Dec

12

Garlic vs. Onion.

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A couple of years ago, D and I ate at a South Sound “pizzeria” that decorated its establishment with its sauce recipe, stencil-style. The sauce in question contained celery. Aromatic vegetable or no, celery has no place in pizza sauce. A fact we verified as we choked down a slice or two before leaving the balance of the pie on the table. When the issue was raised about what other dos and do-not-dos exist vis-a-vis pizza sauce, my contribution is the mandatory presence of garlic and the mandatory non-presence of onion. A position that has, and no doubt will continue to, spark controversy.

Dec

3

Chili.

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Generally, when I’m cooking, I’m a recipe follower. Just how many tablespoons of baking powder am I supposed to infuse the pancakes with? How many grams of dried shitakes go into this dashi? What’s the milk-to-egg-to-other-ingredients ratio in this quiche? How long do I have to let the tempeh marinade to make quality facon? How many corn tortillas, and in what shapes, do I need for the tortilla soup?

But when it comes to chili, I’m a lot more flexible. I’ll throw in odd ingredients–Mexican chocolate, rioja, agave nectar, cloves, TVP, leftover baked tofu, cilantro, lime juice, dried mango–to shake things up. I’ll “estimate” the appropriate quantity of chili powder by the length of the “pour.” I’ll throw in a mix of fresh and tinned tomatoes, onions, and garlic without regard to proportions or, frankly, quantities. But it always seems to work out in the end. Delicious. I really wish I had a special wooden chili spoon, carved out of a larger spoon, to explain the consistency. But in the end, I suspect chili is a primal foodstuff that really cannot be fucked up too bad.

What sort of bastard ingredients do you add to your chili?

Nov

15

Torpedo.

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Being in the mood for an especially hoppy India Pale Ale, and being at the market with Sierra Nevada products bearing a sale price, I thought I’d purchase a six of Torpedo. Mistake? Perhaps. It isn’t that it’s a bad beer; it has certain charms. But it isn’t an IPA. It’s an extra special bitter. Somewhat disappointing. But more jarring is that the label identifies “Torpedo” as “Extra IPA Ale.” Which, like “ATM machine” and “PIN number” before it, bothers the piss out of the grammarian in me.

Nov

12

Wafer Stick.

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When Y took D and I to Paldo World a few weeks back, we picked up a tub of Flying Elephant-brand “strawberry flavor” “wafer stick.” Essentially cheap Pirouettes, these snack foods are absurdly addictive. One thing about them puzzles me, though: inside the package, there were two wafers that were individually wrapped. What’s up with that?

Sep

12

With meat.

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Recently, we discovered that Cooper is no longer diabetic. The discovery was something of a surprise, given her supposed long-standing insulin dependence. But it was prompted by, well, running out and having little time to replace, as well as changes in behavior over the past few months. It was confirmed by a veterinarian.

Since we arrived in Olympia, her earlier shun of dry food subsided. But now that we’ve discontinued the twice-daily shots, it’s wet food, all the time. Which of course means we’re back in Friskies territory. Because of Cooper’s shun of the pretentious products with organically raised clearly defined animal delineations. And, presumably, without water sufficient for processing.

Of particular interest these days are the varieties labeled “with lamb,” or “with salmon.” I think she likes them because, well, each of them begs the question: what is the specified meat with? And, looking at the labels, apparently the specified meat is with, among other things, “meat by-products.” Which again begs the question, what type of meat, and what is the primary process that renders these meat by-products.

My kitty has such good taste, no? Like a former Winston, current Camel smoker who switched to avoid the dreaded flavor loss that comes with “additive free.”

Sep

7

Coffee.

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When I was south a week ago, for part of that time, I was staying with my brother- and sister-in-law, J and A. Who are, apparently, not coffee drinkers. Well, I got the impression A was a coffee drinker in the past, but has since kicked the habit in favor of her newborn daughter’s health. But J made a conscious choice to not become one of the converted. He’s not anti-caffeine, mind you. When he has an early shift, he’s been known to sip a cola en route. But as my calculus teacher told me years ago, adulthood is achieved by acquiring a taste for either booze or coffee; both is not necessary. So who am I to judge?

But being around the generally java-less had an impact. Being good hosts, J and A provided a french press, a grinder, and a bag of beans. Got about twelve ounces of reasonably strong brew. But I didn’t want to be that guy who makes pot after pot. So I figured I was good enough to go.

Mistake. I was not sufficiently caffeinated. I wasn’t exactly tired. It was just that my brain hadn’t turned on yet. For nearly three days straight. Sort of like the flu fog, but without the accompanying phlegm and fever.

