I am not on a diet.

I probably need to be. Beginning in early July, I started to notice that my lifestyle (fast drinks, fast food, no exercise, etc.) was starting to manifest itself in tighter pants. Those once roomy blue jeans started to feel a tad tighter around the man-parts.

I am loathe to exercise, though. I don't mind getting exercise by accident, but making myself sore for the purpose of making myself sore just doesn't jibe with my generally lazy attitude toward life.

The wife, however, is more than a tad into a new self improvement program. The early results are fairly striking. I don't dare go into specifics, but suffice it to say that the other night I felt like I was cheating on her when I stole a peek as she was getting ready for bed. Who is that woman?

The upshot of all of this is that I haven't been eating much either. Our frequent trips to the local Mexican joint have been cut back to almost none. Take-out? Haven't seen it. A huge meal slathered in butter and bacon from my devil-may-care hands? Haven't cooked one. What's more, I've had a grand total of four beers in the past 23 days and I've gone out to play cards once. Finally, I've reduced my diet soda intake by 80%.

Combine all of that with the fact that my buddies have either been ill, busy, or, in one case, caring for a newborn, and you have an Otis that has not been tending to his hendonistic side.

Frequent readers will note that my hedonistic side is, in a word, significant. I like huge, fatty meals. I like to take a drink or six. I like to be...okay, I'll say it. I like to be irresponsible. The combined factors above, however, have led me to a rather quiet lifestyle that, albeit healthy, leaves me wanting. For everything.

So, take a trip into my bedroom, if you will. The hard wood floors are shiny. The bed is soft. The pillows are feathery. The TV, while inadequate, is packed with hundreds of channels of DirecTV goodness. On any given night, I have choice upon choice of what I can watch before I go to sleep.

Every night I settle on pornography.

At first, I didn't think my wife would be interested. That kind of programming has never really suited her more delicate side. When I first turned it on, I expected her to sigh, roll over, put on a sleeping mask, and go to sleep. Instead, she grabbed my hand and squeezed. A small gasp escaped her lips.

"I want that," she said as a man with nimble fingers worked on TV.

I didn't respond at first and just watched her watch the TV. It was sexy and dirty and touched off every unsated nerve in my body. I heard her breathing quicken and had to steal a glance for myself.

Sure, Alton Brown was no John Holmes, but he would have to do.

For the past three weeks, the Mt. Otis television sets have been filled with little other than food porn. From Anthony Bourdain's exotica to Alton Brown's Dr. Ruth-style science, we have lapped up every bit of it. We've watched chocolate sculpting, how Pop Rocks get made, and reruns of Iron Chef (during which I developed an inexplicable crush on Iron Chef Cora as she berated her help for not removing the scales from a sea bass). If it weren't for an active Netflix account (make me your Netflix friend by clicking HERE) and an ongoing love affair with the Coen Brothers, we would be watching nothing but food programming.

I know what the experts say. This Food TV is a gateway activity. Before long, my wife is going to find me at 3am, naked in front of the fridge and eating sticks of butter whole. But I can't stop. Not right now.

I think Julia Child is coming on.

She gets me so hot.

Labels: Food, Health

DATELINE: TYSON FARMS -- Even the memory of Colonel Sanders couldn't save the one-time Poultry Party golden child from the deep frier. After a campaign that lasted through six months of egg collection, Buffalo Wing has claimed victory over Chicken Fingers in the 2008 Poultry Primary. Wing will face Beef Party candidate Bone-In Ribeye in the November general election.

Super Tuesday saw Deep Fried Turkey suspend his campaign after a weaker-than-expected showing in southern states. The big bird's Wing endorsement all but locked up the nomination for the bite-sized appetizer. Chicken Fingers made a last minute appeal for votes, most notably trotting out the great newphew of Colonel Sanders himself for an endorsemnt. Poultry Pundits say Cappy Sanders ended up doing more harm than good when he had a heart attack on stage and attributed it to years of eating fried chicken.

Buffalo Wing did not waste any time after his landslide primary victory. Saying it was time to start looking toward November, Wing chose a running mate and began courting the swing state beef voters. Despite Wing's strong finish, many analysts say the choice of a running mate harkens back to a 1980s political disaster in the Presidential race. Bone-In Ribeye has already quipped, "I've met your running mate, Wing, and, sir, he is no Jack Kennedy."

Labels: Elections, Food

Poultry Primary to continue as two-bird race

Within a period of one hour last night, Blogger ended my 16-hour Super Tuesday blog, my kid woke up with some sort of freak-out, and a friend showed up at my front door. He shoved his daughter into my living room, held up a video camera, and said, "Full documentation." He got his wife to the hospital just in time to have a second little girl, this time with no time for happy drugs.

I made it to sleep by about 4am and have risen to realize the Democratic race is only now about to get exciting. More on that soon. However, I also realized that the Democratic primary was not the only contest left unfinished. As I said in the waning moments of the Super Tuesday Live Blog, Bone-In Ribeye won the Beef Primary. The Poultry Primary, however, is still going.

Despite a late surge, Deep Fried Turkey said early this morning it will end is candidacy. "I think I probably failed to realize how fickle the American public can be. Come Thanksgiving, everybody will want a piece of me. Unfortunately, Thankgiving comes after Election Day. America is just not ready for the whole bird." Before leaving the stage, Deep Fried Turkey offered his endorsement to Buffalo Wing. "When it comes down to it," DFT said, "we're pretty close to the same thing. Except, Wing goes better with beer." DFT then left the stage, his security detail and a huge bottle of peanut oil close behind.

This morning, the spin from the remainining candidacies has been hard to follow. Here are just a couple of snippets from each candidate's campaigns.

My friends of a feather, I ask that we come together in the spirit of unity. Ribeye has been chosen to represent the Beef party while we sit in the coop undecided. Ribeye is a good steak. It is hearty and satisyfing, no doubt, but it does not represent what the American eating public is about. It is not the food of the common man, sitting in front of his TV during the Super Bowl, the World Series or the NBA finals. It is not being served with pitcher of beers but with fancy wines. It is not representative of what the working man can afford to eat during their sporting events.

It is time to get out of the henhouse and into the smokehouse. It is time for us to fully endorse the Buffalo Wing to be our candidate!

The Buffalo Wing has a history of uniting the people. It was in the early days when the wing itself teamed up with the drumstick to become one. Now, the breaded and naked come together, as do the sauce and sauceless. Hooters, Buffalo Wild Wings, and KFC are united in the backing of the wing as our candidate.

Buffalo Wings are a nation's food. Easy to prepare, affordable, great with beer, it is a food of the people. Whether a busty babe is setting a platter of 911 breaded wings in front of you or the BW3's girl is serving those tasty spicy garlic drummies, it is the chicken that goes with everything.

And we don't offer empty slogans. We offer the truth. Hooters make you happy! Are we wrong? NO! We need your vote today. BW3's sums it up, You Have to Be Here!

Back us today, Buffalo Wing for the Poultry Party!

