Quiet out here on the headland tonight. Slow breeze, barely moving the dry grass so no whispers there. The crickets and katydids are up to their usual hijinks, but they sound restrained. Even the sea is subdued. It undulates sluggishly with waves that caress the shore rather than pound it. The seething of the tide laps faintly over me as I sit by the open window, absently rubbing the sore spot on my right calf, a remnant of an agitated dream that gripped me before dawn. I never knew phantom kicks could be so painful.
The light fades from the sky. The clouds hovered most of the day, but it never felt gloomy. Nice for this time of year. Such a welcome relief from a stubborn summer heat so oppressive it felt fascist. the morning felt so good I walked the shore, out to the lighthouse and back. A few shards of sea glass ended up in my pockets, and now adorn the mantel above the hearth. There was the serendipitous find, too, of a wayward lobster trap caught on the jetty. To my surprise it still had a lobster and some crabs stuck in it. There was no buoy attached so no way for me to tell who it belonged to. I lugged it back to the cottage, extracted the lobster and the crabs to a pair of rusty buckets filled with seawater. The trap I left on the porch to dry. Dinner was halfway made.
My leg ached. The dream had knotted it up. The walk could not quite untie it. The same was true for my head. Damn that dream. A familiar theme in an unfamiliar setting. You know a place that you think you have never seen but somehow you know it is there? Yeah, like that. I woke up nearly screaming and kicking at something with my right leg. My eyes were barely open when my calf cramped up. I curled up under the covers and hurriedly beat on my leg to loosen the knot, but not before my foot had bent downward from the tension. The muscle felt like a steel ball under the skin. Hurt like a sonofabitch. My heart was pounding from the dream, and I shook.
Slow march of the waves is hypnotic. Not nearly the battle anthem of heavy surf. I am fidgeting with the lighter on my desk, willing myself not to fire up a smoke. One side effect of the hell-hot summer is that the urge to smoke has nearly died down. Been a week or more since I last had one. All to the good, I think.
The cottage smells good. It is home tonight. The mixture of salt air and seafood gumbo simmering away is one of the finest scents a man could ever draw into himself. Something about the tang and savor of the two makes me wonder if that is what the kitchens in heaven smell of. Maybe someday I'll find out. But not now. Not tonight. The gumbo is near ready, a sublime mix of found and foraged foodstuffs I discovered while cleaning the fridge and pantry. Lucky is the man who can bring home eats from the sea.
Time to dish up. Sipping a beer while giving the gumbo a few last, slow stirs, I like I had company for the evening. Friends and family, flitting around just outside the edges of my vision. People I treasure, people I miss, a few ghosts. The feeling surges when I sit down at the table with my heavy white bowl filled with goodness. The dream comes back to me, a movie before my mind. I am running, running, somewhere in the labyrinthine tunnels of a building I cannot name. Heavyset men in dark uniforms are chasing me, I'm running towards some sound and light. Voices call out to me, urging me on even as faint cries behind me try to drag me back to a coal-black night. I lash out flailing, kicking, as something brushes my ankle. I wake up or come to, the aroma of the gumbo gently bathing my face.
Grief is a peculiar beast, and tricky. It nearly got me there, in those tunnels far from the sea. But I made it out this night. Silver threads stretching from some humans here on earth and from some who are no longer of this mortal coil made sure that I did. Breathing deep, I wipe my eyes and take up a spoonful of goodness. The warmth on my tongue meets the warmth flowing into my heart while the waves outside the window offer up quiet acclaim. I raise my glass to the spirits at my table, come to join me for dinner.
Showing posts with label gumbo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gumbo. Show all posts
02 October 2016
05 August 2013
Medicine Man (Heal Thyself)
If the saying "You are what you eat" has any certitude to it, then I am a walking antidote. A bulwark of mental insulation, wearing a flak jacket made of things that seduce my gullet. Ladies and gentlemen, in the past week I have had privilege and pleasure of playing chef to appreciative family and friends. Twice in that time I bestirred myself to arise from my semi-slothful existence and cook good things that we shared at the table. Twice I was honored with praise for my efforts, and by the ultimate compliment to any cook: those who ate wanted more.
Such words and a clean plate might give any human the notion that they could be more than amateur at the art of feeding people. Compliments and kind words have a tendency, at least in my case, to make me expansive. I get those urges to create a cookbook, write a food column (which I confess, I'd love to do) or even "can that stuff". There is a little whiff of that aggressive need, glossed with love,---which I suspect fuels more than one star chef ego in this world---to not just feed someone but to make them want to be fed by me. I find this stroking of ego to be energizing and disturbing.
It is a fire that I rapidly bank. I do this in part because I know that being a professional chef is not in the cards for my life. There is a learning curve and investment of effort that circumstances disallow at this time. Plus, I have been led astray more than once in my professional life by ignoring some blind spots in my career vision. I am diligent to avoid repeating past mistakes.
Eating should not be an act of coercion, I believe. Nor should it be method to shore up ones' flagging self-esteem by obligating others to give you praise. Hopefully, I have avoided and will continue to avoid that particular trap. I do like to cook, for myself and for the enjoyment of others, but the real reward should be be in the act itself.
This is my hope. I also confess that my enjoyment, rather, my need to cook is not altogether selfless. This was driven home today upon looking up at the clock with the realization that I had spent almost five hours straight in the kitchen. Five hours, that is, with no worries or anxieties beyond the immediacy of dealing with sharp knives, hot pans and the anticipation of "Will this be good?"
Watching my companions dish up, I knew with honed clarity this simple truth: my cooking in and of itself had been a source of sustenance far beyond the calories it would place in my belly. Chopping, measuring, mixing, stirring...playing with fire in a perfectly acceptable manner...having an idea and following the thread uninterrupted...ah, such joy! To finish the thought and then eat it is a marvelous gift, one that lifts me up from some dark, scary places.
That is, dear readers, my no-so-secret secret. I do enjoy cooking for the delight and company of others. But the deeper reality is that, some days, maybe even most days when I cook...I'm cooking to restore myself. I cook because it is good medicine, for me and for those I love.
Such words and a clean plate might give any human the notion that they could be more than amateur at the art of feeding people. Compliments and kind words have a tendency, at least in my case, to make me expansive. I get those urges to create a cookbook, write a food column (which I confess, I'd love to do) or even "can that stuff". There is a little whiff of that aggressive need, glossed with love,---which I suspect fuels more than one star chef ego in this world---to not just feed someone but to make them want to be fed by me. I find this stroking of ego to be energizing and disturbing.
It is a fire that I rapidly bank. I do this in part because I know that being a professional chef is not in the cards for my life. There is a learning curve and investment of effort that circumstances disallow at this time. Plus, I have been led astray more than once in my professional life by ignoring some blind spots in my career vision. I am diligent to avoid repeating past mistakes.
Eating should not be an act of coercion, I believe. Nor should it be method to shore up ones' flagging self-esteem by obligating others to give you praise. Hopefully, I have avoided and will continue to avoid that particular trap. I do like to cook, for myself and for the enjoyment of others, but the real reward should be be in the act itself.
This is my hope. I also confess that my enjoyment, rather, my need to cook is not altogether selfless. This was driven home today upon looking up at the clock with the realization that I had spent almost five hours straight in the kitchen. Five hours, that is, with no worries or anxieties beyond the immediacy of dealing with sharp knives, hot pans and the anticipation of "Will this be good?"
Watching my companions dish up, I knew with honed clarity this simple truth: my cooking in and of itself had been a source of sustenance far beyond the calories it would place in my belly. Chopping, measuring, mixing, stirring...playing with fire in a perfectly acceptable manner...having an idea and following the thread uninterrupted...ah, such joy! To finish the thought and then eat it is a marvelous gift, one that lifts me up from some dark, scary places.
That is, dear readers, my no-so-secret secret. I do enjoy cooking for the delight and company of others. But the deeper reality is that, some days, maybe even most days when I cook...I'm cooking to restore myself. I cook because it is good medicine, for me and for those I love.
27 September 2012
Anarchy in the USA, with Dinner
Some people may have the impression that I am a very organized person.
That I cannot function without complete control.
That I am a liberal.
That I am a conservative.
They may think I am a socialist, or perhaps a closet authoritarian. But they would be wrong, in the main. I am many different things for different needs, and one size does not fit all when it comes to me, myself and I.
What I am, mostly, is hungry. And this I believe has made me, of all things, an anarchist.
You laugh, I know. At least, you chuckled. That statement seems absurd, but contains a kernel of truth. One of the definitions of 'anarchy' is:
I wasn't exactly following the recipe suggestion on the packet of spices I had. I wasn't exactly following the directions on a recipe I had tracked down from a source I have reason to believe is credible. In hindsight, the only recipe I think I could be said to follow was my own.
This has been true for years. I simply did not possess the clarity of vision to know it. I am a self-taught cook, born out of curiosity (the early years) and true necessity (my fairly recent past), and I know I have volumes to learn about food and how to cook it. I still work on gathering the courage to step into the kitchen and simply cook.
