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Month: November 2009

Countdown to March

I’ve a long-term plan for the front walkway that will in two to three years time be so awesome you may be compelled to smack you mama. Here is the recipe:

smackyoumama frontwalk cocktail
300 tulipa rococo
200 tulipa black parrot
125 lilum alba
50 allium sphærocephalon
6 single white pæonia

Blend the rococo and black parrot tulip bulbs on either side closest to the walk. Next to those plant the six peonies. Behind the peonies blend the lilies and the allium.

It’ll be a nice height progression from the 12-18″ tulips to the 18-24″-ish peonies to the 24-30″ allium mixed with the 4-6′ lilies. Plus the smell of the lilies along the walk for the majority of july may compel you to kiss you auntie on the mouf. I’ll plant basil seeds among the tulips so when they die back the basil will take over. 2-3 years for the peonies and the lilies to get to a good size, but it won’t be anything to shake a stick at in the meantime.

500-tulip-bulbs

Washington Beaches Are State Highways

It’s true. You can drive for miles on the beach in Washington, go from town to town to town, as far as the sand will let you.

washington-state-beach-highway

There are rules however. This taken from the Long Beach Peninsula Visitor’s Bureau website:

“All drivers and vehicles must be licensed and insured just as on any other State Highway (Sorry, no ATVs). The speed limit is 25 mph, with extra caution to be taken for other vehicles, pedestrians, sunbathers, and beach debris. The beach is patrolled frequently and all laws are strictly enforced. Reckless or careless driving is not tolerated and can result in expensive tickets and even license suspension, so please, play it safe! Parking is allowed.” (emphasis mine)

So no donuts!  This means you!

donuts-beach-driving-washington

The Stephen Warrington™ Method of Name Retention

Here’s one they don’t teach in Dale Carnegie.

I am not just horrible with names, I am abyssmal. Consider, if you will, the following actual encounter (note: this is not the actual encounter. this is a dramatic re-creation):

Mise-en-scène: I miss the first and arrive for the second weekly meeting of the birth class. After a brief lesson in pelvic floor care we are separated into gender-specific groups. I sit down next to two of the other five men who comprise the male half of the six (including Courtney and I) couples in the class. We are all wearing name tags.

Me: So have you guys already met?

2nd guy: Yes, but not officially, we all said our names last time.

Me: (eying his nametag) I’ve got that much on you already.

………

Me: I’m Steve

2nd guy: Hi, Dave (I think it was Dave)

3rd guy: Craig (I think it was Craig)

Another guy sits down.

4th guy: Have you guys already met? (he must have missed the first class too)

Me: We were just talking about that. I’m steve. (I don’t remember his name).

We shake hands: me-guy 4. They shake hands: guy 4-guy 3, guy 4-guy 2. Guy 5 sits down, the name-exchange process is repeated, without the handshakes: me-guy 5,  guy 5-guy 4, guy 5-guy 3, guy 5-guy 2. I don’t remember his name. Guy 6 sits down. His nametag says Roel.

Guy 4: Roel? Is that…

Roel: Dutch.

I have forgotten all four of the other men’s names already, but I will never forget Roel’s. Not because he’s dutch, not because he was wearing the brightest pinkest shirt I have ever seen on a man, not because he designs software, but because he wasn’t just one more dave or craig or steve.

When I meet someone for the first time, I am thinking a hundred other things besides their name. In fact, the name is probably the least important of all of the wash of particularities that flow from one person to another in a first encounter. Are they a threat, are they attractive, are they intelligent, are they deceptive, are they warm, do they have style, etc etc etc.

But Roel! Tall, blonde, pink-shirted Dutch Roel. All I can think to ask him is if he has seen “The Limey”, with it’s Luis Guzmán Eduardo Roel character. He hasn’t of course, being Dutch, so I don’t. Even more, why do I remember the name of a supporting character in a movie I saw three years ago? I will tell you why: because it’s a super sticky name.

Courtney and I are in the midst of choosing a name for the boy that will be delivered in January. This is no small task. It is, in fact, an awesome responsibility, and as such has me tripping over every name I like to think I like. But this I learned last night with the guys: whatever it is, it better be sticky.

I pretty much every time joke when someone asks what we’ll name him: Ichabod. Cleetus. Malachi. Pervis. Etc. But what’s not funny about those names is that I guaraneffingtee you you would remember Cleetus’ name when you met him. You might laugh about it later, but you would never forget.

To Collect Something or Everything

I like lots of pretty things, but I don’t officially collect anything. Not seriously at least. I often think it might behoove me to get serious about something, except that I am bad at being single-minded for long. I am great at short intense bursts of interest, but the idea of studying the esoterica of philately or the ephemera of numismatics for the rest of my life seems dreadfully boring. I just don’t consider any one thing important enough to warrant my attention for so long, and prefer to live a collage of assembled shells and books and rocks and plants and bones and vegetables and websites and foods and cetera.

I’m not sure that breadth of knowledge trumps depth however. Is there an objective answer to this one?

