Randall Cooks: Homemade Paletas…or Ice Pops…Frozen Treats…

I know, because of my day job, the word “Popsicle®” is a registered trademark. Due to this, I do make an effort to use more generic term when referring to frozen treats on sticks.

“Paleta” made its way into my personal lexicon a few summers ago, upon attending the Pickathon music festival in Happy Valley, Oregon. Though we’d likely have tried them regardless of weather, the sun was particularly oppressive during the 2009 edition of the event, driving us to find any and all methods for keeping cool while enjoying our weekend.

Fortunately, the Pickathon folks commit to food and beverage offerings being local, affordable, and delicious. Drawing from the rich talent pool of the Portland area, you get a great variety of palate temptations. Among them during what would seem a fortuitously hot weekend were Sol Pops Paletas.

I won’t go into all the details of the difference between a “paleta” and what many of us in this country typically call a “popsicle.” Nor am I that interested in their assertion of “wellness” in regard to their particular product. When the numbers creep toward the triple digits, those are simply side-show attractions along the highway to refreshingly cold sweetness (on a stick!), and I drive really fast!

Note: I drive less fast these days than I did before I became “Daddy,” which allows me to reserve the “slow down, you lunatic!” reaction I instinctively have toward the teenagers always in a rush up and down the hill in our neighborhood.

They were carrying four or five varieties at the time. From their website, I see they’ve expanded their offerings by quite a bit. Because I have a weakness for the combination of sweet and spicy, I started with the “Cucumber Lime Jalapeno” paleta, before sampling my way through their entire menu throughout the weekend.

Not only did I come away with a new word for frozen treats on sticks that was NOT a trademark, I also was hit with the revelation that the making of such items is remarkably simple and not necessarily limited to the nasty, fake flavors offered commercially.

This really should not be a big discovery. Did I not try to freeze Kool-Aid(R) in ice cube trays with toothpicks suspended in them with the aid of a sheet of plastic wrap way back in the 1970′s? Yet, many years of living in the American consumer culture ultimately turned these into things you either bought at the store or didn’t eat, the magic of their creation best left to people with factories and machinery and distribution networks. I used to think the same of, say, salsa. Takes something to shake me from the disillusion of complexity, even now.

Although our second trip to Pickathon was accompanied by weather much more typical of a Pacific Northwest summer, our need for paletas was bolstered by the addition of a seven-month-old toothless wonder. As we often thought throughout his first year-and-change with no teeth, we thought Owen might be teething and would benefit from sharing

These will ‘pay for themselves,’ but only if you’d otherwise buy your ice pops.

Though…he wasn’t really that interested in really sharing. Once he got a taste, it was all over.  He ended up eating the better part of two cantaloupe-flavored paletas in short order, which also foreshadowed cantaloupe proving to be one of his favorite foods.

While shopping for dinner provisions on a particularly warm (for Seattle) spring evening, I recalled the episode. Without any idea of a recipe other than knowing we had sugar, vanilla extract, yogurt, and coconut milk at home, I bought some “Tovolo Groovy Ice Pop Molds” and a cantaloupe (yes…organic…so what?!) and planned to deliver a surprise to my toddler son I figured would be at least as delicious as what I could buy for him, but also contain only a few ingredients and no chemical preservatives, colorings, or flavorings.

Ideally, I’d have a recipe to share.

I do not.

I got as much flesh from the cantaloupe as I could and combined it with whatever amount of low-fat Greek-style yogurt we had left in the container, a bit of sugar, and a splash of vanilla extract. From there, it was immersion blender, funnel, and paleta molds. It’s not science; it’s art. If it tastes good when it’s blended, it will taste good frozen.

The result?

Bliss!

Brain Freeze!

Sorry, son! Apparently I gave you the gift of something tasty enough for you to eat it as fast as you can, while maybe not having given you genetically the gift I enjoy for being able to absorb very cold things quickly without the dreaded “brain freeze.”

The rest of you, get to blending and freezing, but, enjoy at appropriate speeds.

West Seattle Living: Pan Africa Grill Does Everything Wrong

Perhaps I am partially to blame.

When I first heard the Pan Africa Grill was opening in our neighborhood last fall, I was instantly interested. I like Ethiopian food, which was apparently a large part of the venture’s core offerings. While Seattle has a fair number of options for Ethiopian and east African dining, I’m always happy to have a west Seattle entry of favorite cuisines. One of the effects of living here seems to be that if I don’t have to cross the bridge, leaving the neighborhood, I’d just as soon keep it local.

I’m sure it’s part of some larger personality flaw.

Anyhow, as far as I knew, this would be the first option for Ethiopian nearby, so it was going on a list of places to try.

And there it stayed for a while.

Then came the season premiere of “Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations” which took place in Mozambique. Was a pretty great and interesting episode aside from the food content, to be honest, but all I could think about was how much Bourdain seemed to be enjoying eating something called “Piri Piri Chicken.” Granted, he was doing so accompanied by a rather large bottle of beer at a table near a very sunny beach.