It needs to be done, dear ones. The jackasses have brayed loudly this election year, trying to shame me or scare me into being just like them lest I end up a victim, a fool or in hell. I know I am not the first two, and I believe hell is what you make of it. Bleat loudly they may, but I will never allow my salvation or my damnation to be defined by the prejudices of others.
They will never succeed, because I will always have the freedom to cook what I want.
I can make my pasta sauce with yellow tomatoes if I so desire, regardless of which verses of whatever canonical text are screamed at me. My gumbo will be MY gumbo, and taste damned good, no matter whose buttocks grace the chairs in the chambers of government. No one has, nor will they ever have, the right to tell me what to eat or how to cook it. Ultimately, I hold the knife, I stir the pot, it is my hand that puts the spices in the pot.
This is as it should be, my friends. I need that bit of territory I can call my own; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are grounded in that notion, and they all start within. This is why cooking something for myself is a declaration of independence. The skillet in my hand, the cook pot on my stove, these are my sovereign lands. I'll be honored to share my borders with you, if you find yourself hungry like me.
That I cannot function without complete control.
That I am a liberal.
That I am a conservative.
They may think I am a socialist, or perhaps a closet authoritarian. But they would be wrong, in the main. I am many different things for different needs, and one size does not fit all when it comes to me, myself and I.
What I am, mostly, is hungry. And this I believe has made me, of all things, an anarchist.
You laugh, I know. At least, you chuckled. That statement seems absurd, but contains a kernel of truth. One of the definitions of 'anarchy' is:
Absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual, regarded as a political ideal.How about that, my lovelies? My belly tells me it is true. I had been meditating on this idea for a long time, but it was a type of curry, rogan josh, that made it blossom for me. Nothing like putting a healthy dollop of ground spices into hot oil to give one a swift kick in the senses. I was making it last Sunday, and while stirring in the yogurt I had my moment of clarity.
I wasn't exactly following the recipe suggestion on the packet of spices I had. I wasn't exactly following the directions on a recipe I had tracked down from a source I have reason to believe is credible. In hindsight, the only recipe I think I could be said to follow was my own.
This has been true for years. I simply did not possess the clarity of vision to know it. I am a self-taught cook, born out of curiosity (the early years) and true necessity (my fairly recent past), and I know I have volumes to learn about food and how to cook it. I still work on gathering the courage to step into the kitchen and simply cook.
It needs to be done, dear ones. The jackasses have brayed loudly this election year, trying to shame me or scare me into being just like them lest I end up a victim, a fool or in hell. I know I am not the first two, and I believe hell is what you make of it. Bleat loudly they may, but I will never allow my salvation or my damnation to be defined by the prejudices of others.
They will never succeed, because I will always have the freedom to cook what I want.
I can make my pasta sauce with yellow tomatoes if I so desire, regardless of which verses of whatever canonical text are screamed at me. My gumbo will be MY gumbo, and taste damned good, no matter whose buttocks grace the chairs in the chambers of government. No one has, nor will they ever have, the right to tell me what to eat or how to cook it. Ultimately, I hold the knife, I stir the pot, it is my hand that puts the spices in the pot.
This is as it should be, my friends. I need that bit of territory I can call my own; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are grounded in that notion, and they all start within. This is why cooking something for myself is a declaration of independence. The skillet in my hand, the cook pot on my stove, these are my sovereign lands. I'll be honored to share my borders with you, if you find yourself hungry like me.
26 August 2012
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do When You Are Hungry
August 24th, 2012, 10:00 PM. Pondering a unwise decision, made for the sake of expediency.
I told myself not to do it again. Don't rekindle that relationship. It was a conspiracy, I tell you. Laziness, familiarity and inertia trumped my better judgement. Pride keeps me from shedding any tears. There, so close, so easy...all I had to do was open the door and remove the wrapper. Even now I cannot get the taste out of my mouth.
Seriously. It's been almost four hours, and the aftertaste won't leave my tongue. What exactly was in that "merlot" sauce sticking to the "beef" in the bowl? I don't know for certain, but it is most persistent. This has induced in me a vague shame and mild exasperation, because I know better than to do what I did. Rather, my belly knows better.
See, here's the deal: tonight I found myself alone, all bachelored-up until Sunday afternoon. the house nearly empty, the fridge in the same sad state, while I frittered away a perfectly good afternoon playing a game on the computer. My game playing activities impinged upon getting a jump on dinner, so I found myself in the dilemma of quickly scrounging at home or going out to eat. As I was alone and somewhat short on cash (and feeling incredibly lazy) I scotched the idea of eating out. I was left with the fridge, which wasn't being particularly helpful.
Did I mention I was feeling lazy? So lazy I couldn't bother myself to boil water for pasta, for cripes' sake. Jeez. That is lazy. Without that, my options were even more limited. I continued to poke around in the fridge and freezer, hoping against hope that a fine Bolognese sauce might appear, or maybe some cumin-dusted green beans and potatoes.
No such luck. That's when I saw it, sitting on the top shelf of the freezer. A frozen dinner, fresh-looking green package all aglow in the light. It was a standard meat and potato dish, small portion size and Only 220 Calories! It proclaimed itself to be Healthy! even. I stood there for a few moments, blinking dumbly at the box. I knew full well my culinary fate was sealed. I took the box out of the freezer and padded over to the microwave. BeepBoopBeep and four minutes later, voila! Melancholy makes its own sauce!
I told myself, this time it would be different. This time, the taste would match the promise. I would eat my way to the bottom of the plastic tray and lean back in satisfaction. All the while thinking "Hey, it's okay, it's all right. Not world-class cuisine, yeah, but fine."
Yet again, I was wrong. The evidence is in the back of my throat. To be fair, it was certainly edible. It did have some nutritive content. It would pass muster as wholesome, I am sure. But the evidence doesn't lie. I can't get the vague chemical aftertaste out of my mouth. It is there, this 'presence' that wants to be fine food but ends up being more 'food' than food itself.
Until tonight I had not eaten a frozen dinner of the gourmet plastique variety in months, if not a year, maybe longer. That is because each time I did, I always regretted letting convenience get in the way of goodness. Maybe it is just my own quirky palate, but I had long noticed a sameness to most of the frozen dinners I had ever eaten, a sameness that made me think of test kitchens and assembly lines, and tanks of chemicals labeled Italian Homestyle Flavor and Beef Facsimile and Real Roast Chicken Substitute. It seemed especially acute to me in anything that had a tomato sauce. No matter what the maker called it, they all smelled like the same thing: sauces that market research and focus groups had determined were Real Italian Spices in Italian Tomato Sauce Just Like Mamma Used To Make. And every single one of them left me holding my nose and wondering why they couldn't just use real oregano instead of something that made me think of persistent chemical agents. Plus, with an aftertaste like Banquo's ghost.
So I sat here feeling slightly ashamed, wondering when the "beef and merlot sauce with vegetables" would decide to leave me alone. I think I knew in my head that it just wasn't going to work out, but I let my guard down. Bad pennies and mediocre meals, they just keep showing up...and I keep picking them up because they are shiny and easy.
Next time, I promise, I'll boil that water. My sauce may not be as easy, but it will taste better and have the good manners to not accompany me to bed.
I told myself not to do it again. Don't rekindle that relationship. It was a conspiracy, I tell you. Laziness, familiarity and inertia trumped my better judgement. Pride keeps me from shedding any tears. There, so close, so easy...all I had to do was open the door and remove the wrapper. Even now I cannot get the taste out of my mouth.
Seriously. It's been almost four hours, and the aftertaste won't leave my tongue. What exactly was in that "merlot" sauce sticking to the "beef" in the bowl? I don't know for certain, but it is most persistent. This has induced in me a vague shame and mild exasperation, because I know better than to do what I did. Rather, my belly knows better.
See, here's the deal: tonight I found myself alone, all bachelored-up until Sunday afternoon. the house nearly empty, the fridge in the same sad state, while I frittered away a perfectly good afternoon playing a game on the computer. My game playing activities impinged upon getting a jump on dinner, so I found myself in the dilemma of quickly scrounging at home or going out to eat. As I was alone and somewhat short on cash (and feeling incredibly lazy) I scotched the idea of eating out. I was left with the fridge, which wasn't being particularly helpful.
Did I mention I was feeling lazy? So lazy I couldn't bother myself to boil water for pasta, for cripes' sake. Jeez. That is lazy. Without that, my options were even more limited. I continued to poke around in the fridge and freezer, hoping against hope that a fine Bolognese sauce might appear, or maybe some cumin-dusted green beans and potatoes.
No such luck. That's when I saw it, sitting on the top shelf of the freezer. A frozen dinner, fresh-looking green package all aglow in the light. It was a standard meat and potato dish, small portion size and Only 220 Calories! It proclaimed itself to be Healthy! even. I stood there for a few moments, blinking dumbly at the box. I knew full well my culinary fate was sealed. I took the box out of the freezer and padded over to the microwave. BeepBoopBeep and four minutes later, voila! Melancholy makes its own sauce!