--StB, campaign manager for Buffalo Wing

Some have said we were afraid...chicken even...to run in this election. But we are not afraid. We are here to ruffle feathers. We will not waiver against these Turkeys. Make no bones about it, buffalo wing supporters. We are letting our Fingers do the walking...all the way to the White House...because no matter how many bad eggs are out there...the CHICKEN...COMES...FIRST!











Richard Cluck (P), Tennessee (aka Uncle Ted), state campaign chair for Chicken Fingers

With two candidates left, it is up to you to decide who will face Bone-In Ribeye in November. Polls are open. Vote in the comments now. Polls close at 9am Thursday.

Labels: Elections, Food, Politics

I always park near the cart corral, no matter the weather. It usually means a longer walk into the grocery store, but it means less time finding a place to put my cart when I'm done with my shopping. I picked the Bi-Lo today, because it was closest and I'm feeling mentally and physically lazy.

Bi-Lo is really a terrible grocery store, but I'm not in the best of moods anyway, so it followed that I'd fit right in. Back in the days of Melrose Gulfman, a heady time when my late friend was planning his next move from a dark little apartment on Haywood road, the Long Island native would spend inordinate amounts of time pouring over the Bi-Lo ads for the best deals. As I walked into the store, I thought about how I missed my friend and his "not from 'round here" phrases. He was the only guy I knew in these parts who would start a sentence with words like, "I went food shopping and was standing on line..."

Cold drizzle made psychedelic runners of road oil in the parking lot. I looked like a dandy as I jumped over the puddles and made my way inside. The shopping carts were all wet and soaked my list before I had time to memorize it. It was too hot inside and I regretted wearing a sweater. I settled into a familiar path around the store, paying less attention to what I was knocking into my cart than the people around me.

Grocery stores are different in the last few days before Christmas. The people inside are not normal shoppers. They are holiday food gatherers, on errands, on last-minute runs, on missions of escape. On the eve of Christmas Eve, the holiday get-togethers are starting to gather steam. Families have now spent a couple of days get used to being around each other again. The shopping for the holiday meals needs to get done.

I first noticed the blonde mother who couldn't stop smiling. She was tall, thin, and walking with a sense of such gleeful purpose, I was sure nothing would stand in her way. She had given up the cart in favor of her more useful and expedient arms. The loaves of bread and cans of food were certainly items she had either forgotten or decided later she would need. Now that her boys were home for Christmas, she would cook a big meal in celebration. She never stopped moving and she never stopped smiling.

In another aisle, I spotted another blonde mother. This one moved slower. She was tall and large and didn't crack a smile. She paused in front of the shelves and looked without aim. I didn't look in her cart for fear of seeing something depressing--a frozen dinner, maybe. Her face told most of the story anyway.

A three-year-old kid bounded out from behind a display. If I had been moving any faster, I would've run over him. As I maneuvered around him, I looked down the row. His dad was there on what was certainly an errand directed by a harried wife. The dad, despite having to corral his kid, looked thankful for the relative quiet of the store.

Two forty-something men in plaid coats and blue jeans walked together. I knew in a second that they were brothers. Their scruff and gait were the same. The smiled and laughed as they walked. No doubt, they haven't seen each other in a while and are getting together at their folks for the holidays.

In the beer aisle, men lingered. It was here that they did their only real thinking. Some of them wondered how much they would have to drink to get through the weekend with their family. Others wondered how much they would have to drink to get through the holiday alone. Two other brothers took a different tact. With huge smiles, they grabbed case after case of Bud Light and piled it into the shopping cart. When they were finished, the beer was stacked four feet out of the cart, not to mention filling the bottom rack and in the child's seat section. It took both of the brothers to get to the cashier. I didn't bother trying to guess. I was just glad I wasn't going to be with them on Christmas morning.

As I made my way to the cashier, I heard a familiar voice and followed the sound up to the face of an old friend. She was on the phone and looking in another direction. For a reason I still don't fully understand, I ducked down another aisle and turned my back to her. I had no reason to avoid her, other than I just didn't feel like talking.

Maybe I didn't want her looking in my cart and trying to figure me out.

Outside, it was still drizzling. I threw the bags in the back of my car as fast as possible. When I was finished, the cart corral was right there.

Labels: Food

I was about to go to a Halloween party that required a costume for entry. With my work schedule now a little lighter, I took an afternoon trip to Target with my wife.

"The adult costumes are over here," she said. She knows these things because Target calls her every morning and lets her know how the bottom line is looking and whether they need a Mt. Otis funded bail-out.

We turned the corner and I saw my choices. I could either be a strand of metallic garland or a sprig of greenery. I stopped at the end of the aisle and muttered something obscene. Christmas? I looked at the old stock lady with a look that I hoped conveyed, "I'd sooner buy your damned Christmas decorations in October as I would give you a hot oil massage in front of my mother."

I muttered some more and went to what was serving ineffectually as the clearance aisle for the Halloween stuff. As I turned around, I swear the old lady was pulling an Easter bunny and some chocolate eggs out of a box.

The pickings for Halloween costumes were pretty slim. I initially planned a medical/army theme and figured to go into the party as a Five Star Surgeon General. I ended up changing my mind and pulling together a black Medusa dress, an old lady wig, and a fake butcher knife. I was going to make a great Norman Bates' mother.

I ended up missing the party and was left with my old lady wig and a sense of confusion about what time of year it is. Are we really so damned rushed that we have to start buying Christmas stuff before I get a chance to get my "Mother!" on? I know it's trite to bitch about how early the Christmas junk comes out, but, holy, holy, holy, my pumpkin isn't even rotting yet.

See, we even delayed our trip to the pumpkin patch by a week or so. Why, rush it, you know? Last year, we had to throw elbows in a crowd of a hundred or so in the patch. This year, we were literally the only customers there. Everyone else must have shown up in July. The patch had been picked over and looked more like a Civil War battlefield if Robert E. Lee and Wade Hampton had been commanding pumpkins.



The peace and quiet was welcome, though. Instead of fighting pumpkin patch commercialism, it was like we were on our own farm, the slim pickings notwithstanding. I stood at the counter inside the barn and talked to the lady at the counter.

"Sorta quiet here," I said, disregarding my son's baby chick mimicking across the room.

"Everybody showed up the day we opened," the lady said. That was in mid-August. Back then, it was 100 degrees outside, the leaves were all still green, and Father Halloween was still making wooden toys at the South Pole. Still, people had to buy their pumpkins in time to start saving for the Christmas presents they were going to buy in October.

We picked out two pumpkins, a couple bear-fuls of local honey, and some sodas to cut through the Autumn humidity.

"Hey, hon," I said. "Grab some apple butter." The stuff we'd bought at Nivens Farm last year had been really good.

I'm not sure how many parts of the country enjoy apple butter. As far as I know, it's a national spread. However, if you live somewhere that doesn't celebrate harvest with apple butter, you are really missing out. Imagine spreading an apple pie on a buttered biscuit on a cold Autumn morning and you'll start to see where I'm coming from.

