i can't make anything of this...

I confess

I’m reading a story about the Central Park Five and their overturned convictions from the 1989 rape in Central Park. I remember vividly the entire story about kids out “wilding” in the parks and streets in NYC. I didn’t know that all five were exonerated and released in 2002; my immediate excuse might be that I was living in England but that’s probably lame.

What this has got my mind working on is the intersection of “the times” and “techniques” modes. For criminal proceedings the easiest events to look at are the exonerations driven by the passage of time, exonerations combined with advanced scientific techniques like DNA testing. What we want to believe is that wrongful convictions are simply a poor application of a mathematical formula: The reason that a conviction was wrong was because the techniques we had at the time weren’t advanced enough to convict or not. But that never seems to be the case – when people are exonerated through DNA testing what is exposed in the underbelly is always horrible or biased police work. I never read about someone being released who was convicted through efficient, unbiased, or unprejudiced police work. Maybe a murderer is released and we hear a backstory about how at the time of conviction the preponderance of evidence, or whatever legal term fits here, showed that the suspect was the murderer. No false confessions and no violations of rights and no crappy witnesses. No guesswork or assumptions that led to a failure to disclose evidence or the like. Is this because it’s nearly impossible to mistakenly convict without some of law enforcement insider trading?  Are we as humans preconditioned to convict based on bias? Or, does our system’s “beyond a reasonable doubt” ideal force our hand? There must be convictions are would stand up to any test of technique or time, right?

In a lot of human endeavors we can agree that “the times” we the basic underpinning of human behavior – times when no technique would ever trump or sway the truth. Nearly all civil rights issues wear this anchor: It was the times we lived in; we didn’t know or believe that X was equal to us. We eventually outgrow that and move forward, but we recognize somehow that there was a contribution from time and place within our granting of civil rights. We can understand it. With police/court work the techniques reveal the truth, not the passage the time.

Right. I’m stopping. My head is spinning. I haven’t even fully addressed the ins-and-out of The Life of Pi.

Lemon was taken to the doctor/parole board this morning at 7a and even though he was wishy washy on releasing her, she will roam free this evening. All hail...

eek!

As we sat at the table last night enjoying dinner (risotto with a beet-and-pear salad) my beloved Lemon returned via the cat door from her early evening activities. She came quickly over to the table area, wound her away around G.’s chair, and allowed only him to hear a subtle squeak squeak from nearby. It was in that pre-apocalypse moment that he called out, “Lemon’s got a mouse!”

But, dear readers, before we continue let’s take a quick break from our story to review what we know about Lemon: she’s a killer, she will occasionally bring a kill home for our viewing, she will sometimes bring it home still alive – I think she and Pump like to take a little foray into the catch-and-release mentality before fulfilling the soon-to-be-gone-from-this-World appointment of said small animal. I have exactly zero problem with her killing ways; I’m not too cool with the dead and/or teasing in the house situation, but hey, she’s a cat. Back to the story.

Post-exclamation we all scoot quickly away from the table and glance under to see what was what. What was what was this: Lemon had dropped the mouse in order to begin her party-of-death game and mouse decided he wanted exactly zero to do with the Death Cat. And how did mouse avoid the fate of thousands – by scurrying directly up G.’s pants. Oh yes, you read that right – before we could prepare ourselves fully for the hilarity, the young man is up and doing the MousePants dance in the middle of dining room: “I got a mouse in my pants! The mouse is in my pants!” Now, I didn’t have film of said event, and I certainly didn’t have any clock recording data, but I will be honest and say that the elapsed time it took to pass from “mouse in pants” to concern to raucous laughter was surely less than one second. He was still in the midst of the shaky-leg-varmit-in-my-pants jig when the other four of us bypassed concern and fell into laughter. Is that wrong? As Lemon scurried about trying to find her damn mouse (G.’s lucky she didn’t see the mouse go up the sweatpants, because he would have been dancing with two furry things in his pants) I managed to yell the only thing a mature adult yells in this exact situation: get the fuck out the front door. Honestly, I don’t want the mouse paroled from his pants straight back on to the dining room floor. Yep, I’m a quick thinker. Nearly heroic. G. in his moment of distress did manage to hop, bounce, and dance outside with his brother in tow; where, it must be said, he continued the dance until mousy mouse fell to the grass and apparently made haste into the night.