I told myself, this time it would be different. This time, the taste would match the promise. I would eat my way to the bottom of the plastic tray and lean back in satisfaction. All the while thinking "Hey, it's okay, it's all right. Not world-class cuisine, yeah, but fine."
Yet again, I was wrong. The evidence is in the back of my throat. To be fair, it was certainly edible. It did have some nutritive content. It would pass muster as wholesome, I am sure. But the evidence doesn't lie. I can't get the vague chemical aftertaste out of my mouth. It is there, this 'presence' that wants to be fine food but ends up being more 'food' than food itself.
Until tonight I had not eaten a frozen dinner of the gourmet plastique variety in months, if not a year, maybe longer. That is because each time I did, I always regretted letting convenience get in the way of goodness. Maybe it is just my own quirky palate, but I had long noticed a sameness to most of the frozen dinners I had ever eaten, a sameness that made me think of test kitchens and assembly lines, and tanks of chemicals labeled Italian Homestyle Flavor and Beef Facsimile and Real Roast Chicken Substitute. It seemed especially acute to me in anything that had a tomato sauce. No matter what the maker called it, they all smelled like the same thing: sauces that market research and focus groups had determined were Real Italian Spices in Italian Tomato Sauce Just Like Mamma Used To Make. And every single one of them left me holding my nose and wondering why they couldn't just use real oregano instead of something that made me think of persistent chemical agents. Plus, with an aftertaste like Banquo's ghost.
So I sat here feeling slightly ashamed, wondering when the "beef and merlot sauce with vegetables" would decide to leave me alone. I think I knew in my head that it just wasn't going to work out, but I let my guard down. Bad pennies and mediocre meals, they just keep showing up...and I keep picking them up because they are shiny and easy.
Next time, I promise, I'll boil that water. My sauce may not be as easy, but it will taste better and have the good manners to not accompany me to bed.
26 July 2012
The Spice Merchant's Apprentice
July 24th, 2012. 8:21 PM. The fatigue of honest effort drives the typing.
A funny thing happened to me today after I arose from bed and made myself presentable to the world.
I put in a full work day today. Actual job-type work. It was enlightening. Enjoyable, even.
I know, I am as surprised as you are, if not more so. To be sure, it isn't full-time. It isn't in architecture or construction. It isn't in a field for which I have any real experience and certainly no training. In fact, it is a line of work in which I ever pictured myself engaged. Those of you know me well enough would know why.
It is in retail. Specifically, a store* that sells herbs, spices and seasonings as their raison d'etre. I like to think of it as, for lack of a better description, an apprentice spice merchant. Did I mention it is retail?
Shocked? I'm still a little stunned myself.
I fell into it by happenstance. I was up to my neck in a job search related to my architecture credentials, and as my mind was wont to do, it flitted off on a tangent regarding a seasoning I was out of at home. My crow-mind couldn't resist going after that mental shiny thing, so I went the company website to look it up. I am fortunate that there is a local outlet of the company near to my house, so I knew it would be easy to get there and get what I needed.
So I'm looking over the page and I notice they have a "Careers" tab. I thought "What the heck?" and I clicked on it to scroll down the list. Lo and behold, the local store was in need of a part-time staffer. I stared at the ad for a few moments, for a split-second thinking I should do it, then clicked away. Me, retail? The thought boggled the mind.
But it kept nagging at me. The idea wouldn't let me go. I considered my position, the long search I've been on and still...nothing.** I thought about all the time I've spent staring out the window after my job hunt activities have burned out for the day. I considered that it would nice to have something constructive to do, earn a little money, while I am slowly stitching my professional life back together.
I considered that I like spices. I like using them. I like reading about them, smelling them, and especially eating them. Somehow that overrode all my anxieties and misgivings about selling things and interacting with the general public on a regular basis. Again, anyone who knows me knows that sort of thing gives me a case of the yammering fantods just thinking about it. It is so far outside my comfort zone as to be in another galaxy.
So what did I do? I dropped off an application. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.
I had two interviews, one with the corporate office, one with the store manager. The whole time I felt like I was standing a few feet away from myself, wondering "Who is this man?". I had a hard time believing I was going through with it. This is not something I've done before. There would be things to learn.
So, as it turns out, they really liked me, I liked them, so when they offered, I said yes. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.*** The result is that today was my first day on in the spice biz.
I have to say it ended up being much more enjoyable than I could have imagined. It was a slow day, according to the manager and the co-worker with me, so I know it won't always be so pleasant. Aside from the slight awkwardness I felt (and always feel in similar situations) when warming up to the customers and new tasks, I daresay I even enjoyed it. And for the third time, those who know me I have some issues when it comes to dealing with a stream of people all day long. But you know what? I exceeded my expectations. That felt pretty darn good.
So there you have it, dear readers. Another step on the path, where it is headed I don't have a clear idea. For now, though, I'll keep on walking and see what turns up. You never know until you try, right?
---
*It is a spice company with stores nationwide, about 70 or so, I think. I may have mentioned them in past posts, but in regards to naming names, I'm a little unsure what journalistic protocols might apply now that I am an employee.
**To be accurate, the job climate in architecture has started to pick up a little around my region. It is still a slow awakening, and things are not moving very fast. There have been nibbles. But that is a post for another time...
***Okay, so I didn't hyperventilate into a paper bag. But I did put my head down between my knees and take long, slow breaths for a minute or two.
A funny thing happened to me today after I arose from bed and made myself presentable to the world.
I put in a full work day today. Actual job-type work. It was enlightening. Enjoyable, even.
I know, I am as surprised as you are, if not more so. To be sure, it isn't full-time. It isn't in architecture or construction. It isn't in a field for which I have any real experience and certainly no training. In fact, it is a line of work in which I ever pictured myself engaged. Those of you know me well enough would know why.
It is in retail. Specifically, a store* that sells herbs, spices and seasonings as their raison d'etre. I like to think of it as, for lack of a better description, an apprentice spice merchant. Did I mention it is retail?
Shocked? I'm still a little stunned myself.
I fell into it by happenstance. I was up to my neck in a job search related to my architecture credentials, and as my mind was wont to do, it flitted off on a tangent regarding a seasoning I was out of at home. My crow-mind couldn't resist going after that mental shiny thing, so I went the company website to look it up. I am fortunate that there is a local outlet of the company near to my house, so I knew it would be easy to get there and get what I needed.
So I'm looking over the page and I notice they have a "Careers" tab. I thought "What the heck?" and I clicked on it to scroll down the list. Lo and behold, the local store was in need of a part-time staffer. I stared at the ad for a few moments, for a split-second thinking I should do it, then clicked away. Me, retail? The thought boggled the mind.
But it kept nagging at me. The idea wouldn't let me go. I considered my position, the long search I've been on and still...nothing.** I thought about all the time I've spent staring out the window after my job hunt activities have burned out for the day. I considered that it would nice to have something constructive to do, earn a little money, while I am slowly stitching my professional life back together.
I considered that I like spices. I like using them. I like reading about them, smelling them, and especially eating them. Somehow that overrode all my anxieties and misgivings about selling things and interacting with the general public on a regular basis. Again, anyone who knows me knows that sort of thing gives me a case of the yammering fantods just thinking about it. It is so far outside my comfort zone as to be in another galaxy.
So what did I do? I dropped off an application. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.
I had two interviews, one with the corporate office, one with the store manager. The whole time I felt like I was standing a few feet away from myself, wondering "Who is this man?". I had a hard time believing I was going through with it. This is not something I've done before. There would be things to learn.
So, as it turns out, they really liked me, I liked them, so when they offered, I said yes. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.*** The result is that today was my first day on in the spice biz.
I have to say it ended up being much more enjoyable than I could have imagined. It was a slow day, according to the manager and the co-worker with me, so I know it won't always be so pleasant. Aside from the slight awkwardness I felt (and always feel in similar situations) when warming up to the customers and new tasks, I daresay I even enjoyed it. And for the third time, those who know me I have some issues when it comes to dealing with a stream of people all day long. But you know what? I exceeded my expectations. That felt pretty darn good.
So there you have it, dear readers. Another step on the path, where it is headed I don't have a clear idea. For now, though, I'll keep on walking and see what turns up. You never know until you try, right?
---
*It is a spice company with stores nationwide, about 70 or so, I think. I may have mentioned them in past posts, but in regards to naming names, I'm a little unsure what journalistic protocols might apply now that I am an employee.
**To be accurate, the job climate in architecture has started to pick up a little around my region. It is still a slow awakening, and things are not moving very fast. There have been nibbles. But that is a post for another time...
***Okay, so I didn't hyperventilate into a paper bag. But I did put my head down between my knees and take long, slow breaths for a minute or two.
07 April 2012
Tell Us, O Master, What Is Perfection?
"The perfect blend of spices, cheese and bread crumbs for you to make something wonderful..."
...Or some such drivel as I was about to push the 'Off' button. The tag line caught my attention. I was momentarily transfixed by what I was hearing and seeing on the tube. So now a Very Large Company has rolled out a new product to further relieve a long-suffering public from the burden of actually thinking about what they may want on their food. This company has combined spices (their choices), cheeses (their choices) and bread crumbs (simplicity itself to make).