My parents were with us and I saw my mom's wheels start to turn. "Why don't we just buy some apples and make it?" she said. Five minutes later, she was explaining the difference between a bushel and a peck and we had a bag of locally grown apples in our car.

That night, after the boy was in bed, my wife, mom, dad and I stood in our kitchen and peeled apples. As my mom worked like an industrial peeling machine, the rest of us laughed while we massacred our fruit with paring knives. Over the course of the next three hours, we made and canned four jars of Mt. Otis Apple Butter.

My mom worked the recipe from memory, calculating cups and teaspoons in her head and measuring them with her hands. It was something she'd been doing her entire life and watching her work with--if you will--careless precision was something as beautiful as she is.

At 11:30 pm, we made toast and topped it with butter and our labor. The next morning, my wife made biscuits and we had the apple butter again. I don't think I have to tell you, it tasted better than anything we could've bought.

It's very easy these days to get treble-hooked by work, consumerism, and mass marketing. Before we know it, we're being dragged through the holiday waters and ending up filleted for Easter brunch. As a father of a kid who gets more mature every day, I'm learning that, holidays or not, life just moves too damned fast. Sometimes we just need to listen to our moms and slow down.

You can learn a lot from apple butter, you know?

I'll be happy to share some of mine with you if you wanna come down for my Fourth of July Party.

It's next month.

Labels: Cooking, Family, Food, Society

These days, it's rare for the wife and I to go out for a good meal. Unless there is a shark hanging from the ceiling, a hostess with a packet of crayons, or a giant mouse running around the joint, we don't tend to go out for dinner as much as we did in the past. It's hard to enjoy a five course meal and a cup of good coffee while a three year old shoots drinking straw wrappers at the adjacent table.

Saturday, we were able to head out to a place recommended by some fellow bloggers. American Grocery sated our need for something above the traditional fare offered by places with kids menus. I had venison--so fresh and rare, I imagine it was plucked from the nearby woods that morning--in a fig demi glace. I also ate organ meat, but that's another story for a different day.

When time arrived for the dessert course, the wife decided on some homemade doughnuts stuffed with mocha cream. Though our friends were there, talking and enjoying saying panna cotta in a thick Italian accent, it was impossible to miss what started happening to the woman I married. With a touch of mocha cream on her lip, she let loose an ever so quiet moan. Her body shuddered. Her eyes may or may not have rolled up into the back of her head.

Yep, there it was. I privately raised my coffee toward the kitchen and thought, "My compliments to the pastry chef." I didn't learn until later that the pastry chef was named Susan. The implications and possibilities were boundless, but left for another time.

***

Anthony Bourdain once wrote about the--if not always sensual--sexual nature of cooking and eating. By definition, he contends agreeing to eat a meal cooked by someone else is a submissive act, one giving up any illusion of control. You open your mouth and let someone else slip something inside. It's the concession of power for the pure sensual pleasure of letting someone else do while you enjoy.

I like to be in the kitchen. It's a creative and therapeutic outlet. It is especially gratifying when, after a few hours with knives, herbs, and meats, I get to watch someone really enjoy the food. It is akin to the satisfaction of another creative and experimental outlet that takes place in another room in the house. A job well done is a job well done, if you you know what I mean.

Marriage can be a tricky thing, though. After years and years of eating the same meals prepared by the same cook, there is an unintentional routine and expectation that arrives at dinner time. My wife knows the meats, the rubs, and how long it's going to take for the meal to be finished. It's the type of thing that leads a guy to experimentation. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, though, it ends with my wife slowly placing malformed rice noodles onto her tongue and forcing a "this is good, honey" from her abused mouth.

There, dear friends, lies the rub. If cooks are the dominant types, they like to believe they have done good, that they have given pleasure, that their toil and art served some greater good. They like to see animated pleasure, and in its absence, at least like to know they have gotten your tastebuds off. For some folks, it's enough to hear, "This is good." Others, like me, like to really believe it.

Indeed, the routine and familiarity of marriage goes both ways. I generally know whether my wife is enjoying something or merely tolerating it. I use the word "generally," because, despite really enjoying the process of pleasure, I am never 100% confident.

That's right. I never know for sure if she is...faking it.

***

A home eater has to walk a very thin line when dealing with a semi-confident cook. Being overly critical of a meal or the one who cooks it could result in a complete loss of confidence that turns into tentative cooking (a tragedy in itself) or a complete abandonment of the kitchen altogether. However, being too careful about the cook's feelings and feigning enjoyment is even worse.

Let's go back to the bedroom (he says as if we ever really left). I think we can all agree that it's pretty clear when a man is satisfied. Moreover, it's not the hardest thing in the world to accomplish that goal. Give him a big enough burger and a basket of fries, if you will, and by and by, he's going to walk away happy. A woman, however, is a fine diner. Something from the drive thru just ain't gonna cut it. Furthermore, figuring out whether the lady's epicurean needs were met is as difficult as reading a french menu through a napkin. She may have acted like she enjoyed it, but there is always a lingering doubt as to whether she enjoyed it.

There are times, of course, when it's pretty clear. Saturday night, as my wife's mouth slacked and she shimmied in her chair at the taste of the mocha cream, Susan the Pastry Chef had obviously scored one for the good guys. Down the table, however, I couldn't get read on how much pleasure Cheryl was getting from her goat cheese gnocchi. Her husband probably knew whether she enjoyed it, but I was at a loss. When she shared a piece with me, I felt a familiar tingle in the good places, so I had to assume Cheryl liked it as well. She said it was good, but I would never know if she was faking it.

We go to restaurants because there is no commitment. The chefs are the pros. You can usually assume you're going to walk away satisfied, but there is no risk of hurt feelings if you don't like the food. You're only out the cost of the meal, rather than the potential hurt feelings and marital strife of not liking your partner's cooking. What's more, when the server asks if everything is alright, you can fake it without longterm consequences.

At home, though, faking it is the worst possible temptation. In the face of a sub par meal, efforts to make your cooking spouse feel good about what he's prepared can only lead to one thing: more sub par meals. As it is with the time spent in the martial bed, a marriage beset by gastronomic dissatisfaction is not one you want to lead.

So, friends, when you feel the urge to say, "This is a good meal," when, in fact, you'd rather have had KFC, just don't do it. Faking it is the path to a lifetime of of wishing you'd ordered takeout and a couple of items from the Adam and Eve catalog.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run. This is the first night in nearly three weeks that I'll be able to go to bed with my wife and I have to make a stop at American Grocery for some of that mocha cream. I wonder if Susan the Pastry Chef has plans?

Labels: Anthony Bourdain, Cooking, Fine Dining, Food, Marriage, Sex

It's a guilty little pleasure, I suppose, my repeated viewing of the movie "Days of Thunder." It's the type of thing I'd never mention in front of my more enlightened friends, but when the NASCAR flick comes on TV, I don't turn it off. When Robert Duval jokes, "We're eating ice cream," I laugh. When he lumbers off into an old man's run at the end of the movie, saying, "I'll race your ass," I can't help but think, "Damn, right!" Like riding mopeds or enjoying the song "Lucas with the Lid Off," we all have things we do that we wouldn't want our friends seeing.

