna and seaweed. I bought the package of seaweed for .99 cents at the Asian market in Littleton.
I had never tried cooking seaweed before. I crumbled some up and put it in with the rice.
When it was done, I pulled it out in long sheets, and it smelled like fish. It looked as though I was pulling it straight out of the Atlantic. It wasn't nice little miso soup seaweed. This was probably harvested with a crooked stick.
And, since I didn't soak it first, it was covered in sand!
As I ate, I thought: I wonder what beach that sand is from. Is it in China? The Sudan?
Despite it's sandiness, the dish was pretty good. I got the sauce right: a mix of chili, fish sauce, and soy sauce.
It was the type of nutrient dense dish of necessity that is warming and pleasing, and yet is something I would never, ever serve to another human being.
Part of that is the color. Because of the black rice, it looked like a big brown porridge, brimming with thick, serpent like green sheets of seaweed. Dead snakes in a cow's anus, if you will.
And part of it is that there is food we eat out of necessity that is near good. Good enough. Something we imagine only we would enjoy because it suits our own little needs in terms of nutrition and calories and flavor. And it suits them to such a fine degree that it isn't likely anyone else should be asked to tolerate it. And we even savor the rougher parts. It's a particular broken aesthetic. It is humble, but not self-denying, since there remains in there some buried impulse to create a dish that brings about a profound comfort.
*
Speaking of food, my mother invited me over for a "pizza party" on Tuesday. Now, because my favorite topping is anchovies, and because I rarely eat pizza, I never get to enjoy my favorite pie. The Dufflebag only likes cheese and Jess goes in more for veggies. But it began to bother me. It's my fucking birthday. I want salty fish. Bring on the salty fish!
Now, the logistics of the pizza party entail me paying for most of the pizza and then asking my mom for a ten spot to cover it. A special sale, I'll tell her.
But how do you feed four people when each has particular tastes? I pride myself on my flexibility when it comes to food and will adapt to company, since I enjoy most everything. In fact, I am suspicious of picky eaters, and I consider them to be moral failures, as well as artistic.
But to satisfy my own selfish desires, even on my selfish day, would entail the purchase of three pies for four people: one bland, one vegetal, one brutal. And I'm broke.
So.
I thought about it.
I'm on the fence.
Likely to shelve my anchovy cravings for yet another year.
But I won't do it without murmurs of despair. Oh, salty fish! How I long for thee!
(My problem here was later obviated by an invitation from Charlie, but I'll leave the details for a Sunday evening entry. Suffice to say the mention of good sausage causes my dognose to leave off the scent of the fishbones and lead me elsewhere. Deliciously elsewhere.)
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Oceans of Words and Notes
Brief break. Good work on the novel. Feel like I'm on to something.
Here's what I'm listening to:- "Val Jester" The National
- "Blue Camel" Rabih Abou-Kalil
- "I Was Lead to Believe" Thee Mighty Caesers
- "Clear Spot" Mark Lanegan (a Beefheart cover, for those in the know)
- "All Down the Line" Rolling Stones
- "Apes-Ma" Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band
- "Slow Blues" Thin Lizzy
- "You're Wondering Now" The Specials
- "Wake Up" The Arcade Fire
- "Abraham, Martin and John" Dion (this song makes me teary-eyed sometimes -- it didn't tonight, but it could have under other circumstances)
The Other Good Samaritan
I was too spent when I turned to the novel last night, so I only got a few paragraphs in. I stayed up until after midnight, trying. Aside from those paragraphs, it was a huge amount of time spent on accomplishing little: drinking my last beer, a Sam Adams I was given at work, reading the last two pages of The Moviegoer, and the first few of a Barry Hannah novel.
*
It was frustrating. I spent all day thinking about my impass last night and, once again, wrote down notes while in the truck. I was lucky enough to be in the truck for more than a full day -- nine hours -- thanks to the weather slowing my runs down. So I'm not going to blog much tonight. I hope I can focus my writing energy there.
However, I wanted to mention an incident that happened a few weeks ago.
Jess and I returned home after a storm to find that our driveway had been plowed. Because of the close marks, it appeared that someone had actually shovelled our driveway, but it was done cleanly -- you might say immaculately, since the lines went right up to the edge of the house -- so some sort of machine must have been involved.
