I now have my own battle cry:
OK, so it's not as glorious as "SPOON!" but it still beats Arthurs "Not in the face! Not in the face!"
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
SPOON!
Thanks for the Memory to The Maximum Leader.
I now have my own battle cry:
OK, so it's not as glorious as "SPOON!" but it still beats Arthurs "Not in the face! Not in the face!"
I now have my own battle cry:
OK, so it's not as glorious as "SPOON!" but it still beats Arthurs "Not in the face! Not in the face!"
Blegging In AND About the Northwest
Despite being a native of the Pacific Northwest, I haven't been to Seattle since I was 5. For the most part, my treks into Washington have been limited to the area in and around Vancouver/Camas, and one jaunt up to Longview to take the bridge back into Oregon (as a shortcut to Astoria). Most of my knowledge of the PNW is of Idaho and my native Oregon.
That will change this weekend. TFR and I are celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary by taking a long weekend trip up to Seattle. We plan to drive from Eugene to Portland Friday night, and stay the night at her sister's house (the SIL has offered towatched The Lad for the weekend, so this will be the first time we're BOTH away from him for more than a few hours). Saturday Morning we leave as early as possible for Seattle. W plan to spend the night Saturday night, and spend as much of the day as possible on Sat. and Sun. in Seattle, returning to Portland Sunday afternoon/early evening, and back to Eugene on Monday.
So my bleg to my readers is this: What should we do while in Seattle? We already have our sights set on Pike's Place, the Underground Tour, Space Needle, and the Monorail. What else is there to do that's distinctly Seattle, and is cheap and not too time consuming? Bear in mind we don't have a lot of time or money, and don't want to feel rushed. I was considering taking a Ferry, just to say we've been out on the Sound, but which one will burn uyp the smallest amount of our day? Which ones go places worth visiting just for an hour or two?
If you're a Seattle resident, or even WA resident in general, or know the city in any way, your input would be greatly appreciated.
That will change this weekend. TFR and I are celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary by taking a long weekend trip up to Seattle. We plan to drive from Eugene to Portland Friday night, and stay the night at her sister's house (the SIL has offered towatched The Lad for the weekend, so this will be the first time we're BOTH away from him for more than a few hours). Saturday Morning we leave as early as possible for Seattle. W plan to spend the night Saturday night, and spend as much of the day as possible on Sat. and Sun. in Seattle, returning to Portland Sunday afternoon/early evening, and back to Eugene on Monday.
So my bleg to my readers is this: What should we do while in Seattle? We already have our sights set on Pike's Place, the Underground Tour, Space Needle, and the Monorail. What else is there to do that's distinctly Seattle, and is cheap and not too time consuming? Bear in mind we don't have a lot of time or money, and don't want to feel rushed. I was considering taking a Ferry, just to say we've been out on the Sound, but which one will burn uyp the smallest amount of our day? Which ones go places worth visiting just for an hour or two?
If you're a Seattle resident, or even WA resident in general, or know the city in any way, your input would be greatly appreciated.
Obi Wan Has Taught Me Well
As anyone who has followed my food posts on this Blog knows, I acquired for myself earlier this summer a smoker shaped, as one reader commented, like a stripped-down R2D2. I've spent a good deal of my time this summer taking what I already knew about cooking and grilling, and applying it to developing my abilities in the pursuit of barbecue. And I feel that I've been fairly successful. I may not have the years of experience that some barbecue chefs do, but I was already a good cook, and took to this new cooking form.
But something was missing, something that held me back from true mastery of the form, and I knew what it was. This weekend, I set about to right that wrong, and I believe I have. I've accomplished what is, in my esteem, the barbecue equivalent of a jedi building his own lightsabre to mark his graduation.
I have made my own sauce.
Oh, I'd come up with recipes of my own before -- I'd modified certain techniques to fit my own taste, even delveloped my own dry rub and baste recipes. But the finishinf sauce, that was still coming out of a bottle. Until now.
My sauce is definitely a more western-style sauce, since it's a sweet and spicy tomato-based sauce. TFR tried it by itself and thought it too sweet, but had to admit that once applied to the meat and cooked in, it was quite good.
And so, without further ado, my sauce recipe:
In a medium saucepan combine the following ingredients:
2 cans (10 3/4 oz. each) tomato puree
1/4 cup molasses
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup turbinado sugar
1 tbsp salt
1 tbsp oregano
1 1/2 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp garlic powder
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tbsp onion powder
1/4 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp mustard powder
1/4 tsp ground sage
1/2 tsp white pepper
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
Heat over medium heat, stirring constantly until sauce starts to bubble. Reduce heat, simmer, stirring frequently until sauce is smooth. Apply to food by taste.
I tried it on beef short ribs Saturday. The sauce was good, the flavor was goot, but the ribs were too damned fatty. I'm sticking with pork spare or back ribs when it comes to rib barbecueing. TFR suggests I should try this on chicken. I'm going to try slow-cooking a Beer Butt Chicken (TFR prefers I use the term "Beer Can Chicken", but let's be honest...) on the smoker with this sauce recipe, I'll let you know how it goes.
But something was missing, something that held me back from true mastery of the form, and I knew what it was. This weekend, I set about to right that wrong, and I believe I have. I've accomplished what is, in my esteem, the barbecue equivalent of a jedi building his own lightsabre to mark his graduation.
I have made my own sauce.
Oh, I'd come up with recipes of my own before -- I'd modified certain techniques to fit my own taste, even delveloped my own dry rub and baste recipes. But the finishinf sauce, that was still coming out of a bottle. Until now.
My sauce is definitely a more western-style sauce, since it's a sweet and spicy tomato-based sauce. TFR tried it by itself and thought it too sweet, but had to admit that once applied to the meat and cooked in, it was quite good.
And so, without further ado, my sauce recipe:
In a medium saucepan combine the following ingredients:
2 cans (10 3/4 oz. each) tomato puree
1/4 cup molasses
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup turbinado sugar
1 tbsp salt
1 tbsp oregano
1 1/2 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp garlic powder
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tbsp onion powder
1/4 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp mustard powder
1/4 tsp ground sage
1/2 tsp white pepper
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
Heat over medium heat, stirring constantly until sauce starts to bubble. Reduce heat, simmer, stirring frequently until sauce is smooth. Apply to food by taste.
I tried it on beef short ribs Saturday. The sauce was good, the flavor was goot, but the ribs were too damned fatty. I'm sticking with pork spare or back ribs when it comes to rib barbecueing. TFR suggests I should try this on chicken. I'm going to try slow-cooking a Beer Butt Chicken (TFR prefers I use the term "Beer Can Chicken", but let's be honest...) on the smoker with this sauce recipe, I'll let you know how it goes.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Last Chances
This time of years is, for me, the Season of Anniversaries. This coming Sunday is my and The Feared Redhead’s sixth Wedding Anniversary, which we’re celebrating by spending a couple of days in Seattle. Next month will be my one year blogiversary, and I’m still trying to decide how to mark that occasion. But today happens to be the fourth anniversary of the worst day of my life. Let me tell you about it and the events leading up to it.
Back in the spring and summer of 2001, TFR and I had decided to leave San Diego and move back to my home state of Oregon. At that time we were renting a 2-bedroom duplex on Alder Street in San Diego’s Kensington neighborhood, a nice part of town full of little shops and restaurants and few busy streets, lined with houses built in the 1920’s and 1930’s, mostly Craftsman and Art Deco and Spanish Colonial style architecture. The year before, a vacation trip to Oregon, coupled with observing an 1100 Sq. Ft. home in our neighborhood sell for $510,000, had convinced us both that it was time to get out of Dizzyland.
At the same time we were preparing to cut our moorings, other events were conspiring to help us on our way. Next to us, in a one-bedroom apartment over the garage for our duplex, lived a young woman who had rented from the same landlord as us for a much longer period of time. She and her new husband discovered she was pregnant, and informed our landlord that they would need to move out to find a bigger place. Well, the landlord decided that he didn’t want to lose her as a tenant, so he chose not to renew our month-to-month rental. We were given a one month notice to be out of our duplex by the end of May.