Auto-Horn-Tooting Put to Auto-Challenge

If I were in tenth grade and my English teacher said we were all under too much pressure and so instead of doing work today we were going to sit in a circle and talk about our feelings and she started off with an exercise where we had to complete the sentence “if you knew me well you would know that I…” I would finish the sentence by saying “you would know that when I want to find something I find it.”

Cases in point: When I got to the beach in Washington I said I want to find a whole sand dollar. And I did! A whole bunch of ’em. And when I was walking behind a tennis club in Vermont on Saturday I said I want to find a tennis ball and guess what! I found two! I could come up with dozens more (or at least one) of this kind of story, but I am modest man, mindful of his audience and its need to rush on to the next big thing so I will limit myself to these two.

But now, a challenge to my preening, a one in one hundred million needle in a haystack if the haystack were the sea and the needle were an albino lobster challenge, I WANT TO FIND AN ALBINO LOBSTER!!

don't f**k with whitey!
don't f**k with whitey!

It’s Official: Offal’s Not So Awful After All

I’ve been thinking about all the kinds of foods I’ve eaten in the last couple of culinarily adventurous years, and am somedeal proud of the assortment of variety meats I’ve been lucky and brave enough to try. Below is a list of the types of offal I’ve eaten, organized by animal, followed below by my humble appraisal of each:

pig: belly,cheeks
chicken: liver, gizzard, heart, feet
turkey: gizzard, heart
cow: liver, brain, thymus, stomach, kidney, tongue
monkey: syke!

Gizzards is the bomb-diggy. Look at me askance all youse want, but I love rubbery meat! The more it’s made of muscle, the more I’ll like it, almost guaranteed. Gizzards are tricky thanks to the good bit of gristle you have to work your teeth around, but the dark sinewy hard-packed muscle is simply super-duper.

Hearts are rubbery too, with the added bonus of allowing one to consume and assume the courage of the animal it came from (seeing as how I most often eat chicken hearts this may explain my cold feet and weak knees).

Tripe the jury’s still out. I’ve had it twice, the first time, in Rome, it was delish, the second time, in Madrid, it tasted like cow poo. Maybe it was another type (there are three, each from a different of the cow’s four stomachs). Maybe the Spanish don’t flush it as well? I dunno. Texturally however tripe is another rubbery to the point of almost crunchy meat, which I liked.

Brain was a little too squishy with assorted bits, like rancid custard. Not my kinda texture at all.  Plus I really had to deliberately not think about what what I was eating had been thinking about before it became my meal, lest I get it into my head that I was eating it’s thoughts. Calf brain, my stomach, my brain: a most unholy communion.

Thymus (sweetbread) had a little better texture, kinda flaky almost like fish, but the taste was not at all worth the bother. I’ve had tastier meat in a slim jim.

Liver: the godawfullest type of food put on this planet to date. No, thank you mom, I don’t care how rich in iron it is I still don’t want to eat that cow’s toxin-catcher.

Kidney came in a pie. I couldn’t tell you what it was like or how it tasted. Either I don’t remember or it was unnoticable enough not to lodge in my memory in the first place.

Feet: probably more dependent on the preparation than anything else (like wings I reckon) but ultimately not worth it to get the tiny little bit of tasty between all those knuckles. 1.3 billion people may disagree with me on that one.

Tongue: I like it! Another pretty rubbery meat. And good on a samich.

Cheeks: Indistinguishable (to me) from any pother pulled pork-ish preparation. Tasty enough, but I could have just had the PP sandwich and not known the difference. I’d like to try it prepared in other ways.

There is plenty of offal I have not (yet) tried: fries (I can tell you I’m in no hurry to scratch that one off my list), lips, snout, tail, chitterlings, cockscombs, spleen, udder, cheeks, blood (unless blood sausage counts), and for better or for worse, penis, uterus, scrotum, etc. Name yer part, you can find a dish of it.

Then there’s your various offal concoctions, such as liverwurst (yum!) and scrapple, souse, chitterlings, and many others.

I’m all for waste parts æsthetically. It’s an essential component of my intractable hedonism, and so by principle if something tastes good that’s all I need, even/especially if it violates some primal taboo like don’t eat thoughts. But a little variety in your meat is anti-waste too — it uses up the whole animal not just the muscle — and therefore would please my parents, republicans, and other conservative types. What other cuisine, I ask you, strikes such an impressive balance between moral decline and the kind of restraint that keeps civilizations strong?

Blue Lobster

I found a very blue lobster claw on the beach in Maine. Pretty!

Courtney looked it up and as I live and breathe there is such a thing that lives and breathes. One in two to four million lobsters is blue, depending on which source you consult. That got us purty excited. It’s a genetic mutation (like redheads!) that causes the little crusty-tasty to overproduce protein that combines with carotene to make the blue.  There are also yellow lobsters (one in thirty million), two-tone or half-and-half lobsters (one in fifty million), and baddest of the bad sea-scuttling mofos, the albino lobster (one in one hundred million)

I looked at my little blue claw again later and compared it to this guy and I don’t think so. You can see around the blue that there is red, and it’s blue only in places where it looks worn. More likely than I found the the missing limb of some ancient mutated sea freak now roaming the bottoms wailing for his missing claw, I think the sun and waves just wore the red away.

Decide fer yerselfs:

blue-lobster