A consultation with the Google revealed to me that I wouldn’t need leave the neighborhood to get a taste of the chicken, as it was listed dead-center on the menu of none other than Pan Africa Grill.

Though, it being Seattle, large beer at a sunny beach-side table…take more than Google to find that (sorry Sergey and other rich dude whose name I forget because it’s not Sergey).

So it was that discussions of dinner plans for a Tuesday night quickly went to “maybe this is a good time to try Pan Africa Grill.” The Missus was clearly trying to keep me from making a mess in the kitchen more than she was trying to indulge my desire for the promise of spectacularly spicy and tangy chicken, but that’s okay, isn’t it?

The only slight objection I raised is that Owen hadn’t been in bed by his stated bed-time in several successive nights and that we’d run the risk of extending the streak by dining out. Wasn’t a strenuous objection, rather a heading-off of the suggestion we make a shopping run after dinner to get a few things.

Shopping is not dessert.

Despite concerns about bed times, we didn’t manage to enter Pan Africa Grill’s front door until 6:50. It happens, especially with the obstacles the city continually puts in front of anyone trying to get to the westside from Seattle (my oh my, the bleeding construction never ends…)

No quick greeting at the front door. It happens, especially at smaller, indie joints on off nights.

The woman who seemed to be arranging tables and carrying menus passed us a few times, but didn’t bother to acknowledge she saw us waiting to be acknowledged. This…probably shouldn’t happen. Hospitality usually opens with a greeting of some sort. Like it or not, once you’ve opened a restaurant, you’re in the hospitality business to some degree.

Eventually we were led to a table. The length of the wait wasn’t really that notable. Or, it wouldn’t have been except for the lack of a greeting.

Now, my son is just over two years old. You wouldn’t confuse him, height-wise, for someone old enough to drive. Despite this, we were taken to a table with four adult-sized chairs and two adult menus, and the woman quickly moved along. In almost all our dining experiences to date, this would be because she was going to fetch a high chair, though, usually, we’ll be asked whether we’d prefer a high chair or booster seat.

After far too many minutes, however, with no return on behalf of our hostess, I decided to strike out on my own in search of an appropriate seat for my son.

I went toward the back of the restaurant, which opens into a big, bright room that seemed like it would be a lovely space in which to have dinner. Unfortunately, there was some sort of cooking class being conducted in that room, which I quickly got the impression I had interrupted. So, back to the dark, narrower part of the restaurant where the small number of diners in the house were sequestered.

Having seen the back room, it became more obvious how dark and unappealing that particular area of the building was by comparison. Also, due to the hallway that connected to the kitchen, the smells from the kitchen seemed to be drafting directly to us. This might be okay in some cases, but the aroma was overwhelmingly of onion. It was not pleasant.

After yet another too long period of time, I managed to catch the hostess (I’m just calling her that for sake of convenience. She seemed to be the catch-all front-of-house person. And by “the,” I do mean “only.”) to ask whether we might get a high chair.

“We only have one and it is being used.”

Booster seat?

“No. We don’t have any.”

Some will have already dismissed this along the lines of “people with kids expect the world to cater to them” which is some weird default thing thrown out by some people without kids who seem to resent that people with kids want to still take part in things rather than limit our public appearances to places catering specifically to children.

To those, I offer only something like, “Go fuck yourself.”

I smiled, chuckled, and offered that it was “no big deal” and that we would “find a way to make it work.”

Should it matter that, at some point over the next hour-and-change we waited for any sign of our food to be arriving, The Missus took Owen to wash his hands, partly to distract him from the fact he’d been sitting mostly still for the better part of an hour, and discovered that the restaurant did have booster seats just sitting unused on a shelf?  I don’t actually believe we were told they didn’t have any as part of a very Seattle-like passive-aggressive strike at people who would dare bring a child into what is clearly not a child-friendly restaurant, but…what is the remaining explanation? She doesn’t know what a booster seat is?!

Still…I choose to believe it was innocent.

No kids menu here, by the way, and no help from the hostess as to what might make a suitable item for a child. Of course, asking for food for a child makes most people think you’re looking for their closest thing to chicken fingers, pizza, or a grilled cheese, so it maybe is again my fault that the woman suggested plantain chips.

We were getting those anyway. We added a chicken sambusa to the appetizer order and figured we’d share some of our entree items with Owen.

Well, I didn’t think I’d be able to give him any of the Piri Piri Chicken or even the Harissa Mac & Cheese, but probably some of my Cilantro Mashed Coconut Potatoes. The Missus ordered Chicken Doro Wott which came with “injera,” which we love and figure to be the thing Owen could eat, if nothing else.

The appetizers came out in a reasonable amount of time. We all enjoyed the plantain chips. Owen didn’t like the sambusa as much, but…he’s two; what does he know? It was good.

And then…just a long, long wait.

Not a long, long wait peppered by frequent updates on what was taking so long or how much longer it would be. Nor with offers of more appetizers while our food was spectacularly delayed. In fact, I don’t remember seeing the hostess/server/catch-all at our table other than for collecting the dishes from the entrees.