We didn’t plan to leave San Diego until the end of July, so that left us in a 2-month lurch. We didn’t want to spend our deposit on finding a new apartment, so we were planning on living on friends’ couch(es) until it was time to leave. You can imagine how thrilled we were with this prospect.
At the last minute, my parents decided to help us out by buying us a cheap RV. It was an 18-year-old 24 ft. Winnebago class C motor home. It became our abode for the next six months. Imagine living in a space roughly the same size and layout as a large booth at Denny’s. It was miserable, and put a severe strain on the marriage, but until we found work in Oregon (not an easy feat in 2001), that RV was what stood between us and homelessness.
We moved the motor home into an RV park in El Cajon, California, just across city lines from Lakeside, and about 2 miles from my parents’ RV park. So, yes, I lived in a Lakeside Trailer Park, but no, everything was NOT going to be all right.
For the next 2 moths, we spent as much time at my parents’ RV as possible, since they had the air conditioning we lacked, and also because we were incredibly lonely and yet crowded in that small space. We had some good times with my parents, as well as with my sister and her kids when they came out to visit from Michigan. In fact, I think we spent more time socializing with my parents in those two months than in the entire previous two years we’d been married. But we were moving to Oregon soon, and knew these good times must come to an end. We just didn’t realize how soon, or how drastically.
On Wednesday, July 18, 2001, I decided to call in sick from my job, since I was feeling a bit under the weather.. I’d already given them my 2-month notice, and knew that any sick days not taken would not be reimbursed, so what the heck. I settled in to take a nap. Unfortunately, TFR was preparing to go throw a Pampered Chef party, and the racket was driving me nuts, so I called my dad (it was his day off) and asked if I could come nap at their place. He said yes, and so I prepared to leave. TFR asked me to pick up a few things at the store first, and after the errand, I decided on a quick swim to cool off. By the time I left for my parents’ RV, it had been over an hour since I called.
When I got to the RV and knocked, no one answered the door, so I went ahead and let myself in. My dad, a heavy sleeper, was reclining in a chair by the door, the western novel he’d been reading on his chest. I was going to just go take my nap, but didn’t think it polite not to let him know I was there, so I gently nudged him to wake him.
He didn’t move.
I nudged him again, and he still didn’t move. I started shouting and shaking him, but still nothing. By now I was in a panic. I found his phone, and dialed 911. They talked me through the process of getting him on the floor and starting CPR while the paramedics made the 2-mile trip to the RV park. I don’t know how long it took them to get there, I suppose it was minutes at most, but it seemed like forever. They worked on him for quite some time while I called TFR and my mother to tell them to come quickly. But the fire department’s best efforts were in vain. My father was dead.
No autopsy was ever performed because it was obvious he died of natural causes, but we’ll never know if it was a stroke or heart attack. It must have been massive and instantaneous, because there was no sign he knew something was about to happen. He must have drifted into a nap, and never woke up.
The next few days are still a little hazy in my mind. On top of preparing to move, I now had to take over the duties of helping my mother with funeral arrangements. There were friends and family to call, condolences to accept, details to attend to.
I was overwhelmed by the amount of love and compassion that people poured out to us. I was also deeply moved, though not surprised, by how many people my father touched, and just how much THEY missed him. Not just during his career as a pastor, but throughout his life, my father had a way of making people feel at ease around him, of making them feel loved and important. He honestly cared about people, and it showed.
I often think about that day, and about my own health, and wonder if I’m going to die young and leave a grieving widow and son the way my father did. I hope to God not, but I can’t be certain. I’ve tried time and again to improve my health, to get a handle on my weight, and it’s still a losing battle. I live with the fear that I, like my own father, will never get a chance to meet my son’s son some day.
You know, it’s become cliché when talking about such things to make some comment about not knowing when you’ll die or lose someone to death, and to exhort people to take each opportunity as it comes to make the most of the time we’re given. I can’t even begin to tell you just how deeply rooted in truth this cliché is. Don’t blow it off as emotional nonsense. For God’s sake, don’t EVER take for granted the blessing of the presence of a loved one. That presence can cease at any time, and once it’s gone, it’s irrevocable. You get a last chance, you never know when that chance is, and once it’s gone, it’s gone. Last means last. The night before he died, I told my father I loved him one last time. And even so, I still wish I could do it again. Treat every chance as if you won't get another. IF you DO get another chance, cherish it like a prisoner's stay of execution. Next time, the governor might not call.
Back in the spring and summer of 2001, TFR and I had decided to leave San Diego and move back to my home state of Oregon. At that time we were renting a 2-bedroom duplex on Alder Street in San Diego’s Kensington neighborhood, a nice part of town full of little shops and restaurants and few busy streets, lined with houses built in the 1920’s and 1930’s, mostly Craftsman and Art Deco and Spanish Colonial style architecture. The year before, a vacation trip to Oregon, coupled with observing an 1100 Sq. Ft. home in our neighborhood sell for $510,000, had convinced us both that it was time to get out of Dizzyland.
At the same time we were preparing to cut our moorings, other events were conspiring to help us on our way. Next to us, in a one-bedroom apartment over the garage for our duplex, lived a young woman who had rented from the same landlord as us for a much longer period of time. She and her new husband discovered she was pregnant, and informed our landlord that they would need to move out to find a bigger place. Well, the landlord decided that he didn’t want to lose her as a tenant, so he chose not to renew our month-to-month rental. We were given a one month notice to be out of our duplex by the end of May.
We didn’t plan to leave San Diego until the end of July, so that left us in a 2-month lurch. We didn’t want to spend our deposit on finding a new apartment, so we were planning on living on friends’ couch(es) until it was time to leave. You can imagine how thrilled we were with this prospect.
At the last minute, my parents decided to help us out by buying us a cheap RV. It was an 18-year-old 24 ft. Winnebago class C motor home. It became our abode for the next six months. Imagine living in a space roughly the same size and layout as a large booth at Denny’s. It was miserable, and put a severe strain on the marriage, but until we found work in Oregon (not an easy feat in 2001), that RV was what stood between us and homelessness.
We moved the motor home into an RV park in El Cajon, California, just across city lines from Lakeside, and about 2 miles from my parents’ RV park. So, yes, I lived in a Lakeside Trailer Park, but no, everything was NOT going to be all right.
For the next 2 moths, we spent as much time at my parents’ RV as possible, since they had the air conditioning we lacked, and also because we were incredibly lonely and yet crowded in that small space. We had some good times with my parents, as well as with my sister and her kids when they came out to visit from Michigan. In fact, I think we spent more time socializing with my parents in those two months than in the entire previous two years we’d been married. But we were moving to Oregon soon, and knew these good times must come to an end. We just didn’t realize how soon, or how drastically.
On Wednesday, July 18, 2001, I decided to call in sick from my job, since I was feeling a bit under the weather.. I’d already given them my 2-month notice, and knew that any sick days not taken would not be reimbursed, so what the heck. I settled in to take a nap. Unfortunately, TFR was preparing to go throw a Pampered Chef party, and the racket was driving me nuts, so I called my dad (it was his day off) and asked if I could come nap at their place. He said yes, and so I prepared to leave. TFR asked me to pick up a few things at the store first, and after the errand, I decided on a quick swim to cool off. By the time I left for my parents’ RV, it had been over an hour since I called.
When I got to the RV and knocked, no one answered the door, so I went ahead and let myself in. My dad, a heavy sleeper, was reclining in a chair by the door, the western novel he’d been reading on his chest. I was going to just go take my nap, but didn’t think it polite not to let him know I was there, so I gently nudged him to wake him.
He didn’t move.
I nudged him again, and he still didn’t move. I started shouting and shaking him, but still nothing. By now I was in a panic. I found his phone, and dialed 911. They talked me through the process of getting him on the floor and starting CPR while the paramedics made the 2-mile trip to the RV park. I don’t know how long it took them to get there, I suppose it was minutes at most, but it seemed like forever. They worked on him for quite some time while I called TFR and my mother to tell them to come quickly. But the fire department’s best efforts were in vain. My father was dead.
