strawberry gardens at the hilltop

I've been meaning to pass along an update on what I feel has been an exact reenactment of the banking and financial dowfall; and, it's happened right at my dining room table over the last few weeks. The kids, along with one of the kids from the old neighborhood, have taken to playing Monopoly. Before I get to the details I'd like to point out a few of my feelings on this 'game'. First, nothing good ever comes from a game of Monopoly. Nothing. In the history of mankind, never has a game ended cordially with a good round of handshakes and utterances of "good game, good game, good game." By it's nature, the point of playing is to crush the life from every other being at the table - preferably with extreme prejudice. Second, you always have players who are up for a bit, down for a bit, middlin' for a bit, and then eventually out. But, you also have the one hack who always has about $200 on hand, who manages to always miss Marvin Gardens (with a hotel) and your killer row of the cheap shit just passed 'Go', and who ends up either in jail repeatedly are hitting Free Parking just as he's about to be eliminated...I hate that guy. He'll be around all night acting as some kind of property lawyer while begging and borrowing his way to the inevitable 3am finish.

Right, back to the story. The kids vaguely play according to the rules - those rules being a roll of the dice, moving your men, buying things, getting $200 when passing go...and that's about it. They play a truly free enterprise version of the game beyond those basic steps. I'll be cooking in the kitchen and G. is exchanging a piece of property with L. because he wants her orange juice and doesn't want to get up and walk to the kitchen. I've got kids mortgaging property that can't be mortgaged because they have houses or hotels on them (you have to pull those before you mortgage), you have one kid offering up a utility of $500 to another, money supposedly being exchange for property, railroads being gathered via the use of picking or not picking Chance/Community Chest cards, and overall unregulated credit default swaps. Even though it might seem a joke, it isn't. They have no sense of what's actually happening nor any inkling of the results - they are in it purely for profit and hell be damned. In the end, one will win, a bunch will get pissed off and throw the board on the floor, and they'll play again tomorrow. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

As it's the end of the berry season I gathered a flat of strawberries from the farmers market and spent a chunk of my afternoon making two dozen half-pints of strawberry jam. I'm not sure why I felt the need but berries will do that to you. We go through a lot of jam in the house and if I can make it by hand with a little effort, why not? If I'd got myself in order a few weeks ago I could have made a triple berry jam with strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries but my potential energy was just that. I was able to get a 12 lb. flat of for $40 from one of the farmers so each jar - minus jars, etc. - comes to about $2.

american shakedown

I got an e-mail today concerning my subscription to The New Yorker. It was funny in a few ways: first, it was a bit pissy about notifying me “three times” about my renewal (even if I’m not sure how) and essentially demanding payment. The second bit was the price: $69.95 for 47 issues (one year). “It’s simple, just click here, pay the money, and everything is good.” Sure. I finally find a phone number to call and the conversation ends up with “Josh” letting me know that I’m on auto-renewal (which is fine by me) and that the computer kicks out a $69.95 rate for 47 issues. The tone of his voice was actually implying, “Isn’t that great? Automatic computer stuff and we have to do nothing!” I told Josh that I wasn’t going to pay him jack at this point, let alone $69.95 for one year, so he needed to just simmer down. It went something like this:

Me: “Listen, Josh. I’ve been with you guys for 7 or 8 years now and you’re trying to junkpunch me with a $69.95 rate for one year.”

Josh: “Umm. That’s the standard rate.”

Me: “For what? Delivery via yak to a monastery in Tibet?”

Josh: “Umm. Did you get a special offer or rate in the mail or via e-mail?”

Me: “No, why? I'm renewing.”

Josh: “Well, what’s the best rate you can get?”

Me: “Where?”

Josh: “Umm, anywhere.”

Me: “Is this really the route we are going to take?” [me typing while talking]

Josh: “Umm.”

Me: “Okay, Josh. At your Web site I can get 94 issues for $69.95 or 47 issues for $39.95. Your move.”

Josh: “Umm.”

Me: “Josh, let me help you out here, you seem like a nice kid. I’m renewing my subscription with your publication. I love The New Yorker and I’ve been with you for years. What I don’t want is you sending me some bullshit e-mail about paying my bill and the cost being about the highest rate you can come up with. Make sense?”

Josh: “Yes.”