Spices. Cheeses. Bread crumbs. All in one convenient (petrochemical-based plastic) package.
I watched the happy family gathered around the (perfectly) golden brown and delicious Spice/Cheese/BreadCrumb encrusted chicken breasts, and wondered if it is truly possible to know perfection if you refuse to try and define it yourself.
Because the contents of that bag were defined by market research and focus groups, and 'cheese' as generic monikers, combined with the seemingly insatiable appetite for convenience. Letting a faceless group constantly define the edges of taste and experience means giving up discrimination and control; it means giving up the ability to self-generate one's true likes and desires. If you give up that ability, then you will probably never know perfection. The hollow feeling in your stomach that you believe to be hunger is really the maw of an appetite that will never be fulfilled.
Turning off the television, I resolved again to seek my own perfection, away from the false promises of a Very Large Company. The search will be more work, but the result will be my own.
...Or some such drivel as I was about to push the 'Off' button. The tag line caught my attention. I was momentarily transfixed by what I was hearing and seeing on the tube. So now a Very Large Company has rolled out a new product to further relieve a long-suffering public from the burden of actually thinking about what they may want on their food. This company has combined spices (their choices), cheeses (their choices) and bread crumbs (simplicity itself to make).
Spices. Cheeses. Bread crumbs. All in one convenient (petrochemical-based plastic) package.
I watched the happy family gathered around the (perfectly) golden brown and delicious Spice/Cheese/BreadCrumb encrusted chicken breasts, and wondered if it is truly possible to know perfection if you refuse to try and define it yourself.
Because the contents of that bag were defined by market research and focus groups, and 'cheese' as generic monikers, combined with the seemingly insatiable appetite for convenience. Letting a faceless group constantly define the edges of taste and experience means giving up discrimination and control; it means giving up the ability to self-generate one's true likes and desires. If you give up that ability, then you will probably never know perfection. The hollow feeling in your stomach that you believe to be hunger is really the maw of an appetite that will never be fulfilled.
Turning off the television, I resolved again to seek my own perfection, away from the false promises of a Very Large Company. The search will be more work, but the result will be my own.
05 April 2012
Ebb and Flow
Much of the conventional wisdom I hear regarding writing is that to be a successful writer, one must write even when one feels no inspiration. Part of me knows it to be true, part of me fears it to be true. I do not take issue with that assertion.
I do believe, as so eloquently stated by the architect Le Corbusier, that "creation is a patient search". Words that resonate in my soul as an architect and aspiring writer and photographer. This patient search can sometimes be at odds with the imperative to write at all times. I suspect that the tension between those poles has more than once been the fuel behind by creative bonfires. It can be productive but draining.
Occasionally I find myself in the grip of a story I feel I must write but find something holding me back. It is the feel of the mind straining at the leash, but the heart pulling it back and commanding it to "Sit!". I have been at the end of that tether since the beginning of the month of April.
Tonight I ate dinner out on my porch. A lovely evening, tinged with blue light and optimism after a splendid day goofing off with my daughter. But the whispers were there. I heard the conversation between heart and mind, felt that impulse to rush to the keyboard to hammer out the story that has been nipping at me for days. I nearly gave in, even began some research as I dished up a fine bowl of ad hoc jambalaya.
But I couldn't do it. The table on the porch beckoned, the evening breeze a smile from a pretty lady, and my heart commanded my feet to carry me outside. The taskmaster in my head growled with resignation, and turned off his desk lamp before shuffling off in a huff.
I myself let go of the tension and bade myself, Eat. Rest. Be.
The story is still there, dear readers, as I knew it would be. I know my heart is right on this one. Yes, we must write as often as we can, and I will. But I will also respect my developing sense of patience, listening to my heart, because sometimes the right time for something is only known by itself. We must allow for patient creation.
I do believe, as so eloquently stated by the architect Le Corbusier, that "creation is a patient search". Words that resonate in my soul as an architect and aspiring writer and photographer. This patient search can sometimes be at odds with the imperative to write at all times. I suspect that the tension between those poles has more than once been the fuel behind by creative bonfires. It can be productive but draining.
Occasionally I find myself in the grip of a story I feel I must write but find something holding me back. It is the feel of the mind straining at the leash, but the heart pulling it back and commanding it to "Sit!". I have been at the end of that tether since the beginning of the month of April.
Tonight I ate dinner out on my porch. A lovely evening, tinged with blue light and optimism after a splendid day goofing off with my daughter. But the whispers were there. I heard the conversation between heart and mind, felt that impulse to rush to the keyboard to hammer out the story that has been nipping at me for days. I nearly gave in, even began some research as I dished up a fine bowl of ad hoc jambalaya.
But I couldn't do it. The table on the porch beckoned, the evening breeze a smile from a pretty lady, and my heart commanded my feet to carry me outside. The taskmaster in my head growled with resignation, and turned off his desk lamp before shuffling off in a huff.
I myself let go of the tension and bade myself, Eat. Rest. Be.
The story is still there, dear readers, as I knew it would be. I know my heart is right on this one. Yes, we must write as often as we can, and I will. But I will also respect my developing sense of patience, listening to my heart, because sometimes the right time for something is only known by itself. We must allow for patient creation.
17 March 2012
Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona dhuit!
Happy St. Patrick's Day, from my Irish heart to yours. Blessings to everyone!
12 March 2012
Bowing My Head, Saying Hey-Men!
Sunday, March 11, 8:50 PM. Spring night, cool breeze, calm heart.
Unplugged a little bit this evening. Paid attention to what I was eating tonight, instead of the computer screen. It makes a big difference in the quality of the meal, I can tell you. There is something to this practice of mindfulness I have been ruminating on as of late.
Mindfulness. I paid attention to the grains of rice in my bowl, the flecks of parsley in the gumbo, the savor of shrimp on my tongue and between my teeth. Time slowed down. The house breathed around me.
As the spoon gathered up the last goodness in the bowl, uncovering the bottom of white porcelain flecked with green bits of herbs, I had a quiet revelation. In the here and now, I am humbly grateful for two things (not the only things, to be sure) in my life: good gumbo and deep love.
In the midst of the storms of my life, gumbo nourishes my body, and love...my friends, Love it is that nourishes my soul. Between the two of them, especially love, I believe I am going to be well fed in this life.
It's good, that's all there is to it.
Unplugged a little bit this evening. Paid attention to what I was eating tonight, instead of the computer screen. It makes a big difference in the quality of the meal, I can tell you. There is something to this practice of mindfulness I have been ruminating on as of late.
Mindfulness. I paid attention to the grains of rice in my bowl, the flecks of parsley in the gumbo, the savor of shrimp on my tongue and between my teeth. Time slowed down. The house breathed around me.
As the spoon gathered up the last goodness in the bowl, uncovering the bottom of white porcelain flecked with green bits of herbs, I had a quiet revelation. In the here and now, I am humbly grateful for two things (not the only things, to be sure) in my life: good gumbo and deep love.
In the midst of the storms of my life, gumbo nourishes my body, and love...my friends, Love it is that nourishes my soul. Between the two of them, especially love, I believe I am going to be well fed in this life.
It's good, that's all there is to it.
26 February 2012
Sunday Meditation #17: Seeds for the Soul
A burst of joy landed at the Gumbo homestead earlier in the week. Spring is not far away, and that means it is time for seed catalogs. Huzzah!
A seed catalog may not match Victoria's Secret for le sexy stuff, but nonetheless I was thrilled to find the latest Burpee's homage to All Things Growable sitting in my mailbox. It came at just the right time. The cover was graced with a brilliant full-color photo of a zinnia, resplendent in eye-popping yellow spattered with red. Neither of those two colors is my favorite but the combination filled me with a bit o' the happies.
I was feeling a bit melancholy. The gorgeous flower was a nice hit of pretty and a reminder that spring is coming. I didn't have the energy or time to plant a garden last year, and I don't know if I will this year. I do know that I like flowers, and the idea of the seed.
Humble little packets of mystery that produce things of beauty, things of savor. A feast for the eyes, nose and mouth. Sometimes all three if you plant the right stuff. I would most like to have is a kitchen garden, full of good growing things that I can see, smell, touch and taste. This is a quiet dream of mine.
I opened the mailbox, with a heart weighed down by care, and a piece of the sun fell into my hands. Spring is on the way, dear readers. Choose your seeds, plant with care and let the green things revive us.
A seed catalog may not match Victoria's Secret for le sexy stuff, but nonetheless I was thrilled to find the latest Burpee's homage to All Things Growable sitting in my mailbox. It came at just the right time. The cover was graced with a brilliant full-color photo of a zinnia, resplendent in eye-popping yellow spattered with red. Neither of those two colors is my favorite but the combination filled me with a bit o' the happies.
I was feeling a bit melancholy. The gorgeous flower was a nice hit of pretty and a reminder that spring is coming. I didn't have the energy or time to plant a garden last year, and I don't know if I will this year. I do know that I like flowers, and the idea of the seed.