Ah, life at the Round Table.

is the word....that you heard...

I was over at the Border’s earlier today – writing out a few recipes, if you must know – and there were a couple of young guys, maybe 24, having what amounted to a job interview. From what I could gather, as if I could help it, was that one was applying for a job, or volunteer, position for a summer day-camp-thing that involved teaching and playing chess for children. They went through the usual, if somewhat stilted, quick array of questions (Where did you go to school? Where have you worked? What are you doing next fall? What do you think of Philadelphia?, etc.) before getting to the meat. “So,” says interviewer, “what’s your chess background?” Now, I’m really interested and a million things go through my mind in that few seconds of dead time. Maybe this kid is a ringer. Maybe he’s never played chess at all and is simply hoping to find work in this economy. Maybe he’s Josh Waitzkin. (Well, he couldn’t be Josh because he’s too young to be him, isn’t he? (he’s not) and he doesn’t look at all like him.) Maybe he’s from India, is a chess master, and he’s simply trying to pass along his wisdom and skill so some Daniel Larusso kid. It turns out the guy lets him know that he plays often enough, online and with his brother. I’m not sure what to make of this chess CV but it doesn’t matter: the interviewer drops the interview bomb: “Well, of course, we should play ten games or so.” Yikes. Out comes a board and I hear pieces being set-up for the interview showdown (“The Borders War!” See how I did that?). What will happen? Is this guy just lying about his skills? After the chess hush falls over the Borders coffee area I hear four or five moves, some deep breathing, and then this, “Well, that’s good enough. You know how to play.” What? What happened? Was application boy all over chess club man’s fortress that quickly? Was there embarrassment on the horizon? I needed answers. I got none. I think it might have come down to this: moved one pawn one space, moved one pawn two spaces, did a diagonally thing, and made the horsey do an L. Done deal. Ten games? What was this? The World Championship?

I forgot to mention from our Eastern Market trip on Saturday that L. pointed out to me how often I open with the phrase, “I’ll tell you what…” when shopping / ordering / involving sellers at outdoor markets, farmers markets, and my cheesaries. I told her she reads too much. That little quip didn’t actually do much…

There was a new lion cub born at the National Zoo this morning and I’m only using that event so I can steal a photo of two of the adult lions that reside there. The lioness in this shot has a lot of Lemon the Slayer in her. Or, vice versa.

claiming spaces

The kids are finally in school once again after missing seven days of class and eleven days of nothing-doing, overall. I’m not sure who was more punch-drunk from the blizzards: kids or cats. Lemon isn’t overly happy about piles of cold snow and ice underfoot; no worries, she’ll still kill when able. That's her outside on the snow this morning, pondering her kingdom...or queendom.

We got through last weekend and a Sunday dinner party with great fanfare. At some point between waking up that morning, and getting back from the The Lightning Thief with the kids, I contracted some bone-aching type of flu that was doused with a load of Tylenol and an early bedtime. It has somehow managed to hang around this week and I’ll sneak off to sleep early this evening.