Me: “You’re saying that it’s automatic and computer-y doesn’t actually make me feel any better or confident in this process.”

Josh: “Yes.”

Me: “Good. How about you fix my rate on the Web site and I’ll log-in this afternoon and pay my bill which will be $69.95 for two years (94 issues).”

Josh: “Okay.”

I wonder. I really do.

t

coinops

I was never particularly well-versed in video games; we’re talking about ‘put a quarter in and play your life’ video games. Even at the peak of my powers, circa 1981 or so, I was only actually good at tabletop football and half-decent at Missile Command and Asteroids. In the early days of home gaming I vaguely remember Frogger and some other where you jumped log-to-log across a river. Back in those days, by the time home consoles arrived, we were more interested in Foosball, playing quarters, and air guitar. I bring this up because I swung by the mall a few days ago – that being a separate challenge in things that I hate – to pick up a another controller for the Wii that the boys have at home, and maybe a game of some type to occupy people’s time. I ended up with Wii Resort and two motion (?) sensors for the controllers. I’m so slow on this stuff that I didn’t even realize the sensors are just controller add-ons so I had to return the next day for an actual third controller, third sensor, and additional nunchuk. It gets a bit expensive at some point. At least the Resort game comes with stuff that interests me: archery, Frisbee, flying, etc. I played a bit with L. last night and set some high scores on dog-catching Frisbee and some sort of jet-ski slalom thingy. While I was speaking with the sales guy at the shop – we were the only two in the place while I checked out – I sounded vaguely like my ironic/moronic/iconic character that talks to someone about cars and all I can spit out are words that I’ve made-up and/or gleaned from listening to my friend, Buzz. I don’t know anything about either subject.

I found out today that one of my favorite shows, Foyle’s War, has three more episodes out on DVD. We thought it had ended a few years back when WWII ended (on the show, not in real life) but suddenly I’m alerted to some new installments, post-war. Along with The Wire, I consider Foyle’s my favorite drama TV, ever. As if that matters.

We’re only a week away from a long-needed vacation. The biggest issue we face is getting a cargo carrier so the luggage can be hidden away and five people can ride in the bejeweled car. We’re splitting the trip in half both ways but only need room on the way up: both boys are staying up yonder for a few days before flying back. L. can have the entire car to herself on the jaunt home.

I’m sure there’s more but it all escapes me. I will give you a song by newest favorite band, Mumford and Sons.

northwestside story

I finally remembered my camera after all these years and snap some photos while heading to the DuPont Circle farmers market this morning. I usually park right near the Iraq Embassy on 18th St. NW and walk north a block before turning east to the market. These two badass associations are right across 18th St. from each other and I always imagine them as two rival gangs occasionally getting drunk on a Friday night, calling out insults across the street, and eventually rumbling in the middle of the street around midnight.

"You guys suck at splitting binomials!"

"What are you made of? Iron? Waffle iron? Wafflers!"

"Oh, yeah, find x, you no-talent eighth grade dropouts!"

"Quick, call Karl Rove. The game is on!"

I'm vaguely watching the Germany v. Australia tie at the World Cup and with Ally McCoist doing the color, I feel like either Sue Barker or John Parrott are going to bust in soon enough with either flirting or quips, respectively. I know, that's pretty deep, but if you lived in England for any period of time then you'll know what I'm talking about.

It's pizza night so I'm busy enough this evening. L. has added sausage as an option on her cream cheese extravaganza...we'll see how that works out.

t

i get one fucking vacation a year and i'm not going to fucking wisconsin

This gentle quip passed my darling's lips the other night. I have nothing more to say.