That, I hope, serves as some explanation for what ran through my mind last night as I stood in the kitchen with my hands buried in a giant bowl full of dough. Everything in my amateur culinary mind screamed, "This is going to be a disaster. Abort! Abort, you arrogant son of a bitch!"

But, on a more subconscious level, I heard the voice of Tom Cruise as Cole Trickle. It said, "There's nothing I can't do with a race car."

I didn't consider the Dianetics involved or whether I was under the influence of a psychiatrist at the time. Instead, I thought to myself, "There's nothing I can't do in the kitchen."

In reality, I know this to be untrue. It's not been six months since I made an uneducated and overconfident foray into the world of Thai food. My noodles ended up looking like something that came from a monkey's skull. A couple of years ago, I tried to experiment with a chile pepper and incorporate it into fairly simple Mexican dish. We ended up ordering a pizza.

Still, for a guy who is so afraid of failure, I have a bit of hubris when it comes to things involving pots and pans. I received an early education from my mom and grandma, two women who I still consider to be the best homestyle cooks I've ever known. Since then, I have spent countless hours reading, practicing, experimenting, and believing that, indeed, "There's nothing I can't do in the kitchen."

I know people who cook better than I do. I don't think I'm the best by any means. For instance, when we invited my friend Shep on an annual camping and music festival trip we take, I was only looking forward to his company. He showed up and built a mobile kitchen. He ended up cooking two meals a day for 20 people, all of whom raved--after the food was gone and there was nothing left to shove in their mouths. No, I am not the best, but cooking is something at which I am competent. I am not afraid to cook for people. In fact, I enjoy it.

That's how I ended up covered in flour and using a particular twelve letter phrase indicating Oedipal lust.

Some time within the last year, I developed a fascination with gnocchi. For those who don't know, gnocchi are small Italian dumplings. They're made with potatoes, wheat flour, or bread crumbs. The recipes for gnocchi are as varied as you could ever want. I chose to go with the potato variety.

There's nothing I can't do with a potato.

If there had been a camera on me and a camera on my food, they would've shown two different things. Over the course of an hour, the bowl went from filled with boiled potatoes to full of the most perfect looking dough you could ever want. The dough formed into balls. It morphed into perfectly sized snakes and then into small, fork-pressed dumplings which eventually found their way into a boiling pot of water.

During that same time, the camera on me would've been something that would show up on You Tube...a sweating, cursing, flour-covered thirty-something man shoving raw dough into his mouth and shaking his fist at an unseen culinary deity. I think I knew halfway through the process that I was going to fail. However, I couldn't admit it to myself. There's nothing I can't do with a boiling pot of water.

Duval's character would've finally had it up to his trucker hat with me. As I constructed my sauce, sauteed shallots and garlic, and tossed it all with with some shrimp, I could almost hear the disembodied voice of Harry Hogge saying, "I can't talk to that son of a bitch. I really can't."

I looked at the clock. The dinner hour had passed. Hell, the dessert hour had passed. My kid was in bed, the dog was sleeping, and the wife was starting to look ill. I strained the gnocchi from their watery grave and popped one in my mouth.

I muttered that twelve letter phrase and forced myself to swallow the lump. Something was wrong.

I grabbed another dumpling and swirled it in some Extra Virgin and herbs. I can't remember what bad word I used then, because I was too busy forking a third dumpling and dunking it in a pot of Mornay sauce. It was like the moment Cole Trickle just couldn't take it anymore, jammed down on the clutch, and blew his engine. I couldn't decide if I hated myself more for blowing the gnocchi or spending my time making a Mornay. What in the hell was I thinking? Mornay with a dumpling? I might as well have fed my wife Elmer's Glue Soup with a giant matzo ball.

In any amateur cook's life, there is a visible moment of concession that usually begins with a resigned sigh and ends with the sound of a whirring garbage disposal. In between, for me, was a trip to the pantry where I pulled out a half-full box of Spaghetti Rigati and threw it at the boiling pot of water. I can't even remember how I plated the food. I only remember my wife saying, "This is good," and me wanting to ask her how often she lies to my face. I was afraid to go to bed with her for fear of being lied to there as well. An hour or so later, my plate was sitting--still full--on the counter. My wife's was empty in the sink. Her lies, apparently, extend to the ability to hold down my culinary missteps.

"Days of Thunder" ends with Trickle in victory lane. My day ended in a two pound lump at my curb. The trash man had a little extra weight to carry this morning. Me? I carry the burden of knowing that there are things I can't do in the kitchen, and apparently making gnocchi is one of them.

Labels: Cooking, Film, Food

If this work of fiction has you a little confused, you should be aware, it's my entry into the best contest of the year, courtesy of my friend Al Can't Hang.

The hemisphere swelled, at first like the heave of a well-toned breast at the peak of surprised breath, and then like the stomach of an alien-afflicted belly. The swell ended, the bulge began, and the pressure--for a half of a half of a second--sat in a state of suspended animation. Anything could happen at that moment. The world could be knocked off its axis, cancer could be cured, and Spanish Fly could be cut with all the coke in South America. It was a perfect moment that nobody saw happen. For that, you can blame the kid everybody calls Jose. He was flipping an over-hard egg when the orb of bacon fat pulsated and popped on the griddle. The fat turned clear and flew invisible through the air. It landed right where Mary-Maggie's neck met her shoulders.

"God dammit, Jose, you lazy son of a bitch." Mary-Maggie imagined an exclamation point on the end of her sentence, but it didn't come out that way. She slapped at her neck like she'd been bitten my a mosquito and cursed under her breath. It was just loud enough for the 20-year-old kid from Honduras to hear it, but not loud enough for Lady Melba to hear at the register. "I told you to cook the bacon on the back of the grill. Fourth time this week you've burned me."

"My name's not Jose, puta," Jose said. He wasn't going to bother telling her his name really was Jose. He used a long spatula to pull the pound of bacon to the front edge of the griddle. "You want I should aim for something other than your neck?"

Jose let her see his eyes fall to the place where Mary-Maggie's t-shirt rose up over her blue jeans. The tattoo that peaked out from the denim was a pink tulip surrounded by black thorns. Jose pressed the spatula down on a piece of bacon and got the desired pop. He gave her a wink.

Whatever Mary-Maggie said next went unheard because Lady Melba had stepped over from the register. "Don't ignore the man at the end of the counter," she said and flicked her eyes at me. I heard it all. The smell of the pork mixing with the coffee, toast, and cigarette smoke had stroked raw every one of my senses.

Mary-Maggie sighed and flipped her order book open to a new page. She tugged down on the back of her t-shirt and stepped over to me. "Help you?"

She was probably thirty years old, blonde with black roots, real breasts, and a fake tan. Her t-shirt read "Blue Flames, Class of '96" and hugged her more than it had on graduation night. I wondered how long it had been since she got the tattoos and if the thorns were pat of the original work or something she added years later.