Nothing when I walked by her on the way out the door to run up and down the block with Owen to get him some Owen time doing Owen things which does not really include sitting still at a table waiting for food to appear. Nothing when I came back 15 minutes later, at which point I entered the building thinking, for sure, I’d been outside long enough for food to have appeared.

Nothing…just a whole lot of nothing.

We made the decision to have the food packed directly to take home at that point. I let The Missus pay the bill, so I was not present to hear the woman running the show explain that it was only going to be another 5 to 10 minutes (turned out to be nearly 20 from that point, says my wife), nor was I there when my wife was told that we were not being charged for the milk our son had.

Nearly 90 minutes to deliver two menu items and you comp a milk?!

Bare minimum, you should be taking care of the appetizers, but, for a fuck-up of this magnitude, you should be comping the entire bill and probably still be banking that the guest is unlikely to return. Short of that, comp nothing at all because, honestly, it’s a bit insulting. It’s like your acknowledging that you blew it, but can barely be bothered to say you are sorry about it.

And, come to think of it, the word “sorry” never came up. I was finally summoned from my table to the front of the restaurant to collect my food (which, by the way, was still 5 minutes from being ready…I think she wanted the dining room to have one less very unhappy person sulking at their table) and stood there waiting in silence. Man, even a, “Oh, by the way, EVERYONE knows that it takes over an hour to make Piri Piri Chicken so you suck for being mad about this” would have been preferable to the silent treatment. The lack of acknowledgement of a problem(aside from the graciously comped milk) is astonishing.

We got the food home and ate in shifts while trying also to get the boy bathed and in jammies and read his nightly two books. Hence, by the time we actually ate it, it was not as hot as it would have been.

What I remember most from Bourdain’s description of Piri Piri Chicken was, “You notice whenever they put the piri piri sauce on the table, they dole that shit out like it’s pure cocaine. There’s never more than a tiny little bit in there. They don’t trust you with a lot of it…You don’t want to hold onto this spicy chicken and then go take a leak later. That would hurt.”

Hence, I was expecting…no…CRAVING some heat.

What I got was a vaguely spicy half-chicken coated in a sauce that was heavy on the citrus and garlic. The citrus dominated. It was unbalanced. You could call it sloppy.

Same for the mac & cheese offering. Was all harissa up front. Nothing behind it. In fact, I’d challenge anyone to identify anything remotely cheesy about it. I would not be surprised to learn there is no cheese at all in that dish.

The potatoes were a whole mess of bland spiked violently with cilantro. The cilantro was so completely overwhelming that I started to have some sympathy for people who don’t like cilantro. I usually think they’re crazy, but if it delivers to their palate the same taste-shock I got with this…I should be nicer to them.

The Missus found her dish to be too spicy. I tasted it and have to sadly report that it was, indeed, spicier than mine (you know, the one with the chile pepper next to it on the menu). At this point, you just figure…there’s nothing going right in this restaurant. Just nothing. I don’t have one good thing to say about it!

Now, had the food come out in 15 minutes? Hell, in 30? Well, we’d still have been underwhelmed by the food, no doubt, as well as the absence of any personality in the atmosphere of the restaurant, but…that would have been it. We’d have eaten and left underwhelmed, destined to either omit Ethiopian from our dining-out options or accept that we couldn’t do it without crossing a bridge or two.

Learn from our mistake and save yourself an awful dining experience. I know a little place up near Northgate where I took The Missus for her first-ever taste of Ethiopian food. I remember the woman running the show there to be wearing a smile while delivering very good food in a timely manner in a well-lit room that did not smell overwhelmingly of onion. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather sit in rush hour traffic to get there than drive the few miles down the street next time I want to indulge in this cuisine.

Randall Reads: Blackbirds by Chuck Wendig

When considering what to discuss when reviewing my reading experience with Chuck Wendig’s “Blackbirds,” I start with some basics (i.e. basic plot, characterization, genre, publisher with good track record) and quickly find dozens of ways to drill down into each (i.e. rise of paranormal romance/urban fantasy, readers demanding sense of ‘reality’ even in genre fiction, DRM wars, Department of Justice lawsuits, self-publishing phenomenon, social media marketing…).

I’ll start where the story starts.

Not where Miriam Black’s story starts. I mean, the actual book coming moving from being out there in the wide world into my “to be read” pile and emerging into “actually reading it!”

The quick genesis is that some twitter feed I follow (Tor?) posted something at some point that led to me reading a preview of the book. Contained within that preview were two crucial items.

1) “Miriam Black knows when you will die…when Miriam hitches a ride with Louis Darling and shakes his hand, she sees that in thirty days Louis will be murdered while he calls her name.”

I don’t pretend to be able to explain exactly what draws my attention when it comes to plot in books, but this is a pretty good example from which to draw. Had my attention immediately. Maybe it’s a touch of darkness mixed with some paranormal elements. There’s also the sense of urgency implied here. I don’t think I’m necessarily attracted to what some call “page turners,” but it is also not a turn-off by any stretch.

2) The cover:

Simply put, the cover is excellent, assuming that what it’s meant to do is help the book find certain readers. That particular achievement has been unlocked.

