Unblazed trails

Ah ha, my bacon experiment is under way. A bit of business took me to the far side of the country for a bit, and when I had returned I found that my pork had spoiled. I did not let this deter me though, and restarted with a new set of ingredients.

The wet-cure process is one in which a brine is used to remove the water from the bacon. It sounds strange that a watery mixture can be used to remove water from a subject; some sort of science is at work here that I'm not an expert of. What it also does is prevent the bacon from spoiling, killing harmful pathogens with a salty death. After much research, I decided on the most basic of brines: a litre of water to 60 g of each kosher salt and dark brown sugar. The reason for such a simple recipe is twofold. The first reason is that extravagance, in this case fancy peppers and spices and tonics added to the brine, are trivialities that need not be explored in my bacon. Undertone flavors are for the wine sniffer, not the everyman. The second is that the bacon, salt, and woodsmoke should provide the flavors I seek, and to try to cover them up does not pay them the respect due.

The amount of time needed to properly wet-cure the bacon tends to vary between 3 days and two weeks. I don't plan to set a specific period; I prefer to let my instincts tell me when the curing process is complete. The temperature must be kept at or around 3 degrees. This is not a problem; I have an icebox that will do fine, but I prefer to keep it outdoors, as the weather is agreeable to these conditions.

My next update for the adventure will be formidable, and a substantial bit of improvisation will be required to see its success. Do not fret, though, I will prevail.

Merrye Christmas to ye all.

Preposterous!

Some quick thoughts I had to myself after a stirring conversation with an acquaintence. A science is a record keeping of the laws of nature, in essence. It is a grouping of data points, infused with the premise that certain patterns tend to appear, given certain circumstance. The motive here is that if the pattern is known, the pattern can be predicted. The overreaching goal then is to complete the archive, to find all the patterns, and answer all the questions. One interpretation of this is that there would exist a mathematical construct that, when inserted with the proper initial conditions, would describe every single particle and energy in the universe that ever existed and ever will exist. This would include the atoms in your body, the electrical impulses in your mind, the memory of that nice day in 1972 that you though your life reached its pinnacle, the day in 2018 when you get run over by a cement mixer in Shropshire visiting your cousin. A man with a calculator could tell you your life with better detail than you could remember it and tell your fortune with explicit accuracy.

At a rate of scientific progress that is faster than ever, when more technogical advances per capita than ever shower our globe in new shinies and preserve our own existence longer while simultaneously destroying it, when communication and cars and accelerated education make our lives go by so fast we can't even see it sometimes, the masterstroke of science still sounds about as wonky and nutty and as far off base as a sandwichboard toting homeless man screaming 'the end is nigh' at the top of his lungs. If God were here, He'd be an equation.

A drive

Another bleary day in western England. A land known the world over for poor outdoor environs, and it still takes me aback at how unpleasant it can be. I had an errand that needed running, less than a mile away, and yet I could not bring myself to make the walk. It was simply dreadful out, but this errand could not wait. So I put on my seaman's jumper and overcoat and climbed in the seat of my auto, my 1975 Peugeot. It had been maybe 3 or 4 weeks since I had started her up last, and even then it was only an idling to keep the engine clean. I had no idea whether or not she was fueled, but the thought of trudging about in the snow and ice forced my hand to the ignitor. She whirred a bit and fell through the cycle a few times but finally began to start and lifted the gate for the driveway and was off. The snow had not yet accumulated enough to hamper the driving, and made me second guess whether or not I couldn't just walk. The outside was cold and windy, but having a good walk every few days is immutably good for the body and mind, and I had been remiss ever since the weather turned. As time went by I felt like I had made the proper choice, and every time I slid the window down I was reminded that I am not a young man anymore and too much exposure could be fatal, or at least send me into a sputtering chill for the next several days, which is, I decided neither deserving of my intelligence or my class.

Of course she had fuel in it. The engine has yet to fail me, in the 26 or 27 years I've owned it. Once I got comfortable and resigned myself to the drive I quite enjoyed it. I looked out the window as I turned from Nelson to Fairfax in Broadmead, at this little tree. The tree was a leafy one, one of those broadleaf types that I'm sure anyone else in the room would immediately be able to identify. The tree was about twenty feet tall, its bark was a light brown. It had no visible signs of abuse, be it by human or animal or insect. Its leaves were already down, and it seemed quite alone in its own world; not a single tree was anywhere else in its vicinity, only the hustle of the city. There is a rather large goings on in the area, as it is near the galleries, and so people are walking by hurredly throughout the day. Trees are obviously not self aware, but how strange it would be to exist in a world that you cannot relate to any living being you see. Nor can trees see I suppose.