skool's out 4 summer

This is for Fairfax County Schools. The district is allegedly a top district but I’m downgrading them severely for a complete lack of actual professionalism. Sure, I imagine some schools work hard, some teachers work hard, but the guidance from the district board is severely lacking. The required school year and number of days of instruction for Virginia are 180 or 990 hours. Virginia also participates in the Standards of Learning annual tests (SOLs) that, in and of themselves, are a joke. What happens after completion of the SOLs for the elementary kids is…nothing. The kids sit on their asses, watch movies; do nothing. G. finished his SOLs for sixth grade on June 2nd. The last day of school is June 25th. That’s 17 days of Fairfax schools providing zero schooling – or, if it makes it easier, 9.4% of the school year. I don’t even have a kid in FCPS and it still infuriates me. And for this year, you can add the hair pulling and gnashing of teeth that took place while these mental giants tried to figure out what to do about the two blizzards and the days of school missed. They were due to add something like 3 or 4 days to the year so they petitioned the Virginia DOE to not have to complete those make-up days that would have taken them to required 180. They were relieved of one day, I believe. Why even apply for the waiver? Why not just say “We aren’t going to actually do anything but have the kids watch Escape to Witch Mountain so let’s call it good.” This also isn’t a one-year thing; it’s been like this for all three years in FCPS. It’s really an embarrassment. And, to add to the jackassery, the schools spend at least two weeks simply prepping the kids for the SOLs.. And by prep, I mean simply having them come as close to memorizing the test portions/questions as they possibly can without actually cheating…in a court of law. Together, we’re talking five to six weeks of nothing. Well done, FCPS.

I was searching for some tickets to a show in D.C. – the Black Keys – and came across this mildly, or totally, unrelated ad for a keyboard on craigslist. I think it might be translucent. I think it might have 97 keys – I hate 95-key keyboards – and more importantly, since they didn’t include a picture, I think it has white lettering on black keys. Do I need a USB port for this to work?

I’ve finished my quarter at school and don’t start anew until Monday, July 12th. It was a good quarter and I’ve wrapped up American Regional Cuisine, Latin Cuisine, and Nutrition: a nice summer break with a week in Stowe before I turned my attention to Baking, Pastry, and Garde Manger for the spring. L. also finished at the New School with very good grades – I think she’ll miss the place quite a bit come the fall.

things to ponder...and then eat

Every few months I end up stopping at the Italian Store in Arlington either on my way to pick up X at work, or on the way home. The gravitational pull that gets me into the parking lot is usually my complete lack of interest in cooking that evening; believe me, it's rare. The Italian Store is known far-and-wide for its made-to-order deli and pizza - swing in at lunch or at 6pm on a weeknight and there'll be a line of people; and, about a half-dozen folks knocking out sandwiches. (They are also a very good Italian market if you're searching for pastas, sauces, wines, etc.) Last night was one of those nights so I swung in and got a veggie sandwich for us, a turkey/salami for L., and a hot meatball sub with provolone for G (oh, and two hand-rolled cannoli). The first two sandwiches were excellent (they have great breads and top-of-the-line meats) as expected but it's the meatball sub I want to focus on. G. wasn't hungry so the sub sat for a while before I decided that I was still peckish and decided to give it a quick microwave hit and try what the boys call the best meatball sub out there...as if they know. I've no idea how or what they do but that thing was amazing. Simply. Amazing. I've never in my live eaten any deli sandwich, meatball, grinder, or whatever you call it, that was so utterly fantastic. The meatballs, the sauce, the cheese, the soft bread. I have nothing more to say about that.

We've got spanakopita and big beans for dinner. The kids have tacos. Two loaves of potato bread are doing their thing.

That is all.

t

eh, pay

As I was driving home yesterday I ended up at a light behind a car with this personalized plate:

ISITART

For some reason I felt the need to break it up and interpret it multiple ways:

IS IT ART
I SIT ART
IS I TART

That last one being an homage to Ali G.’s “Is you the fox?” (You either know your Ali G. or you don’t.)

Later on, in the same series of events, while driving home after picking up the kids at the Metro I asked them how school went, to which H. replied, “I did good today.” I, of course, said that it should really be “did well,” and he parried with, “no, did good.” It was pretty funny up to that point but got better when L. piped up, in the flow, with, “Did good? Like Superman?” Funny stuff, that.

I read Kitchen Confidential about ten years ago (?) when it first came out we were living in England. That was also about the same time I started to get more serious about cooking. I haven’t watched more than 20 or 30 minutes of Bourdain on TV in all these years but I’ve followed along a bit with his celebrity and career. Confidential was a really cool book that I feel should have been (and still should be, based on the lack of ‘go’ I see in some of my classmates) required reading for anyone considering the career. I bring this up because there’s a great interview with him at Slate.com today; an interview that covers a lot of ground and should also be required reading for everyone – maybe for some life guidance and cooking doctrine. Along with that, it’s an interview that reads very well in text format and that’s pretty rare. (The intro to the interview is also timely since I just baked a strawberry-rhubarb pie last weekend. For the record, I like it.)