In fact, I’ve directed a few friends to the book (The Missus) included, and every one of them, upon looking up the book, exclaimed, “Nice cover!” The artist deserves an award. The best I can offer it to mention him here, so, kudos to Dale Halvorsen a.k.a “Joey Hi-Fi.” Bravo!

Of course, there’s more to the story. Getting into my “to be read” pile is not exactly difficult. It’s not quite in the acceptability range of, say, the offer of a free beer, but you don’t have to work much harder than that for me to add your title to my unwieldy list that will largely go unread. It’s a fairly coarse filter.

Considering the book appears to have been published only on April 24, Wendig may turn out to have set a record for getting a book from completely unknown to me to DONE! in record time; other than when China Mieville or Colson Whitehead publish something new, I don’t rush right out and get something fresh off the presses.

When I read about books I find interesting, I hit a few places on the internet right away. Generally, I’ll do a quick check with Paperbackswap to see whether I can cash in a credit to get the book sent to me with no more effort to me than a click or two. As that’s most often futile, I will move to put the title on my Goodreads “to-read” list before heading over to the website of the Seattle Public Library to see whether I can borrow the e-book from them or, failing that, adding my name to the wait list for either the e-book or a hard copy. Depending on how urgent the book seems and how long the wait list is, I will then check a few online retailers, but usually to confirm there is no way I’m going to pay $13 to $14 for an e-book.

The wait for “Blackbirds” was really short, though, so I ended my search with the SPL.

Then came the email on a rainy Friday while at work:

“The following items are being held for you at the library…’Blackbirds…’”

I was excited. Not only was it Friday, but I had just finished another book that very morning and was in the market for the next victim. Perfect.

Excepting that “rainy” bit.

I like to put books on hold at the downtown branch of the Seattle library system because it’s a nice walk from the office. Nicer when it’s not raining.

And, to be clear, most of the time it’s raining here in Seattle, it’s not what I grew up thinking of as rain back in Michigan. Usually, it’s this hazy drizzle where you’d be hard pressed to identity anything looking like an actual rain drop.

Not the case last Friday, however. This was what I have come to refer to as a “proper rain.”

Hence, I was challenged to match my frugality against my desire to not get drenched on my way home (also taking into consideration I’d been sick not too long before that).

A quick peek at both Amazon and Barnes & Noble revealed the e-book to be offered at a very reasonable price. I don’t remember specifically, but I think somewhere in the $5 to$6 range. Not bad, but…is saving the walk worth even that price?

Somehow my eye caught the fact this was an Angry Robot title. Having already a generally positive opinion of their work, I navigated to their site where I learned that all e-books purchased from them are DRM-free and, in celebration of that fact, they were having a sale of 50% off all their titles.

Unlike Miriam, I don’t put a lot of of stock into fate, but this seemed like as close an instance of “it’s meant to be” as you’re likely to find.

Cancel hold at SPL; spend $3.10 to have my own copy of the book, avoid the walk in the rain, and throw money behind a writer, his publisher, and the concept that properly priced e-books are too good a value to pass up.

Finally, THE BOOK!

As far as I’m concerned, the edited sentence from the Tor.com preview is really all the plot you need to know before reading it. I can’t think of much to add that should say you toward or away from the book. It sounds like something you would enjoy right away, or it would be a disservice to try to sell you on it.

Mingling with the supernatural element of Miriam’s ability, is a fairly strong character moving along a story line that moves pretty quickly. There is not a lot of wasted prose contained within the (according to Amazon) 384 pages.

Before starting, I read a few of the negative reviews of the book on Goodreads. I remember reading three pretty specific criticisms: 1) it reads like a screenplay 2) Miriam clearly was written by a man and not a woman, and 3) it feels like the author forced two separate stories together into one.

The first item is interesting to me. First, I completely get it; the book does have a very visual feel to it as you read it. You can easily see it  being adapted to a screen. Whether this is intentional on the part of the author and should be a mark against the book, however, I’m not sure.

The funny thing about this, though, is that there is, attached to the end of the ebook, an interview of Wendig conducted by another Angry Robot author, Adam Christopher. Within this interview, Wendig reveals that he won a year-long ‘mentorship’ with a screenwriter, during which he took the opportunity to take his raw story, turn it into a script, and then work it back into a novel. Why I find this funny is that, while it certainly is reasonable for someone to have read the novel and not that interview and yet have come to an opinion that it reads too much like a screenplay for their own satisfaction. I shall hope that is the case rather than the persons who listed that among their objections read this and decided it would sound really prescient of them to have come up with that insight all on their own.

I only sort of hope that. I actually think the latter more likely. I guess that makes me a cynic?

As for the second item…well, I’d assume “Chuck” is a dude. Turns out that was a safe assumption. Seems an all-too easy criticism to level.

But, alas, it’s somewhat true.