The remainder of the drive was uneventful, although there was a vagrant outside the store I needed to visit. The man, who introduced himself very loudly and nearly unintelligibly to the entire street corner as 'The Jigger In Charge.' He was dressed in what appeared to be a torn dress shirt with a cheaply made sweatshirt, ripped overcoat, windbreaker, and an undeterminable number of pairs of trousers. He proclaimed a number of racial slurs and various other highly exceptionable affectations about the government and, in particular, its law enforcement branch. To see such sights in my own neighborhood is disturbing, but something must be said about the dedication in this weather. I sincerely believe that even if I were a drooling lunatic I would still have the good sense to do it indoors on days like this. I, like any other time, decided not to stick aorund for the second act. He would go on to receive attention from the other passers by, anyway. I entered the store, purchased a bottle of brandy and a package of prophylactics, and went home. The entire excursion lasted about seven and a quarter minutes.

A new adventure

Bacon is, simply put, one of the world's most perfect foods, speaking directly toward flavour. It has a meaty, salty, smoky taste that appeals to the everyman. It should then follow that an understanding of the bacon making process is a fine thing for him to practice. It is sufficiently masculine, and the rewards are quite decadent.

In my constant attempts to better myself, I will be, for the first time, preparing some of my very own bacon. I see no reason not to openly discuss the process in this forum, as it is a fairly simple one. The first step is to obtain the ingredients. Normally, pork belly is the preference, but I will be using a small batch of pork side, the kind of cut typically seen in store-bought bacon. It is less fatty, but this is a small experiment, and I see no problem using such a conventional cut.

To start this occasion, and to give myself a sort of reference point and palette cleanse, I cooked up some of the raw product and ate it. Unseasoned pork is quite distasteful, mostly in that it has the approximate flavour of fried strips of shoe leather. I was not expecting much, but this might have made me physically ill to my stomach.

The next step in the process is the wet-curing technique, which will imbue the bacon with its characteristic saltiness, as well as remove pesky water that makes good meat spoil. There are a number of formulations for the wet-cure, known as a brine, and I am in the process of making a decision as to what seasons and humours will bring the best out of this project. I have to say I'm quite excited about all this, and since this is my project which you are reading, you are invited to share in my excitement.

A thing I read

Apparently that insufferable man Roger Ebert has taken a certain Ben Stein to task for his anti-evolution movie. Read this if you enjoy someone taking a gambling analogy to the most extreme limits imaginable. From what I'm reading about it, Expelled seems like a Michael Moore style documentary, which makes me want to never see it.

And you have a fine day.

A reflection

It is verifiably true that today was my life's anniversary. The seventh of December, the 341st day of the standard year. The day that the womanising Max Planck discovered the law of black body radiation, initiating the study of quantum physics. The famous 'blue marble' photograph was taken from the final American flight to the moon, Apollo 17. I share birthdays with Tom Waits and Harry Chapin. Many other great things have happened that may or may not be located in an encyclopaedia entry for this date. But can being born on the same day as a certain event give one any sort of connection beyond the trivial? I suppose not. The calendar system is as arbitrary as anything. Yet it is still enjoyable to ponder such things on a day that I specially like to reserve for self upkeep and review.

I have come off a series of rather uneventful birthdays, and I have to say to a degree I enjoy making myself unavailable to well wishers. If today is my day, my one out of the year, then I would like it to be truly my own.

By half past 2 I had not really faced the day. I spent the morning and early afternoon catching up on the woes and tribulations of the economic situation courtesy of the fine people at NPR's Planet Money. It seems like the remedy for problems that originated from uncharacteristically low mortgage interest rates that facilitate the buying of unaffordable homes is to lower interest rates. It is clear that no one knows what portends the future at this point, so the roller coaster will not end any time soon. I also wanted a perspective of life that I could approach that makes me think of better times, so I picked up an old copy of short stories by the great F. Scott Fitzgerald called Flappers and Philosophers. My copy of This Side of Paradise is packed away in another property, which is what I would rather be reading, but perhaps a trip to the library would make me feel better after a gloomy beginning of the day. I'm probably the only man in the world that brings his own books to the library to read.