I have little idea what’s on tap for the weekend.

experiences

On NPR this morning they were teasing an upcoming discussion about the Israel v. flotilla story and the clip they played from the expert who was to join them went something like this:

'The problem between the Israelis and Palestinians is about what’s going on in Israel. It’s also about what’s not going on.'

Nice. Covered all the bases there. I’ll either post this entry, or I won’t.

I lost my phone on Sunday afternoon – after the pool, probably whilst buying taro bubble tea – and nothing came of it. I had my e-mail address labeled on the back so I figured I’d come across someone paying it forward but that hasn’t happened. I checked my usage online and no one is up to nefarious deeds; I’m guessing the next person into the crowded parking lot may have run it over and it’s merely a pile of pieces that no one is much interested in clearing from the asphalt. I have now joined the iPhone army – on the same day they reported they no longer have unlimited data service. Of course, it probably won’t cost me anymore since I doubt I’ll be a massive data user (even X is a less than 200mb per month legal eagle.)

I finished second on my first little competition last night (tapas). There were four judges – three from Spanish places in D.C., and one chef from school – and they seemed pleased. The GM from a D.C. tapas restaurant stopped by afterwards and complimented my offerings, noting the homemade potato bread and Romesco. In the end, that’s the kind of input I’m looking for so it was a success all around. I did, in the end, add crabmeat to the recipe after X suggested it the night before and I think it helped quite a bit.

To offset that little story, I then proceeded to slice the living crap out of my left ring finger while prepping in class. A good chunk of the nail and skin; not to fear, staunched the bleeding after ten minutes, taped that bitch up, and got back to work. Life.

Love to all

t

mellow drama

I love three-day weekends. X is off at work - not required, as in dress-up the office-is-open required - but stuff that needs to be done. I've fed the hordes, made a strawberry/rhubarb pie with fresh stuff from the DuPont Circle Farmers Market, and I have a a couple of loaves of potatoe bread rising. One of those will get turned into small, thin toast bits and used for a tapas competition I've entered at school tomorrow night. Since it's allegedly an actual Spanish tapas competition (I know...), I'm adding a romesco sauce, asparagus tips, Manchego cheese, and a light anchovy-olive oil. I've some experience in Barcelona so I'm sticking to the tried-and-true of Catalan cuisine. Who knows? It's also pizza night so I'll be back in the flour in the not-too-distant future.

The 51 has been about on a strange, cultural weekend. On Saturday afternoon we headed into D.C. to stock up on cards, notes, and paper at Pulp DC and then headed to Shirlington to see Kites (NYTimes review here). I'd read a bit about it, as well as heard some review on NPR, so I was pretty intrigued by a mad mix of Bollywood and Hollywood action films. They did it well: action scenes, the boy-girl romance you'll remember from Slumdog, dance scenes (though they edited out a few for the American release), and a strangely happy ending. Was it great? No. Was it entertaining? Definitely. I would have liked the extra dance scenes. Last night we headed into D.C. for dinner and theatre: Rosa Mexicano and Gruesome Playground Injuries (at Woolly Mammoth), respectively (WaPo review of Gruesome, here). Mixed reviews on everything; Rosa wasn't as standardly good as normal and the waitress was inept, at best. The show, a two-actor play/story about growing up, depending on another, and the tragedy of life. It grew on me as the evening progressed but I still have it rolling around in my head. Maybe you'll get a later critique, maybe not.

The older two only have about a week of school left at the New School; I have no idea what to do with them for the two weeks between end of school and our trip to Stowe. It may involve them sleeping in and doing a whole lot of nothing.

While I took the gang swimming at Ft Myer yesterday, I stopped at the wall that runs throughout the base and took a picture. There are over 300,000 soldiers, sailors, marines, and airman buried at the National Cemetery - a flag for each one on Memorial Day.



t

i've cracked it

Since the summer seems to already be clicking right along, and our Stowe trip is earlier this year, I finally got on the ball and started sorting out a hotel for our mid-drive stop at the end of the month. The halfway point, from here to Dummerston, is near Port Jervis, NY – sitting romantically amidst the tri-state backwoods. Of course, for those that are willing to trust their luck to the I-95 corridor on a holiday weekend I say this – nuts. We always go the back route that takes us a bit west, and then north through Harrisburg, PA, before finally swinging back east and eventually up to Hartford, CT and onto Vermont. I call it the trip along all the I-Eighty numbered roads. I think (per the computer map guy – he knows who he is…) the trip is an hour longer by mileage but with little worry about horrid traffic. I’m in.

