It's Friday (A work of fiction)

It’s Friday.

 

Mark likes wine. He sits on the shady corner of the patio talking to a minimal audience about his “script”. It is a piece “reflecting the interminable chasm of pandemonium in today’s digital world. Yet, it all makes complete sense, you know! There is order in the milieu. But that is also the peril!”.

 

Liz stares back at him, “It’s called The Matrix. Hello!” She adjusts her semi-transparent white blouse and looks around for another conversation to join but settles on the music, a specific Euro beat reflecting the walls of grey and green. She thinks Tom Waits’ music would be out of place here. M83 is a much better fit. Too bad, she laments.

 

And then there’s Sabrina, solitary at the central bar pretending to know her wine. Her intemperance, bright red lipstick, and haughty perfume hints of industry rookie and matches the green walls better than her charisma.

 

Leaning up against a post, palming a white wine glass to warm it a bit, Michael’s round specs reflect the light coming through the roll-up garage style doors. He’s wearing that black beret again making him look more clownish than Samuel L. Jackson, although his reference to Terret Noir catches a few nods from his group(ies). Michael is no clown with blending, or so it is told.

 

Being Friday, Kelly is in control of the bar and hooks me up with a perfect pour of Spanish rosé. She winks and lets the remnants of the bottle drip into my glass. I’m going to miss her if she ever ascends her way up the industry chain and lands in Napa or, more to her style, France. Besides her beauty, ambition is her best asset, as is the black tshirt/uniform.

 

Jake and Cynthia are rather loud assholes, being well read up on existential crap. They are appropriately absurd and talk in circles of intense nothingness. Though, it is amusing to note their cats are named Nietzsche and Sartre. They drink beer in a wine bar. Go figure.

 

Andrea is preposterously stunning, dressed as an affluent Santa Barbara woman just off a chic horse outing. She pulls her blonde hair off her shoulders and hugs Michael, hinting toward some deeper level as she inquires about a private dinner served family-style in a newly renovated barn.

 

Tai is an engineer and silently knows more about wine than most of the industry. He smiles naturally as he eavesdrops on the conversation next to him at the stainless steel bar.

 

Look at these people. Watch all these crazy, driven jesters with their aptitudes and criticisms and philosophies and inhibitions and crap. Who am I to judge or criticize? I’m not much different with these rosé glass goggles on, uploading balderdash into a smart phone like I’m important enough to be busy in an actual social setting. The reality is, as I shift on this bar stool all satisfied and happy and in my own state of veracity, I’m not any different. Maybe Jake and Cynthia are on to something. We’re just a group of troubled, disheartened, driven oenophiles finding ourselves in this wine bar for the same reason. It’s Friday.

Happy International Chardonnay Day

Tonight, I cook whatever goes with a good glass of Chardonnay.

Make!

The pseudo, New Year’s resolution was to (re) Make. To Make!

Making is what artists and craftspeople and musicians and chefs and winemakers do. They Make!

It is not the canvas or the instrument or baton or cut of meat or varietal of grapes. It is not whether it hangs on a wall or you consume it. No. Art is not those things.

What matters most is the artistic process. It is the act of making, overcoming inner doubt or an unusual harvest. It is cooking with limited spices, yet creating immense flavor. It is music created by scientists and lead by an artist who knows how to make the most out of what they offer. It is painting from the heart to purge out an image ingrained in the brain. It is the blend, the touch, the subtlety.

Art appreciation is undoubtedly an important end product. Acceptance, kudos, and applause is always the sugar on top. But artistic creation, overcoming risk, and making something happen is in the soul of the artist.

Make!

Maybe This Year, Then

Maybe this year,

The economy completely recovers.
The $300 I loaned out is returned (after two years).
The go-ahead for that next big project is granted.
Family life stabilizes.
The kids turn into adventurous eaters.
Technology mastery is achieved.
The commute becomes milder.
Leisure time is prevalent.
Gas prices drop while the mpg triples.
The housing market normalizes.
Global warming reverses.

Then, I can,

Paint and draw.
Write and blog.
Discover new music, live music.
Read.
Garden and grow things.
Build and construct.
Travel and explore.
Cook new things.

The point is none of the Maybes are likely to happen. So, why wait on the stuff I really want make. Remember Rule number Six.

Ode to the Grape

Deep within a sense of place,
Our region, terrior, A.V.A.,
A round, near perfect, juicy embrace,
Of an orb to cause a soiree.