By 7 pm I had lost the interest to read most entirely. I came to my senses late in the afternoon and called upon a few close friends to enjoy the remaining hours of my special jour. I made a meager lunch and slowly trekked my way to a local establishment. There I made good on my promise to treat myself, on both literary and celebratory aspects. A fellow of mine had me taste some concoction that he had brewed himself, and though I find beer to be most unrefined, I told him it was a fine stock.

By the evening I had mostly regretted the previous assertions that a birthday is to be spent solely on one's self. The evening went by solidly, and it made me happy to see that others were as ready to wish me happy returns as they were to be distracted by the day to day tribulations of their own lives. Mankind, though strange and many times uncouth, is still a social beast. Time spent among friends is always important, and I can do well not to forget. I tend to get a little lost in my own habitations and fall back upon the notions that my person has risen above the needs of the gentleman. Even the most hardened cynic is sometimes ready to reevaluate his or her attitude.

Upon final reflection, my birthday was eventful in its uneventfulness. In a day I had originally intended to avoid and shy away from I now feel reinvigorated with the prospects of new days with new chances and new opportunities on which to capitalise. These difficult times call for a new breed of gentleman to overcome, and I shall be that man.

On time and its celerity

Goodness, I feel as if I slept for ages and have finally awoken to the call to update. The posts come when the mood strikes me to write, and it is embarrassing that such a long time occured between this and my last. The holiday season is upon us and I plan to trek back to the homestead to spend it with my ailing mother. She cannot even recognize me anymore, but she still enjoys the company and it warms my heart to see her in that state.

I wanted today to share some of my criticism of this foolhardy waste of time, the internet, to accompany my last work which was complimentary to the excess. I have some things here in my bag that I will now take out and show you:

Twitter: In a world when we can send 175 character text messages on our mobile phones, what use is there for Twitter? This website is a redundancy in society and has found success because complete morons use it. There is nothing a twitter can do that a blog cannot. Simply put. Rest assured, if an emergency came up, this is the place you will find me.

This next one is a design complaint, and applies to a number of website that I find disagreeable. It involves highly busy front pages, and its main perpetrators are magazine websites like Pitchfork, Allmusic, and PopMatters (not necessarily music magazines in particular but those three examples are the top of my mind). Also news websites such as The Huffington Post and New York Times. The theme is this 3 column format, with no preference towards any one story, but hundreds of little links to click and tabs leading to more links to click. I am supposed to look at these messes and discern real information. Physical newspapers have large headlines and magazines have a cover and sequential order of articles for a reason: Humans can only read one thing at a time. To offer us more is to offer us confusion. My old eyes cannot take it. The Drudge report is an abomination of a news aggregate, but its simple design makes it get more traffic through it than anyone here. Blogs are pretty good at this as well.

Well that left me in a rather chagrined mood. Tomorrow is my birthday and perhaps I shall write some prose if the mood fits the occasion.

This fantastic voyage

Alas I have been remiss in my vow to stay current on the goings on in this, my public journal and archive. It was time well spent away, however. I went on a day trip, wrote a few pieces I plan to submit into some local periodicals, had a chance to listen to some music (a stirring piece by the provincal orchestra, it was rough but well written), had some exquisite tea, entertained a few stray cousins that do not make it over to me often enough, and of course kept myself updated on the world happenings. There simply seemed not time enough for the internet, although I should like to think I am becoming more and more proficient.

I have indeed spent a few meaningful hours in front of a monitor, testing the waters of this blogosphere with a rod or perhaps a sculling oar. I would like to speak now of two locations that I have found to be acceptable. Please excuse my attempt to be a bit less xenophobic and a bit more with the times, this new internet experience is assuredly changing me more than I am it. The Americans have elected a black president, and I think it is time we all curbed the rhetoric regardless.

Top Left Pixel: A fellow by the name of Sam Javanrouh has been daily updating this website with fresh photographs from his collection. I know that the digital camera revolution has filled itself with would-be photographers, and inundated cyberspace with a profusion of absolutely atrocious photographs. This man is different. His photographs, many of which involve the exceedingly hip and fashionable Yonge Street area of Toronto, are by and large exquisitely composed and render their subjects in ways that give insight to his art. I hope Mr. Javanrouh does not mind such lavish praise.