For some reason, nothing irritates me more than when someone dislikes about a work of fiction that they found some part of it to be “unbelievable.” I need to be more open-minded about how others approach their reading, I am sure, but it mostly makes me want to whack them in the nose with the spine of “American Gods.” My approach is along the lines that you’re looking into someone else’s perceptions of what is, was, or could be/have been, not someone’s attempt to put those ideas into words that make sense in your world. Once you accept that, it’s pretty easy to let things slide in a book you might not accept as an excuse from, say, a co-worker as to why their bit of work isn’t completed or up to snuff.

Hence, I want to accept Wendig’s version of a young woman living on the road with unsettling visions of other people’s deaths, but, honestly, she talks like a douche-y frat boy at times, spouting lingo that inspires some version of a rolling of the eyes and grows tiresome quickly. I think the worst offense among these is the scene where she says, “It’s time to rock out with your cock out. It’s time to jam out with your clam out.” It was just the next of a succession of things Miriam said which made me wonder, “Who talks like that?” This one, however, gave me an answer: ‘Frat Douche.’

For my money (albeit, a whopping $3 and change of which I would not dream of asking a return), the dialogue might be the weakest point of the novel. It rings false more often than not. Maybe chalk it up to a bit of campiness and…maybe, but not for me entirely.

The third item among the complaints cited (two stories merged into one) sends me back to that interview with Christopher, wherein Wendig also said that he’d written Miriam in one place and the pair of Frankie and Harriet in another, bringing them together in the novel.

And this is where I’m truly cynical because, even knowing this to be the case, I don’t think it reads as such at all in the book. Leaving a little room for my want to believe the good in people, maybe the weaving of those three existing characters into a shared story is not a seamless as it seems to me. I’m happy to admit I’m not the most-careful reader in West Seattle, much less among all who have the internet, but I still think I smell a rat; I don’t give it much weight as a genuine criticism of “Blackbirds.” It rings nearly as false as some of Miriam’s strings of patented catch-phrasing.

Overall, the pacing of the story and the intriguing premise are more than enough to outweigh the tinny dialogue for me. Without getting bogged down in discussions about genres, the story treads at least lightly into the “urban fantasy” and horror realms. There’s some “romance,” heavy on the quotation marks and even a bit of the mystery/thriller thing.

All of which does send one into the bog of just how useful pigeon-holing titles into genres really is…but let’s not start, eh?

“Blackbirds” is a fairly breezy read, with a likable (I like her) protagonist with interesting abilities mired in a bit of a situation, and the pacing to keep you reading past your bed-time. Once you accept that Miriam’s personality might just be some dark bit of a male author’s subconscious and will talk as such, you can get down to the business of the ride and taking in the grim scenery.

Definitely recommendable.

Some Earth Day Grillin’ and Gardenin’

Before we even knew the forecast, we had decided Sunday would be the day we dig the garden.

It’s convenient to now think of it as an “Earth Day” activity, but the truth of the matter is that my awareness of the comings and goings of the actual day of “Earth Day” is tangential at best. At some point I knew it was coming, but that didn’t really put it on my radar.

However, seeing as it was quite pleasant here in Seattle, weather-wise, and because we’d planned an earthy activity on an earthy (faux) holiday, we turned it into a bit of a family event.

Among my many neuroses, would be a persistent concern about food and all the nasty things that can happen to it between the time it’s gathered in its raw/natural state and the time it arrives on my plate.

Actually, the true terror isn’t really when it arrives on my plate, rather on the plates of my wife and child. I get the benefit of said concern for the well-being of the others, so…there you go.

Hence, in addition to wanting to make sure Owen grows up with a hard-wired love for Detroit sports and music made with stringed instruments, I hope to instill in him an adventurous palate and a strong understanding of food. I believe a key component to this is going to be giving him a life-long appreciation for where food comes from.

I’m certain that, had I been asked when I was in elementary school where food came from, my response would have included words like “cans” and “grocery store.” This despite the fact I count among my most treasured memories sitting with my grandfather on his Allis-Chalmers tractor traversing corn fields.

Same beloved grandfather would send us kids out to the fields to bring back large rocks for which he’d pay us on a per-piece basis. I now realize this was a very low-cost way to get some peace and quiet in the house.

George Doubrava was a wise man.

Anyhow, my point would be that I plan to put forward a focused effort on arming my son with as much knowledge and understanding of food as possible and hope it benefits him his entire life.

Turns out it’s not entirely difficult to sell a toddler on the idea of digging a garden. I don’t even think Owen was particularly psyched about digging in the dirt, which might seem a stereotypical sales point for a young boy. All we had to do was bolster his natural desire to be doing whatever he sees Mommy and Daddy doing with a tool he could use.

Orange watering can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s it! That’s all it took!

Well, “all” includes refilling the can several times to account for both how little water it took to make the can too heavy for him to carry without spilling it all over himself, as well as for how quickly he was able to dump the water. Unlike the gentle misting effect of the typical Seattle rain shower, Owen likes to go for the midwestern-style downpour where no umbrella can really save you.

In a sort of celebration to the launch of our gardening operations, we also heated some charcoal for a particularly meaty, not-at-all gardened dinner entree.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What better way to bust into the warm weather of “grilling season’ than with a giant sandwich of grilled meat? Other than vegetarians, who doesn’t love a burger?