There was an interesting bit on NPR this morning about how we’ve moved from the 'everybody help everybody' mentality that we enjoyed during last week’s strorms – when we all helped out neighbors in one way or another – to a 'batten down the hatches and take no bullshit' lifestyle. The most obvious battleground is parking space. Even out on The Hilltop there are only x number of street parking places that we've cleared for our houses. Unfortunately, those who don’t live on the street and are visiting need to park but they'd either have to find an opening at the dead end down the street or ask if there’s an available space from those that live here. It doesn’t take rocket science to sort out which house has cleared and ‘owns’ which spaces but apparently some visitors last week weren’t well versed in rocket science. While we were at the movie some blankedy-blank Audi driver 86'd our dug out plot of land. I thought, for a moment, they may have walked up the stairs and asked if they could park there for a few hours but I was imagining something that wasn’t possible. I eventually (four hours later) left them a note on their windscreen that let them know that courtesy sometimes helps and they should have asked. As expected, they eventually left but with no response or sorry pass along to us. From what I hear, the District streets are even worse with people blocking their spaces with chairs, ironing boards, and the occasional adolescent laid out on the ground holding the space until Mom gets back from the work.

My classes are going well as I wrap up mid-terms this week – nothing stunning to report aside from the massive chicken feast we had on Saturday night after we practiced fabricating chickens. We shared with the baking class and they provided dessert; all in the spirit of cooperation.

Here's a weird little icicle I came upon just off our front porch the other afternoon. Same shot in both; the flash changed the colors.

just a saturday

Apropos of nothing, or maybe something, I snapped a few shots on this Saturday. You get Lemon as she sits on her throne eyeing the snow; a lot more snow than we expected, and the real keeper - the box. X is going through her closet, and believe me, it looks like something exploded all over our bedroom. She dragged some empty boxes into the room earlier, pen in hand, and this is what I found. I worry.

love to all,

t

adult SATs

We did the Pub Quiz on Monday night. I think we actually tied for fourth since there was the winning team and two tied for second (we were tied with another). Generally speaking, we did well for a rookie squad (The WonderTwins, one of X’s workmates, and I) scoring 79 (of 86) for the evening. The winners tallied 82 so we were close enough to sniff the lead and I think there were about 35 teams. X happens to think that her quiz experience tells her we’ll never win – there’s always two or three teams battling at the top, within a point or two of each other, and we’ll never get there…so she decrees. She’s so negative. If we’d gone with Alaska (state with the most national parks), Small Pox vaccine (which came first? the vaccine, X-rays, or penicillin), and known who the kid was in The Fast and Furious with Vin Diesel, then we’d have been right there. I may kick her off the team for malcontentness. Of course, the quiz has now become a must schedule event after this week’s outing. (Don’t let X know but I think her wanting to go every week sort of shoots down her quiz determinations. Who’d go every week if they thought there was no chance of winning? That’s what I thought. It’s not like she needs.)

I must tell this story. X stayed home today, relaxed on the couch, started a fire, and called report on both cats lazing about with her. She was also up last night around 3am and told me this morning that Lemon was aggressive in her desire for pets; she also told me that she felt my cat was overbearing. Her update on the cats this afternoon involved her telling me that she'd given my Lemon a warm plate of cream. What? That cat that you think hates you and would rather you didn't exist? And you think I treat Lemon as a princess? A plate of warm milk...her hard-hearted, self-proclaimed toughness is out the window. Warm cream.

t

it was roiling but i turned it down

The ricotta gnocchi turned out quite well. I looked over at my beloved about halfway through dinner and realized that there would be no leftovers for lunch tomorrow. The boys had beef ribs after any number of poor pork rib purchases. I rounded up an actual butcher (Canales Quality Meats at Eastern Market) yesterday and got some proper meat. I'm floored by my search for a neighborhood butcher ending up in nil; I still believe there must be a good place over in SE where there are actual people, neighbors, and true butchers - if anyone in D.C. has a good tip, I'd love to hear it. Along with the ribs I finally decided to go the way of truth when making fries as home for the little people: you've got to double fry them with an hour in the fridge inbetwixt. They get the the middle cooked on the first go and then fried up deep-and-gold on the second run. There was some talk of they being the best fries ever.