"You know," I said. "In some cultures, absorbing pork fat is thought to aid fertility. Some women actually like it. They rub it into their skin. Some even eat it."

Mary-Maggie looked at me and tapped her pen on her pad. She punched the top of it, clicking the ball-point in an out. "You believe that guy?"

I looked at Jose and he caught me looking. He let his eyes graze across Mary-Maggie's jeans and gave me a knowing smile. He probably didn't know know, but he knew in his dreams, and that was good enough. Jose had a lot of dreams, not the least of which was doing naughty things to the counter waitress with his spatula.

"Can't blame him," I said. "In some cultures, being able to shoot bacon grease that far is a sign of virility."

Mary-Maggie stopped clicking her pen. "And which culture is that?"

Now it was my turn to wink. "Mine."

"What can I get you, sir?" the waitress said, clicking her pen once more.

"One egg, over hard. Coffee, black. Side of bacon. And another side of bacon."

The waitress ripped the sheet of paper off her pad and threw it to Jose's side. "Order in," she said, and then after a pause, "puto."

Mary-Maggie walked to the far end of the counter and took a pull off a bottle of water. She pulled her t-shirt down again and looked over at me. I heard my two sides of bacon hit Jose's hot spot just as the waitress took a determined woman's magazine advice column step toward me, my black coffee in her hand.

"I'm not sure who you think you are, mister. I've not seen you in here before, but I don't think I like how you were talking to me. I'm a lady just like Melba."

She was getting wound up, but it was clear her heart wasn't in it.

"You ever had pepper bacon?" I asked. "I think you would enjoy it."

She stopped and pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. "You think I would enjoy it? What do you know about what I would enjoy? What do you know about me?"

I made a show of looking her up and down like I was sizing her up. I didn't need to.

"I know you don't like your tattoo anymore. I know you got the tulip for a boyfriend. He broke your heart--maybe knocked up your best friend? You got the thorns a few weeks later and probably haven't been in love since. You bleach your own hair, but go to the place across the street for your tan. You wear sunglasses and a hat when you go in because you don't want people to see you. Of course, you spend almost all the daylight hours in here, so when are you going to get a tan like that?"

Mary-Maggie looked angry, hot as a bacon bubble, and just as salty.

"I know you don't like your job and you'd quit if you could just come up with a better idea. You like to curse, you like to drink, and you like to--if you'll forgive me--screw, but you don't do those things as often as you like. You know you're going to get out of here soon, but not soon enough and, if you're not careful, by the time you find a guy who looks at you like Jose does when he's cooking, you're going to be too old to enjoy what it feels like when you get splattered with bacon grease."

The waitress seemed to soften just a little bit, but barely. She lowered her voice, "Fuck you, buddy."

"Oh, and I know this, Mary-Maggie: You love bacon. You love the way it smells. You love the way it feels, whether it's limp off the griddle or hard out of the microwave. Crispy, chewy, fatty, lean, you like it all. You once rendered bacon fat and cooked apples it because you like the taste of meat in your fruit. Even though you and Jose hate each other, he saves you a piece of bacon out of every pound he cooks and you eat it in one bite. He thinks he's going to get in your pants, and you don't care if he thinks that as long as you get your taste a couple times a day. If I may be forward, ma'am, I could give you that taste as often as you like and, again forgive me, I think you'd be begging me for it by the end of the week."

I stopped and took a sip of my coffee.

"Who in the hell are you?" Mary-Maggie asked.

I looked over at Jose. He was eying me like he caught me screwing his sister.

"Who am I? Well, Mary-Maggie, I am a member of the Bacon of the Month Club. And I think you should be, too."

The period on my sentence fell in concert with a pop, an arc of viscous fat, and a landing that couldn't have been more perfect. Mary-Maggie jumped like she'd been goosed by the devil himself.

Jose yelled, "Order up!" and as I looked from Mary to my two sides of bacon, I couldn't decide which one I wanted more.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't have to choose.

Labels: Fiction, Food, Writing

A quickie...

The wife and I have been thinking about cutting certain things out of our lives. The first was bottled water. The second more ambitious project was the elimination of fast food. The latest trip to the grocery store resulted in the usual case of water staying on the shelf. It did not stop the bag of Wendy's coming home for lunch, though.

And so, the boy is too caught up in being the comedian at the kitchen table to eat his burger and I'm getting frustrated.

"I'm just eating the bread," he said.

"I need you to eat the burger, too. You know," I said. "Back when I was younger, there was an old lady on TV who screamed WHERE'S THE BEEF? in Wendy's commercials"

The kid thought this was exceptionally funny and laughed in the right places. I thought he got the joke.

"Hamburger isn't beef, Daddy!"

While he might have had a point about the Wendy's burger, I felt like I should set him straight, just in case he ever ended up inside a real burger joint.

"Hamburger is beef, D. And beef comes from cows."

The kid laughed like I'd just ripped my nose off.

"Beef doesn't come from cows, Daddy. Milk comes from cows!"

"Well, so does beef, buddy."

The kid just said, "Noooooo..."

"Alright then," I said. "Where do hamburgers come from?"

Now L'il Otis got serious and looked at me like I was about to turn three instead of him.

"From the kitchen where they cook them, Daddy."

The kid makes a lot of sense sometimes.

Labels: Food, Parenting

I read with some bemusement Esquire's "60 Things Worth Shortening Your Life For." It's clever and, in some places, informative and inspiring. Still, it's the type of thing you get when you read Esquire. I swore if I saw anything about a Cuban cigar or didn't see anything about a Lucky Dog, I'd have to write my own list. I don't pretend to be clever or one all that familiar with the derring-do. Nonetheless, Esquire is targeted at the tragically hip or those who want to be. Me, only hip I know is the one that leads me to bed at night. With that, here's my list, also known as...

Life Crisco


New Orleans

1. Eat a Lucky Dog at 5am -- Wait until the streets are almost empty, the amateurs are passed out in the gutter, and the boobies have gone back in their shirt. Sidle up to the greasy-looking dude on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse and order a Lucky Dog. Find someone to sell you a beer. Kick aside the empty cups, bras, and broken beads, and sit down on a curb. Ignore the smell of stale booze and eat the Lucky Dog in four bites.



2. Find Checkpoint Charlies...late -- It's the kind of place that is close enough to the French Quarter that you can walk to it, but not so close that it is overrun by the tourists. Go after hours. Bonus points if you go by yourself.

3. Get broke in the French Quarter -- Find a girl in a beret and spend every penny you have buying her Hand Grenades at the original Tropical Isle. Do this without knowing where your buddies are or how you're going to get home. Now, figure out what to do.

4. Hand Grenades? -- Yeah, Hand Grenades. If you haven't pounded back six or seven of these while listening to "Late As Usual" playing bar tunes, you haven't lived...or worked very hard on your inevitable death. I would recommend drinking them at the bar on Toulouse.

5. Eat 20 bignets -- Cafe du Monde sits on the edge of the French Quarter. The serving staff will be cranky, especially if you're there during a high-tourist season. Still, make a lot of noise, drink some great coffee, and eat 20 bignets like you will never taste them again.