Humble little packets of mystery that produce things of beauty, things of savor. A feast for the eyes, nose and mouth. Sometimes all three if you plant the right stuff. I would most like to have is a kitchen garden, full of good growing things that I can see, smell, touch and taste. This is a quiet dream of mine.
I opened the mailbox, with a heart weighed down by care, and a piece of the sun fell into my hands. Spring is on the way, dear readers. Choose your seeds, plant with care and let the green things revive us.
25 February 2012
Shangri-La Beneath The Winter Moon
February 24th, 9:19 PM. The wind howls outside my window. The cold moves in, but I am safe and warm.
Led Zeppelin played on the stereo of my mind. The lake drained from the valley, allowing the demon to be exposed and killed. It was easy, once I poured the boiling broth into the pan and set it into the oven. It swirled around the rice in its faint golden glory. Soon, I would eat, and the demon of hunger banished from my belly.
Perhaps it wasn't as dramatic as all that, but dinner made for some interesting reading later in the evening. I encountered the minor vexation of running out of saffron. The last little pinch in my small supply became a key part of my culinary adventures. The sight of the now-empty jar induced a sigh and a wish. Soon, perhaps, I'll procure some more. It is, after all, good, tasty, and beautiful.
The saffron I like come from Kashmir, the region shared by India, Pakistan and China. To gild this lily, it is called "Mogra Cream", which certainly sounds luxurious. The price, unfortunately, would seem to confirm that notion. Because of the price, I tend to not buy it very often, although this particular batch was a gift to me from someone I hold very dear. I suppose that is what contributed to my wistfulness to see it go.
So what does this have to do with valleys, lakes and demons? Oh, and for good measure, Led Zeppelin? Very often when I cook, part of my mind roams the aether. It freewheels through many things. I was thinking of the song "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, it looped over and over in my head while I prepared dinner. As I dished up the food (a saffron rice pilaf with salmon and onions and celery) I also mused on the geographic area of Kashmir. I wanted to know exactly where it was and what it meant.
So I did a little research to refresh my memory and compile some new ones. It was then that I learned some of the basic myths behind the name. Legend has it the Kashmir valley was once a lake, and that lake was inhabited by a demon. A nasty bugger who tortured and devoured the locals. Along came a chap named Kashyap, who was a brahmin (and the equivalent of a saint, if I understand things correctly) and through penance managed to get the blessing of Lord Vishnu, who caused the lake to be drained. This exposed the demon and it was killed. The valley was named Kashmir in Kashyap's honor.
I didn't know any of that when I sat down to eat. Demons and saints weren't my dinner companions but I'm pretty sure I had my own version of Shangri-La right there in the bowl. All it took was Led Zeppelin and a pinch of saffron to set me on the road to Kashmir.
Led Zeppelin played on the stereo of my mind. The lake drained from the valley, allowing the demon to be exposed and killed. It was easy, once I poured the boiling broth into the pan and set it into the oven. It swirled around the rice in its faint golden glory. Soon, I would eat, and the demon of hunger banished from my belly.
Perhaps it wasn't as dramatic as all that, but dinner made for some interesting reading later in the evening. I encountered the minor vexation of running out of saffron. The last little pinch in my small supply became a key part of my culinary adventures. The sight of the now-empty jar induced a sigh and a wish. Soon, perhaps, I'll procure some more. It is, after all, good, tasty, and beautiful.
The saffron I like come from Kashmir, the region shared by India, Pakistan and China. To gild this lily, it is called "Mogra Cream", which certainly sounds luxurious. The price, unfortunately, would seem to confirm that notion. Because of the price, I tend to not buy it very often, although this particular batch was a gift to me from someone I hold very dear. I suppose that is what contributed to my wistfulness to see it go.
So what does this have to do with valleys, lakes and demons? Oh, and for good measure, Led Zeppelin? Very often when I cook, part of my mind roams the aether. It freewheels through many things. I was thinking of the song "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, it looped over and over in my head while I prepared dinner. As I dished up the food (a saffron rice pilaf with salmon and onions and celery) I also mused on the geographic area of Kashmir. I wanted to know exactly where it was and what it meant.
So I did a little research to refresh my memory and compile some new ones. It was then that I learned some of the basic myths behind the name. Legend has it the Kashmir valley was once a lake, and that lake was inhabited by a demon. A nasty bugger who tortured and devoured the locals. Along came a chap named Kashyap, who was a brahmin (and the equivalent of a saint, if I understand things correctly) and through penance managed to get the blessing of Lord Vishnu, who caused the lake to be drained. This exposed the demon and it was killed. The valley was named Kashmir in Kashyap's honor.
I didn't know any of that when I sat down to eat. Demons and saints weren't my dinner companions but I'm pretty sure I had my own version of Shangri-La right there in the bowl. All it took was Led Zeppelin and a pinch of saffron to set me on the road to Kashmir.
24 February 2012
Fan Chao In The Gumbo Kitchen
Thursday, February 23rd, 9:03 PM. Spring-like winter night, windows open. It is good.
Fan chao, in so far as I can trust a free translation application, is the phonetic English for the Chinese phrase for 'stir fry'. I sought this out because I wanted to know what it was in Chinese. Alas, I cannot read Chinese script (not yet, anyway), so phonetic will have to suffice. It pains me slightly that I do not know the dialect, so I will take it on faith that it is correct to say 'fan chow'.
I like how it sounds. Especially with emphasis. Fan chao! It's like shouting "Rock on!" in English.
Not that I was shouting tonight. No need or desire. What I wanted, went looking for, was a little peace of mind. Lately, there has been a lot of stormy weather on the ocean in my head. Too many thoughts, too many perturbations and stresses. I sought that peace in the solace of cooking, as I often do.
The exception to that has been recent history. I haven't cooked as often as I used to, nor have I cooked truly good meals on a regular basis. A lot of grab-and-go type behavior, and tonight I made myself stop. I stopped, took a deep breath of the cool air lazily coming in my windows, and decided that tonight I would stir fry something.
That I don't possess a wok, or even a basic range of typical Chinese pantry items beyond the ubiquitous bottle of soy sauce I keep in the fridge, was of little consequence. Fan chao had seized my wearied imagination, ergo fan chao it must be.
I was in luck, to some extent. I had a chicken breast, a bunch of celery, three green Hungarian wax peppers, an onion and some fresh garlic. Along with some aleppo pepper and soy sauce, they would constitute the feast. I retrieved my trusty cast iron Dutch oven from the cabinet, and set to.
The chicken was sliced thin and marinated in soy sauce and rice vinegar with a touch of garlic and cornstarch. The vegetables sliced thin, celery on the bias, and garlic chopped fine with aleppo. Small amount of oil in the pot, heated to shimmering.
Slice. Chop. Heat. Scatter. Stir. Fill the kitchen air with fragrance, as the mind drains of tension. The moment of truth, as the chicken and vegetables tilt into the bowl, on their way to the waiting mouth. It is good.
Sit. Breathe. Eat. Sip tea. For the space of an hour, that is all I was or needed to be: a hungry human, eating. That was peace.
Fan chao, in so far as I can trust a free translation application, is the phonetic English for the Chinese phrase for 'stir fry'. I sought this out because I wanted to know what it was in Chinese. Alas, I cannot read Chinese script (not yet, anyway), so phonetic will have to suffice. It pains me slightly that I do not know the dialect, so I will take it on faith that it is correct to say 'fan chow'.
I like how it sounds. Especially with emphasis. Fan chao! It's like shouting "Rock on!" in English.
Not that I was shouting tonight. No need or desire. What I wanted, went looking for, was a little peace of mind. Lately, there has been a lot of stormy weather on the ocean in my head. Too many thoughts, too many perturbations and stresses. I sought that peace in the solace of cooking, as I often do.
The exception to that has been recent history. I haven't cooked as often as I used to, nor have I cooked truly good meals on a regular basis. A lot of grab-and-go type behavior, and tonight I made myself stop. I stopped, took a deep breath of the cool air lazily coming in my windows, and decided that tonight I would stir fry something.
That I don't possess a wok, or even a basic range of typical Chinese pantry items beyond the ubiquitous bottle of soy sauce I keep in the fridge, was of little consequence. Fan chao had seized my wearied imagination, ergo fan chao it must be.
I was in luck, to some extent. I had a chicken breast, a bunch of celery, three green Hungarian wax peppers, an onion and some fresh garlic. Along with some aleppo pepper and soy sauce, they would constitute the feast. I retrieved my trusty cast iron Dutch oven from the cabinet, and set to.
The chicken was sliced thin and marinated in soy sauce and rice vinegar with a touch of garlic and cornstarch. The vegetables sliced thin, celery on the bias, and garlic chopped fine with aleppo. Small amount of oil in the pot, heated to shimmering.
Slice. Chop. Heat. Scatter. Stir. Fill the kitchen air with fragrance, as the mind drains of tension. The moment of truth, as the chicken and vegetables tilt into the bowl, on their way to the waiting mouth. It is good.
Sit. Breathe. Eat. Sip tea. For the space of an hour, that is all I was or needed to be: a hungry human, eating. That was peace.