Today, I pulled up past my driveway. The street plows had created a furrow blocking me out and it had hardened into a thick, heavy slush.
While driving to my house, I noticed my neighbor from two houses down walking his snowplow. I realized he was following my car and planned on plowing out the end of my driveway.
He had the plow's engine gunning the whole time, so I couldn't really speak with him. I shouted: "Were you the guy who plowed our driveway last time? Someone did it."
He looked at me, unblinking. "Wasn't me. Must have been some other Good Samaritan." And he set about his work.
*
It was frustrating. I spent all day thinking about my impass last night and, once again, wrote down notes while in the truck. I was lucky enough to be in the truck for more than a full day -- nine hours -- thanks to the weather slowing my runs down. So I'm not going to blog much tonight. I hope I can focus my writing energy there.
However, I wanted to mention an incident that happened a few weeks ago.
Jess and I returned home after a storm to find that our driveway had been plowed. Because of the close marks, it appeared that someone had actually shovelled our driveway, but it was done cleanly -- you might say immaculately, since the lines went right up to the edge of the house -- so some sort of machine must have been involved.
Today, I pulled up past my driveway. The street plows had created a furrow blocking me out and it had hardened into a thick, heavy slush.
While driving to my house, I noticed my neighbor from two houses down walking his snowplow. I realized he was following my car and planned on plowing out the end of my driveway.
He had the plow's engine gunning the whole time, so I couldn't really speak with him. I shouted: "Were you the guy who plowed our driveway last time? Someone did it."
He looked at me, unblinking. "Wasn't me. Must have been some other Good Samaritan." And he set about his work.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Sediment and Fermentation
It's almost nine and I still haven't gotten a word written on the novel.
After beer, clean-up, and processing (emotional), I'm just now getting ready. And, oh yeah, I made a sweet potato hot pot-style instant ramen noodle soup.
The beer?
Hum.
Ask again.
Ah yes, well the beer. The beer, you see it . . . well, it . . . hmm.
Well, it looks like ale and tastes like ale, sorta. Kind of unfinished. Clean. I drank a glass of it just to make sure it wouldn't kill me.
It didn't taste strong. I didn't get a buzz. It didn't taste "off." It just didn't taste right.
And, of course, the recipe calls for bottle fermentation.
But here's the problem.
It bothered me enough that I went on some Internet homebrew forums, read a few faqs, and noticed that there were quite a few things I did that I probably shouldn't have done. I was going according to the instructions.
For example: the instructions claimed that you could either fill the carboy with six gallons and hose the run-off, or you could simply do with less beer and fill it to five. Since it was my first batch, I filled to five.
But, according to new information, this is a mistake as the extra space within the carboy can create oxidation.
There were other problems: nuances in preparing the yeast, roasting versus cracking the barley, taking a hydrometer reading after seven days . . . .
I will now nervously await the results. Two weeks!
*
As soon as I began to draw the tap and transfer beer to bottle, I remember Charlie's advice that wine was easier to make. I think I may very well change to wine next time, even though I'm not a wine drinker.
We'll see.
But I am going to crack open the pickled radishes. They should be ready. Not perfect. But ready.
And that, after brushing my teeth and steeling my will, I'll try to turn to the novel. That damn, lumbering beast in the distance. If only I could work on it as much as I think about working on it; the real task pushed with unrelenting force to the margins of the day.
Yep. We'll see.
After beer, clean-up, and processing (emotional), I'm just now getting ready. And, oh yeah, I made a sweet potato hot pot-style instant ramen noodle soup.
The beer?
Hum.
Ask again.
Ah yes, well the beer. The beer, you see it . . . well, it . . . hmm.
Well, it looks like ale and tastes like ale, sorta. Kind of unfinished. Clean. I drank a glass of it just to make sure it wouldn't kill me.
It didn't taste strong. I didn't get a buzz. It didn't taste "off." It just didn't taste right.
And, of course, the recipe calls for bottle fermentation.
But here's the problem.
It bothered me enough that I went on some Internet homebrew forums, read a few faqs, and noticed that there were quite a few things I did that I probably shouldn't have done. I was going according to the instructions.
For example: the instructions claimed that you could either fill the carboy with six gallons and hose the run-off, or you could simply do with less beer and fill it to five. Since it was my first batch, I filled to five.