No autopsy was ever performed because it was obvious he died of natural causes, but we’ll never know if it was a stroke or heart attack. It must have been massive and instantaneous, because there was no sign he knew something was about to happen. He must have drifted into a nap, and never woke up.
The next few days are still a little hazy in my mind. On top of preparing to move, I now had to take over the duties of helping my mother with funeral arrangements. There were friends and family to call, condolences to accept, details to attend to.
I was overwhelmed by the amount of love and compassion that people poured out to us. I was also deeply moved, though not surprised, by how many people my father touched, and just how much THEY missed him. Not just during his career as a pastor, but throughout his life, my father had a way of making people feel at ease around him, of making them feel loved and important. He honestly cared about people, and it showed.
I often think about that day, and about my own health, and wonder if I’m going to die young and leave a grieving widow and son the way my father did. I hope to God not, but I can’t be certain. I’ve tried time and again to improve my health, to get a handle on my weight, and it’s still a losing battle. I live with the fear that I, like my own father, will never get a chance to meet my son’s son some day.
You know, it’s become cliché when talking about such things to make some comment about not knowing when you’ll die or lose someone to death, and to exhort people to take each opportunity as it comes to make the most of the time we’re given. I can’t even begin to tell you just how deeply rooted in truth this cliché is. Don’t blow it off as emotional nonsense. For God’s sake, don’t EVER take for granted the blessing of the presence of a loved one. That presence can cease at any time, and once it’s gone, it’s irrevocable. You get a last chance, you never know when that chance is, and once it’s gone, it’s gone. Last means last. The night before he died, I told my father I loved him one last time. And even so, I still wish I could do it again. Treat every chance as if you won't get another. IF you DO get another chance, cherish it like a prisoner's stay of execution. Next time, the governor might not call.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
What Am I?
Thanks for the memories to The Llama Butchers and The Maxiumum LEader for this week's round of Identity Quizzes:
I'm
a Gryffindor!
AND ONE I FOUND ON MY OWN:
I am 15% White Trash.
I, my friend, have class. I am so not white trash. . I am more than likely Democrat, and my place is neat, and there is a good chance I may never drink wine from a box. I'm
a Gryffindor!
I am 13% Idiot.
I am not annoying at all. In fact most people come to me for advice. Of course they annoy the hell out of me. But what can I do? I am smarter than most people.AND ONE I FOUND ON MY OWN:
I am 20% Hippie.
What? Am I a Republican? Why did I even bother taken this test?! I guess I’ll back to my George W. Bush fan club and tell them I just wasted 10 minutes of my life. At least I don’t stink, man.Wednesday, July 13, 2005
I've Heard of Slow Burns, But This is Ridiculous
Thanks for the Memory to The Maximum Leader at Naked Villainy.
Katy Bar the Door. Hide your wives and daughters, lock up the liquor cabinet, the Hero of Chappaquiddick is on the warpath.
Apparently, Rick Santorum (R - Pennnsylvania) offended
Teddy Kennedy (D - Glenlivet) with comments made in an article he wrote for Catholic Online.
Three years ago.
The esteemed Maximum Leader thinks it took "The Tippler" that long to get around to reading the article. I'm not so sure. He may have read it the day it was published and it took this long for the indignation to find it's way through the fog. In either case, I find Teddy's righteous (*snicker*) anger... misplaced.
For starters, the phrase "Glass Houses" comes to mind any time I hear the word "irresponsible" pass through Teddy's lips.
Secondly, Santorum has a point. Priests ARE affected by the culture in which they live, sad to say. And our permissive society MAY have had something to do with the atmosphere that allowed priests to they could get away with molestation. Lord knows our society in general sees more and more perversion and deeper and deeper depravity all the time -- the slope really is slippery, folks.
I can't help wonder what Kennedy's response would be if someone had written an article that said that the Catholic Priest Scandal was a result of an overly conservative, repressive Catholic culture that values maintaining public image over the truth. I am willing to bet it would be a hearty "AMEN!". Come to think of it, I believe that's the argument many have already made.
And both arguments have their points. So why is it suddenly less acceptable to as people to look at their own side of the coin?
Katy Bar the Door. Hide your wives and daughters, lock up the liquor cabinet, the Hero of Chappaquiddick is on the warpath.
Apparently, Rick Santorum (R - Pennnsylvania) offended
Teddy Kennedy (D - Glenlivet) with comments made in an article he wrote for Catholic Online.
Three years ago.
The esteemed Maximum Leader thinks it took "The Tippler" that long to get around to reading the article. I'm not so sure. He may have read it the day it was published and it took this long for the indignation to find it's way through the fog. In either case, I find Teddy's righteous (*snicker*) anger... misplaced.
For starters, the phrase "Glass Houses" comes to mind any time I hear the word "irresponsible" pass through Teddy's lips.
Secondly, Santorum has a point. Priests ARE affected by the culture in which they live, sad to say. And our permissive society MAY have had something to do with the atmosphere that allowed priests to they could get away with molestation. Lord knows our society in general sees more and more perversion and deeper and deeper depravity all the time -- the slope really is slippery, folks.
I can't help wonder what Kennedy's response would be if someone had written an article that said that the Catholic Priest Scandal was a result of an overly conservative, repressive Catholic culture that values maintaining public image over the truth. I am willing to bet it would be a hearty "AMEN!". Come to think of it, I believe that's the argument many have already made.
And both arguments have their points. So why is it suddenly less acceptable to as people to look at their own side of the coin?
Cue Them from Mission Impossible
yesterday around 5:15 PM, I made the afternoon shift change with The Feared Redhead, taking helm of the car and possession of the diaper bag while she headed off to work. She reminded me that I needed to pick up and/or prepare a dish to contribute to last night's going away party for a coworker of hers. She reminded me that said coworker is allergic to the following food items:
Soy
Dairy
Wheat
Beef
Garlic
Nuts
And that she's also vegan.
Of course, she is.
With that knowledge and the limited pallette it left me, I set out to pick something up at Fred Meyer. I settled on fresh fruit and a chocolate dip. Do you know how many chocolate products contain either milk or soy lecithin? Finally I decided to make my own sauce. Armed with a bit of advice from a local wine expert, I put together the following recipe on the fly:
Port in a Chocolate Storm
2 1/4 cups tawny port
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup corn starch
1/4 cup Dutch cocoa powder
1 vanilla bean
1/2 Tsp cinnamon
in a small saucepan, dissolve 1/4 cup sugar in 2 cups tawny port, leaving 1/4 cup of the port to the side. Slice vanilla bean down the middle, scrape pulp into the port, and add the bean. Slowly heat to a boil over medium-low heat, stirring constantly. While the port heats, slowly stir in and dissolve the cocoa powder. After the mixture has come to a low boil, strain it through a wire strainer to remove the bean and any grit from the vanilla pulp, return to the saucepan. Make a slurry by thoroughly mixing the corn starch with the remaining port. Stir the slurry into the saucepan. Add in 1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon, continuing to stir constantly until the sauce returns to a boil. Remove from heat, and let the sauce cool until thickened. Serve with fresh fruit for dipping.
I thought the sauce was pretty good. TFR's coworkers disagreed, thinking I underestimated it -- they went nuts for the stuff. As it turns out, the coworker in question isn't vegan, or even vegetarian -- just allergic to beef. But I still managed to prepare a dish she could enjoy without fear for her allergies.
So within the space of 2 1/5 hours, I managed to deposit TFR's paycheck, shop for my ingredients and a quick bite to eat, feed and change The Lad, make a delicious dessert, shower, change, and get out the door to pick up TFR for the party.
Iron Chefs?
Pussies!
Soy
Dairy
Wheat
Beef
Garlic
Nuts
And that she's also vegan.
Of course, she is.