The gnocchi, which take a bit of love, came out very well. I threw the first piece in for testing as I was getting everything in line and it came out well enough but not cooked through; the cheese wasn't quite smooth; disaster. Another go and the second (more like 5 minutes after rising) was just perfect; that's when you know the goods are the goods. The warm bowls were complimented with some stewed wild mushrooms and lightly wilted sage, arugula, and spinach. I don't think there were any real worries aside from the gnocchi and they played along quite well; sauteed in some butter (and a dash of water) after rising. Regardless of what I think, they were gobbled up with abandon. I give it all a B+ because there's always an opening for more fluffy and creamy results. Practice makes perfect - you don't even want to know how many eggs I sacrificed in order to sort out the free-poaching of those bastards. Of course, I can now do it with my eyes closed. Now, if only, I could master hollandaise and/or bernaise. Fucking French.

Those pictures above? That's what my cat was doing all day while I was slaving over the kitchen (and scrubbing and cleaning the house). She's an ingrate.

I'd like to recommend The Rural Alberta Advantage to those that love music. They'll be here next month and I'll be right up front. Reminds me of Omaha.

Love to all.

t

tom tom

It’s the season, finally. I guess this ties-in with my reading of Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. August and September comprise tomato season around these parts – and every other part, I guess – so I’m anticipating pounds of tomatoes rendered into tomato sauces, plates of tomatoes for dinner, and salads galore. I’ll begin tracking the events somewhere on a notepad, and, maybe with my camera. The Kojo Nnamdi show had a piece on tomatoes today that included the WaPo deputy editor who mans their annual tomato recipe contest – pop over here if you want to see the winning recipes. With the explosion of peaches (nearing it’s end) and tomatoes (some of the heirlooms were out last weekend) at the DuPont Farmer’s Market last weekend we’re getting well deep into the best time of the market shopping year. Laurel and I spent three Sunday mornings at DuPont and one Sunday morning at Eastern Market enjoying the full summer offerings and bringing home bags and bags of fresh fruit and veg. In fact, I think I have some freestone peaches at home that are just about ready for a tart.

I decided to take a walkabout the neighborhood last evening to make sure Lemon hadn’t come to a horrible fate. Last spring she spent some time at a house around the corner so I decided to give them a knock and ask if they’d seen her over the last few days. Sure enough, she’d just been there and they’d been feeding her wet food, twice a day, over the last few days. I didn’t see her relaxing under any bushes as I left but at least I knew she was alive. About ten minutes after I got home there was a knock on the door and the wife, who hadn’t been there during my visit, had brought Lemon over in a carrier. She’d just gotten home and heard of the inquiry so she brought Lemon to the house. We had a very nice chat about Lemon’s lack of bulk – I don’t think she’ll ever be a bulky cat – and her initial worry that Lemon might be going hungry. In the end, she apologized for feeding her and said that now that she knew where she lived she’d feel better about seeing her slink about the streets. Lemon came in the house, had some food, got some pets, and eventually passed out peacefully on the couch. I happened to think it was all a combination of getting some nice moist cat food, we only feed her dry, and her pitching a kitty fit in protest of our week away.

catty corner

We don't need to talk about the two opening playoff games the Caps lost at home this week.

Lemon went missing sometime on Friday and hadn't been seen or heard from until this morning. Needless to say, Pumpkin has been very distressed and on constant watch for the return of his best friend. We finally sent the boys out this morning on a reconnaissance mission - via bicycles - in order to eliminate a cat v. car incident. They weren't gone for more then ten minutes before H. sent word, via G. and his bike, that Lemon has been found - unharmed - not a block from home. There are some other folks who keep cat food outside and we think they probably she can't follow through on the wooing. X told me a few yarns about how their childhood mother cat would wander off for days in the springtime only to return knocked up and back to normal, so to speak. I went down and had a little talk with Lemon and she's seems pretty well crazed about such stuff but wasn't coming home with me. She'll no doubt work her way back home over the next few days and then I have a little talk with tramp cat. Unfortunately, we have no way of explaining to the distressed Pumpkin that she's fine and will eventually return to him and the huge couch.

I'm hoping tomorrow it's Friday because I'm ready for the weekend.