But, according to new information, this is a mistake as the extra space within the carboy can create oxidation.
There were other problems: nuances in preparing the yeast, roasting versus cracking the barley, taking a hydrometer reading after seven days . . . .
I will now nervously await the results. Two weeks!
*
As soon as I began to draw the tap and transfer beer to bottle, I remember Charlie's advice that wine was easier to make. I think I may very well change to wine next time, even though I'm not a wine drinker.
We'll see.
But I am going to crack open the pickled radishes. They should be ready. Not perfect. But ready.
And that, after brushing my teeth and steeling my will, I'll try to turn to the novel. That damn, lumbering beast in the distance. If only I could work on it as much as I think about working on it; the real task pushed with unrelenting force to the margins of the day.
Yep. We'll see.
Ron Asheton
As most of you have heard, Ron Asheton passed away today.
I learned to play bass and guitar playing along with the Stooges. I don't know much about the man as a person, but I've probably listened to his music more intently, over a longer course of time, than just about any player out there. No reflection. Please to listen.
I learned to play bass and guitar playing along with the Stooges. I don't know much about the man as a person, but I've probably listened to his music more intently, over a longer course of time, than just about any player out there. No reflection. Please to listen.
Splender!
I work until late teaching on Monday, so I have no time to write, but I got a lot of ideas yesterday. I was stuck in the w all day, so I filled up scrap paper with notes for the novel. Tonight, I'm going to transfer the ale to half-gallon bottles with the Dufflebag, where they will ferment for another few weeks before the tasting. After that, I'm going to turn my attention to the novel and try to press on with it.
*
Jess believes that she is constantly seeing the number 34. So often, in fact, that it is beyond coincidence.
I explained that this would involve two possible conclusions: 1. that the universe is bending and warping its own fabric to somehow impress upon you the importance of this number (and the attendent riddle: if the universe could do such a thing, why do it cryptically?) or 2. that cognitions works through filters, and we are consciously and unconsciously drawn to notice some items more often than others.
Still, it becomes eerie that, whenever she walks into the room, she'll note that the clock reads 4:34, or 2:34. You get the point.
Early Monday morning, the house phone, which we hardly use, rang. Seconds later, her cell phone rang. Jess sat up. "It's 4:34," she said, and chills ran up our spines.
She ran downstairs.
I rolled over and imagined all the terrible reasons for the twin calls.
She came backupstairs a few minutes later.
"It was the Dufflebag's school. There's a two hour delay because of the icy roads."
They called at four thirty in the fucking morning! Imagine how many others heard that ring, wondering for whom the bell tolled. Well, it didn't fucking toll for me. I needed sleep, goddamnit.
*
I'm out of cash. I steamed some sweet Chinese sausage and mixed it with mushrooms and brown rice and brought it to work, where I was going to divide it up for lunches this week. Billy, known to forage through my food, got a long lecture about my economic situation. I begged him not to go through my food. There wasn't much.
After work, I got a sheepish text message: "Goo Goo, I ate your delicious lunch."
I texted back wondering the f he was talking about. A flying f!
"I will pay for your lunch tomorrow."
Nevermind that I spent a long time preparing that food, and that it required special ingredients.
So today, he gave me a ten-spot and I ate at Sal's Pizza in Lowell -- the best local pizzeria, to my tastes.
Before I left today, he pulled me aside. "About that lunch I ate," he explained with great sincerity, "It's the mushrooms that made it."
*
Billy asked me to run to Dunkin Donuts for him and wrote down what he wanted: a blueberry ice coffee with two creams and one "splender."
"Splender? What the fuck is a splender? Do you mean 'Splenda?'"
"Splenda."
"But you didn't write that. You wrote, 'Splender.'"
For those of you who don't know, Splenda is a noxious sugar substitute.
Billy of New England just assumed he was dropping his r's in pronounciation and adjusted accordingly for writing.
I got to the Dunkin Donuts and ordered his large blueberry ice coffee with two creams and Splenda.
The woman who took my order -- older, I'll assume Eastern European -- looked at me, lost. "Do you mean "Splender?" she asked, emphasizing the r.
I can't make this shit up.
*
As I mentioned above, I've been taking notes for the novel on scrap pieces of paper. I just went over them to see if I scribbled anything about blog entries. Surprise, surprise! I had totally forgotten that I had used the "splender" note as a scrap.