Tenderly squished by bladder press,
Or punched by paddle and pole,
These winemakers, nay, artists profess,
Labors of love. They shall extol.

Extensions of a miracle, squeezed.
Acidic. Earth. Alive.
From these spheres, the Gods appeased,
A complex nose to revive.

Autumn’s toil turns fiery kiss,
With a swish, a sniff, and a taste.
Elements in the glass reminisce,
Of past years. We are graced.

The spirit thirsts for answers, facts,
Among a throng of friends.
With moments in time, a place to relax,
This earthly splendor transcends.

So with glass in hand ponder this,
The brilliance from the vine.
Offer up a smile, a kiss,
A toast. Enjoy this wine.

Corkscrew Schmorkscrew

Game Plan

As the French say, game birds taste best at the point of the gun. - Jim Harrison, Author, Poet

Food is a great literary theme. Food in eternity, food and sex, food and lust. Food is a part of the whole of life. Food is not separate. - Jim Harrison, Author, Poet

Above quotes from an article in today's (Aug. 7th, 2008) NYTimes Arts section

I’m no food writer or much of a restaurant critic in any way. I pretty much try most things and eat just about anything. But every once in a great while, a meal can transcend into an experience.

Along with a couple of close food and wine geek friends, we made the trek up to a place outside of Denver called The Fort (just beyond the famous Red Rocks Amphitheater).

It was an expansive place that at first had the look of a roadside tourist trap with accompanying teepee and fire pit. However, upon closer review the place was done with a finite attention to detail. It is an adobe replica of an 1830’s fur trade fort and has been serving indigenous food as from the days of the early west. Looking through all the photos in the center hallway, there was a picture of the official 1997 “Summit of the Eight” dinner hosted by President Clinton with Tony Blair, Boris Yeltsin, Helmutt Kohl, Hashimoto and the others (of which I can’t remember all the other names at the moment). So, I knew I was in the right place.

We were all seated to a table with a vast view of the Denver skyline at sunset. Although the scenery was beautiful, I was much more intrigued by the first course menu and the little arm wrestling (none) it took to get me to order a drink called the Trade Whiskey. It was a concoction and a shot of fine bourbon, red pepper, tobacco, and black gunpowder. I can’t say I’ll order it ever again, but it was an enjoyable, albeit one-time, experience.

While sipping the Whiskey, we all agreed on a shared appetizer of Rocky Mountain Oysters, Lamb Riblets, Braised Bison Tongue, and Peanut Butter Stuffed Chile Peppers. We oohed and aahed to the food along with a French Sauvignon Blanc (name escapes me now, too). I particularly enjoyed the tongue on a thin, toasted baguette slice.

I was torn between the unique venison cut or the Game Plate. I chose the Game Plate as it consisted of Buffalo Tenderloin Fillet Mignon, some Elk Chops (St. Vrain), and Quail. And we all seemed to substitute the Asparagus Bisque in place of the green salad. Good choice, by the way.

With wine geeks at the table, it was decided the above to be served with a nice French Bordeaux.

The service was kind and prompt. The wine was decanted properly. And our neighbor table treated us to an event by adjourning home in a helicopter from the grass heliport just outside and over the rock wall beyond the deck.

Undoubtedly, we will be talking about this meal again. And, for years to come, I’m sure.

I've Been Labeled

I’m Mud. And I’m a Gastrosexual.

Gastrosexuals, per the Daily Mail, are a new breed of man who "use their kitchen prowess to impress friends and prospective partners." Muses include Gordon Ramsay and that "Naked Chef" dude Jamie Oliver, both of whom evidently have to fend off comely females with frying pans due to their ability to whip up tasty meals and look good while doing it. Says a spokesperson for food company PurAsia: "Male Gastrosexuals in particular are no longer content with what they can find at the back of the kitchen cupboard. They are looking for something much more satisfying in terms of taste, participation and effort.'"

I didn’t know it, but yes, I am. I have been a Gastrosexual for years. Now they have named it and declared it a trend in our modern culture. I’ve been discovered. Game’s up. I’m coming out of the pantry.