Wooster Collective: If it is not obvious I am a patron of the aesthetic. I also want very much to find the zeitgeist of modern youth culture. Street art is a new art form; as intriguing as it is illicit. Let us call it a cultured vandalism. Many of its artists attempt anonymity, likely both to avoid prosecution but also to add to the intrigue of the medium. Visual arts are a dying one, and this network spans continents to bring us the latest in a very compelling new style.

The internet really is about simple pleasures. I find it comforting that now, because of the excess of information in society that anytime I feel a wave of melancholy, I am able to seek out any sort of soothing image, such as a waterfall or a bottle of port. This sort of "emotion management" through the esteemed Google Image Search has had an unmeasurable effect on my nerves as the recent repercussions of the financial imbroglio begin to take its toll.

On wine and spirits

First and foremost, I wish to celebrate this fine header that my dear friend Algernon created for my use in my digital monologues. His work is almost too refined to waste upon me.

I wish today to address the subject of drinking and drink. Human has long been in love with alcohol, and as such, we should not refuse such an ancient and celebrated tradition. As with anything, there are limits, and sorry to say it is largely up to the individual where to draw the line. Its effects can be both the beginning or the end of your interaction with society. I have made a few observations about the subject in my regrettably many years.

I was attending a formal function last Saturday complete with dinner service and refreshments soiree. As there are two stages to the party, there are two types of drinking. The dinner event was most formal, and as such the drink was entirely reserved and respectable. When the guests retired to the sitting room to engage in discussion and music and dance and all the sorts of things that sociable people are want to do, the recreational side of drinking arrived at the door and invited himself in. Suddenly, voices were boisterous and inhibitions were lifted. A few guests used profanity in their language, which I suppose is regarded as more acceptable when behind closed doors. It did not spoil the evening, and in the end it quieted down rather early and respectfully.

Now there are many different types of alcohol with which we are able to poison ourselves, but some are better suited for certain purposes.

• Wine: Oh, most ancient of drinks, its imbibition has become so complex that it is not so much an activity as it is an art. I claim no deep knowledge of wine tasting; I only cared to learn the very basics. I offer a warning though: wine, though regarded as high class, does not forgive its overconsumption. It can make a prince into a blathering idiot and, subsequently, a dying man.
• Whisky: The Water of Life. Now while I do enjoy a nice Scotch from time to time, I will go right out and say that the Americans have taken a decidedly British thing and made it their own. Drinking whisky of any variety should be done slowly and savored with respect to the aging process.
• Gin: My first drink of liquor was a terrible unregulated gin. It tasted of turpentine and sulphur. I swore off it until my service days, where I drank what was available, and now I think fondly of the friends I made and lost in the war when it passes my lips.
  
• Beer: Do not drink beer. It is of low class. Never.
• Foreign liquors: If it strikes you to try these strange and exotic beverages, I hear people take them and mix them in seltzer or lime juice. I suppose I will just never grow into that.

I humbly thank you for reading.

A change of clothes

After a protracted day spent reading indoors, I found I was in need of some fresh night air. The weather was decidedly nice for Bristol, the sun was slowly making its way down towards a receptive sea, and it would seem nothing could spoil my ambulatory pursuits. It took itself from a splendid day to a wonderful evening, provided one had the proper attire: a pair of broken-in heavy wool trousers, my grandfather's shooting jacket (which I have mended myself on more than one occasion), overcoat, muffler, and a thick fedora. I believe I had walked nearly 45 minutes before the sky darkened and the stars came visible, as well as could be seen in the city.

I sat on a bench near Old Vic Theatre, and thought of the times I had had there when I ran away from home to work as a roustabout. It was terrible work, demeaning and degrading, and if I had known better I would have stayed away, but times were hard in those days and I regret nothing now. I remember we would walk down to the docks and watch the ships come in. We would do it to "impress the birds" we brought there, I would always say. Back then, the docks were still being used, although the trade had subsided significantly in the final years before they moved it up to Avonmouth. It matters not how old I am, the spectacle of such things will always inspire me.

As I made my way back to the flat downtown, it came to pass that I realized none of that had ever actually happened. My upbringing was by two very loving and doting parents that I would never have run from, even in my most irrascable years. Also I lived in Castle Point in Essex during that period of my life. No, it must have been some film strip I watched at some point in the last few decades. Memory is a tricky thing.

