. . . been relocated to Braised Eel.
That's braisedeel.blogspot.com.
Hollow Earth Theory is too tricky on the tongue.
Anyone look it up?
Anyone read Woyzeck?
See ya there, kids!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sick Tree
While replacing wiper blades on the work truck, I suddenly became inexplicably cold and lightheaded, and have remained so. No joke! I'm under blankets now, shivering.
This didn't stop me from going to the orthopedist's office. The doctor was confident and matter of fact, and had strange cuts all over this fingers.
I do not have a tear in my ligaments. Nor do I have any obvious source of my discomfort other than, well, jiu-jitsu.
I asked him about training in the future. He told me I would have to decide what it is worth to me. We outlined three possible operations, none appealing.
The short-term plan is this: heal up, take some antibiotics, and try it again.
*
I told Billy about the Dogfish Head Brewery 90 minute I.P.A.s. He travelled around Amesbury until he found a liquor store that sold them, and called me later, in a drunken state.
"I drank four!" he told me, while changing his grandbaby's diapers. "I can see his dingdong!"
These are strong ales. Three is enough for me.
When he came into work today, he told me, "Goo Goo, your dog whatever beer got me in trouble."
Turns out, he didn't buy four, but eight, and worked his way through them all, capping them with a trio of bud lites before his girlfriend came home.
"Did she yell at you?" I asked.
"Oh, she yelled at me," he said. "I can't buy that anymore."
"But why don't you just drink three or four?" I asked him.
"Goo Goo, please. Those are strong beers! Gooooo Goooooooooo!!!"
I suggested, once again, that he try for just a four-pack, but he had already turned around and was once again focused on his warehouse duties.
*
The novel is off the rails, but I'm doing my best to be a dutiful engineer. Can't will away an avalanche, folks.
*
I woke up Saturday after a now forgotten dream and could only think, with utterly curmudgeonliness, that people have lost the true spirit of Christmas.
William James notes, without any irony, that there is a tremendous pragmatic value in the vague. And so there is! But let's not leave it at that.
This seems to have little to do with people saying holiday rather than Christmas, since I've never met a single person who has a problem with saying Christmas but many who suspect the word is under fire. The ghost of Joe McCarthy is pale but perceptible.
In my admittedly secularized view it has to do with self-sacrifice, family, and serenity. I may be a materialist, but I also believe in the spirit of things: one that is volatile and everchanging: sometimes stronger (the Stephen Colbert Christmas special, Truman Capote's story, the Pogues) and sometimes just pure hangover shit: red and cloudy (Tickle Me Elmo, dry turkey, Bill O'Reilly).
Just because something is changing, doesn't mean we should at least try to return to the source and see it gives us strength, always with the foreknowledge that anyone who thinks they have got it figured out in this regard is likely an ideologue and not of my camp.
I associate a true Christmas with quiet and cold. That's my Viking heart: the pagan tremblings at the base of the holiday must have resonated with fur and bone and fire -- the rolling blue snows of a mythological past or an anticipated ideal.
We all know moments where it seems to come upon us. And you stop to think, "Hey there, that's one of those moments! I just felt it! For a fleeting moment, things were as they ought to be. Fuck ya!!!" And you try to stick to this sensation and let it linger, and often it does, before fading with the light.
I also figure that my deep and provocative understanding of the holiday spirit was formed, stamped, and set to dry by the Peanuts special on the same topic, since I watched it reverently as a child, and my sense of the meaning of the spirit of the holiday of Christmas and/or its allegorical interpretations strays not a hair from that pitiful, solitary, poor tree and whatever sense Mr. C. Brown makes of it.
C. Brown, please!
This didn't stop me from going to the orthopedist's office. The doctor was confident and matter of fact, and had strange cuts all over this fingers.
I do not have a tear in my ligaments. Nor do I have any obvious source of my discomfort other than, well, jiu-jitsu.
I asked him about training in the future. He told me I would have to decide what it is worth to me. We outlined three possible operations, none appealing.
The short-term plan is this: heal up, take some antibiotics, and try it again.
*
I told Billy about the Dogfish Head Brewery 90 minute I.P.A.s. He travelled around Amesbury until he found a liquor store that sold them, and called me later, in a drunken state.
"I drank four!" he told me, while changing his grandbaby's diapers. "I can see his dingdong!"
These are strong ales. Three is enough for me.
When he came into work today, he told me, "Goo Goo, your dog whatever beer got me in trouble."
Turns out, he didn't buy four, but eight, and worked his way through them all, capping them with a trio of bud lites before his girlfriend came home.
"Did she yell at you?" I asked.
"Oh, she yelled at me," he said. "I can't buy that anymore."
"But why don't you just drink three or four?" I asked him.
"Goo Goo, please. Those are strong beers! Gooooo Goooooooooo!!!"
I suggested, once again, that he try for just a four-pack, but he had already turned around and was once again focused on his warehouse duties.
*
The novel is off the rails, but I'm doing my best to be a dutiful engineer. Can't will away an avalanche, folks.
*
I woke up Saturday after a now forgotten dream and could only think, with utterly curmudgeonliness, that people have lost the true spirit of Christmas.
William James notes, without any irony, that there is a tremendous pragmatic value in the vague. And so there is! But let's not leave it at that.
This seems to have little to do with people saying holiday rather than Christmas, since I've never met a single person who has a problem with saying Christmas but many who suspect the word is under fire. The ghost of Joe McCarthy is pale but perceptible.
In my admittedly secularized view it has to do with self-sacrifice, family, and serenity. I may be a materialist, but I also believe in the spirit of things: one that is volatile and everchanging: sometimes stronger (the Stephen Colbert Christmas special, Truman Capote's story, the Pogues) and sometimes just pure hangover shit: red and cloudy (Tickle Me Elmo, dry turkey, Bill O'Reilly).