Now, I would imagine a sizable portion of my readership is horrified. Wondering why I would submit to such a raging addiction that has such pronounced and unpleasant withdrawal effects. Wondering how the wonderful flavor and blessed jitterbugging can possibly outweigh. [The balance of my readers are probably relating all too well.]

But here’s my concern: that if I stop drinking coffee in the quantities I do, I’ll never be able to think clearly ever again. But that’s not much of a concern. I’m resolved to continue consuming water dressed in brown until my heart explodes. Part of my resolve revolves around my suspicion that all you non-coffee drinkers will never be able to think clearly either. That before I learned to enjoy coffee, I was just as fuzzy. But I just didn’t notice, because I had nothing to compare it to.

Better living through chemicals. Right?

Jun

30

Lolita.

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Apparently The Mark has an intoxicating beverage named “Lolita.” Apparently it contains vodka. I have no idea what else defines this particular cocktail. But I’d like to think, in a post-Humbert Humbert world, that it also has a muddled maraschino, for texture and flavor and, well, appropriateness.

Jun

21

Bake sale, preachiness, and Jamoca Brown.

Filed Under Food & Drink, GLBT, Olympia, Personal | 1 Comment

A and L drove down from Seattle to attend last night’s drag show, which was pretty damned crowded. Indeed, if I didn’t know just how many people the Capitol can carry if necessary, I would have thought by the length of the line that we might be in trouble, having arrived later than expected.

Good show overall. A few highlights were the Legend of Lesborella skit, Alix and Kristyn’s version of “I’m Not Crying,” Tasha’s “Ego,” and Alayna’s fairytale. But I do believe the highlight of the evening for me was the bizarre and impassioned version of “The Greatest Love of All” featuring an odd exchange between Kimya Dawson’s alter ego Jamoca Brown and, well, a child-sized doll.

Worst part of the show? Realizing that apparently my agreeing to contribute “something” to the intermission bake sale would not be particularly supplemented with the contributions of others. Eek. Which meant my slightly singed lemon bars and not-particularly-sweet-but-dubbed-breakfast-ready maple oatmeal bread, combined with a carrot cake, represented the sole offerings. Also, I got the impression that perhaps I, as a board member, was supposed to be helping more with the whole raffle thing. Alas.

Also problematic? The preachiness was veiled somewhat by being spouted by the likes of the “Fairly Gay Mother” and “Pride Piper” characters. But it was a little too strong and a little too regularly to encourage the as-yet-unconverted masses attending to come around to the light. And the bad poetry came to the fore a shade too often. The religion bashing was a touch broad brushed as well.

Still, an overall entertaining show, and well worth the price of admission. Perhaps next year I’ll make more a concerted effort to get involved more particularly.

[Aside: D started tending to her kombucha colony named Eric Basmati several weeks ago. Tending consists of feeding him black tea and sugar. Yesterday, we sampled his excretions. To great effect. Well, to be quite honest, the beverage is sort of gross. D, A, and L thought so too. But we'll keep drinking it. Because it seems a shame to pour it out. And Eric Basmati is part of the family now.]

May

10

Happy Hen Farms.

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Received our first shipment from Happy Hen Farms last Wednesday. Odd assortment of goodies, very little of which was actually produce. Got some lettuce and greens, yes. But also a cookbook, a pot of honey, a loaf of bread, a half dozen eggs, and a chive plant. Not being particularly in touch with the land, I can only assume that means for this part of the world, spring hasn’t sprung quite as effectively as in other lands, thus delaying the produce. Or perhaps having a CSA share is a different experience than I expected.

Apr

8

Swedish French bread.

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D and I bought a bread machine a little while back. After attempting to get the recipes that accompanied the machine to work, we broke down and purchased a cookbook. One of the things we have learned by reading said cookbook is that the grocery store staple dubbed “French bread,” heretofore explained away as the product of a deranged mind at Safeway headquarters, actually has a slightly more satisfying explanation.

The cookbook has a recipe for “Franskbrod.” Well, I’m spelling that wrong. The “o” ought to be replaced with the “o” with a forward slash through it. In any event, the cookbook describes “Franskbrod” as “the most prevalent white bread in all of Scandinavia. It translates to ‘French bread.’ ” We tried making this bread and, well, it turns out that it is exactly the same sort of dry-tasting awful as the grocery store “French” breads.

Now the mystery has shifted to (1) why so many people keep buying “French bread” from grocery store bakeries, despite its terribleness, and (2) why the Swedish insist upon calling a standard white bread “French,” with all evidence to the contrary. Thoughts?

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