A couple things clued me in. Here are some of the highlights of the 'Emergence of the Gastrosexual' report:

• The average Gastrosexual male is aged between 25-44 and is upwardly mobile, well travelled and cooks for their own pleasure and the praise of others .... CHECK
• 60% of respondent men now regularly cook for friends and family, favouring complicated foreign dishes over traditional .... CHECK
• 50% of men say they consider cooking to be a hobby and not a chore, compared with only 40 per cent of women .... CHECK
• 50% of the men surveyed prepare meals using separate ingredients everyday spending on average 41 minutes cooking on a daily basis .... CHECK
• The number of families where men help in the kitchen has risen from 27.5% in the post war period to 66.5% in 2008 .... CHECK

So that's me. I'm not affraid of the kitchen. Actually, it is my favorite room in the house. I've been cooking for myself and others since I was a teenager. I enjoy it.

Not only that, I admit to watching all the classic, modern cooking shows on t.v. from Iron Chef (the original Japanese version), The Naked Chef, to Good Eats. And, I have to say, Alton Brown rocks. I dig these shows and freely admit to having more than a thing for Giada De Laurnetiis that goes beyond just cooking, if you know what I mean (and I think you do). Seriously! To cook along side Giada … Mmmmm. Yeah!

There is no doubt I am a Gastrosexual. Just last night, for example, I made Beer-Steamed Shrimp (steamed with a seductive and potent concoction of red onion, whole cloves, allspice berries, black peppercorns, orange zest and a couple of beers) with a West-Indian Cocktail Dipping Sauce made from scratch. Along with some bbq’d vegetables tossed in my sherry/honey vinaigrette, some crusty bread, and a couple bottles of wine, it was quite the successful dinner with new friends.

But all that just means I dig cooking, right? No, that is not all of it. This new term, Gastrosexual, hints at one more element, a key ingredient. It is the reason this study and this term are in the news right now. So, you ask, have I ever used my kitchen prowess to seduce a woman? ... CHECK and Abso-freakin’-lutely!

You’ll Do Nothing, And Like It

I used to master the Zen-like art of doing nothing. I was usually one of the first among my college friends to achieve nothingness on a Saturday when I should have gone to the library or architecture studio. But I wasn’t wasting time. I was doing nothing. It is an important aspect of life.

Sure, we all have in inkling on how to Do Nothing. We all know how to just lay around and waste time. But I’m not talking about wasting time. I’m talking about Zen here.

I know, I know. You are too busy to do nothing. You don’t have time. And when you do Do Nothing, your mind just can’t get around work and family responsibilities and mortgages and groceries and all the daily affairs that go on in life. You can’t relax when your head is racing. I so get that. But you must achieve nothingness soon. It is imperative to your well being. Trust me on this (but not these people ... DoNothingDotOrg ... they just want your money).

Doing Nothing (or DN from here on out) is an art form. Here are some tips:

Start Slowly
You can’t master DN all at once. Sometime it helps to start out slowly. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Find a park at your lunch hour and just go sit in a shady spot or sunny spot of your choice and relax. Don’t bring a book. Don’t listen to music. Just sit comfortably for five to 10 minutes. Or, after you get home from work, sit on the back porch and stare out to the horizon. Let your mind shut out any and all distractions. Turn off your cell phones and the tv. Leave the computer off. DN demands no communication.

You can close your eyes. But don’t fall asleep. That is doing something. It is called a nap. DN is not Napping.

Practice DN as often as possible. Every day is good. Nobody becomes a DN Master over night without weeks, months, and maybe years of practice.

Relax
If you are tense in any way, DN can not be achieved. So, get comfortable. Breathe deeply and regularly. Stretch out. Put your feet up. Hammocks were made for those who DN. Once you feel relaxed, see if you can relax even more.

Enjoy a Beverage (and maybe a snack)
DN is sometimes best when enjoyed by beverage. Wine and beer are probably best. Concentrate on the liquid and the Art of the Sip (to be blogged at another time). Savor the drink. If drinking wine, however, try to ignore any and all attempts to find ways of describing the wine. Then you are wine tasting, WT. WT is not DN. If having a beer, well, you can’t really over think a beer, so just enjoy beer. A cold bottle with a lime always helps.

Advanced DNers might try some light snacks. Cheese and crackers are good with wine. Chips and salsa are good with beer. Eat slowly and leisurely. Don’t concentrate on eating. Just casually play with your food as needed. And, don’t make too much out of the food because then you are Snacking, not DN. Nobody can achieve perfect DN with a grumbly tummy. So, food is OK.