With that knowledge and the limited pallette it left me, I set out to pick something up at Fred Meyer. I settled on fresh fruit and a chocolate dip. Do you know how many chocolate products contain either milk or soy lecithin? Finally I decided to make my own sauce. Armed with a bit of advice from a local wine expert, I put together the following recipe on the fly:
Port in a Chocolate Storm
2 1/4 cups tawny port
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup corn starch
1/4 cup Dutch cocoa powder
1 vanilla bean
1/2 Tsp cinnamon
in a small saucepan, dissolve 1/4 cup sugar in 2 cups tawny port, leaving 1/4 cup of the port to the side. Slice vanilla bean down the middle, scrape pulp into the port, and add the bean. Slowly heat to a boil over medium-low heat, stirring constantly. While the port heats, slowly stir in and dissolve the cocoa powder. After the mixture has come to a low boil, strain it through a wire strainer to remove the bean and any grit from the vanilla pulp, return to the saucepan. Make a slurry by thoroughly mixing the corn starch with the remaining port. Stir the slurry into the saucepan. Add in 1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon, continuing to stir constantly until the sauce returns to a boil. Remove from heat, and let the sauce cool until thickened. Serve with fresh fruit for dipping.
I thought the sauce was pretty good. TFR's coworkers disagreed, thinking I underestimated it -- they went nuts for the stuff. As it turns out, the coworker in question isn't vegan, or even vegetarian -- just allergic to beef. But I still managed to prepare a dish she could enjoy without fear for her allergies.
So within the space of 2 1/5 hours, I managed to deposit TFR's paycheck, shop for my ingredients and a quick bite to eat, feed and change The Lad, make a delicious dessert, shower, change, and get out the door to pick up TFR for the party.
Iron Chefs?
Pussies!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Open the Gates, but Close the Fences
Thanks for the Memory to http://darthapathy.blogspot.com/2005/07/mccains-assault-on-america-continues.html.
There's little scarier than the combination of rightheartedness and wrongheadedness. I understand the need to address real and/or perceived inequities in immigration laws, but carte blanche amnesty for illegals ain't it.
On this issue, I agree whole-heartedly with The Maximum Leader. I unfortunately can't find the post in which he stated it, but I'll try to paraphrase his point here. Any discussion of what our immigration and border policies should be is moot and useless if we can't first enforce the laws we already have.
Update: The Maximum Leader came through for me.
Because of my theology and personal philosophy, I have a great deal of empathy and compassion for those in underdeveloped countries who seek to come to the United States to find a better life. But I don't therefore believe that because their reaction to their situation is understandable, their illegal immigration as part of that response is excusable.
I'm all for an open and frank discussion about who how the laws governing who is granted legal status should be changed. In fact, I for one would probably come down on the side of those who argue for relaxing them. But I firmly believe that those who don't meet the requirements of those laws, however strict or lax, should not be able to flaunt those laws with impunity.
In this day and age, with the types of criminal activity that get smuggled across the border not even counting the aspiring migrant farm worker, such as terrorism, hard core drugs, etc., it is a matter of national security and utmost importance that we establish the right and ability to monitor and control exactly who does and doesn't enter this country. Once we've established that control, we can afford to be as generaous as we wish and deem prudent. But until then, turning a blind eye to those who thwart that control is not the answer.
In short, I see no inherent conflict between making it easier for legitimate immigrants to enter the country, while at the same time making it harder, if not impossible, for illegitimate infiltrators to do so. In fact, I'd argue that both serve equally to make America the strong, free country we so love.
McCain-Kennedy Amnesty Bill Opens the Border
by James R. Edwards, Jr.
Posted Jul 12, 2005
At a time of sustained, mass immigration, a glut of unskilled foreign workers, unrelenting illegal immigration and fiscal overload, Sens. John McCain, R-Ariz., and Ted Kennedy, D-Mass., propose to flood America with more of the same.
Their recently introduced legislation, S. 1033, creates two supposedly temporary work visas. Those programs are vehicles to legalize all 10-12 million illegal aliens.
Read the rest here.
There's little scarier than the combination of rightheartedness and wrongheadedness. I understand the need to address real and/or perceived inequities in immigration laws, but carte blanche amnesty for illegals ain't it.
On this issue, I agree whole-heartedly with The Maximum Leader. I unfortunately can't find the post in which he stated it, but I'll try to paraphrase his point here. Any discussion of what our immigration and border policies should be is moot and useless if we can't first enforce the laws we already have.
Update: The Maximum Leader came through for me.
Because of my theology and personal philosophy, I have a great deal of empathy and compassion for those in underdeveloped countries who seek to come to the United States to find a better life. But I don't therefore believe that because their reaction to their situation is understandable, their illegal immigration as part of that response is excusable.
I'm all for an open and frank discussion about who how the laws governing who is granted legal status should be changed. In fact, I for one would probably come down on the side of those who argue for relaxing them. But I firmly believe that those who don't meet the requirements of those laws, however strict or lax, should not be able to flaunt those laws with impunity.
In this day and age, with the types of criminal activity that get smuggled across the border not even counting the aspiring migrant farm worker, such as terrorism, hard core drugs, etc., it is a matter of national security and utmost importance that we establish the right and ability to monitor and control exactly who does and doesn't enter this country. Once we've established that control, we can afford to be as generaous as we wish and deem prudent. But until then, turning a blind eye to those who thwart that control is not the answer.
In short, I see no inherent conflict between making it easier for legitimate immigrants to enter the country, while at the same time making it harder, if not impossible, for illegitimate infiltrators to do so. In fact, I'd argue that both serve equally to make America the strong, free country we so love.
Zen and the Art of S'mores
Last night, as The Feared Redhead and I watched televison an ad came on for Hersheys Chocolate Bars. In the ad, the spokesperson was explaining that she and her boyfriend always argue over who makes the best s'mores, and concluded the commercial with, "I always win". TFR's response was to turn to me and say, "You're the King of S'mores!"
Which I am.
So I decided for this week's recipe to share with you my secrets to making The World's Best S'mores.
The World's Best S'mores
Ingredients:
Graham Crackers (Regular honey graham crackers -- no chocolate grahams, cinnamon, or any of that BS)
Hersheys Plain Chocolate bars (The regular ones, not the thick ones or dark ones or Dove Bars or any of that BS)
Marshmallows (Full-sized plain white ones, not the colored minis or chocolate marshmallows or any of that BS)
Utensils:
long pointy sticks (real wood sticks, not coat hangers or metal wienie roasting rods or bamboos skewers or any of that BS)
Campfire (Or a beach bonfire, or even a fireplace. No charcoal or gas grill or hibachi or any of that BS)
Notice a pattern?
That's right, my s'more recipe calls for exactly the old school elements, no more, no less. My secret is not in the materials, it's in the technique.
First of all, the S'mores MUST be made in a convivial atmosphere. The telling of jokes, singing of songs and sharing of innermost thoughts is a necessary element, as is snuggling a loved one, pulling pranks, imbibing hot chocolate, coffee, and strong drink. In onther words, if the mood's not right, neither are the S'mores.
Now to the technical notes. Start with one graham cracker. Carefully snap it in two so that you have square halves. Carefully snap off two of the sections of hershey bar as one piece, place the piece on one of the two cracker halves, and place the two halves on a hot spot near the fire. This will ensure that while your marshmallow roasts, your graham cracker will toast and the chocolate will melt. You want the chocolate to still hold its shape, but just barely, and be shiny across the entire surface.
Impale exactly one marshmallow on the stick. Using a stick will ensure that as the marshmallow is turned, the sides actually rotate towards the flame, instead of one side sagging towards the flame the entire time.
Hold the marshmallow just 1-3 inches above the tops of the flames, so that it's exposed to the heat but not directly to the flame. The trick is to allow the marshmallow to heat evenly, so that the inside begins to melt, and the outside turns a golden brown. If it catches on fire, it's ruined for the s'more -- pull it off and eat it a la carte.
Once the marshmallow begins to sag to that most of it hangs below the stick, it's ready. Pull it away from the heat. Place it on top of the chocolate, and then carefully place the empty cracker half on top. GENTLY hold them together, not squeezing too tightly, with the half edges facing the long portion of the stick slightly colser together. Slide the stick out of the S'more, and serve -- first S'more should be served to your beloved or a favored friend, last s'more to the s'more maker. This method, while painstaking, should guarantee maximum gooeyness, stickiness, and intermingling of flavors and textures, and should also guarantee you the amorous response desired from your beloved.