I also forgot that I obnoxiously crossed out his word and wrote the correct one. That's me, being that way.
So it goes into the museum of cf's. On the same page where I outline my narrative theories, where I clarify the thematic structure of the novel, you'll find Billy's Dunkin Donut's request. There is meaning here. Somewhere. Please?
*
I walk into the W.
Billy tells me:
Eyes may shine
And teeth may glitter
But you cannot bullshit
A bull
Shitter.
The awkwardness of this little bit of folk wisdom troubles me. But I also question its validity.
Aren't children the biggest bullshitters around? And aren't they the most easily swindled? Santa Claus, Sponge Bob, candy shaped like hamburgers . . . .
*
The Boss seemed glassy eyed and strange today. He left early and unexpectedly. I wonder if the long hours have gotten to him. He has worked in a high stress, so-so paying job for a decade now, never putting in anything less than a ten hour day. Usually more.
Is he at that breaking point? The confluence of the bad economy, bad management, and poor health?
Humans hunger for other things. He had cold, animal eyes today. And it was scary enough that no one said anything. No rumor-mongering. At this point, we just shrug and try not to think about it.
*
Jess believes that she is constantly seeing the number 34. So often, in fact, that it is beyond coincidence.
I explained that this would involve two possible conclusions: 1. that the universe is bending and warping its own fabric to somehow impress upon you the importance of this number (and the attendent riddle: if the universe could do such a thing, why do it cryptically?) or 2. that cognitions works through filters, and we are consciously and unconsciously drawn to notice some items more often than others.
Still, it becomes eerie that, whenever she walks into the room, she'll note that the clock reads 4:34, or 2:34. You get the point.
Early Monday morning, the house phone, which we hardly use, rang. Seconds later, her cell phone rang. Jess sat up. "It's 4:34," she said, and chills ran up our spines.
She ran downstairs.
I rolled over and imagined all the terrible reasons for the twin calls.
She came backupstairs a few minutes later.
"It was the Dufflebag's school. There's a two hour delay because of the icy roads."
They called at four thirty in the fucking morning! Imagine how many others heard that ring, wondering for whom the bell tolled. Well, it didn't fucking toll for me. I needed sleep, goddamnit.
*
I'm out of cash. I steamed some sweet Chinese sausage and mixed it with mushrooms and brown rice and brought it to work, where I was going to divide it up for lunches this week. Billy, known to forage through my food, got a long lecture about my economic situation. I begged him not to go through my food. There wasn't much.
After work, I got a sheepish text message: "Goo Goo, I ate your delicious lunch."
I texted back wondering the f he was talking about. A flying f!
"I will pay for your lunch tomorrow."
Nevermind that I spent a long time preparing that food, and that it required special ingredients.
So today, he gave me a ten-spot and I ate at Sal's Pizza in Lowell -- the best local pizzeria, to my tastes.
Before I left today, he pulled me aside. "About that lunch I ate," he explained with great sincerity, "It's the mushrooms that made it."
*
Billy asked me to run to Dunkin Donuts for him and wrote down what he wanted: a blueberry ice coffee with two creams and one "splender."
"Splender? What the fuck is a splender? Do you mean 'Splenda?'"
"Splenda."
"But you didn't write that. You wrote, 'Splender.'"
For those of you who don't know, Splenda is a noxious sugar substitute.
Billy of New England just assumed he was dropping his r's in pronounciation and adjusted accordingly for writing.
I got to the Dunkin Donuts and ordered his large blueberry ice coffee with two creams and Splenda.
The woman who took my order -- older, I'll assume Eastern European -- looked at me, lost. "Do you mean "Splender?" she asked, emphasizing the r.
I can't make this shit up.
*
As I mentioned above, I've been taking notes for the novel on scrap pieces of paper. I just went over them to see if I scribbled anything about blog entries. Surprise, surprise! I had totally forgotten that I had used the "splender" note as a scrap.
I also forgot that I obnoxiously crossed out his word and wrote the correct one. That's me, being that way.
So it goes into the museum of cf's. On the same page where I outline my narrative theories, where I clarify the thematic structure of the novel, you'll find Billy's Dunkin Donut's request. There is meaning here. Somewhere. Please?
*
I walk into the W.
Billy tells me:
Eyes may shine
And teeth may glitter
But you cannot bullshit
A bull
Shitter.