05 February 2012
Sunday Meditation #15: A Bowl Too Big for the Masher
It is a snowy, wet evening. The night before the biggest annual sporting event in America, and I am walking the local mall with my dear daughter in tow. The Super Bowl is far down on my list of things to ponder; we are in search of that which may have more import for me and the Wee Lass. We are looking for a potato masher and some brownie mix. Tomorrow is a big day: we want to make brownies.
We eat dinner and set out for the kitchen wares store, the type that has an extensive selection of finely made stuff, and the overheated price tags to match. I had in mind the masher I wanted. Heavy duty, sturdy, preferably stainless steel. The kind with a flat, perforated disk attached to thick bars and a solid handle. I have never possessed such an instrument. Having read reviews and done research, the disk type seems an excellent choice.
The store has an excellent selection of mashers of various types. Wee Lass enthusiastically joined in the search, bringing me various mashers she took delight in finding on the racks. The low end started at $20, a coil type that seemed bizarre. Next up was a rubber handle/metal shaft, also at $20. Then, solid metal at $25. None was the disk type. Then I found it: chromed stainless, holey disk, Swiss. Almost like a fine watch.
It was $45. Forty-five dollars.
I admit, I balked. It was indeed a very fine tool. Well-made. Sturdy. A Ferrari among the Hondas, as it were. In my state of jobless-induced fiscal austerity, out of my league at the moment. I wistfully placed the masher back on the rack, telling my daughter we might have better luck with brownie mix.
We found the brownie mix. Tastefully done packaging, extolling the delights of fine dark chocolate and the creators' passion for excellence in baked goods. Handsome fellows wearing aprons on the box photo, beaming over a plate of what surely must be brownie nirvana.
Nirvana, at $17 a box. I silently put enlightenment back on the shelf. My sigh was audible. I told her I would look for a likely recipe on the Internet, or in my collection of food-related books at home. She smiled and said okay. Before leaving the mall, she and I strolled over to a nearby department store, whereupon I found a serviceable thickset silicone masher of the disk type. Price? Nine bucks.
Sold.
Purchase tucked under arm, we wended through the mall on our way back to the car and home. Wee Lass strolled along beside me, we laughed and chatted. But I had this moment of clarity, a voice speaking quietly but firmly in my head as we passed all the new stores full of shiny things we may want but do not necessarily need. Stores crammed full of things that here pass for ordinary, but would be luxuries in many places on earth. People buying, people jonesing for stuff as the voice said: When did we as a society come to want so much, and why? When did we lose perspective on content over form, value over cost, truth over hype?
I thought of the impending Super Bowl, a contest which, in all candor, makes me yawn but which much of the nation seems to treat as a secular holiday. Full of hype, of noise and blather, of aggression and over-indulgence. A spectacle that I as an American am supposed to want watch just because its, well, the SUPER BOWL!
But I don't. I enjoy a good sporting contest, but this just seems like an over-blown aggrandizement of the many negative traits of consumer culture. The real kicker for me, the one that made me wonder about the pop culture my daughter will grow up in, be surrounded by, and possibly be made to feel like an alien if she doesn't care to participate in it...is that even the commercials get just as much publicity as the game. The commercials, for crying out loud! People actually say the only reason they watch the Super Bowl is for the commercials. 30 seconds, millions of dollars, all for the purpose of getting us to buy stuff.
For some reason this made me sad and anxious. Those thoughts, and my humbling search for a simple potato masher, left me feeling a sense of dislocation like I was an alien among a different tribe. I reached for the only antidote I could think of at the time: I took my daughter by the hand, and we walked out into the snowy night, marveling at the fat flakes falling from the sky. She laughed to catch one on her tongue, and so did I. It was then I felt closer to home and okay in my affinity for simplicity. Tomorrow, we would make brownies from scratch and know that they are good.
Epilogue: Wee Lass and I spent some time discussing the merits of spending $45 dollars versus $9 dollars on a potato masher. I did my best to explain the difference between the 'value' and the 'cost' of an item. She did me proud when she nodded her head and said "The plastic one will do for now, and you can get a better one later when you have more money!" Well said. At home, I dug out my copy of the compendium 'Cook's Illustrated 2004'. Lo and behold, there was a recipe for brownies. From scratch, simple, and just what I needed. And more for less.
We eat dinner and set out for the kitchen wares store, the type that has an extensive selection of finely made stuff, and the overheated price tags to match. I had in mind the masher I wanted. Heavy duty, sturdy, preferably stainless steel. The kind with a flat, perforated disk attached to thick bars and a solid handle. I have never possessed such an instrument. Having read reviews and done research, the disk type seems an excellent choice.
The store has an excellent selection of mashers of various types. Wee Lass enthusiastically joined in the search, bringing me various mashers she took delight in finding on the racks. The low end started at $20, a coil type that seemed bizarre. Next up was a rubber handle/metal shaft, also at $20. Then, solid metal at $25. None was the disk type. Then I found it: chromed stainless, holey disk, Swiss. Almost like a fine watch.
It was $45. Forty-five dollars.
I admit, I balked. It was indeed a very fine tool. Well-made. Sturdy. A Ferrari among the Hondas, as it were. In my state of jobless-induced fiscal austerity, out of my league at the moment. I wistfully placed the masher back on the rack, telling my daughter we might have better luck with brownie mix.
We found the brownie mix. Tastefully done packaging, extolling the delights of fine dark chocolate and the creators' passion for excellence in baked goods. Handsome fellows wearing aprons on the box photo, beaming over a plate of what surely must be brownie nirvana.
Nirvana, at $17 a box. I silently put enlightenment back on the shelf. My sigh was audible. I told her I would look for a likely recipe on the Internet, or in my collection of food-related books at home. She smiled and said okay. Before leaving the mall, she and I strolled over to a nearby department store, whereupon I found a serviceable thickset silicone masher of the disk type. Price? Nine bucks.
Sold.
Purchase tucked under arm, we wended through the mall on our way back to the car and home. Wee Lass strolled along beside me, we laughed and chatted. But I had this moment of clarity, a voice speaking quietly but firmly in my head as we passed all the new stores full of shiny things we may want but do not necessarily need. Stores crammed full of things that here pass for ordinary, but would be luxuries in many places on earth. People buying, people jonesing for stuff as the voice said: When did we as a society come to want so much, and why? When did we lose perspective on content over form, value over cost, truth over hype?
I thought of the impending Super Bowl, a contest which, in all candor, makes me yawn but which much of the nation seems to treat as a secular holiday. Full of hype, of noise and blather, of aggression and over-indulgence. A spectacle that I as an American am supposed to want watch just because its, well, the SUPER BOWL!
But I don't. I enjoy a good sporting contest, but this just seems like an over-blown aggrandizement of the many negative traits of consumer culture. The real kicker for me, the one that made me wonder about the pop culture my daughter will grow up in, be surrounded by, and possibly be made to feel like an alien if she doesn't care to participate in it...is that even the commercials get just as much publicity as the game. The commercials, for crying out loud! People actually say the only reason they watch the Super Bowl is for the commercials. 30 seconds, millions of dollars, all for the purpose of getting us to buy stuff.
For some reason this made me sad and anxious. Those thoughts, and my humbling search for a simple potato masher, left me feeling a sense of dislocation like I was an alien among a different tribe. I reached for the only antidote I could think of at the time: I took my daughter by the hand, and we walked out into the snowy night, marveling at the fat flakes falling from the sky. She laughed to catch one on her tongue, and so did I. It was then I felt closer to home and okay in my affinity for simplicity. Tomorrow, we would make brownies from scratch and know that they are good.
Epilogue: Wee Lass and I spent some time discussing the merits of spending $45 dollars versus $9 dollars on a potato masher. I did my best to explain the difference between the 'value' and the 'cost' of an item. She did me proud when she nodded her head and said "The plastic one will do for now, and you can get a better one later when you have more money!" Well said. At home, I dug out my copy of the compendium 'Cook's Illustrated 2004'. Lo and behold, there was a recipe for brownies. From scratch, simple, and just what I needed. And more for less.
03 February 2012
All We Need is Wooooah!
Wooooah!
I need a few more of these in my life. Those moments where I could just shout it.
Wooooah!
I'd love to burst out with it in the middle of a business meeting someday. I think it would be a great way to let everyone know my enthusiasm for the topic at hand. Get some attention, for sure. Wouldn't that be cool? Random explosions of joy, of exuberance.
Wooooah!
What holds me back? Decorum, I suppose. Not wanting to perturb co-workers or random folks passing by. Although that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Wooooah!
I used to shout it out. That was back in the days of being a young Gumbo, at concerts and dances where it was noisy and I could get lost in the crowd. The problem for me was self-consciousness and a lack of good musical voice. Not that being able to sing is necessary, but it is better if you can at least get it in key. I can't sing, and for me to hit a key is more chance than skill.
Wooooah!
These days I don't get my woah on very often. It has to be the right moment, almost always music inspired. And I don't do it in public. Mostly in the car, or in the odd moment at home when I can occasionally be moved to caper about like a fool to something on the radio or my music collection. I kid myself that I can do it well.