Enjoy. The s'mores, that is.
Which I am.
So I decided for this week's recipe to share with you my secrets to making The World's Best S'mores.
The World's Best S'mores
Ingredients:
Graham Crackers (Regular honey graham crackers -- no chocolate grahams, cinnamon, or any of that BS)
Hersheys Plain Chocolate bars (The regular ones, not the thick ones or dark ones or Dove Bars or any of that BS)
Marshmallows (Full-sized plain white ones, not the colored minis or chocolate marshmallows or any of that BS)
Utensils:
long pointy sticks (real wood sticks, not coat hangers or metal wienie roasting rods or bamboos skewers or any of that BS)
Campfire (Or a beach bonfire, or even a fireplace. No charcoal or gas grill or hibachi or any of that BS)
Notice a pattern?
That's right, my s'more recipe calls for exactly the old school elements, no more, no less. My secret is not in the materials, it's in the technique.
First of all, the S'mores MUST be made in a convivial atmosphere. The telling of jokes, singing of songs and sharing of innermost thoughts is a necessary element, as is snuggling a loved one, pulling pranks, imbibing hot chocolate, coffee, and strong drink. In onther words, if the mood's not right, neither are the S'mores.
Now to the technical notes. Start with one graham cracker. Carefully snap it in two so that you have square halves. Carefully snap off two of the sections of hershey bar as one piece, place the piece on one of the two cracker halves, and place the two halves on a hot spot near the fire. This will ensure that while your marshmallow roasts, your graham cracker will toast and the chocolate will melt. You want the chocolate to still hold its shape, but just barely, and be shiny across the entire surface.
Impale exactly one marshmallow on the stick. Using a stick will ensure that as the marshmallow is turned, the sides actually rotate towards the flame, instead of one side sagging towards the flame the entire time.
Hold the marshmallow just 1-3 inches above the tops of the flames, so that it's exposed to the heat but not directly to the flame. The trick is to allow the marshmallow to heat evenly, so that the inside begins to melt, and the outside turns a golden brown. If it catches on fire, it's ruined for the s'more -- pull it off and eat it a la carte.
Once the marshmallow begins to sag to that most of it hangs below the stick, it's ready. Pull it away from the heat. Place it on top of the chocolate, and then carefully place the empty cracker half on top. GENTLY hold them together, not squeezing too tightly, with the half edges facing the long portion of the stick slightly colser together. Slide the stick out of the S'more, and serve -- first S'more should be served to your beloved or a favored friend, last s'more to the s'more maker. This method, while painstaking, should guarantee maximum gooeyness, stickiness, and intermingling of flavors and textures, and should also guarantee you the amorous response desired from your beloved.
Enjoy. The s'mores, that is.
Monday, July 11, 2005
"peace Protest" My Ass!
Thanks for the Memory to Michelle Malkin via Ace.
I would like to Formally apologize to the Members of the San Francisco Police Department for ever having complained about vandalism to my vehicle for political reasons. What one of their own suffered is far worse.
Look at the picture. Read the details of the instance. Then tell me that the people who did this are "Pacifists"
Bullshit. I've documented it time and again on this Blog, countless incident after incident in which the left, the very people who cpmplain about the oprressive tactics of the right, resort to intimidation and dirty tactics to stifle the voices of their opposition. This is just the ugliest manifestation of it yet.
Tell me, what's the difference between this and what some brownshirted SA thug would have done to a German Polizei in the 1930's? If you're on the left, are you happy now? Are you proud of the fact that throughout the past 5 years, out of a compulsive, obsessive hatred for George W Bush, the Left as a collective movement has been so willing to embrace and encourage every fringe group and extremist element that might just help them bring down the hated Chimpie McHitler that those selfsame fringe groups and extremist elements have become emboldened enough to engage in this kind of brutal behavior? And if we say of Germany that those who failed to speak out against the Nazis were as complicit in their atrocities, what does that say of the modern left that fails to speak out, and in fact even celebrates, such acts of senseless violence on their behalf?
So you say these thugs don't speak for you? Prove it. Speak for yourselves. Speak out, speak up, separate yourselves in strong words and stronger deeds from these elements, or your continued silence will speak volumes more than your words ever can.
I would like to Formally apologize to the Members of the San Francisco Police Department for ever having complained about vandalism to my vehicle for political reasons. What one of their own suffered is far worse.
Look at the picture. Read the details of the instance. Then tell me that the people who did this are "Pacifists"
Bullshit. I've documented it time and again on this Blog, countless incident after incident in which the left, the very people who cpmplain about the oprressive tactics of the right, resort to intimidation and dirty tactics to stifle the voices of their opposition. This is just the ugliest manifestation of it yet.
Tell me, what's the difference between this and what some brownshirted SA thug would have done to a German Polizei in the 1930's? If you're on the left, are you happy now? Are you proud of the fact that throughout the past 5 years, out of a compulsive, obsessive hatred for George W Bush, the Left as a collective movement has been so willing to embrace and encourage every fringe group and extremist element that might just help them bring down the hated Chimpie McHitler that those selfsame fringe groups and extremist elements have become emboldened enough to engage in this kind of brutal behavior? And if we say of Germany that those who failed to speak out against the Nazis were as complicit in their atrocities, what does that say of the modern left that fails to speak out, and in fact even celebrates, such acts of senseless violence on their behalf?
So you say these thugs don't speak for you? Prove it. Speak for yourselves. Speak out, speak up, separate yourselves in strong words and stronger deeds from these elements, or your continued silence will speak volumes more than your words ever can.
Good News, Tempered
A while back, I asked my readers to pray for my infant son, who was facing the prospect of hernia surgery.
Today, we received the good news from the doctor: The hernia has closed on its own, and he won't need surgery. Thanks again to everyone.
Of course, with the good news, there's always a catch. He apparently has pink eye in both eyes AND an ear infection, so he could still use your prayers.
Thanks again.
Today, we received the good news from the doctor: The hernia has closed on its own, and he won't need surgery. Thanks again to everyone.
Of course, with the good news, there's always a catch. He apparently has pink eye in both eyes AND an ear infection, so he could still use your prayers.
Thanks again.
Friday, July 08, 2005
An Open Letter to the People of London
Permit me the honor of extending to you all the support, empathy, and encouragement I can muster as you cope with the aftermath of the cowardly, barbaric bombing attacks of July 7th. My thoughts and prayers have been with you since I heard the news. Britain and the United States once again find themselves with a commonality, a shared experience that draws us close to one another. We owe the very existence of our beloved country to brave settlers of English stock. we share a common language, a common ancestry, and a common cause: the cause of Freedom. While we purchased our independence from you in blood, we have re-established a bond of friendship and kinship in the same blood. Time and again, our two countries have proven each others' staunchest allies. And just as you stood by us in the dark days following 9/11, so we will stand by you now.
Watching the news coverage, I was deeply moved. And while I was moved to sorrow and anger and disgust at the savagery visdited upon you, I was most deeply moved, and stirred, by your response. It was the response of a Britain that I hoped, and believed, still existed. I was inspired by the defiance, the resolve, the courage you displayed. It speaks to your character as a culture that you fight the hardest, stand the straightest, and endure the bravest when your backs are against the wall. When I think of Britain in times like this, I think of one phrase: Bloodied but unbowed. Your ancestors who stood up to the Armada, or to the Luftwaffe, would have recognized themselves in you yesterday.
And so I encourage you with the words of one of your finest orators, a man who had ancestral ties to and a love of my land, Sir Winston Churchill. I imagine he'll forgive me if I change a few words:
Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. upon it depends our own British life and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us now. [Al Quaeda] knows that it will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to them, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age, made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted [religion]. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say, "This was their finest hour."