Last trip up we stayed at this little-piece-of-Americana place on the border that I thought was perfectly acceptable. X thought not, as relayed to me this morning via the “blah” face and voice, so I was off once again to attempt an overnight bivouac. Also, with one extra 14-year-old on the trip we probably need two rooms so my mission was that much harder. I’ve sorted out a Microtel with uniformly good reviews for the journey up – two rooms, hopefully adjoining – at a good rate: consider it settled. What’s most interesting about reading reviews about hotels, and something that is par for the course – are the crazed reviews that oftentimes proclaim “the filthiest” or “absolutely worst” hotel “I’ve ever encountered”. I have my own divining rod when reading multiple reviews so I’ve a good feeling for whether or not the writer is a crazed whackjob, or not. For instance, a review that downgrades a motel because the guest was snowed-in doesn’t carry much weight with me. It’s like the blast at the USPS delivery system when reviewing a product you bought at Amazon and then giving the actual product one star. Sorry, I’ve wandered. This review caught my eye for a motel that I decided to pass on after reading some not-so-glistening reviews.

This hotel threw away my special shoe horn to my $150.00 dress shoes that [were] purchased 2 weeks ago. They also discarded the special hat filler to use for flying [so] as to not to crush my new hat purchased 4 weeks ago when cleaning the room. They did say they were sorry, but did not take any discount or reimbursement for these items. I would suggest they use a little more care for personal items.

Personal items? Who is this guy, Hercules Poirot? Did they also misplace your Dapper Dan moustache wax? This guy (or gal?) clearly has some issues with maintaining a timeline on purchased items – and clearly they did some shopping at the Olde Englande Shoppe at some point during their last whaling vacation off the Cape. To be fair, if that’s possible at this point, I can understand some type of shoe horn that is extra special – long handle? Solid ivory? Made from the skull of a walrus – but it can’t actually be for a specific pair of shoes, right? They all go on the same way. I think the “…to my $150.00 dress shoes” is suppose to be the ringer here. The shoe horn is just a shoe horn and, new shoes or not, may well have been special. I don’t know what to make of the hat filler. Does anyone travel these days with filler for their derby? “Hold on, let me take of fmy hat, put the filler in, then store it neatly in this hat box I’ve also been toting around. Wait, not done yet, I need to store my cane and monocle, also…”

I know that cleaners at hotels and motels can be a bit nonchalant with your stuff but I might give them a pass on throwing out a little plastic shoe horn (there’s no way they threw out your granddad’s brass-and-cherry wood, 17th century shoehorn), and a pile of butcher paper taped into a ball that you claim as hat filler.

Mental.

rock n' roll youth

Back in my youth, my wild youth, I was the rhythm guitar player in the greatest air guitar band of all time: The Tubes. I know what you're asking yourself, "Aren't The Tubes a real band?" - yes, they were. They were a theatrical rock band of epic proportions led by the great (Omaha native) Fee Waybill. We (Todd, Skip, Jeff, and I - yes, two Todds) were enthralled with The Completion Backward Principle album and ended up translating our Quarters-playing, skirt-chasing, air-guitar rocking ideals into a band that, simply put, rocked. And rocked hard. We did air guitar festivals around the Omaha area, we did entire band sets with props and crew, we scored...plenty. After our first outing, we moved to full-on jumpsuits, punk-slit glasses, necklaces, and killer equipment. Back in 19-and-82 (or so...) you couldn't air guitar with actually equipment - you had to fabricate your gear and rock like a star simply based on your moves and your thrash. As you can see above, when thrashing was required, thrashing happened - that shot was me at the Howard St. Tavern (RIP) in Omaha in about 1983 or 1984 - rock n' roll can be fuzzy. This was no doubt during a rousing version of Talk to Ya Later...lordy, lordy, lordy.