Wooooah!
Sometimes I do get it right. And when I do, I smile and play my air guitar or put my fist in the air, recalling the energy I once had and the time I cherished where a good woah fit right in. These days, I hear one on the radio and I know that exuberance can be had, if I know where to look. I used to think that growing up meant I'd have to leave it behind. For too long, I did leave it behind.
Now I know better. It's still there, peeking out from the shadows of my jaded heart. It won't manifest every day; that's no longer possible. But it doesn't have to be every day. All I need to know is I have it, and all it needs are the right moments. I'm happy to say that, even in the midst of nearly four months of being jobless, I'm having quite a few Wooooah! moments.
That is a very good thing indeed. Wooooah!
Two of the best wooooah! moments I have heard recently is in a new favorite song of mine, "I Don't Owe You A Thang" by blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. If you want a great pick-me-up, you can listen to the song/watch the video HERE. Great stuff. I wish I could do it the way he does it!
I need a few more of these in my life. Those moments where I could just shout it.
Wooooah!
I'd love to burst out with it in the middle of a business meeting someday. I think it would be a great way to let everyone know my enthusiasm for the topic at hand. Get some attention, for sure. Wouldn't that be cool? Random explosions of joy, of exuberance.
Wooooah!
What holds me back? Decorum, I suppose. Not wanting to perturb co-workers or random folks passing by. Although that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Wooooah!
I used to shout it out. That was back in the days of being a young Gumbo, at concerts and dances where it was noisy and I could get lost in the crowd. The problem for me was self-consciousness and a lack of good musical voice. Not that being able to sing is necessary, but it is better if you can at least get it in key. I can't sing, and for me to hit a key is more chance than skill.
Wooooah!
These days I don't get my woah on very often. It has to be the right moment, almost always music inspired. And I don't do it in public. Mostly in the car, or in the odd moment at home when I can occasionally be moved to caper about like a fool to something on the radio or my music collection. I kid myself that I can do it well.
Wooooah!
Sometimes I do get it right. And when I do, I smile and play my air guitar or put my fist in the air, recalling the energy I once had and the time I cherished where a good woah fit right in. These days, I hear one on the radio and I know that exuberance can be had, if I know where to look. I used to think that growing up meant I'd have to leave it behind. For too long, I did leave it behind.
Now I know better. It's still there, peeking out from the shadows of my jaded heart. It won't manifest every day; that's no longer possible. But it doesn't have to be every day. All I need to know is I have it, and all it needs are the right moments. I'm happy to say that, even in the midst of nearly four months of being jobless, I'm having quite a few Wooooah! moments.
That is a very good thing indeed. Wooooah!
Two of the best wooooah! moments I have heard recently is in a new favorite song of mine, "I Don't Owe You A Thang" by blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. If you want a great pick-me-up, you can listen to the song/watch the video HERE. Great stuff. I wish I could do it the way he does it!
04 January 2012
Million In Me
Million different people
from one day to the next
is me in winter
--
inspired by The Verve
Thanks, you guys...
from one day to the next
is me in winter
--
inspired by The Verve
Thanks, you guys...
01 October 2011
Powdered Rusk
September 30th, 2011, 9:55 p.m. The Wee Lass sleeps, I am alone in a cool room. The night surrounds.
It has been a year of posts for me, yesterday, to be exact. 365 days of posting once a day. A record for me I never intended to set, but once it came close I could not stop. It is good exercise, but it has left me exhausted in a creative sense. But I couldn't stop. Perhaps I should take a break, soon, revitalize and get some other things done. Tend to the garden, as it were.
It was made clear to me tonight, as I was wiping down the kitchen counters. I could see some bread crumbs scattered on the laminate, a wheaten corona around the humble silver carcass of my toaster. I realized I had not emptied the crumb tray in weeks, so I moved the toaster towards the leading edge of the counter in order to clean it. I slid the tray from its slot, and was amazed.
Two thin sheets of metal, a forked tongue in the mouth of the miniature dragon that browns my bread. They were obscured by a thick layer of parched crumbs, the detritus of multiple mornings of making toast. I considered briefly storing them in a jar in the vain hope I would remember to use them in a sauce or maybe to coat some fish for frying. But then I remembered how long it had been. There was probably dust in there, and some of the crumbs were so hard it might have been like eating sand. I tossed the crumbs in the rubbish bin, feeling slightly sad.
Those crumbs stayed on my mind as I sat down and tried (not) to write. My mind, a wetware toaster cranking out thoughts golden brown, crispy and hot. My crumb trays are getting full, though, and I need to empty them out. I let you know if I find any thing worth saving, amongst the dry and carbon black bits scattered on the bottom of my mind.
It has been a year of posts for me, yesterday, to be exact. 365 days of posting once a day. A record for me I never intended to set, but once it came close I could not stop. It is good exercise, but it has left me exhausted in a creative sense. But I couldn't stop. Perhaps I should take a break, soon, revitalize and get some other things done. Tend to the garden, as it were.
It was made clear to me tonight, as I was wiping down the kitchen counters. I could see some bread crumbs scattered on the laminate, a wheaten corona around the humble silver carcass of my toaster. I realized I had not emptied the crumb tray in weeks, so I moved the toaster towards the leading edge of the counter in order to clean it. I slid the tray from its slot, and was amazed.
Two thin sheets of metal, a forked tongue in the mouth of the miniature dragon that browns my bread. They were obscured by a thick layer of parched crumbs, the detritus of multiple mornings of making toast. I considered briefly storing them in a jar in the vain hope I would remember to use them in a sauce or maybe to coat some fish for frying. But then I remembered how long it had been. There was probably dust in there, and some of the crumbs were so hard it might have been like eating sand. I tossed the crumbs in the rubbish bin, feeling slightly sad.
Those crumbs stayed on my mind as I sat down and tried (not) to write. My mind, a wetware toaster cranking out thoughts golden brown, crispy and hot. My crumb trays are getting full, though, and I need to empty them out. I let you know if I find any thing worth saving, amongst the dry and carbon black bits scattered on the bottom of my mind.
24 September 2011
Living In The Synapse
An odd phenomenon here on the People's Republic of Gumbolia. I had approached the computer with vigor and purpose, certain I had a gem of story to tell, and when I sat down to write it, it disappeared. This pleases me not. I felt no need to reach for a notebook, because I was convinced the story would make it to the page.
I was wrong. I should have known better.
This happens to me on a regular basis, that I have a great idea, only to have it vanish. Well, who knows if it was great, if I can't write it down for all to see. Not to worry, I suppose. It's Saturday, the weekend is in full swing. Perhaps I'll live a little...then come back to tell the tale.
I was wrong. I should have known better.
This happens to me on a regular basis, that I have a great idea, only to have it vanish. Well, who knows if it was great, if I can't write it down for all to see. Not to worry, I suppose. It's Saturday, the weekend is in full swing. Perhaps I'll live a little...then come back to tell the tale.
20 September 2011
Another Train Song
A busy day for moi, le President-For-Life of the People's Republic of Gumbolia, and I am winding down. It feels good to stop, sometimes, and just rest or let the heart have its lead. A hurried dinner of reheated last night's fettucine Genovese (from a local eatery), then it was out the door to cut the grass before it was too dark to see. I finished my grass cutting adventures tout de suite, and then indulged in the luxury in a little websurfing time wasting. I really hadn't wanted anything more.
I skimmed a lot of stuff, some fluff and some weightier material. It was while reading that I became aware of just how tired I felt, and how quiet the house seemed. The quiet was not unexpected, the weather has been mild enough the past four or so days that the air conditioning has been off the entire time. Open windows and comfortable night air, along with a serenade of crickets. Very serene.
For some reason I began to wonder about an issue that has been nagging me for quite some time, and that in the form of a question:
Why are so much of human relations tied up in the exercise of power?
It deflated me. I felt wearier than before. The deluge of information I had been absorbing, reading the news and op-ed pundits and lifestyle snippets...and it all seems to go back to power. Who has power over whom. Whom is getting power. Exercising power over others as a form of social climbing and ego gratification. Even who has power in that most basic of human relationships: that of being in love.
From those struggling against the ruling power structure, both malignant and benevolent (benevolent, at least, from outward appearances) all the way down to who is trying to leverage whom in bed, the majority of the world seems to be addicted to power: acquiring, enhancing, wielding, amassing.
It never seems to stop. The subtle corrosions of it seem to have infiltrated all levels of human interaction. Some forms of it I can understand and accept, but much of it just makes me sad. I have very little interest in power, and even that is primarily limited to the effort I have to take in order to keep others from exerting too much power over me. And I am ever alert to keeping the taint of it out of the love in my heart.
I feel myself winding down. I'm wearier, in the good way of effort making itself known in the muscles I used to cut my grass. I stopped reading stuff on the web a while ago, just so I could think and listen. Cool night air and sounds soothe me. Off in the distance, across the river, the low hoot of a train horn carries wistfully in the suburban blackness outside my windows. The thrum of the engine backed it up and I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples. I feel my heart begin to lift, carried away on the wheels of steel and the bittersweet promise of another train song, one that lets me know there are places in this universe where Love triumphs over Power. It is a dear wish of mine that one of those places is my heart.