UPDATE:
(Thanks for the Memory to Maximum Leader at Naked Villainy)
Watching the news coverage, I was deeply moved. And while I was moved to sorrow and anger and disgust at the savagery visdited upon you, I was most deeply moved, and stirred, by your response. It was the response of a Britain that I hoped, and believed, still existed. I was inspired by the defiance, the resolve, the courage you displayed. It speaks to your character as a culture that you fight the hardest, stand the straightest, and endure the bravest when your backs are against the wall. When I think of Britain in times like this, I think of one phrase: Bloodied but unbowed. Your ancestors who stood up to the Armada, or to the Luftwaffe, would have recognized themselves in you yesterday.
And so I encourage you with the words of one of your finest orators, a man who had ancestral ties to and a love of my land, Sir Winston Churchill. I imagine he'll forgive me if I change a few words:
Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. upon it depends our own British life and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us now. [Al Quaeda] knows that it will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to them, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age, made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted [religion]. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say, "This was their finest hour."
UPDATE:
(Thanks for the Memory to Maximum Leader at Naked Villainy)
Bring Back That Grillin' Feeling
As my more regular readers know, I've stayed away from the grill for a couple of weeks. But this past weekend, I was ready to get back into the game. I picked up a roughly 2-lb. piece of buffalo (American Bison) tri-tip from our local butcher the other day, and desperate for a new recipe, I came up with the following. In my mind, it wasn’t much of a recipe, but The Feared Redhead insisted I post it. It requires the use of a grill outside, AND a stove inside (or you can put the skillet on the grill).
buffalo (not Buffalo) Steak Sandwich
buffalo tri-tip roast, 2 lbs.
1 loaf ciabatta or other rustic bread
1 red onion
1 cup sliced crimini mushrooms
¼ cup blue cheese
2 yellow onions
1 head butter lettuce
dry rub
olive oil
1 tbsp butter
1 bottle pale or amber ale
Apply dry rub to steak. One of these days, when I’ve codified it, I’ll provide my own rub recipe, but for now, any good grilling rub intended for beef will do. Place the meat on a grill heated to medium to high heat, turning every 5 minutes, until a meat thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the meat registers the desired temperature. I prefer roughly 150 degrees F, or medium rare.
Buffalo is a tricky meat to cook. If done right, it’s tenderer than beef, but it’s also leaner, which means it’s easier to overcook. For steaks, 3-6 minutes a side is ideal. But when cooking meat of roast thickness, things get dicier. It’s possible to dry out the outer layer of meat before the inside is at the proper temperature. To prevent this, baste the roast with beer after each turn. When the meat is at the correct temperature, remove from the heat and let it rest.
Slice your bread into sandwich-sized lengths, then slice these down the middle. Rub each open side with olive oil, place on the grill for roughly 3 to 5 minutes, or until toasted.
Once the meat has rested for about 10-15 minutes, slice thinly across the grain. At this time, slice the tomatoes into round slices, about ¼ inch thick. Rinse the lettuce and break leaves off at the base. Do NOT cut the lettuce.
Slice your onion thinly. Crimini mushrooms (actually small versions of the portabella mushroom) should be sliced thicker, about ¼ inch in thickness. In a medium-sized skillet, heat the butter until it melts and begins to sizzle, but do not brown. Add your onion slices, sauté until clear. Add the mushrooms, continue to cook until the mushrooms begin to brown, add blue cheese. Continue to cook until the blue cheese begins to melt, remove from heat.
Place several slices of buffalo onto the bottom halves of the bread. Spoon on the mushrooms, onions, and cheese. Plate open-faced, place the lettuce and tomato slices on the second half of each sandwich. Serve with Gourmet kettle-cooked potato chips, Salt and Vinegar is an excellent choice of flavor.
Oh, and if you happen to have an extra bottle of the beer you used to baste the meat, well, that's not so unlucky either.
buffalo (not Buffalo) Steak Sandwich
buffalo tri-tip roast, 2 lbs.
1 loaf ciabatta or other rustic bread
1 red onion
1 cup sliced crimini mushrooms
¼ cup blue cheese
2 yellow onions
1 head butter lettuce
dry rub
olive oil
1 tbsp butter
1 bottle pale or amber ale
Apply dry rub to steak. One of these days, when I’ve codified it, I’ll provide my own rub recipe, but for now, any good grilling rub intended for beef will do. Place the meat on a grill heated to medium to high heat, turning every 5 minutes, until a meat thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the meat registers the desired temperature. I prefer roughly 150 degrees F, or medium rare.
Buffalo is a tricky meat to cook. If done right, it’s tenderer than beef, but it’s also leaner, which means it’s easier to overcook. For steaks, 3-6 minutes a side is ideal. But when cooking meat of roast thickness, things get dicier. It’s possible to dry out the outer layer of meat before the inside is at the proper temperature. To prevent this, baste the roast with beer after each turn. When the meat is at the correct temperature, remove from the heat and let it rest.
Slice your bread into sandwich-sized lengths, then slice these down the middle. Rub each open side with olive oil, place on the grill for roughly 3 to 5 minutes, or until toasted.
Once the meat has rested for about 10-15 minutes, slice thinly across the grain. At this time, slice the tomatoes into round slices, about ¼ inch thick. Rinse the lettuce and break leaves off at the base. Do NOT cut the lettuce.
Slice your onion thinly. Crimini mushrooms (actually small versions of the portabella mushroom) should be sliced thicker, about ¼ inch in thickness. In a medium-sized skillet, heat the butter until it melts and begins to sizzle, but do not brown. Add your onion slices, sauté until clear. Add the mushrooms, continue to cook until the mushrooms begin to brown, add blue cheese. Continue to cook until the blue cheese begins to melt, remove from heat.
Place several slices of buffalo onto the bottom halves of the bread. Spoon on the mushrooms, onions, and cheese. Plate open-faced, place the lettuce and tomato slices on the second half of each sandwich. Serve with Gourmet kettle-cooked potato chips, Salt and Vinegar is an excellent choice of flavor.
Oh, and if you happen to have an extra bottle of the beer you used to baste the meat, well, that's not so unlucky either.
Blogging Break
Sorry for the lack of posts the last couple of days, folks, I've been fighting a nasty virus. Should be back up to speed by Monday.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Mixed Emotions
Here's how it went down:
Yesterday, after the 6:30 AM feeding of The Lad, I decided to get an early start on the day's festivities by breaking out our flag and flying it from the front porch. But it wasn't where I usually keep it. It wasn't in any of our closets, or in the garage. It wasn't anywhere. It was at this point that The Feared Redhead reminded me that I had insisted on flying it on Memorial Day, since the rest of the day would not go as I had hoped. And I recall speciically that when I got home that night, I noted the empty flagpole and mentally kicked myself for forgetting to fly the flag. But I had not forgotten. Someone had stolen my flag on Memorial Day.
As soon as the realization hit me, I felt mad, and sad, and stupid, but mostly sad.
I felt stupid because it had taken me this long to realize it was stolen. To be fair to myself, there was only one flag holiday between the two days (Flag Day), and the hecticness of life had prevented me from even trying to fly it that day. I'm ashamed to admit that, I was just getting used to owning a flag and living in a place where I could fly it.
I felt mad, because someone had stolen a flag that I had purchased with my own hard-rearned money, and had gone to the trouble of flying as a sign of patriotism, as well as out of respect for my father and grandfather.
But mostly, I was sad. It broke my heart, really. I'm not sure which would be worse -- if the thief had no regard whatsoever for what he was stealing, and was just being a petty thief, or if the person understood fully the significance of their act and was intentionally desecrating what was for me a precious symbol of freedom and patriotism. In some ways, the latter, while more outrageous, would be less tragic. If old glory has so faded in people's esteem that it's not big deal to steal it, how far have we sunk from the days when Barbara Fritchie's sentiments rang true with all of us? I fear that my own slow realization gives credence to this possibility.
On the other hand, given the other incidents I've encountered in this community, I wouldn't put it past someone from around here to have fully recognized the importance of the flag and all it symbolizes, and to have stolen it out of sheer spite and hatred of it.
Of course, you KNOW what the first thing I did was, don't you?