TV Spotlight: Election Night Coverage

The Following appeared in The Monitor Volume 15 Issue 6 and was published 11-17-2008.

I watched the presidential election with baited breath, hoping to savor every morsel of such an auspicious event. Were the American people going to alienate every man, woman, and other country in the world by selecting a spectre of the past eight years, or will they hobble themselves by going in with a man whose resume is slightly larger than my own? Anderson Cooper decided to mark this landmark election by introducing a hologram of will.i.am, and I decided that national politics had become a sporting event and that there was probably something better on. Fortunately, TLC has new episodes of one of its finest shows, What Not to Wear.

Now as far as reality tv is concerned, if it ain’t Top Chef i really couldn’t give a crap about it. but cable one has apparently never heard of bravo (what the fuck, guys!) and this one actually isnt terrible. it starts off the same as any other, friends nominate a person to get a makeover, the host of the show surprises them and buys them a big expensive wardrobe. it focuses on the usual specimen, the not-attractive-but-with-redeeming-features kind of everywoman, age 28-45, the kind that feels comfortable in wearing shitty stretch waistbands to work because they foolishly believe that personal presentation doesn’t reflect one’s own self confidence and their inner charm will win people over. Also featured are these anachronistic idiots that think just because they bought some hideous 80’s jacket for a costume means they can wear it all the time. The show then seemingly destroys them, throwing all their clothes away while jabbing at their poor fashion sense. The hosts are a duo of fashion world rejects who achieve just enough success in their lives that they think they shit pure gold. They supply the victim with a line of credit, give them suggestions, and send them on their way buy new clothes that don’t suck. Since this person is clearly not able to choose their own clothes, there will only be more ridicule until finally, the hosts essentially pick out the clothes for them anyway. Then, just to make sure that the makeover actually looks good, they give the victim professional makeup and hair styling and voila, another life is changed.

So basically the show is about making fun of people that don’t really care how they dress. and while i fully support the making fun of of people for whatever reason, this is television, and far from reality. There is a scene every show where they take the old clothes off the rack and mock the person pretty brutally about their mickey mouse t-shirt, or a gross teal oversized sweater as they throw it in the trash. The victim here gives the pretty universal excuse that it’s ‘comfortable’ as to why they have such abortions in their closet.

This does not fly with the hosts, who both wear tight clothing and have much better body types than the victim. They chide them on not acting their age, or not being self confident, and they are largely right. It’s debatable how much of the show is real and how much is coached, but I’d be willing to guess that most of these women are actually pretty unashamed of their clothes because they have already given up on impressing people under the guise of ‘not caring what others think of them.’ I know people like this; hell i LIVE with people like this. It isn’t pleasant. Fortunately then they get a makeover courtesy of the show and it changes their introspective and they realize what everyone else knows already: that fashion does matter.

Eats: so if you watch this show chances are you are either a fashionista or trying to pick up fashion tips. So let’s go with a hip veggie lo-cal snack for both of your tastes. I picked this up one time chatting up this vietnamese waitress in the San Francisco airport who wanted to become a chef and was saving up money for culinary school. These are delicious fresh spring rolls, direct from some third world country that knows how to make good food from cheap ingredients. First undercook some asian vermicelli (bout 3-5 minutes). Then soften up some rice wrappers by soaking them in warm water for like a second and lay them flat. lay out some of that vermicelli, some lettuce, and give it a bit of fresh basil, mint, and cilantro leaves (i personally don’t care for the cilantro, but come as it may). You can also slip a boiled halved shrimp in there if you are ok about the mistreatment of small crustaceans that are unable to feel pain anyway. Roll all that shit up tight as you want it. Now the sauces are kinda where the spring roll shines. You can go sweet, like a sweet soy garlic thing, or spicy like szechuan and siracha. You coul even go really acidic, and make a fish-lime juice sauce. There are as many choices as things you can put together in a bowl. My personal favorite is hoisin, although I’ve never attempted to test the local grocers for it.

TV Spotlight: The Suite Life with Zach and Cody

The following appeared in The Monitor Volume 15 Issue 5 and was published 11-3-2008

Here we go. I make no apologies if I offend your sensibilities, but I have to go right out and say it: if you do not like The Suite Life of Zach and Cody, on a non-ironic level, you are an insecure loser who has no business watching television.