I skimmed a lot of stuff, some fluff and some weightier material. It was while reading that I became aware of just how tired I felt, and how quiet the house seemed. The quiet was not unexpected, the weather has been mild enough the past four or so days that the air conditioning has been off the entire time. Open windows and comfortable night air, along with a serenade of crickets. Very serene.
For some reason I began to wonder about an issue that has been nagging me for quite some time, and that in the form of a question:
Why are so much of human relations tied up in the exercise of power?
It deflated me. I felt wearier than before. The deluge of information I had been absorbing, reading the news and op-ed pundits and lifestyle snippets...and it all seems to go back to power. Who has power over whom. Whom is getting power. Exercising power over others as a form of social climbing and ego gratification. Even who has power in that most basic of human relationships: that of being in love.
From those struggling against the ruling power structure, both malignant and benevolent (benevolent, at least, from outward appearances) all the way down to who is trying to leverage whom in bed, the majority of the world seems to be addicted to power: acquiring, enhancing, wielding, amassing.
It never seems to stop. The subtle corrosions of it seem to have infiltrated all levels of human interaction. Some forms of it I can understand and accept, but much of it just makes me sad. I have very little interest in power, and even that is primarily limited to the effort I have to take in order to keep others from exerting too much power over me. And I am ever alert to keeping the taint of it out of the love in my heart.
I feel myself winding down. I'm wearier, in the good way of effort making itself known in the muscles I used to cut my grass. I stopped reading stuff on the web a while ago, just so I could think and listen. Cool night air and sounds soothe me. Off in the distance, across the river, the low hoot of a train horn carries wistfully in the suburban blackness outside my windows. The thrum of the engine backed it up and I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples. I feel my heart begin to lift, carried away on the wheels of steel and the bittersweet promise of another train song, one that lets me know there are places in this universe where Love triumphs over Power. It is a dear wish of mine that one of those places is my heart.
10 September 2011
In The Morning, I Carry Water; In The Evening, I Chop Wood
There is a peculiar silence in the mornings now that I don't turn on the radio when I'm making breakfast. It is not a hermetic silence. There are noises, the myriad ticks and whispers of an old house coming to life, with the birds awakening outside the windows. In the corner of the cloister called the kitchen, the refrigerator hums its offices while I make tea.
The non-silent silence anchors me in the day. Music is a love of mine, but lately it has begun to wear on my ears. This is a sure sign I have been listening to it too much and I am in need of a break. Hence the true silence of the radio I usually stream through my computer.
What else has this silence given me? Mental breathing space. A chance to ease slower into the day. I believe I needed it long ago but stubbornness and a fear of the noise in my head kept me from the silence. The change came abruptly, yet I cannot recall when I stopped turning on the radio. It must have been sometime in the spring. Spring, yes, that was it. A season of change, with the growth of things coming on strong.
I feared the silence, beginning long ago, and was unaware that was the case. Separation and divorce brought me face to face with it, sharply focused. I even remember the event that caused me to recoil in a spasm of anxiety over the whole matter. It was dinner, in the apartment I moved into when I moved out of the house two years ago. It was the sound of my chewing that made me stop eating and place my hands on my stomach to calm the churning that threatened a reversal in the flow of things.
I had no desire to get ill on my own cooking, alone at the table. But I could barely finish what I had made.
Two weeks ago, it seemed a reverse revelation when I sat down to my cereal, toast and egg that sunny summer morning. I was in my bath robe. A mug of fresh tea by my right hand, plate in the middle and book to the left. I even managed to not check my email first thing, and was looking through the blinds to enjoy the soft gold of the morning sky.
My chewing and slurping seemed as loud as ever within the confines of my skull. I didn't run from it. Rather, I found myself meditating on it. It seemed familiar, an old hand, boon companion at the breakfast board...and I felt no anxiety, no sense of loneliness to have enough silence to hear my corporeal self going about the business of living. It felt good to be there, in the morning, having breakfast. Just me, the book and the silence.
In the mornings, now I carry water. In the evenings, I chop wood. Those are the good days, and I am living more of them here in the monastery of my Self.
The non-silent silence anchors me in the day. Music is a love of mine, but lately it has begun to wear on my ears. This is a sure sign I have been listening to it too much and I am in need of a break. Hence the true silence of the radio I usually stream through my computer.
What else has this silence given me? Mental breathing space. A chance to ease slower into the day. I believe I needed it long ago but stubbornness and a fear of the noise in my head kept me from the silence. The change came abruptly, yet I cannot recall when I stopped turning on the radio. It must have been sometime in the spring. Spring, yes, that was it. A season of change, with the growth of things coming on strong.
I feared the silence, beginning long ago, and was unaware that was the case. Separation and divorce brought me face to face with it, sharply focused. I even remember the event that caused me to recoil in a spasm of anxiety over the whole matter. It was dinner, in the apartment I moved into when I moved out of the house two years ago. It was the sound of my chewing that made me stop eating and place my hands on my stomach to calm the churning that threatened a reversal in the flow of things.
I had no desire to get ill on my own cooking, alone at the table. But I could barely finish what I had made.
Two weeks ago, it seemed a reverse revelation when I sat down to my cereal, toast and egg that sunny summer morning. I was in my bath robe. A mug of fresh tea by my right hand, plate in the middle and book to the left. I even managed to not check my email first thing, and was looking through the blinds to enjoy the soft gold of the morning sky.
My chewing and slurping seemed as loud as ever within the confines of my skull. I didn't run from it. Rather, I found myself meditating on it. It seemed familiar, an old hand, boon companion at the breakfast board...and I felt no anxiety, no sense of loneliness to have enough silence to hear my corporeal self going about the business of living. It felt good to be there, in the morning, having breakfast. Just me, the book and the silence.
In the mornings, now I carry water. In the evenings, I chop wood. Those are the good days, and I am living more of them here in the monastery of my Self.
09 September 2011
Things I Cannot Eat
Leafing through a spices catalog, one of my favorites, and I come across a recipe featuring some of the spices available from said catalog. A nice picture of a slice of cake, with some sort of lemony icing or sauce on it. Looked good, I thought.
Then I saw the byline under the caption. This dessert, I was assured, is "decadent".
If there is one adjective that is almost certainly guaranteed to put me off my feed (if I may borrow from Jim Harrison), it is decadent. It makes me not want to eat whatever was being called decadent. Seriously, cake, yogurt, I think even sauce or cheese I may have heard described this way.
Have none of the copywriters and ad folks even looked up the word in a dictionary? I have. And I couldn't find a single definition I would characterize as positive. Most of them touch on some form of decay or decline.
I know the ads pitch these things as mostly in the sense of self-indulgent...but are we as a culture so focused on unmitigated gratification we are willing to look past the deeper meanings of things, to cherry-pick the one thing that will satisfy our undisciplined appetites?
I don't know. Maybe I'm just being grumpy. But when chocolate cake is described as decadent as if that is the only reason one would choose to make and eat such a simple pleasure, something is lost. It's like the quiet act of eating cannot be made worthwhile unless there is a hint of sin or indulgence. What, I wonder, is wrong with us?
"We are all pigs," Roald Dahl wrote in one of his books, "but we are, I hope, discerning pigs..." [Italics mine]
I continue to hold out hope that this is true, and that we can achieve balance with our appetites, rather than pander to their baser instincts, their childish fascination with too much not being enough. I know I have been working to make my appetites work for me, rather than command me.
For that reason, I want my cake to simply be good, not decadent. There is enough decay and decline in this universe that I do not need to eat it.
Then I saw the byline under the caption. This dessert, I was assured, is "decadent".
If there is one adjective that is almost certainly guaranteed to put me off my feed (if I may borrow from Jim Harrison), it is decadent. It makes me not want to eat whatever was being called decadent. Seriously, cake, yogurt, I think even sauce or cheese I may have heard described this way.
Have none of the copywriters and ad folks even looked up the word in a dictionary? I have. And I couldn't find a single definition I would characterize as positive. Most of them touch on some form of decay or decline.
I know the ads pitch these things as mostly in the sense of self-indulgent...but are we as a culture so focused on unmitigated gratification we are willing to look past the deeper meanings of things, to cherry-pick the one thing that will satisfy our undisciplined appetites?
I don't know. Maybe I'm just being grumpy. But when chocolate cake is described as decadent as if that is the only reason one would choose to make and eat such a simple pleasure, something is lost. It's like the quiet act of eating cannot be made worthwhile unless there is a hint of sin or indulgence. What, I wonder, is wrong with us?
"We are all pigs," Roald Dahl wrote in one of his books, "but we are, I hope, discerning pigs..." [Italics mine]
I continue to hold out hope that this is true, and that we can achieve balance with our appetites, rather than pander to their baser instincts, their childish fascination with too much not being enough. I know I have been working to make my appetites work for me, rather than command me.
For that reason, I want my cake to simply be good, not decadent. There is enough decay and decline in this universe that I do not need to eat it.
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