The awkwardness of this little bit of folk wisdom troubles me. But I also question its validity.
Aren't children the biggest bullshitters around? And aren't they the most easily swindled? Santa Claus, Sponge Bob, candy shaped like hamburgers . . . .
*
The Boss seemed glassy eyed and strange today. He left early and unexpectedly. I wonder if the long hours have gotten to him. He has worked in a high stress, so-so paying job for a decade now, never putting in anything less than a ten hour day. Usually more.
Is he at that breaking point? The confluence of the bad economy, bad management, and poor health?
Humans hunger for other things. He had cold, animal eyes today. And it was scary enough that no one said anything. No rumor-mongering. At this point, we just shrug and try not to think about it.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Sunday Morning Chopping, Rolling, Washing, and Dicing
All three of us made pork and leek dumplings for lunch today, and we sat around the kitchen table, folding them into neat little packets. I used my bamboo steamer for the first time. I went on the internet to figure out ways of making a stand for the steamer so that it doesn't touch the water, but came across videos of people simply placing the steamer in a wok. I used that method, since it was the simplest.
To keep the dumplings from sticking to the bamboo slats, first I tried laying down some cheese cloth. But some of the threads still stuck to the dumplings. Then, I placed down a bed of spring lettuce. That worked better and imparted a subtle, "green" taste to the dumplings. I think next time I'll use spinach to further amplify this effect.
The first batch was somewhat overcooked and the dough hardened. The second was just about perfect.
Jess's mom came over to try them and she now wants us to make them for the next family function. The Dufflebag was excited about mixing his own dumpling sauce. He seemed skeptical of the dumplings themselves because of the leeks. He claims to hate all vegetables. But they didn't seem to bother him and he ate his fill.
*
I finally found my mandolin blades, so I made the pickled radish threads again, since I had left over jars. Unfortunately, I ran out of rice vinegar so I had to top off the jars with the apple cider type. Difference in taste. Big difference in color. Now, the fermenting pickles look like kim chee.
*
I went on another writing spurt last night and managed another 2,000 words. before going to bed at one-thirty. My biggest writing day yet. Somewhat pleased with the results. I overwrite, and then remove the parts I don't care for when the draft is finished. So I'm not too concerned with the occasional bad section. Sometimes, this can allow you to better develop your characters, even if you ultimately discard the bridge sections, or in-between sections, or warm-up parts, or whatever you'd like to call them.
Jess has spent much of the last week painting the kitchen and it now looks more spacious. A big difference! She even changed the countertops so that I have more room to cook on. It was too crowded before -- but now I no longer have to balance as many knives and dishes on the microwave.
*
I've been sleeping fitfully, and have strange dreams. I think this has less to do with psychology than our mattress, which is practically at a slant now. Time to flip that sucker!
To keep the dumplings from sticking to the bamboo slats, first I tried laying down some cheese cloth. But some of the threads still stuck to the dumplings. Then, I placed down a bed of spring lettuce. That worked better and imparted a subtle, "green" taste to the dumplings. I think next time I'll use spinach to further amplify this effect.
The first batch was somewhat overcooked and the dough hardened. The second was just about perfect.
Jess's mom came over to try them and she now wants us to make them for the next family function. The Dufflebag was excited about mixing his own dumpling sauce. He seemed skeptical of the dumplings themselves because of the leeks. He claims to hate all vegetables. But they didn't seem to bother him and he ate his fill.
*
I finally found my mandolin blades, so I made the pickled radish threads again, since I had left over jars. Unfortunately, I ran out of rice vinegar so I had to top off the jars with the apple cider type. Difference in taste. Big difference in color. Now, the fermenting pickles look like kim chee.
*
I went on another writing spurt last night and managed another 2,000 words. before going to bed at one-thirty. My biggest writing day yet. Somewhat pleased with the results. I overwrite, and then remove the parts I don't care for when the draft is finished. So I'm not too concerned with the occasional bad section. Sometimes, this can allow you to better develop your characters, even if you ultimately discard the bridge sections, or in-between sections, or warm-up parts, or whatever you'd like to call them.
Jess has spent much of the last week painting the kitchen and it now looks more spacious. A big difference! She even changed the countertops so that I have more room to cook on. It was too crowded before -- but now I no longer have to balance as many knives and dishes on the microwave.