What's brought this all on is a package of stuff that Melissa sent back from Omaha with L.: including, most importantly, three VHS tapes (how to play) of live performances from festivals, Skip's basement, and the environs of his foosball-equipped basement. I do believe that every piece of tape was from our pre-drinking days that were made up nothing by (original) Mt. Dew, foosball, ping-pong, and the original Atari game station.

I. am. old.

t

p.s. I believe on VHS tape includes the band in the guise of The Cars, The Romantics, my stunning turn as Rick Springfield, and a (should be censored) version of Steve Wonder and Paul McCartney doing Ebony and Ivory. Skip and I will NEVER be appointed to the bench with that video.

that'll work

Build Blog has moved along to assessing the qualities of some cardboard forts. I love this stuff.

…“design paralysis”. Grade: F

L. is in Omaha; dropped her off at the security checkpoint at about 6am this morning. Strange to see her wander off unaccompanied. I may have been giving her too many details – as I do – particularly when I yelled “Gate 9!” to her as I walked away and she waved me off. Not a goodbye wave, an “off” wave.

X pointed out this morning that she’s concerned about the lettuce and the fennel. They may need to be switched in the garden plot. I was thinking the same thing.

I’ve added a new word to my list that I don’t want to hear in meetings anymore: efforts.

“During our previous efforts…”
“For this effort…”
“We are looking forward to other efforts…”

I’ll let you leave.

new script from ed wood

Another quick bit from X’s travels to the organic farm last weekend with her troop. As relayed to me, there happened a conversion that passed something like this between Farmer A and my doll:

X: “I’d love to take home some of your nettles.”

Farmer: “Why would you want nettles?”

X: “Well, you know, I love nettle soup.”

Farmer: (strange look)

X: (zips it)

Now, what happens as she telling me this story is a continuing narrative and stage directions about why she suddenly realized the farmer thought she was whack-a-doodle and that it was best, at that moment, to keep the depths of that maze under wraps. As she continues telling me what she really wanted to say, to further the exchange, this is what happened:

X: “What I really meant was watercress soup and I just got confused, sort of…”

Me: (staring blithely at her)

X: “The problem is that watercress soup really is quite common.”

Me: “Really?”

X: “Yes. They served it everyday in the Buttery whilst I was at Cambridge.”

Me: “Ah. Good thing you didn’t continue along your lines of defense for nettle soup while you were gabbing with Farmer Jason. I’m pretty sure your time spent studying Chinese poetry at Cambridge wouldn’t have added anything to his understanding of you.”

I swear.

All the kids will be out-and-about this weekend: L. to Omaha (Th-Su) and the boys to Wisconsin (Sa-Mo). We didn’t really plan it, merely the way of the world.

t

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.

just a nick

On my sports front - the Caps have locked up the 23-year-old Nicklas Backstrom to a nice, long, 10-year contract. I couldn't be happier, in a sports way. Well, I could but that involves a Stanley Cup.

t

rock market

The 51 headed down the walk to the Metro and on to the Eastern Market this morning. X and kids were off to save a river in the wilds of Virginia. Apparently, the farmers show up to see just what these Buddists were up to - the farmers trotted off thinking the Buddists with pickaxes and saws were badass. I'll let her pass that along.

A few things to pass along. First, the Slobberbone Web site has suddenly been redesigned which bodes well for the greatest bar band of all time getting back in the studio and on the road. I've brought it up before, and I'll do it again, nobody but nobody in this generation is a better songwriter - and no band is better in a bar - than Brent Best and Slobberbone. Great stuff. Even if it's for only one more turn, that turn will be gold. It's hard to lockdown any really good video of the guys rocking but I can give you some Brent doing one of the greatest songs ever, Robert Cole. The song is loosely based on a piece by the great author, Larry Brown. Kills.



I picked up a few more 1970s cookbooks at Capital Hill Books today. These were a hat trick of the Time Life International series: Middle Eastern, Italy, and Spain and Portugal. What's interesting is that they were $6, $7, and $8; they were all in the same condition so I'm trying to sort out the pricing. What's interesting about a lot of these series' is that we've dumbed down ethnic cuisine over the last 30 years and these books give some solid skills and deep recipes from the old days. You get history, biography, and cooking all in one.