Despite having turned myself off from the prospect of buying meat from most sources, I still am generally open to the products found at our local Metropolitan Market, which made it an especially sunny moment when I wandered over to the meat department to see them running a special on Wagyu beef. With enough meat to make two large adult patties and a toddler version costing me less than $6, I couldn’t resist.

I know Anthony Bourdain would think me an idiot for eating ground Wagyu beef, but after having it at Hubert Keller’s burger bar…well…I just don’t care. It’s crazy delicious.

The Missus had requested a pasta salad with the meal.  She also wanted tomatoes, artichokes, and Parmesan cheese in the salad.

Being the wise guy I am, I hit the market’s olive bar for some marinated artichoke hearts AND an artichoke lemon pesto thingy I thought would work for oil. Also, trying to be considerate, I opted for some sheep milk feta to help with any lactose issues known to rear their heads in the house, and a small block of another firm sheep cheese spiked with black truffles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Result? BAM! (What? NOBODY but Emeril get’s to use ‘bam!’ amy more? Please…)

I used a Barilla pasta that wasn’t quite like the rotini/rotelle I am used to getting, though, if I’m honest, I don’t remember whether it was called either of those things. It’s definitely spiral-like, as you can see, but can be stretched out, rather than being held to a certain length. This worked most advantageously for Owen who dragged a few spirals around his plate while making a snake-like “sssssssssssssssssssssssss…’NAKE!”

(It’s funny he can do the “ssssssssssssssssss” all day long, but always says he’s being a “NAKE” and that he takes his shoes and “DOCKS” off. Not sure when it’ll click he can put the hissing sound in front of “nake” and say “snake,” but it’s cute for now.)

Unfortunately, the Missus had particularly wanted the Parmesan to satisfy some need to salty something or other. She claims to really like the salad I made, though.

Moving on…

We supplemented the entire venture with the leftover Spring Asparagus Salad I had made the day prior.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s my recipe. I am “Seattle Dad.” The secret is OUT!

Hearty, well-sourced meal provided the calories to go dig in the dirt for a while. It felt momentous to get started on something that will pay dividends potentially for years beyond our time in this house.

So, Happy Earth Day, even to you scrooges who turn on extra lights to spite the “libs.”

Randall Reads: Is this a Lame Book, or What? ESPN’s Tim Kurkjian Produces a Dud

I’m a baseball fan.

I’m not as big a baseball fan as most who have made it their life to work in and around baseball, I would guess.

With this in mind, I’ll have to at least admit that I’m probably not the ideal audience for Tim Kurkjian’s paean to the game he covers for ESPN, “Is This a Great Game, or What?“

This would mean there IS, somewhere, an ideal audience for the book. From what I can tell, however, those people aren’t ever going to turn away from discussions about statistics and baseball anecdotes to do much other than watch a baseball game.

There are 16 chapters in the book, each centered on a theme. Each theme is addressed by the insertion of a series of anecdotes.

THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE BOOK!

May of the themes and related anecdotes seem to be meant to bolster Kurkjian’s opinion that baseball is simply superior to other sports in many ways. That is, until you get near the end where he laments the fact that the game seems to be losing the interest of people en masse due to an overall lack of interest in favor of sports with more action.

The fourteenth chapter is a series of 25 questions seemingly meaning to challenge long-standing bits of conventional baseball tradition, which would be fine, but they’re all delivered with a bit of a condescending, eye-rolling tone which makes me think that, when Kurkjian discusses an item such as, “Why do we rank teams by the highest batting average, not the most runs scored,” the underlying thought is that Kurkjian simply is understanding the game at it’s absolute best-level of appreciation and the rest of us all suffer from a similarly elevated level of enlightenment.

It wears thin.

Another major flaw with this book is the feeling it was slopped together. I can think of at least three anecdotes that were repeated in different areas of the book. There’s no doubt that it is interesting that Billy Wagner switched his predominant throwning arm after breaking an arm as a child, but it just needs mentioned the one time. The only thing I get out of it being told a second time is that you should have either hired or fired an editor somewhere between writing and publishing this book.

All that being said, there are some funny bits in the book. I thought the chapter about ESPN’s “Baseball Tonight” was plenty entertaining. Plus, admittedly, there ARE a lot of interesting anecdotes to be had.

Ultimately though, there’s not enough cohesion here to make it a must-read. It might be a good bathroom book, in that you could pick it up and flip to any page and not be any more or less engaged in the whole of the book than would be someone reading it straight through. If the goal of the book WAS to change the mind of a reader disinclined to agree with Kurkjian’s assertions of the superiority of baseball, I think it’s a failure (much like his annoyingly persistent and Candyland theory that Babe Ruth would be as good as he was, if not better, if he were plunked down in today’s major leagues.)

And, to be clear, I’m writing this as I try to listen to and watch the Detroit Tigers baseball game in a different browser window. I DO think it’s a great game; I am just comfortable with my and your level of understanding and enjoyment of it…even if you believe that Babe Ruth nonsense.

Happy National Grilled Cheese Day!