The new flag flew proudly for the rest of the day.
Yesterday, after the 6:30 AM feeding of The Lad, I decided to get an early start on the day's festivities by breaking out our flag and flying it from the front porch. But it wasn't where I usually keep it. It wasn't in any of our closets, or in the garage. It wasn't anywhere. It was at this point that The Feared Redhead reminded me that I had insisted on flying it on Memorial Day, since the rest of the day would not go as I had hoped. And I recall speciically that when I got home that night, I noted the empty flagpole and mentally kicked myself for forgetting to fly the flag. But I had not forgotten. Someone had stolen my flag on Memorial Day.
As soon as the realization hit me, I felt mad, and sad, and stupid, but mostly sad.
I felt stupid because it had taken me this long to realize it was stolen. To be fair to myself, there was only one flag holiday between the two days (Flag Day), and the hecticness of life had prevented me from even trying to fly it that day. I'm ashamed to admit that, I was just getting used to owning a flag and living in a place where I could fly it.
I felt mad, because someone had stolen a flag that I had purchased with my own hard-rearned money, and had gone to the trouble of flying as a sign of patriotism, as well as out of respect for my father and grandfather.
But mostly, I was sad. It broke my heart, really. I'm not sure which would be worse -- if the thief had no regard whatsoever for what he was stealing, and was just being a petty thief, or if the person understood fully the significance of their act and was intentionally desecrating what was for me a precious symbol of freedom and patriotism. In some ways, the latter, while more outrageous, would be less tragic. If old glory has so faded in people's esteem that it's not big deal to steal it, how far have we sunk from the days when Barbara Fritchie's sentiments rang true with all of us? I fear that my own slow realization gives credence to this possibility.
On the other hand, given the other incidents I've encountered in this community, I wouldn't put it past someone from around here to have fully recognized the importance of the flag and all it symbolizes, and to have stolen it out of sheer spite and hatred of it.
Of course, you KNOW what the first thing I did was, don't you?
The new flag flew proudly for the rest of the day.
Friday, July 01, 2005
The Fight Is On, But Be Not Weary
Thanks for the Memory to Maximum Leader at Naked Villainy.
Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring.
Good.
As Ace has pointed out, O'Connor has been inconsistent, even self-contradictory, in her rulings, and her opinions tend to muddy the waters, not clear them, which is one of the main purposes of the court.
So who will replace her? I honestly don't know. I'm not a legal wonk, and don't know the roster of judges from whom to choose. I will make one predicition:
It will be a woman.
The precedent, if you'll pardon the pun, was set when Clarence Thomas was nominated to fill the vacancy left by Thurgood Marshall. It can be argued either that Bush 41 knew that any nomination other than another African American would be attacked as being damaging to the progress of Civil Rights, or that he made sure his nominee was black to defuse any furor over his nominee's politics (a tactic that failed, as we all recall), or, most likely, both. Based on this precedent, I find it highly unlikely that we'll end up with anyhting but another woman to replace O'Connor. The perception has become that if the position was filled by a minority in the past, it must be filled by that same minority in the future. And that's too bad.
Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying there are no women qualified for the position, nor that the MOST qualified candidate isn't a woman. Again, I don't know who the candidates are. But I am arguing that it shouldn't be a prerequisite that the candidate be a woman.
The reasoning behind the trend are understandable, if mistaken. It's the same reason that people alaways want to see more minority members of congress, or of the workplace. The argument is that those places should be representative of the population. And in the case of Congress, it's at least an arguable point. A representative from the same ethnic group and culture may be better equipped to represent their desires and opinions and priorities.
But the Supreme Court is not intended to be the House of Representatives. It's the judicial Branch, not the Legislative. It's job is to interpret the law, not make it. Thus, the prime requirement for a member of SCOTUS should be an understanding of the Constitution.
Not membership in a particular demographic.
Update:
While Ace is pessimistic about the outcome of this, his readers are a bit more upbeat, and actually have some good suggestions if a woman is to be nominated. I hope they're right.
Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring.
Good.
As Ace has pointed out, O'Connor has been inconsistent, even self-contradictory, in her rulings, and her opinions tend to muddy the waters, not clear them, which is one of the main purposes of the court.
So who will replace her? I honestly don't know. I'm not a legal wonk, and don't know the roster of judges from whom to choose. I will make one predicition:
It will be a woman.
The precedent, if you'll pardon the pun, was set when Clarence Thomas was nominated to fill the vacancy left by Thurgood Marshall. It can be argued either that Bush 41 knew that any nomination other than another African American would be attacked as being damaging to the progress of Civil Rights, or that he made sure his nominee was black to defuse any furor over his nominee's politics (a tactic that failed, as we all recall), or, most likely, both. Based on this precedent, I find it highly unlikely that we'll end up with anyhting but another woman to replace O'Connor. The perception has become that if the position was filled by a minority in the past, it must be filled by that same minority in the future. And that's too bad.
Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying there are no women qualified for the position, nor that the MOST qualified candidate isn't a woman. Again, I don't know who the candidates are. But I am arguing that it shouldn't be a prerequisite that the candidate be a woman.
The reasoning behind the trend are understandable, if mistaken. It's the same reason that people alaways want to see more minority members of congress, or of the workplace. The argument is that those places should be representative of the population. And in the case of Congress, it's at least an arguable point. A representative from the same ethnic group and culture may be better equipped to represent their desires and opinions and priorities.
But the Supreme Court is not intended to be the House of Representatives. It's the judicial Branch, not the Legislative. It's job is to interpret the law, not make it. Thus, the prime requirement for a member of SCOTUS should be an understanding of the Constitution.
Not membership in a particular demographic.
Update:
While Ace is pessimistic about the outcome of this, his readers are a bit more upbeat, and actually have some good suggestions if a woman is to be nominated. I hope they're right.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Going for a Wok
Last Saturday, I decided to throw down with a multi-course meal for The Feared Redhead. I went with an asian theme, making Pork Fried Rice, Chinese Chicken Salad, and Spicy Orange Beef. The rice turned out excellent, the other two were a bit disappointing. I used my Orange Chicken recipe and substituted beef, I think I sliced it too thin. Per her request, I'm keeping that recipe to Chjicken for now, she claims it's one of my best. So I thought I'd share it with you this week:
Spicy Orange Chicken
1 lb. cubed chicken
1 bundle green onions
1 can frozen orange juice concentrate (thawed)
1 cup soy sauce
¼ cup brown sugar
½ cup Sriracha style chili sauce
1 tbsp sesame oil
3 tbsp vegetable or peanut oil
5 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup minced celery
White pepper
1 tbsp red chili pepper flakes
Sesame seeds
Zest and juice from 1 large orange
Rinse the bundle of green onions. Cut the white bulbs and lower stems away from the green portion of the stems. Chop the white portion finely. Slice the green stems into thin rings. Keep the two parts separate.
In a large glass mixing bowl, combine the fresh orange juice, OJ concentrate, soy sauce, chili sauce, and brown sugar. Stir until the sugar is dissolved.
In a large skillet, saucepan, or wok, combine the sesame oil and vegetable or peanut oil and heat over medium high heat. Once the oil is hot, add the onion whites, half the garlic, and the celery. Cook until the onions and celery are clear. Add the chicken, sprinkle with white pepper, and brown. When the chicken has browned, add the liquid. Bring to a boil, reduce to medium heat, and add the rest of the garlic, orange zest, and chili flakes. Simmer and allow sauce to reduce by half, stirring frequently. Add half of the green onions, remove from heat and allow to cool for 5-10 minutes. Serve over steamed rice, garnish with the rest of the green onions and sesame seeds (and more chili flakes if you like it hot).
As a postscript, it was a gorgeous sunny day Saturday when I cooked this. I'd committed to cooking it, but promised myself I'd grill on Sunday. Which I did.
It rained.