My second push is for Sarah's graduation from her Vet Tech program on the 20th. A much smarter 21-year-old than I ever was. She did her first year at ASU before deciding that it wasn't for her - the college thing. She turned to her first love and then ran through it like nothing. She wants to go on to Vet school after this and she's laid a nice path in that direction; quite admirable. I imagine she'll work for a few years or so and then apply to move along her career path. As with most of my lot, I've not been as close as I should have been over the years but that doesn't dull my pride.

We're doing a belated dinner for Amy tomorrow that will have langistinos, a huge organic leg of lamb, and pie tips. You do what you can do...

t

(My cat on my new chair)

Of course, he’s using the worst-case scenario to prove a point on that end of the spectrum but there’s certainly the converse on the other end: I’ll call them the home flippers and bankers. Don’t worry, the money will never stop flowing…

We had a logic discussion on another puzzle that was presented by G.’s teacher and that the kids may have understood better than she. I reminds me of something pointed out in the article – we aren’t great with probabilities. Here are the basics from G’s class problem:

1. Two players will participate. One player will have all the odd numbers and the other will have the even numbers.

2. The winner will be the player that matches (odd or even) the final total/sum of two rounds of a random number generator.

3. The first round/iteration of the random number generator will be completely random. This result will be seen but does not mean a player has won anything.

4. The second iteration of the generator is programmed to select an even number two of every three ‘spins’.

5. All of these parameters are known by both players prior to the game beginning.

6. The prize is $20.

7. To play you pay $10 for the privilege.

8. There is no option after the first roll – you can’t vacate the game and have your money back.

9. The only question being asked here is this: Is the game a fair, or equally likely to be won, by either player when they pay their $10 to participate prior to the first number?

On the lighter side, I love Steve Nash. Always have. Having played my share of basketball in my youth I understand a few things. First, when you get to a certain level of repetitive play you sort out angles, distances, and power – or thrust, or whatever ratio we need to use – when shooting. We’ve seen it a million times at the NBA level when players show the innate ability to know where they are, spatially, and where the basket is. Second, for players who are pure shooters there are constants on the court and nothing moves: the three-point line, the free throw line, the basket. What I would anecdotally believe is that if you blindfolded a scorer after putting him at his chosen point along the three-point arc, that he would probably hit the rim 3 or 4 times out of 5 simply because the muscle memory when shooting from point x is pretty much hardwired into his system. But, if you give that guy only one eye – or, take one away – the lack of translation from the optics to your muscles will override what your muscles already know to be true. I don’t know how many shots these guys took during the shoot but, rest assured, NBA players probably only throw up an air ball, when unguarded on a gym floor, once in every 5,000 shots.


Lastly, for the week: they’ve decided to implement a Barnes Dance crosswalk at 7th and H St. NW in D.C. beginning this week. If you hop over and read the story and watch the videos, I’ll give you a bit of visual reconnaissance. In the first video, the Verizon Center – home of the Caps, the Wizards, the Mystics, and endless concerts, is located along the two-block span to the left of the screen. Crossing diagonally from where the camera is, are two blocks of restaurants and bars: hence, the endless pedestrian traffic in the area – all day and all night (there is also a Metro stop underneath the Verizon Center). I have only ever seen the diagonal crossing once in my life and it was in Denver way back in the late 70s; some of the comments to the story imply that it’s happening everywhere but it’s been a rare sight for me. I’m cool with it because I hate that intersection for all the reasons they used to justify the dance; bets on what happens once the traffic cops walk away after on week of keeping it safe?

T

cat five-0

Maybe ‘Outlaw’ would be a better title but I’m going to stick with undercover operations – of a sort.

Sometime last week Pumpkin was jumped near our porch by another cat – which isn’t a new neighborhood arrival as far as I can tell – and ever since he’s been timid at the door. For me, he’ll still go out even if I have to give him a push on occasion; for X, she has to step out onto the porch so he can see that she’s not slain by some bully cat awaiting a good pounce opportunity. The end result is that Pumpkin has now added, and rightly so in this case, to his plethora of ‘issues’.