I hope I have your attention. The Suite Life is this sitcom on the Disney Channel which features the talents of its twin stars, Cole and Dylan Sprouse as Cody and Zach respectively, as they raise hell living in a five star hotel in Boston Massachusetts. They are joined by a rather large cast, especially for a Disney Channel show, as various components of the hotel. There is Arwin the wacky janitor-cum-inventor, their mom the lounge singer, the buffoonish rich girl London, London’s poor counterpart Maddie, the manager Mr. Moseby (Hooch is crazy), and a variety of bellhops, maids, and cooks that keep variety in such an undemanding premise. The show itself is actually finished now after 88 fantastic episodes, but there is a nautical themed spinoff, The Suite Life on Deck. It is, as you can imagine, not as good.

TV Spotlight: Californication

The following appeared in The Monitor Volume 15 Issue 4 and was published 10-20-2008.

So there’s this show on Showtime - I don’t know if you heard about it before, but I just started watching it, and MAN it is the shit. I guess it’s been out a little while, but daaaang there is some hot stuff in it. I mean, the title sounds like that Chili Peppers song (awesome by the way!) and I’m pretty sure it’s one of those things that’s like a double meaning. California + fornication = Californication. It’s better than Weeds (seasons 2-4 definitely) and that lame-ass call girl show. Not Dexter, though – that show is choice.

The dude from Red Shoe Diaries plays this dude who’s like this writer, but he hasn’t written anything in a long time. And there’s this chick who’s in love with him, but she don’t want to admit it because he’s this total royal fuck-up (ladies, I’m sure you know the type). And they have this kid, but I’m not to the good part yet. This dude like screws around because the other girl is marrying this other dude, and that’s pretty much what the show is about. Red Shoe slammin’ it to the ladies. I know when I was a kid I watched the hell out of Cinemax late night, and I always wondered why that dude was so obsessed with like weird chick sex stories. Now it kinda makes sense that he’s like this sex addict.

So this show is literally him stickin’ it in every woman he can find. And oh man there are tits. There’s this one chick that throws up on him during sex. There’s also this chick that fucks him, robs him, then returns for more sex. There’s some sub-plot about him writing again, but make no mistake about it, this show is about Red Shoe doin’ it. And some chick (played by the little girl in the show The Nanny for all you creeps out there) punches him in the face. While topless.

You kinda have to take a step back, though, and think about this show on a meta-level to really appreciate. This is some writer that broke big and then died off. He’s got nothing to do except cash fat checks from the movie rights he sold and bang beautiful women. The actor that plays the guy, as I understand, also made it big in the business years ago but hasn’t done jack since and just hangs around town scoring fat royalty checks and banging beautiful women. This guy ain’t method acting. I’m not even sure he’s acting. Red Shoe must go in every day, and they just ask him, “Hey dude, what were up to last night? Lets film that.” And Red Shoe just has to replay every terrible thing that happened to him because those are the bits that sell, you know. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I feel sorry for the guy. Anyway, the show works because a) everybody wanted to know what happened to Red Shoe dude (he was a pretty chill dude), and b) T and A man! Sometimes the formula is that simple.

As an aspiring writer myself, I think I get the appeal. Here is this guy who made all this money from writing from his heart, going around, living like 99% of all us writers hope to (well those of us with penises). But he hates it. And that gives us hope, not that we can achieve that kind of crazy, no holds barred, fuck anything not nailed down lifestyle, but that even if we did, we would also hate it, making our dull lives a bit more satisfactory. And rest assured your life is dull.

Eats: Well, you shouldn’t eat anything during this show if you don’t like to watch sex scenes and women puking. But if you have the resolve, I found this shot you should take first called the Diamond Cutter. 1/3 oz. Grenadine, 1/3 oz. 151 Proof Rum, 1/3 oz. Diesel. No chaser. Thats right, I don’t fuck around. As far as food goes, anything complex will be tough after a few Cutters, so why don’t you just make a steak (or a big portabella slice, but you ain’t getting help from me). Take a good pan-cooking steak (that’s a T-bone), salt both sides down with like a 1⁄2 tsp salt. Let it sit a while. The salt actually dissolves some of the proteins on the surface to make a delicious crust – you’ll see what I mean. Then torch both sides in a pan for like 7 minutes each side for medium rare at a pretty decent heat, and don’t touch it while it’s cooking. Then get this. Deglaze the pan with like veal stock or something, add some Worcestershire and some shallot, maybe some dried thyme, top off with heavy cream, drizzle over the meat while it rests (also an important, overlooked part of the steak-making procedure). I know it sounds bullshit, but trust me. Potatoes and asparagus with this one. Google Ron Paul.