*
I've been sleeping fitfully, and have strange dreams. I think this has less to do with psychology than our mattress, which is practically at a slant now. Time to flip that sucker!
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Random Playlist, fuel for writing and the drinking of delicious black coffee
- "The Emerald Law" Probot
- "Excitable Boy" Warren Zevon
- "Hey Pete, Let's Eat Mo Meat" Dizzy Gillespie
- "Ballad of a Thin Man" (live bootleg series version) Bob Dylan
- "My Son Calls Another Man Daddy" Hank Williams
- "Wild Man Blues" Jelly Roll Morton
- "Rikki Don't Lose that Number" Steely Dan
- "The Nurse" White Stripes
- "What in Sam Hill . . .?" Big Dipper
- "You Can Never Hold Back Spring" Tom Waits
Manchild
Despite reservations, the writing went well, and I got out about 800 words. Under my aim of 1,000 at a sitting, but I was happy with what came out so we'll leave it at that.
I've been using Walker Percy's The Moviegoer as a priming mechanism. The writing is so damn good that it makes me want to write. So I read a few pages, start feeling the energy, and drop the book.
It's also for this reason that I haven't been able to get through this short novel despite weeks of reading.
I have another Percy novel, his last, that contains one of my favorite opening paragraphs. I would quote it, but I don't have the book with me, but I promise to transcribe it at a later date.
Tonight I have to get back to the homestead, cook up some rice and broil some chicken -- let the cleaver ring!
Tomorrow, I'm going to try my hand at rolling some dumplings with a filling I'll make myself from pork and leeks.
*
And then there's the matter of the stock.
The price of lobsters has plummeted, so I purchased a legless wonder at the local supermarket for a few beans, as well as beef bones for stock. I've never made lobster stock before.
The spirit of experimentation!
So the result, after hours, seemed brackish and damp. It smelled of the swamp.
I'm still hoping that after cooling and reducing, it'll make a usable stock. I have my doubts. For Jess, it goes beyond doubt and she'd probably be happy if I buried the mixture out in the hills. Ah, poor Jess, putting up with the curious manchild.
I've been using Walker Percy's The Moviegoer as a priming mechanism. The writing is so damn good that it makes me want to write. So I read a few pages, start feeling the energy, and drop the book.
It's also for this reason that I haven't been able to get through this short novel despite weeks of reading.
I have another Percy novel, his last, that contains one of my favorite opening paragraphs. I would quote it, but I don't have the book with me, but I promise to transcribe it at a later date.
Tonight I have to get back to the homestead, cook up some rice and broil some chicken -- let the cleaver ring!
Tomorrow, I'm going to try my hand at rolling some dumplings with a filling I'll make myself from pork and leeks.
*
And then there's the matter of the stock.
The price of lobsters has plummeted, so I purchased a legless wonder at the local supermarket for a few beans, as well as beef bones for stock. I've never made lobster stock before.
The spirit of experimentation!
So the result, after hours, seemed brackish and damp. It smelled of the swamp.
I'm still hoping that after cooling and reducing, it'll make a usable stock. I have my doubts. For Jess, it goes beyond doubt and she'd probably be happy if I buried the mixture out in the hills. Ah, poor Jess, putting up with the curious manchild.
So Holy Shit
Kelefa Sanneh wrote a great piece on Will Oldham over at the New Yorker. It's online and you can read it here and savor its oddball life-affirming details.
Sasha Frere-Jones notes elsewhere on the website that the number one selling vinyl album of 2008 was "In Rainbows."
Number two? Fucking "Abbey Road," mother fuckers.
Sasha Frere-Jones notes elsewhere on the website that the number one selling vinyl album of 2008 was "In Rainbows."
Number two? Fucking "Abbey Road," mother fuckers.
Random Music: all of which seems to sound damn good right now
- "The Soul of a Man" Blind Willie Johnson
- "Cocaine Habit" Old Crow Medicine Show
- "Troubled Waters" Cat Power
- "That Lucky Old Sun" Louis Armstrong
- "I Walked with a Zombie" Roky Erickson and the Aliens
- "Hated Chinee" Rapeman
- "Breakfast in Bed" Dntel
- "I Thank You" Sam & Dave
- "Mica" Mission of Burma
- "To Susan on the West Coast Waiting" Donovan
Uighurs, Tibetans, and Dai, oh my!