6. Order extras debris at Mother's -- If ever in New Orleans, find Mother's. It's become a bit touristy, but still maintains its old school roots. Fight for your seat--threaten an old lady if you have to--and order a poboy with EXTRA DEBRIS. This is best done when exceptionally hungover.


For College Students

7. Steal a stripper's panties -- You should have a reason for it (like making them a gift for a husband-to-be), but even if you don't, the rush from doing it and then being confronted by the 6'5" bouncer is worth it.

8. Don't back down from a fight instigated by a shirtless redneck -- Most fights should be avoided, but once in your life, when a shirtless redneck tells you to take one more step forward, do it. It'll hurt (and likely hurt your friends more), but it's worth it...just once.

9. Put a carbonated drink in a campfire -- It is entertainment for the stupid, but you haven't lived until you have seen a 12-ounce can explode and blow a Yule log ten feet out of a campfire.

10. Eat a double Stretch -- Every college town has a diner with the specialty after-hours dish complete with eggs, onions, chili, and cheese. The Broadway Diner in Columbia, Missouri has the best in the United States. Order a double Stretch and decrease your life expectancy by a couple more months.

11. Tailgate with the Antlers -- Membership in The Antlers is almost impossible to achieve unless you know or are related to the right person. Regardless, get invited to one of their tailgate parties and drink from the Paint Can. Tell them NightTrain sent you.

Las Vegas

12. Rage solo In Las Vegas -- I once defined Raging Solo for my buddy Al. It's actually a phrase I borrowed from an old friend named "G." Essentially, it means hitting a town by yourself with no real plan. There is no better city for it than Las Vegas.

13. Have a Steak at Hugo's Cellar -- Located in the lowest level of the Four Queens in Las Vegas, it's the perfect place to ask for the private back room and order a t-bone. To counteract the Life Crisco, order a salad from the salad cart. It's worth it just to suffer the preparer's barrage of questions about what you want.

14. Let Absinthe pick your dinner spot -- My friend Ryan (aka Absinthe) knows good food and he is not afraid of decadence. Let him decide where you're eating. The food itself is enough to shorten your life expectancy. Worse, after you eat one of these meals, you're bound to refuse other food in the future, thus starving yourself. Michael Mina and Nob Hill are two good bets.

15. Get steak and eggs -- Getting a free breakfast in Las Vegas isn't necessarily hard, but it can be pricey. Huh? Just gamble irresponsibly and make sure the pit boss knows you're doing it. If he refuses to pay attention, celebrate your wins by screaming, "Steak and Eggs!" It is so worth it.

For Adults Only

16. Play poker in an underground card room -- The risks are many, but the people you'll meet make it more than worth it. Even if you don't play poker, it's worth going just once to people watch. Recent examples can be found at The Last Poker Game and The Sweetest Criminal. Bonus points if you can find a game in the back of a gentleman's club.

17. Attend a party hosted by Al Can't Hang -- There are professionals and then there are Professionals. Al made Malvern, PA famous with his infamous Bash at the Boathouse. That party may now be defunct, but Al still rages. Look for his next party invitation. If you don't feel up to that, you might try Bradoween.

18. Go bar hopping with Paul McGuire -- Known worldwide as Dr. Pauly, this native New Yorker can show you NYC like few others. It's a both a tour and a life experience. If you need a preview, Pauly treated me to this New York Bar Tour.

19. Commit an act of civil disobedience -- You gotta stand for something, right? Well, prove it. I'd suggest a B&E of some place owned by The Man. Don't steal anything, but make it known you were there.

20. Converse with a murderer -- Killing is wrong and the people who do it are sick. If you have a chance to talk to a killer, do it.

So, there's a list of 20 Life Crisoes that should get you started. As you have likely guessed, those are all things I've done. Maybe someday soon I'll give you a list of things I haven't done yet, but want to.

Labels: Crime, Drinking, Fine Dining, Food, Life Crisco, Mizzou

The hard thing about being a visitor in Milan is that you are one of the people who isn't perfect. Your eyes don't have the perfect shape, your ass isn't the type of thing that makes people fall over crying, and your ability to be the hottest person in the room--no matter where you are--is severely inhibited. Within thirty minutes of walking, I noticed that anyone under the age of 50 in Milan who was not a tourist was among the most gorgeous people I'd ever seen. The men were pretty. The ugly women were better looking than most women who live in America. I vowed not to return to the city before having plastic surgery.

Curious, I thought, that a city so full of gelato shops could be home to so many perfectly shaped people. While a longtime consumer of ice creams (premium and otherwise), I spent 32 years without enjoying gelato--or, at least, anything that actually described itself as gelato. Then, in the Summer of 2006, Wil and Ryan took me to a little stand inside Caesars. I had pistachio and decided that if American lawmakers ever quietly outlawed oral sex, I'd settle for a daily dose of gelato instead. That said, gelato ain't necessarily fat free and I had to figure there was some government mandate in Italy about ass-goodness to gelato consumption ratios.

Regardless, it was a warm Spring day when I stood at the city center and decided--before I did anything with my three hours on the ground in Milan--I was going to have some gelato.

I shouldn't be surprised that the gelato shop wasn't staffed by smooth-skinned fashion models with perfect almonds for eyes and stomachs that you could--in a pinch--bounce grapes off of. Upon my return to America, I went to an airport Swensens for a smoothie. The girls there were decidedly not small--choosing take two orders at once so that they wouldn't have to walk the five feet back to the register. Efficiency in sloth, I'd call it.

No, in Milan, there were no Milanese behind the counter of the gelato stand. Still, the Asian women working on the edge of the Piazza del Duomo were not all that bad looking. And, they took orders one at a time--sloth be damned.



I stood in a line of perfect asses and smooth skin. I peeked around one ass and saw it: pistachio in all its brown-green goodness. For €2, they slapped it on a cone and sent me back out into the sunshine.

I think there are a few things in life that I wouldn't even try to describe with words. Among those things are a night of naked monkey business with my wife, Scarlett Johansson, Virginia Madsen, and Helena Bonham Carter...watching the Kansas City Chiefs win the Superbowl from a hot tub in Maui...and the texture of pistachio gelato as tasted in the center of Milan.



No, the picture doesn't do it justice.

Under the March sun, the gelato threatened to melt fast, so I ate it quickly, enjoying the mix of sweet and salt, dodging pickpockets, ducking under pigeons, and heading for a giant scrum of soccer fans in the middle of the square. I wasn't sure what was happening, but it looked like as good a place as any to eat my gelato.

And, so I went.

Previously: Milan in three hours: Prelude

Labels: Food, Travel

I've been cooking with swiss cheese a lot recently. You know, a little cordon bleu, a little casserole, a little this and that. Cheese fetishes run in cylces, I think, and recently I've been feeling a little Swiss.