Seek Out Nature
Once you can regularly achieve a Zen-like state in your daily dose of DN, you might start venturing out into a more natural setting. The beach is perfect. The bank of a river is always an excellent choice. Nature and water together are usually solid choices for DN. Any place where you can be completely away from the sounds of those racing between life’s chores are the best places in nature. So, get outta Dodge.

DN with Others
This is a highly tricky level of DN. Inevitably, getting others involved starts things like Talking, Cuddling, Tickling, among other things. You must practice DN with only another practiced DNer. The rules must be worked out ahead of time. To achieve DNness with another, however, is the most rewarding level of DN there is.

Good luck. Let me know how you do and if I can be of assistance in any way.

DN Master Mud

Childhood Revisited

My kids reminded me this evening it is our last night together until early August. They are leaving to go join my folks at my childhood safe place, a lake in the northern Midwest. This year I have too much going on to join them for part of it. Actually, because of Europe, I just don’t have the vacation time. But, …

My kids get to live my childhood for a bit, the childhood as far back as I can remember.

The Girlie will collect colorful, unique rocks harvested from the Big Lake near by and lovingly house them in empty Quaker Oatmeal containers with a paper towel between each layer. She will collect Queen Anne’s lace, dandelions, and young ferns from the shadow in the woods. She’ll put them in a large Mason jar and present them to my mom with that beaming, prideful smile.

The Boy will spend hours rowing around in the cool, clear water. I taught him to fish a few years ago. Maybe this is the year he will develop the nerve to touch the fish and remove it from the hook on his own. He is an explorer now. And the lake will provide countless hours of solitary entertainment.

They’ll eat outside on the picnic table in the shade and have fresh white corn and bbq’d steaks that my dad expertly prepares. My mom will make her pea and peanut salad. There will be lemonade, cheap beer, and even cheaper wine. They will eat in their slightly damp swim suits and sit on their drying towels. They will play board games at night with the windows wide open and the bugs bouncing off the screens. Through the glass in the front door, they’ll watch a spider make a nearly perfect web just underneath the overhang by the porch light. They’ll walk up to the small grocery store for candy and random errands from my folks. If they catch the right week, there will be renters with other new friends staying in the cottages near by. Bonfires. ‘Smores. Ghost stories. Jokes. Romance. Crushes. Silence.

The lake water holds my sanity. It is my safe place. Maybe it is the way it regularly captures a calm in the late evening to go with a mango sunset. Or, the way on a windy day the water matches the clouds in the sky and treats me to a marching rhythm of white caps that play a beat on the shore like a metronome. It is where I go at night when I’m far away and can’t sleep.

I’m going to miss my Lake. Not too much, though, because my kids will bring back two weeks worth of stories. Not having them be there would be worse because home and family need to continue on even if I can’t physically be there this year. There is a wonderful sense of balance knowing that some traditions are kept safe.

It comforts me to know that my Lake is still alive for my kids. They will bring fresh breath and a stronger heart home to me when they return.

Sustenance 1

I don’t want to turn EHTT into a food blog. But ... I cook. It is more than a hobby but one I have no desire to take further than having it just BE an important part of my life.

I’ve been posed the question of how and why I learned to cook. Given their expressions I see their fear. Their eyes question me like I’ve gone through some cooking school boot camp where a secret cabal of iron chefs preside over age-old recipes of spice mingling and time juggling. If I could have only learned that way, it would be a better story. Though, the time juggling is still a huge conundrum. I don't do that part very well.....

My reply to the blank stare is relatively simple, “My mom taught me how to make breakfast.” That is where it started. Although, just between me and world, I think she taught me how to deal with scrambled eggs so that she didn’t have to get out of bed on the cold Michigan mornings at 6 a.m. before I ran out the door to catch the Jr. High school bus. But, that’s ok. No harm, no foul. And, I actually thank her for giving me the confidence to plow forward in the realm of the kitchen (and laundry, too).

The next question is usually, “Why?”

The answer is simple, because I enjoy it.

Now, I will admit I don’t fear the kitchen, but my recent foray into the creative side of recipes started with being told I had high cholesterol. Hyper-Cholesterolemia, actually. The kind of medical deal that could kill me in 10 years or so. Therefore, I took control of my diet, promptly lost about 15 pounds, and rededicated myself to the gym (and, I down a Lipitor every night).