Spicy Orange Chicken
1 lb. cubed chicken
1 bundle green onions
1 can frozen orange juice concentrate (thawed)
1 cup soy sauce
¼ cup brown sugar
½ cup Sriracha style chili sauce
1 tbsp sesame oil
3 tbsp vegetable or peanut oil
5 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup minced celery
White pepper
1 tbsp red chili pepper flakes
Sesame seeds
Zest and juice from 1 large orange
Rinse the bundle of green onions. Cut the white bulbs and lower stems away from the green portion of the stems. Chop the white portion finely. Slice the green stems into thin rings. Keep the two parts separate.
In a large glass mixing bowl, combine the fresh orange juice, OJ concentrate, soy sauce, chili sauce, and brown sugar. Stir until the sugar is dissolved.
In a large skillet, saucepan, or wok, combine the sesame oil and vegetable or peanut oil and heat over medium high heat. Once the oil is hot, add the onion whites, half the garlic, and the celery. Cook until the onions and celery are clear. Add the chicken, sprinkle with white pepper, and brown. When the chicken has browned, add the liquid. Bring to a boil, reduce to medium heat, and add the rest of the garlic, orange zest, and chili flakes. Simmer and allow sauce to reduce by half, stirring frequently. Add half of the green onions, remove from heat and allow to cool for 5-10 minutes. Serve over steamed rice, garnish with the rest of the green onions and sesame seeds (and more chili flakes if you like it hot).
As a postscript, it was a gorgeous sunny day Saturday when I cooked this. I'd committed to cooking it, but promised myself I'd grill on Sunday. Which I did.
It rained.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
All Quiet in the Hundred Acre Wood
Thanks for the Memory to the Llama Butchers. Some of my thoughts here were first posted as comments there.
I was very sad to learn that the men who did the voices of Tigger and Piglet for many years died over the weekend. I'm especially saddened since I also learned form the butcher Boys that the Narrator, Gopher, Pooh, Mrs. Kanga, Owl, and Rabbit are already gone.
I've come to feel that your childhood truly ends not when you grow old, but when the people who made childhood special die. I was first hit with this when we lost Mel Blanc and Jim Henson. This hit me even harder. I'm almost in tears. What makes it worse is the point well made that most of the recent pablum put out under the Pooh aegis is, well, rot.
And worst of all is what was for me (though not for those in the know) a new and distressing revelation, that of A.A. Milne's role in persecuting PG Wodehouse, as well as the poor relationship between Milne and Christopher Robin Milne. The quote that pierced my heart was this one by the younger Milne: "I shall never get over my dislike of being the 'real live Christopher Robin'"
You see, I wanted so much to be, and to a cetain extent was, Christopher Robin. I was a Very Sick Child. An Almost-Died-Several-Times Child. An In-and-Out-of-Hospitals-More-Times-Than-Liz-Taylor-In-and-Out-of-Matrimony Child. And through it all, I had one constant companion, one Samwise to my Fevered Frodo, one friend who stuck closer than a brother: my stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh bear. He accompanied me into every surgery prep, and waited for me in every recovery room. He was there for me to hug, and to cry into, he let me practice with a hypodermic needle on him so that I had someone who knew how I felt. I played with him, slept with him, talked to him. When I was stuck inside sick, I would create fantastic adventures for us to go on in the bed that became a life raft on the high seas, a rocket in space, a tank rumbling through Normandy. I kept him close for years, past an age most would consider normal, but the bond was hard to explain andf harder to break. He eventually became so loved, so worn, that his eyes, throat and parts of his arms had been replaced with mismatched cloth, his nose with a button, and his fabric, in the end, so worn that it couldn't hold a stitch. In short, he was my velveteeen rabbit. I still have him, unreparable, sealed in a ziplock back and kept in a box of keepsakes.
He was a silly old bear. But he was loyal, and patient, and he was my partner in expeditions through my own "Hundred Acre Wood".
UPDATE:
I really should have mentioned Dr. Seuss, but while his death is arguably the most remembered of all those I've mentioned, he never had the emotional impact on me that the others did. I enjoyed Cat-in-the-Hat. I lived for Muppets, Pooh, and Looney Tunes. Also, I'll add a couple of extra happy memories, just to make up for the tears.
The Feared Redhead and I met over the phone, long distance, introduced by mutual friends. We had been conversing on the phone for months and had long since fallen in love before we ever met in person, at Minneapolis-St. Paul International. We needed to have a way of identifying each other, so, based on my story of growing up with Pooh, and her feisty redheadedness, we exchanged gifts -- a stuffed pooh from her to me, a stuffed Tigger from me to her.
We have gone to great lengths to deck The Lad out in Winniebilia -- Classic Pooh in particular. Crib sheets, stroller, all sorts of knicknacks. But the coup de grace happened this weekend when, at a garage sale, I found as boxed set of Winnie the Pooh, House at Pooh Corner, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six, all in excellent condition, all for four dollars.
I was very sad to learn that the men who did the voices of Tigger and Piglet for many years died over the weekend. I'm especially saddened since I also learned form the butcher Boys that the Narrator, Gopher, Pooh, Mrs. Kanga, Owl, and Rabbit are already gone.
I've come to feel that your childhood truly ends not when you grow old, but when the people who made childhood special die. I was first hit with this when we lost Mel Blanc and Jim Henson. This hit me even harder. I'm almost in tears. What makes it worse is the point well made that most of the recent pablum put out under the Pooh aegis is, well, rot.
And worst of all is what was for me (though not for those in the know) a new and distressing revelation, that of A.A. Milne's role in persecuting PG Wodehouse, as well as the poor relationship between Milne and Christopher Robin Milne. The quote that pierced my heart was this one by the younger Milne: "I shall never get over my dislike of being the 'real live Christopher Robin'"
You see, I wanted so much to be, and to a cetain extent was, Christopher Robin. I was a Very Sick Child. An Almost-Died-Several-Times Child. An In-and-Out-of-Hospitals-More-Times-Than-Liz-Taylor-In-and-Out-of-Matrimony Child. And through it all, I had one constant companion, one Samwise to my Fevered Frodo, one friend who stuck closer than a brother: my stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh bear. He accompanied me into every surgery prep, and waited for me in every recovery room. He was there for me to hug, and to cry into, he let me practice with a hypodermic needle on him so that I had someone who knew how I felt. I played with him, slept with him, talked to him. When I was stuck inside sick, I would create fantastic adventures for us to go on in the bed that became a life raft on the high seas, a rocket in space, a tank rumbling through Normandy. I kept him close for years, past an age most would consider normal, but the bond was hard to explain andf harder to break. He eventually became so loved, so worn, that his eyes, throat and parts of his arms had been replaced with mismatched cloth, his nose with a button, and his fabric, in the end, so worn that it couldn't hold a stitch. In short, he was my velveteeen rabbit. I still have him, unreparable, sealed in a ziplock back and kept in a box of keepsakes.
He was a silly old bear. But he was loyal, and patient, and he was my partner in expeditions through my own "Hundred Acre Wood".
UPDATE:
I really should have mentioned Dr. Seuss, but while his death is arguably the most remembered of all those I've mentioned, he never had the emotional impact on me that the others did. I enjoyed Cat-in-the-Hat. I lived for Muppets, Pooh, and Looney Tunes. Also, I'll add a couple of extra happy memories, just to make up for the tears.
The Feared Redhead and I met over the phone, long distance, introduced by mutual friends. We had been conversing on the phone for months and had long since fallen in love before we ever met in person, at Minneapolis-St. Paul International. We needed to have a way of identifying each other, so, based on my story of growing up with Pooh, and her feisty redheadedness, we exchanged gifts -- a stuffed pooh from her to me, a stuffed Tigger from me to her.
We have gone to great lengths to deck The Lad out in Winniebilia -- Classic Pooh in particular. Crib sheets, stroller, all sorts of knicknacks. But the coup de grace happened this weekend when, at a garage sale, I found as boxed set of Winnie the Pooh, House at Pooh Corner, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six, all in excellent condition, all for four dollars.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Here's Your Chance to Fiddle While Rome Burns
In "honor" of the Supreme Court's ruling on Eminent Domain, a group of us have decided to start a Constitution Dead Pool. Here's your chance to "bet" on which part of the constitution will get dismantled next!
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