Right. You may ask yourself, “Where’s Lemon in all of this?”, and you’d be well to ask. Most of the time the Slayer appears to be napping and unawares on our bed’s comforter; blind to the happenings around her kingdom. In her mind, she’s already laid down the law of the land and any cat would be mad to consider either patrolling her block or, gasp, coming onto the porch. Until yesterday I wasn’t too sure if she’d be more bothered by the invasion of her suzerainty, or the fact that her pal was getting bullied. Who knows what a cat thinks? As I was heading out to class yesterday she was sitting near the front door and I asked (as it were) her if she wanted to head outside; she responded negatively, and indicated such, by walking a few feet to the den and hopping up on my desk so she could peer out the front (porch) window. As I stepped out, I noticed that Pumpkin was crouched on the front corner of the porch and that my sweet, little killer was keeping a close eye on the situation. Now, I don’t claim to understand what logical happenings or communication methods that may or may not exist in the brains of Felis Domesticus, but I’m certain that we have either a bait-and-beat situation, or a good friend merely keeping an eye upon the other. Whatever the genesis of the stakeout, there will be some misery if old bully shows up any time soon. And don’t think for a second that if an intruder approaches that Lemon can’t be from the desk, through the hall, out the cat door, and in full flight-upon-thee in less then three seconds. We’ll know when the issue has been settled by a few scratches and whatnot on Lemon’s ears; we may not hear it but we’ll know it. As for that other cat, you’re walking through the valley of death, not the shadow, the valley.

My two nights of American Cuisine this week involve the great dishes of the Great Plains. I asked if I could have a pass, being a native and all, but my chef said no. I then asked if I could just make some meat loaf, green bean casserole with Durkee’s fried onions, and a baked potato, and he said no. I think he doubts my cred.

We did get back to quiz night this week and did well – somewhere around 7^th for the evening. My contribution was managing to provide the Holy Trinity of Cajun cooking (onion, celery, green pepper in a mirepoix). I guess all this time and money has finally paid off…

t

smoking? pot? what?

“Again, understand that walking away is a kind of communication, too. Sometimes "better communication" is "less communication." You can't argue everything. And you can't argue the things you pick ad infinitum.”

This is an input in a conversation thread at Ta-Nehisi Coates' blog after a long comment thread blew up last week on one of his entries. Within the confines of the discussion it's pretty hard to process and when pulled out of the context it makes lots of confused sense to me. I don’t even know if that makes sense, check that. I think the heart of the sentence is that we, as political and social creatures, tend to think we have the back story of an issue when we really don’t; that story comes from the experiences of our lives and no one else’s. We don’t understand the position of another person whose life is so varied from ours and sometimes positing, and then forcefully debating that issue, isn’t going to necessarily come to something positive. As much as I want to believe in my opinion on gay rights, women’s rights, civil rights, being black, or growing up poor, the facts are the facts and I’ll never know regardless of my good intentions; sometimes that’s hard to accept. Sometimes you do your level best and then walk away.

We managed our way through L.’s birthday dinner, and a bit of an ode to the mothers at the table, last night. She requested salmon (I smoked it), magic potatoes, and tzatziki. She also picked out a chocolate cake from the Great Baking Book and we made that together in the afternoon. Nothing says lots of dirty pots and dishes like a made-from-scratch cake – I actually ran out of stuff to use.

Our trip to Eastern Market yesterday was a smash. The crepe guy was there and with our early arrival we were able to beat most of the line and at least keep warm with crepes for The 61. I went savory and the two girls went sweet. We gathered up the King of Chairs that we purchased last week (see below), X picked up some pearls, and I pulled some cheese from the Market’s cheese seller, some S.C. strawberries, and a pound of fresh S. Virginia asparagus. We also stumbled upon a gentleman who runs a great stand that stocks used cookbooks and used cast iron and enameled cast iron cookware. He gathers high quality used Le Crueset, Capco, and other marks and then sells them for a fraction of what you’d pay at Williams or elsewhere. The Copco stuff he had was about $35-$40 per piece and quite nice but couldn’t match the three pieces that X scored at Goodwill for $10, total, a few months back. He was happy we had some at home and didn’t rue the fact that we’d managed product for so little. (Copco is now making the Batali stuff so if you’ve seen that newer line then you have a general idea of the classic line.) He also had five or six volumes of the late 1970s set of Time Life cookbooks that are popular among all chefs – most of my instructors have a least a portion of the nearly 30-volume set. I grabbed four of those and disappeared into the morning sun.

I’m registered for classes next quarter (begins after the 4th of July holiday) and have Garde Manger, Intro to Baking , and Intro to Pastry. I sense loads of sweets and breads early in the week.

t