Saturday was one of those days when nobody should've been messing with a big block of swiss. Up late the night before, I was cooking for 25 people, suffering a work crisis that threatened to (and did) last for 36 hours, and helping my neighbor move five years of living into a 18-wheeled moving truck. There was no time for messing around with any kind of cheese, let alone one as haphazard as swiss. And yet I was. For lack of better sense, I was grating an entire block of swiss for a monster cordon bleu-y pasta salad I was whipping up to go with the grilled fare. In the end, I got a little carried away and grated the whole damned block. Work was pinging me on the IM machine, the moving truck guy was idling in the cul-de-sac, and the wife was giving me a look that said, "I love you, but if you don't put down the damned cheese, I'm going to put it in a hole you don't even know you have."

I had too much grated cheese.

My keen eye noted this as I filled up a bowl with enough pasta salad to feed 60 people (that eye wasn't so keen) and started cleaning up my work area.

"Something is wrong with the garbage disposal," the wife said.

This, as I have noted before, is my wife's verbal cue that something isn't working for her. Nine times out of ten, whatever it is works just fine. This time though, she was spot on.

Something was wrong with the garbage disposal. Flipping the switch produced a sound a lot like you get when you...ah yes, jam up some sort of motor. It was a strained "I'm about to burn out like a motherfucker" sound.

And this was a bad time for such a thing to happen. I had scraps of just about everything I'd been cutting that morning. Egg shells littered the countertop. Not to mention all the cheese.

Wait, where is all the fucking cheese?

Well, it's in the garbage disposal, of course.

Now, I don't fault the wife for putting about two cups of shredded swiss in the disposal. I would've and have done the same thing. However, this timing was especially bad.

After two minutes of using the old Garbage Disposal Reboot trick, I finally just shoved my hand in the small hole and felt for the problem Sure enough, the whole of the blades was gummed up with melted swiss cheese. It was a decidedly non-neutral situation.

Eventually, with the help of a spoon, my wife's smaller hands, and a lot of hot water, we got the thing running again. The crisis, however swiss, was over.

Later, after the work debacle, the move, the BBQ, and a few too many beers, I got to wondering about the swiss cheese. A simple sentence kept running through my brain:

You eat that stuff.

Now, given, I rarely eat two cups of cheese at a time, so my chances of gumming up the works to the same degree are slim. With that acknowledgement, I also don't have sharp blades spinning at several thousand RPMs in my gut.

Methinks it may be time to switch cheese for a while. It just might be time for something in the way of a Stracchino or Teleme.

Labels: Food, Health, Physical

My wife insists--and only because I think she is a little jealous--that I have a man-crush on Absinthe. It's rare for me to pick up new friends, and when I came home from Vegas last summer talking about this guy, the wife eventually started looking at me like she did when I started wearing pleatless pants and drinking dirty martinis. When I mentioned all of this to Absinthe, who incidentally is married with a child on the way, he replied laconically, "If that's the case, the crush will go unrequited."

All of the above makes it even more frustrating to explain to the wife how Absinthe's last text message of the weekend is not at all homoerotic, despite reading "If I tell you to put something in your mouth, you had best do it."

***

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I was not hungover after my first night in Vegas. I'd been playing cards all day in an extremely fun and potentially profitable game. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I left such a game without being forced to.

In gambler's terms, being "stuck" means to be in the hole, to have lost money, to be down. Though I would end the trip with a modest profit, I was stuck heading into this particular game. I'd hoped to leave the game unstuck, but there just wasn't time before following Absinthe to dinner.

Now, normally, when I'm in Vegas, I don't spend a lot of time away from the poker table. Most places will deliver food right to your chair for no more than a small tip to the waitress. It's really the best of both worlds. Unless, of course, you live in Absinthe's world.

Which is different.

***

I was wearing no-pleat pants, and that doesn't make me gay. If I had worn the shiny black shirt (the one that would've made me look like Johnny Cash does the Village People), there might have been some merit to the arugment. Instead, I wore a toned down, less shiny, certainly not gay shirt.

There were six of us at dinner. As the accented man led us to a cozy table, I surveyed our group and found two attorneys, a doctor, a journalist, Absinthe, and myself.

Six months earlier, Absinthe had taken some friends and me to dinner at another nice place as a "thank you" for sweating him through the World Series of Poker. It was a nice and unnecessary gesture. Still, it had re-awakened my tastebuds and I was hankering for another good meal.

The result was Michael Mina, nestled in the back of the Bellagio Conservatory, wherein I would find myself only barely able to answer this question, as posed by a drunk guy: "Is it outside in here?"

***

As I am no genius in the ways of fine dining, I won't pretend to offer a review of my meal, except to say that at point I remarked, "If I ever brought my wife here, there would never again be a need for foreplay."

Over the course of two hours, a small platoon of the restaurant's staff served us the following:

* Pumpkin soup
* Tartare of ahi tuna, seasoned with sesame oil, toasted pine nuts, garlic, chiffonade of mint, with crusts of toast
* Maine Lobster Pot Pie with baby carrots, fingerling potatoes, and black truffles
* Miso-Glazed Chilean Sea Bass with Mushroom Consomme, Shrimp and Scallop Ravioli
* Trio of American Kobe Ribeye with Horseradish, Classic Bearnaise, Foie Gras Emulsion
* Warm Chocolate Cake, Coconut Panna Cotta, Mini Root Beer Float, warm pecan cookies

For those not familiar with such a rundown, it comes courtesy of Michael Mina's cookbook tasting menu, a sampling of his finest dishes, all served in one meal. And by sampling, they bascially mean, "we're going to give you enought to fill you up until Christmas, no matter what time of year you eat."

I ate it all...with the exception of the sea bass' bed of bok choy (er...choi?), which was a little too limp for my taste.

Yeah, I ate the lot. And then wondered if I should've worn the shiny shirt.

***

The past couple years of my life have afforded me the luxury of meeting people who could satisfy nearly every vice I have, not to mention many vices I don't have. Pick a vice--booze, strippers, drugs, cigars, etc.--and I know an expert on the subject. Fortunately, I stick to vices that keep me married and not afoul of the law. And, also fortunately, food is one of those vices. And, damn it, if Absinthe isn't my hook-up.

Vice? Food is a vice? Well, it's not if you're eating the over-cooked prime rib sandwich at the poker tables at Caesar's It is, however, if you spend too much time eating at joints like Michael Mina.

Rather than itemize the tab for you, I offer this little tidbit:

When the check came, Absinthe was the first to review it. I'd already figured the price of our meal in our head, but had failed to calculate one thing. Even I jumped a bit when Absinthe deadpanned, "Well, our water bill is $52."

After running the numbers through an abacus and more than a couple of mental super computers, we figured out the per person cost. Remarkably, the cash hit the table in seconds, and we sated gamblers made for the door.

On our way out, our server stood waiting with a bag for each of us. Inside was a cookbook signed by the chef. Retail price on the book? $50.

***

Before we left to go back to playing poker, I mentioned to our group that there is a difference between being stuck and being food stuck. If you're stuck playing poker, it's either a result of bad play or bad luck. If you're food stuck, it's because you chose to satisfy one of life's greatest pleasures.