TV Spotlight: Burn Notice

The following appeared in The Monitor Volume 15 Issue 3 and was published 9-29-2008.

You probably don’t watch enough TV. You probably don’t even want to try out new shows, because ‘TV is garbage these days.’ Well, my friend, you should be ashamed of yourself. Not watching unhealthy amounts of TV is un-American. Sarah Palin watches 6 hours of TV a day and look how far it took her.

I want to bring to your attention a newer show that really needs to be watched: Burn Notice. A burn notice is like the scarlet letter or something of the spy world. Or perhaps the scarlet letter is the burn notice of the puritan world. But I suppose that would raise questions regarding the special case of a puritan spy. They almost assuredly existed (to keep tabs on witches and the church of England). My question is if they got themselves in real hot water, would the bosses force the accused to wear the burn notice upon their bodice/waistcoat? If only Elder John Winthrop were still around today.

So anyway this show is about this spy that is falsely accused and now he works essentially as a private eye, alongside Bruce “don’t call me Ash” Campbell and a woman who’s skin is old leather like a book and has an English accent that sticks out awkwardly through her false American one. It’s wrapping up its second season on USA. Go look it up if you are interested; that’s what the Internet is for.

It’s set in Miami. This is a fairly recent practice that I must say I approve of. Shows have been blowing up Miami in the last few years. Dexter, Nip/Tuck, CSI, they all got set there as if Miami is the new OC. Before that, what did you have, Miami Vice and the Golden Girls and Flipper. Yeah that’s what I thought. Miami is back and it is fucking ready to kick some ass. Speaking of Flipper, does anyone else remember that horn thing that Porter would stick in the water and crank, and Flip would hear it and come swimming in from like miles away? Was that thing for real? It was like a dolphin version of a dog whistle. Well, a reverse dog whistle. A reverse dolphin dog whistle. Horn thing.

So this wronged spy, Michael, is super-ultra-trained to be good at everything, and he’s basically a one man A-Team, helping out his fellow man. The show does this little voice over thing that follows this exact sequence every time:
1. Michael is trying to con some guy into telling him where the drugs are or whatever
2. Bad guy pulls a gun on him or some cops show up or something else unexpected happens
3. Michael, always prepared, acts accordingly. Cue voice over (“When your cover is blown, the trick is to _______”)

The silly thing is it doesn’t get old. The “expert protagonist that covertly shares every little trick of the trade with the audience” convention is one that leads to popularity. See also: MacGyver. See also: The A-Team. See also: Chuck Palahniuk.

What to eat when watching: Miami has no specific cuisine, but what it has got are literally boatloads of Cubans. I’d recommend keeping it light, but the thing about Cuban food is that it specializes in savory dishes. Stews and soups and whatnot. My pick is basically a rabbit fricassee I learned from a Puerto Rican machinist from my days in the service. Take your rabbit or chicken and sear it with onion, garlic, green pepper, saffron, cumin, salt, pepper, lemon juice, and bay leaf (he never was clear on the amounts, so figure them out yourself, you seem like a reasonable person). Cover with water about 2 ½ cups for 3 lbs meat in a large pot). Simmer 20 minutes. Add some potato. Let them cook until tender (another 20 minutes). Finish with raisins, capers, olives, olive oil, and some tomato paste. Let those simmer for a bit, add some peas and serve. Goes well with red or black beans and rice. Eat it with friends or alone, you sorry bastard.

A Title for All Time

My esteemed colleagues, I report to you now that I have done it. I have started a weblog. Our little internet has grown wildly in a most uncouth manner, and I hope to add ever the slightest touch of class, in hopes that she grows into a charming young woman, on the arm of some upstanding young man who has a strong lineage and speaks in polite tones becoming of a fellow. I wish to meet this man, give him a steady yet firm handshake, give him a plot of land in the country. Perhaps Lichfield. Perhaps Oswestry. I care not if he is of noble birth, as these are modern times, and I know the common discourse of the day.

But of course the shifting sands of time will ruin our beautiful cherub if we are not steadfast in her upbringing. Spare the rod and spoil the child indeed. These writings are to better our little one, not to denigrate, but to challenge her. I have nothing but the best hopes for her future and for yours.