Because of all the early dismissals from work due to storms, these past two weeks have been fairly relaxing -- at least those falling after Christmas. This kills my paychecks, but bolsters my sanity, so, at least temporarily, it seems a fair trade. Particularly as my knee seems to get worse, despite not doing any exercise whatsoever.
Even given the haunting, widespread financial worries, Jess and I decided we needed to go on a date. Because of work and family, we almost never get to go on actual dates, and it seemed wise and necessary. Let me tell ya -- it was really nice, indeed. I asked if she would go out with me for another one and she agreed!
*
We opted for Filho's Cucina in Groton.
For those of you who haven't been there, it's an unusual place. Once seated, you are expected to get your own napkins and silverware. The Groton Market, an excellent liquor store and the place where I tend to buy my craft beers, is open next door and you can casually grab a bottle or two of your choice, as well as a bottle opener, and return to your table. Filho's Cucina is loud and slightly chaotic, and, from what I'm told, nearly always crowded. Jess and I were forced to sit kitty corner to each other at an oddly situated table. Not so romantic. But the food was excellent and we were as happy as could be, even if I developed a slight crick in my neck from trying to manage conversation and mastication contemporaneously (thems words for George, yo!).
We ordered the antipasto first, and that was zestfully dressed with a good mix of cheeses, spring lettuce, beans, tuna, and cured meats. I wasn't tempted to reach for the pepper -- the dish was well seasoned and didn't require tampering.
I ordered the Linguine Putanesca and Jess the Gemeli con Pollo. My pasta was fresh tasting and the sauce was bolder than expected - it was rich in capers and something that gave it a nice, warm aftertaste -- perhaps a chili oil. I had never tried a gemelli dish before, and that was excellent -- the pasta was so dense and flavorful it almost tasted meatlike. It was thick without tasting leaden.
Even though we were left to do most of the work for ourselves, the staff seemed aware of us and checked to see if we needed anything at appropriate times.
The food was served in an open kitchen, and I sensed a well-deserved, genuine pride on the part of the cooks. The staff sent us off with a sense of good cheer.
It was the best restaurant food I've had in some time. The bill didn't kill us. And I really like being able to shop for my own wine and beer. Next time, I'll be better prepared and will go in for a craft beer instead of the chianti. The chianti wasn't bad, but knowing all those untested, untasted beers stood just ten feet away was a distraction. Next time! And yes, we will be back.
*
I'm missing out on what was meant to be my second culinary expedition of the weekend -- to a Brazilian grillhouse in Marlborough -- but I'm down to my last few dollars. I paid a few bills, and for dinner, and then I had to pick up a few half-gallon glass bottles for the second stage of my fermentation process, beginning Tuesday.
*
I used the gift certificate Jess's mother gave me and bought Alford and Duguid's Beyond the Great Wall. It's a cook book, with an eye to cultural context, about cuisine produced by non-Han Chinese people: Uighurs, Tibetans, Dai and others.
I heard about the couple who wrote it in a New Yorker article in this year's food issue. Then, I head them interviewed on NPR.
My goal this year is to get a few good cookbooks and to teach myself more about cooking by doing through every recipe in them.
Because of my work in the truck, it's easy for me to hit one asian market for rice vinegar, and another for Sichuan pepppercorns if I can get a better price there. And that's pretty much what I did on Friday, making brief stops to get the basic supplies needed to cook from this book: star anise, sesame oil, sticky rice, leeks, mushrooms and peppers.
I stopped at my mother's house after work and raided the attic for mason jars. Great success! With these I was able to pickle some daikon and hot peppers. The hot peppers I did precisely. For the daikon, I couldn't find the blades for my mandolin, so I thin-sliced the radish, like potato chips, and then cut them into eights, like tiny slices of pizza. The pickle is meant to be stringy, so I failed in this, but was pressed for time and didn't want to spend all afternoon with just that one radish. I placed the jars by the window and there they will sit for the next few days, fermenting in whatever sunlight manages to pass through the gray.
I was hoping to make a flatbread this weekend, but Jess is painting the kitchen and my cooking expedition has been temporarily slowed. Slowed, but still chugging along, unlike the novel, which seems to have halted. I need a good, long day of book reading and street wandering to get my mind back in the necessary mode. So I hope!