Here's the thing about poker, though. Unlike a lot of people who have the food vice (or any other vice), a poker player can get unstuck if he works at it.

Over the course of the next couple of days, I got unstuck and un-food-stuck. By the time I crawled onto the redeye home, I had more money in my pocket than when I arrived.

And that means, my friends, that little meal I had Friday night was free.

And the cookbook? Well, that's just a little bit of mushroom consomme gravy, baby.

Labels: Fine Dining, Food

Well, I blew it.

I spent the first half of my life in the middle of Thanksgiving dinners hosted by some of the best home-cooking chefs I've ever known. My maternal grandmother and mom are two top-notch home-cookers and would put a lot of the television chefs to shame. My mom has always been, without question, just a good marketing rep away from a show on Food TV and a companion program on the Home and Garden network. My wife has long said that Mother Otis could kick Martha Stewart's ass. I do not disagree.

Much of what I know about the basics of cooking comes from the time spent under my mom's tutelage. From mother sauces (absolutely no pun intended) to dry rubs to the perfect seasoning for fried chicken, my cooking skills rest firmly on a foundation of learning at the original Mt. Otis.

Over the years, I've cooked many Thanksgiving dinners with my wife and many of our recipes have come straight out of my mom's kitchen. It's safe to say our Thanksgiving meals have always been good because of my mom. My wife, who admits she is still learning some of the finer culinary skills, routinely uses my mom's methods and is getting better in the kitchen every day (I won't mention how good she is at the risotto because that's an inside joke that's not appropriate for all audiences). Regardless, this is all a long way of saying that I know how cook a damned turkey. I'm good at it. In fact, I'd venture to say I've never cooked a bad bird.

Until this Thanskgiving.

I have a problem. I can't be around a cooking project without getting involved. Hubris and vanity are a big part of the problem. More often than not, I know I'm a better cook than anybody in the room. I'd venture to say I cook better than 95% of the people I know. Only my mom, grandmother, and a few friends are better around the kitchen than me. That kind of arrogance often leads me to either offering to help with prep work and stirring or, in the case of this weekend, completely taking over the kitchen. At the in-laws, taking over the kitchen is not a hard task. My mother in-law doesn't do a lot of cooking and my father-in-law, despite cooking well, would eat dinner on the floor in the garage if he thought it would make everybody else happy.

An so it was with a cocksure attitude and an old wooden spoon that I commandeered the In-Law Kitchen on Thanksgiving and went to work. On the bill was traditional Thanksgiving fare: Turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, yams, and rolls. I surveyed the battlefield and realized that there was little chance I was going to whip up a masterpiece. The shopping list had been bastardized. Overlooking the pantry, I decided the only hope for a successful mission would be to kick the turkey's ever-loving ass. Everything else might be marginal, but the turkey, I assured myself, would be perfect.

My method is nothing unique. I learned it from my mother, who I'm sure learned it from somewhere else. Regardless, it works like a sonofabitch, and I use it every time I cook a bird. It goes like this:

---

How to Cook a Turkey

Clean and prepare the bird. By prepare, I mean stroke it lovingly and tell it how sorry you are for the loss of its head and the cavity search. Take a medium-sized apple, a medium-sized onion, a few stalks of celery, and a stick of butter and shove them where the sun don't shine (on the bird, not yourself). Rub a small amount of oil on the bird's skin and make a dirty joke to whoever is standing nearby. My favorite is, "Did you know that salmonella isn't a sexually transmitted disease?" Then, take some rubbed sage and rub it all over the outside of the bird. Slice another onion and sprinkle the slices on top of the turkey. Slice another stick of butter into half-tablespoon slices and place them all over the outside of the bird. Wrap the entire thing in tin foil and put it in a roasting pan. Put it in a 325-degree oven and leave it the holy hell alone. Don't poke at the bird, don't open the foil, don't open the oven for the first hour and half. You'll be cooking the bird for three to three and a half hours (assuming the turkey is between 8-12 pounds). After an hour and a half, take the turkey out and quickly baste it with the butter and juices. Put it back in the oven as quickly as you can and don't touch it again for another hour and a half. After that time, pull back the tin foil, baste, and then let the turkey get roasty brown for 20-30 minutes. Pull out the turkey, carve it up, then pour some of the juices over the carved meat, and serve.

---

Sounds pretty damned easy, because it is. The result is usually a very moist turkey that has flavor but isn't overpowering or too outspoken (nothing fucking worse than an outspoken turkey at Thanksgiving -- and, yeah, I'm talking to you Uncle Tommy). Now, let me list a few ways this easy turkey (yeah, I mean, I don't think you can catch genital salmonella) can be messed up:

* Too much time out of the oven for basting
* Too many people poking their head in the oven to "see how it's doing" or "get that Thanksgiving smell going"
* Too much time spent getting roasty brown at the end of the cook
* Too many cuts into the breast to determine if the bird is properly cooked (even if it can't be transmitted by genital-to-bird contact, salmonella by ingestion and digestion of undercooked turkey can make for a bad shopping day on Friday).

Every one of the above happened on Thanksgiving.

With all the love I have for my wife's family, I have a beef with them and it is this: they need to take a portion of the money they spend on cars in a given decade and put it toward updating their kitchen. While I'm fully aware it is a poor musician who blames his instrument, cooking in a too-small oven that may or may not heat at the proper levels is no way to run a railroad (and yeah, I'm fully fucking aware I'm now mixing metaphors). Trying to cook 13 things in an oven that barely fits a nine-pound turkey means something is going to get screwed up. The result was a bird that took way too long to cook, a bird that had to be probed for doneness one too many times, and, verily, a bird that (after not being done after more than four hours) ended up being carved and...oh, jesus help me...microwaved to insure doneness.

The result was, as you might expect, failure across the board. In the end, I was the guy who screamed for the ball and then dropped it in the end zone. I was the guy who worked all night to pick up the hot chick and then passed out before we got to the good stuff. I was, in short, no better than the people who cooked their turkey with a blowtorch and a can of sterno.

The family was accomodating and didn't protest. Some of them even ate the damned thing. That is a credit to their character.

As for me, I'm now considering buying a turkey and cooking it this weekend. If there was ever a time I needed to get back on the horse, this is it. Plus, I'm feeling pretty randy and I have a new bottle of oil in the cabinet.

Labels: Family, Food

Cheese bomb

One of two things is happening. Either terrorists have infiltrated the kitchen appliance industry or Rival (a big crock-pot maker) just makes a dangerous product.

Last night I was making rotel dip for some guests. About two hours in the cooking, the glass lid on the crock-pot just exploded. Hundreds of pieces of glass--big and small--were all over my kitchen. I'm too brain dead to tell the whole story right now. Here are some pictures of the aftermath.





One of two things will come out of this. Either Rival gives me a new crock-pot or you'll watch RER become a part-time campaign against Rival and its ownership.

Update: Rival, indeed, provided me with a new crockpot. It has survived many a cooking session without explosion.

Labels: Food, Rival Crockpots