When you hear it’s “National Grilled Cheese Day,” you don’t necessarily want to know why such a day exists, nor for how long it exists. It’s probably all a conspiracy of bread producers and cheesemakers and those cheeky buggers at Hallmark who are always manufacturing holidays to bolster greeting card sales.

Well, I don’t. I shan’t speak for you specifically.

MY reaction upon learning today was THE day was, “We’re having grilled cheese tonight.”

But it couldn’t just be grilled cheese now, could it? I mean, we slap some Dave’s Killer ‘Good Seed’ Bread around a few slices of Tillamook Cheddar as a quick-and-dirty meal solution regularly, so if we’re going to commit first-degree grilled cheese-ing, it’d just need to be something other.

It did not take an enormous amount of time or thought to recall a grilled cheese experience so ridiculous that, once I’d considered it, there was no going back.

GIMME GIMME GIMME un Croque-Monsieur!!!

It wasn’t all THAT long ago when I’d never heard of such a thing. In fact, now that I think on it, a few of my French friends have some explaining to do…

Anyhow, the sandwich with the fancy French-y name is, in short, a grilled ham and cheese…wait, it gets better, topped with a Béchamel (white sauce( and MORE CHEESE..which you brown under the broiler!

No, you do not have to wait 364 more days to try one, but, depending on your dietary habits, it might not be a horrible idea to limit it to an annual treat.

Selling this as a dinner plan was not a concern. Both the Missus and the Bubba are among the most-prolific cheese eaters I’ve ever known.

3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour
1 1/2 cups milk
1 bay leaf
a few grates fresh nutmeg
4 completely hacked (my bread slicing skills are challenged by big loaves) slices of Macrina Bakery’s “Macrina Casera” bread
2 slices Dave’s Killer ‘Good Seed’ Bread (the Bubba will eat crust, but it isn’t his favorite)
6 slices Black Forest ham
6 slices havarti cheese (I understand gruyere to be more traditional, but I love the creaminess of havarti)
melted butter for brushing
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella (again, I went with what I wanted because I’m the one eating it and not you finicky French person!)
To make the Béchamel, you start by making a white roux from the butter and flour. I know there is more of an art to it than what I did, which was melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium heat and stir the flour into it until it was all gooey and roux-like. Maybe someday I’ll dangle some Abita Turbodog off the front porch and snag me a proper Cajun wandering randomly through West Seattle (you know, like they do…) and make them teach me to master the art of the roux, but, today, it was a working Dad trying to get dinner on the table before 7 p.m., so…slap-dash!

Once you have the roux, add the milk in small amounts, whisking to incorporate it into the roux with each addition. Once it’s all in there, you should have a big, semi-thick white-ish sauce. From here, go ahead and increase the heat and get the sauce boiling. It’ll thicken up pretty well, but keep stirring it so it doesn’t scald on the bottom (not a huge problem if it does, it turns out…).

I’m certain you know what to do with the bread, cheese, and ham to get them looking like sandwiches. Once you’ve done that, brush one side of each with melted butter. Cook the buttered side in a hot, flat skillet (medium heat should work) until it’s golden brown (or darker, if you like it like that). If you’re smart, you realized to butter the top of the sandwich so you can just flip it when you’re ready, rather than forgetting and then having an “Oh, sugar!” moment before rapidly slopping some melted butter atop the sandwich so you can turn before you burn.

While you’re getting the sandwiches in order, preheat the broiler. Line a baking sheet with parchment if you have it and like to save a little bit of clean-up.

The grilled sandwiches (I like to write it “sammiches” for whatever reason, so I may or may not start doing that) go on the parchment-lined sheet. Top each sandwich with a generous spread of the Béchamel; as you can see, you have plenty, so get that sammich covered with a nice, thick layer! Sprinkle the shredded cheese atop the Béchamel in such a way you’ll get a nice layer of browned cheese over the sauce.

Then…yeah, you guessed it…put the sandwiches under the broiler until you get that browned cheese floating atop the Béchamel layer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apologies for the lame, blurry phone photo.

They’ll probably be easier to eat if you cut them somehow. I use a pizza cutter to hack the adult’s sammiches into halves and the Bubba’s into six small rectangles.

An acceptable-because-it’s-your-family sampling of the sauce (yeah, there was some finger-licking involved) told me my first go at making these was about to prove a HUGE success. The Missus saw the look on my face and started sticking her fingers into our son’s sandwich under the ruse of organizing it onto the plate for him so she could get a quick preview before getting to the table.

WINNING! (I know Charlie Sheen references are a bit dated by now, but it fits; trust me!)

To cut the fatty deliciousness of the sammiches, I quartered a pint of cherry Heirloom-style tomatoes and tossed them with salt, olive oil, a French dried herb mixture, and a splash of red wine vinegar. I love when the fresh tomatoes start to show up en masse. Hard to believe how much I used to fear/loathe tomatoes!

A story for another day…

The Bubba, as he is wont to do with melty cheese between bread or tortillas, peeled the layers apart to eat them semi-separately. He peeled the ham off some of the cheese and bread, held it out to me and said, “This is TOOKEY!”