Such a delicate craft, that novel writing stuff. I'd rather be driving nails into canvas, but that's my lot, if I there's any lot for me to have.
Even given the haunting, widespread financial worries, Jess and I decided we needed to go on a date. Because of work and family, we almost never get to go on actual dates, and it seemed wise and necessary. Let me tell ya -- it was really nice, indeed. I asked if she would go out with me for another one and she agreed!
*
We opted for Filho's Cucina in Groton.
For those of you who haven't been there, it's an unusual place. Once seated, you are expected to get your own napkins and silverware. The Groton Market, an excellent liquor store and the place where I tend to buy my craft beers, is open next door and you can casually grab a bottle or two of your choice, as well as a bottle opener, and return to your table. Filho's Cucina is loud and slightly chaotic, and, from what I'm told, nearly always crowded. Jess and I were forced to sit kitty corner to each other at an oddly situated table. Not so romantic. But the food was excellent and we were as happy as could be, even if I developed a slight crick in my neck from trying to manage conversation and mastication contemporaneously (thems words for George, yo!).
We ordered the antipasto first, and that was zestfully dressed with a good mix of cheeses, spring lettuce, beans, tuna, and cured meats. I wasn't tempted to reach for the pepper -- the dish was well seasoned and didn't require tampering.
I ordered the Linguine Putanesca and Jess the Gemeli con Pollo. My pasta was fresh tasting and the sauce was bolder than expected - it was rich in capers and something that gave it a nice, warm aftertaste -- perhaps a chili oil. I had never tried a gemelli dish before, and that was excellent -- the pasta was so dense and flavorful it almost tasted meatlike. It was thick without tasting leaden.
Even though we were left to do most of the work for ourselves, the staff seemed aware of us and checked to see if we needed anything at appropriate times.
The food was served in an open kitchen, and I sensed a well-deserved, genuine pride on the part of the cooks. The staff sent us off with a sense of good cheer.
It was the best restaurant food I've had in some time. The bill didn't kill us. And I really like being able to shop for my own wine and beer. Next time, I'll be better prepared and will go in for a craft beer instead of the chianti. The chianti wasn't bad, but knowing all those untested, untasted beers stood just ten feet away was a distraction. Next time! And yes, we will be back.
*
I'm missing out on what was meant to be my second culinary expedition of the weekend -- to a Brazilian grillhouse in Marlborough -- but I'm down to my last few dollars. I paid a few bills, and for dinner, and then I had to pick up a few half-gallon glass bottles for the second stage of my fermentation process, beginning Tuesday.
*
I used the gift certificate Jess's mother gave me and bought Alford and Duguid's Beyond the Great Wall. It's a cook book, with an eye to cultural context, about cuisine produced by non-Han Chinese people: Uighurs, Tibetans, Dai and others.
I heard about the couple who wrote it in a New Yorker article in this year's food issue. Then, I head them interviewed on NPR.
My goal this year is to get a few good cookbooks and to teach myself more about cooking by doing through every recipe in them.
Because of my work in the truck, it's easy for me to hit one asian market for rice vinegar, and another for Sichuan pepppercorns if I can get a better price there. And that's pretty much what I did on Friday, making brief stops to get the basic supplies needed to cook from this book: star anise, sesame oil, sticky rice, leeks, mushrooms and peppers.
I stopped at my mother's house after work and raided the attic for mason jars. Great success! With these I was able to pickle some daikon and hot peppers. The hot peppers I did precisely. For the daikon, I couldn't find the blades for my mandolin, so I thin-sliced the radish, like potato chips, and then cut them into eights, like tiny slices of pizza. The pickle is meant to be stringy, so I failed in this, but was pressed for time and didn't want to spend all afternoon with just that one radish. I placed the jars by the window and there they will sit for the next few days, fermenting in whatever sunlight manages to pass through the gray.
I was hoping to make a flatbread this weekend, but Jess is painting the kitchen and my cooking expedition has been temporarily slowed. Slowed, but still chugging along, unlike the novel, which seems to have halted. I need a good, long day of book reading and street wandering to get my mind back in the necessary mode. So I hope!
Such a delicate craft, that novel writing stuff. I'd rather be driving nails into canvas, but that's my lot, if I there's any lot for me to have.
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