But the cooking thing has stuck. No doubt it is a creative outlet. Healthy food and making it tasty is fun. It is something I hope to pass on to my overly food-picky kids. The Boy is already requesting that I keep the necessary ingredients for chocolate chip bars on hand at all times and he is a master at his own version of scrambled eggs. And, The Girlie loves to put on an apron and help chop stuff (my personal sous chef). When she helps me cook, the kitchen is fun.

For me, this cooking thing is nothing more than a way to cut loose, play, and trifle with folly. It’s pure fun with organic chemistry. Nothing matters. I’ve failed miserably yet I’ve had a mere handful of stunning successes. The more I try, the better I get. Practice is what it is all about.

Outside of baking (and I haven’t EVEN wanted to go THERE), I pirate every recipe. Everything is an improvisation.I am a pirate, no doubt.

(from Pirates of the Caribbean) Elizabeth: You're pirates. Hang the code, and hang the rules. They're more like guidelines anyway.

ImprovWhat matters more than anything, is the longer one cooks, the better the learned alphabet.

It is all about intuition these days. I’ve enjoyed eating all my life so I trust what my palate has to say. I’ve learned to love the food and wine pairing. But, quite honestly, it gets a little over the top for me sometimes. Although, “Eat your Brussels Sprouts and finish your milk” is simple culinary disaster. No wonder kids hate green vegetables. Give them some wine with their meal, please! Kids drink wine in Europe!

Yet, I make mistakes. Catastrophes happen. It’s just a badge of honor or courage, I guess. Yet, while successes make great dinner parties, disasters get talked about. So, I have stories.

So, here we go. Just like the musical lyrics part of this blog (Life's Lyrics), I plan to share interesting meals and times. Wine. Beer. And Food. Because, quite honestly, nothing is better than creating a nice meal and sharing it with friends and family. Those are better stories.

Sustenance 1
Albertson’s had beef rib-eyes on sale. So, tonight The Girlie and I bbq’d us up some steaks and some sweet corn-on-the-cob. But the key part for me was the Confetti Salad…. A mixture of cooked brown rice, zucchini, carrots, tomato, red bells, green onions, red onions, cilantro all chopped up in tiny pieces. I'm talking borderline salsa chopped. Add a bit of lime juice, canola oil, some jalapeño, salt, pepper and a can of drained/rinsed black beans, and I was good to go. Who needs measurements? Go with what looks/tastes good.

It wasn’t amazing. But it was fresh and good with the steaks. Next time, I might add the bbq’d corn right into the salad. I'm going to knife it right off the cob and into the salad...

Wine of the night: Tobin James - James Gang Reserve Sarah (2004). It was paired more to go with the steak, but honestly worked well with the confetti salad, too.

Cheers.

A tavola non si invecchia

However one approaches Tuscany (Toscana), one comes to understand the definition of beauty and perfection much better. It is the cradle of the Renaissance and the home to Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Vespucci, Puccini, and countless other geniuses, artists, and inventors. To say Toscana is inspirational is not giving this magnificent part of the world its due credit.

Then there is the food and wine, art, architecture, and a landscape of lined cypress trees cresting rolling hilltops framing well-groomed vineyards. Everything seems to easily translate into a poetic image capable of encapsulating the experience into brush strokes or music.

There is an expression in Italy, “A tavola non si invecchia” which is, “At the table one does not age.” It goes right to the heart of the notion that the Italian meal is meant to be an experience of good feelings enjoyed with others. It is to be a source of pleasure and relaxation.

Tuscan food corresponds to my notion of eating well. We had crostini, fettunta, finocchiona and prosciutto. I had wild boar and a curled pasta called pici. On the coast one day, I had a fish plate called cacciucco, which is sort of a fish-and-seafood stew. I made risotto one evening at the villa and although I’ve made it countless times it seemed to come alive with local ingredients. And, I got creative with bruschetta for Krys.

In Siena one night, we made an early reservation for L’Osteria on Via dei Rossi. It was well worth the walk. The crostini was excellent, pasta e fagioli and the pici amazing. And the wild boar was memorable.

We only drank locally produced, Tuscan wines…. Brunello di Montalcino, Chianti, Chianti Classico, and Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. We shared one of the few white wines produced in the area, Vernaccia di San Gimignano. The wine brought us all together as we shared the love of the land and one of its most sublime products.

Dining in Italy is not just about nourishment. It is all about the interaction with restaurateurs and one's dining companions.