“No Owen, that is ham.”

“It’s TOOKEY!” And, in the mouth it went.

I’ll eventually work on fixing that, but as he was eating it and was happy to believe it to be turkey…willing to let it go at 26 months.

A few moments later, the bits of dark skin from the edges of the ham came back out of the mouth accompanied by a bit of a squishy face and an “I no like this.” The Missus tried to explain that it was okay if he didn’t like it and that he could just put it down on his tray, but before she could finish, the Bubba had popped the not-so-offending bits back into the mouth for further examination.

They did not return to the conversation.

Randall Reads: “Deadwood” by Pete Dexter

And “NO” it’s not that on which the HBO series of the same name was based.

Before you reach the table of contents, you do get a word from the author, saying:

“The large events and the settings of this novel–the fire that destroyed Deadwood, the assassinations of Bill Hickok and the China Doll, the weather, the life and travels of Charley Utter–are all real.
The Characters, with the exception of Malcolm Nash, are also real, and were in Deadwood at the time these events occurred.”

I know I read several times (granted, on the internets) before watching the first season of the television series or reading this book that Pete Dexter’s work was very much integral to the creation of the HBO series.

I’m not going to say I’ve done a whole lot of investigating since finishing the book this morning, but I wouldn’t even be all that surprised to know that nobody on the creative team had even opened the front cover of Dexter’s book, especially in light of the aforementioned quote. My sense is that both pieces of art were derived from researching real-life historic persons and events from that place in American history and invoking the creative spirit from there.

In other words, aside from some names, I don’t see much similar between the show and the book. Hence, they should be considered separately, other than that I would not likely have read the book had I not also recently enjoyed watching the beginning of the series (and then found a second-hand copy of the book during a timely visit to Pegasus Book Exchange).

My interest level in the old “wild west” was never that great, so my knowledge of people like Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane was of such a level that I’d not necessarily have even though of them in the context of Deadwood, South Dakota any more than I would have, say, western Texas. Charley Utter, who is the central character throughout the novel, is someone whose name I believe I had never even heard, and, if I had, I’d completely forgotten the context.

Because of this and, again, because I’d just watched 12 hours or so of the HBO series, I entered the world of Deadwood as described by Pete Dexter with some very strong conceptions about characters the second they appeared in writing.  Within the first few pages, you have met Charley, Wild Bill, and Al Swearingen. If you’ve seen the HBO show, you know how strongly drawn those characters are on the screen.

It’s of great credit to Mr. Dexter that, writing the book without the knowledge his words would one day be competing with HBO-strength characterizations of the same historical figures, it isn’t long before you’re (mostly) considering the characters anew. It’s not only that he clearly staked his claim to the fictionalization of the history of Deadwood in a completely different manner as did the people with the HBO production, but also that he writes his characters in a very lively fashion. Maybe that’s partly a benefit of working within a genre such as the western, but I doubt it’s that simple.

I also happen to be a bit of a sucker for strong character development, so there’s that.

The style can be a bit tricky in some spots. The word “peeder” appears repeatedly and failed not once to give me a stop. I also think the use of “could of/would of/should of” in place of the proper contractions probably was meant to do something other than remind me of the fact that 90% of the people on the internet actually type those for all to see publicly without intention, but that’s what I got, again making me pause each instance.

Small, niggling things, but they stand out in my head. Should be noted that’s a small price for what was otherwise a very enjoyable book.

The narrative is divided into five “parts,” the first four of which are named for a character around whom much of the action within revolves. The fifth is a rather short summary of Charley’s life after leaving Deadwood that, honestly, adds little (if anything) to the story beyond a bit of closure .

Malcolm Nash, the one completely fictional character in the novel, plays an interesting thread through the story, but his role is a bit thin in the middle bits, which makes one wonder at the reason for creating him at all. It’s not that he seems out of place, mind you. It’s more that I had a natural tendency to wonder a little more about the character seeing as it was mentioned right at the top that he was not in the historic records and was, hence, created out of whole ink. Perhaps it is a failure of the reader to have expected more from such an entry into the story, but I can’t see how anyone would look at it differently.

There’s also a very realistic chance I’ve just missed something important in my reading. Wouldn’t be the first time.

On the front cover of the paperback is a quote from Jonathan Franzen, saying “If you want to call Deadwood  a Western, you might as well call The House of Mirth chick lit.”

Not even having read the latter, I can say I understand what Franzen was getting at with this, and think it’s a valid consideration. Calling a book a “Western,” much as “chick lit” or “science fiction” does have that effect of “ghettoization” of the work into its genre and is somehow looked at as something less. Or, that’s the talk these days, isn’t it?

What I’m meaning to clarify as being important here is that nobody who enjoys a good book should pass on this one with a “but I don’t really like “Westerns.” The work itself will survive such an err, but is a huge disservice to the “serious reader” Mr. Franzen likes to concern himself about. Pete Dexter has written a serious book for serious readers of all sorts.

Even those who have cemented in their brain the image of Wild Bill Hickok as the brother of the guy from ‘Kung Fu.’

We can overcome.