Just because something is changing, doesn't mean we should at least try to return to the source and see it gives us strength, always with the foreknowledge that anyone who thinks they have got it figured out in this regard is likely an ideologue and not of my camp.
I associate a true Christmas with quiet and cold. That's my Viking heart: the pagan tremblings at the base of the holiday must have resonated with fur and bone and fire -- the rolling blue snows of a mythological past or an anticipated ideal.
We all know moments where it seems to come upon us. And you stop to think, "Hey there, that's one of those moments! I just felt it! For a fleeting moment, things were as they ought to be. Fuck ya!!!" And you try to stick to this sensation and let it linger, and often it does, before fading with the light.
I also figure that my deep and provocative understanding of the holiday spirit was formed, stamped, and set to dry by the Peanuts special on the same topic, since I watched it reverently as a child, and my sense of the meaning of the spirit of the holiday of Christmas and/or its allegorical interpretations strays not a hair from that pitiful, solitary, poor tree and whatever sense Mr. C. Brown makes of it.
C. Brown, please!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Beers of the Weekend
1. Dogfish Head Brewery Indian Brown Ale
2. Uerige Sticke
3. Aventinus Wheat-Doppelbock
Yes, I am a poor man, but I enjoy nice things. Still, although these are all world class beers, I spent only seven dollars and change for beer this weekend. How did I do it?
The first and primary reason is that Jess kindly bought me the DFH beers. The second is that I only bought single bottles of the others.
*
I was planning on starting my homebrew today, but the storm has prevented me from picking up a couple of packages of brewer's yeast. Soon enough, lads! Soon enough.
Much of today has been spent in food prep -- a great pleasure -- and soon I'll have to handle the elements as they come, clearing the snow. We have a small driveway, so the trick is mostly to shovel out the end so that it doesn't harden into ice. The back porch is trickier -- the heavy snow might cause structural damage to the house if left to build.
Additionally, the buildup keeps us from watching the snow fall on the Townsend woods, or the ice forming on the tiny tributary of the Squanicook that runs behind our house.
2. Uerige Sticke
3. Aventinus Wheat-Doppelbock
Yes, I am a poor man, but I enjoy nice things. Still, although these are all world class beers, I spent only seven dollars and change for beer this weekend. How did I do it?
The first and primary reason is that Jess kindly bought me the DFH beers. The second is that I only bought single bottles of the others.
*
I was planning on starting my homebrew today, but the storm has prevented me from picking up a couple of packages of brewer's yeast. Soon enough, lads! Soon enough.
Much of today has been spent in food prep -- a great pleasure -- and soon I'll have to handle the elements as they come, clearing the snow. We have a small driveway, so the trick is mostly to shovel out the end so that it doesn't harden into ice. The back porch is trickier -- the heavy snow might cause structural damage to the house if left to build.
Additionally, the buildup keeps us from watching the snow fall on the Townsend woods, or the ice forming on the tiny tributary of the Squanicook that runs behind our house.
Pork Neck Bones
Currently, I'm getting ready to add rice to some pork neck bones I've been cooking for the past two hours. I've New Englandized them by skimming the fat and using brown rice, and Asianized them with a chili oil.
And they sure smell good.
Pork neck bones are classic "poor folks" food -- delicious food used by people forced to use ingredients regarded as scraps by the upper classes, who look on them with disgust.
Me? I'm trying to learn how to use these cuts both because I can make big dishes with little cash, but also because on a tiny but significant level it demonstrates an attitude of mindfulness about food, where it comes from, and what constitutes waste and carelessness.
*
I'm thinking of traveling to New Jersey in April to get certified as a beer judge. Who's in?
And they sure smell good.
Pork neck bones are classic "poor folks" food -- delicious food used by people forced to use ingredients regarded as scraps by the upper classes, who look on them with disgust.
Me? I'm trying to learn how to use these cuts both because I can make big dishes with little cash, but also because on a tiny but significant level it demonstrates an attitude of mindfulness about food, where it comes from, and what constitutes waste and carelessness.
*
I'm thinking of traveling to New Jersey in April to get certified as a beer judge. Who's in?
Hymn to Ninkasi
I lifted this from the Beer Advocate website. The Sumerians were the first to brew beer, and they had a goddess of beer, Ninkasi. This poem is notable in that it contains a recipe.
People find this odd, but traditional poetry sometimes includes detailed instructions for anything ranging from beekeeping to cooking to playing musical instruments.
Hymn to Ninkasi
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished it's walls for you,
Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
You are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date] - honey,
You are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
You are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
You are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort,
Brewing [it] with honey [and] wine
(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
Ninkasi, (...)(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
The filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
Ninkasi, the filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
When you pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
People find this odd, but traditional poetry sometimes includes detailed instructions for anything ranging from beekeeping to cooking to playing musical instruments.
Hymn to Ninkasi
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished it's walls for you,
Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
You are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date] - honey,
You are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
You are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
You are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort,
Brewing [it] with honey [and] wine
(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
Ninkasi, (...)(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
The filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
Ninkasi, the filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
When you pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Two Points on Practical Matters
Anyone remotely interested in craft beer should check out Beer Advocate. It's amazing to the point of being daunting. Where to begin? When to end?
And: because of the way I set up this blog, it reads particularly well on smartphones. Bookmark and you'll see!
And: because of the way I set up this blog, it reads particularly well on smartphones. Bookmark and you'll see!
Red River Shore
The snow is falling and the storm has hit Townsend.
Jess is on the couch, IMing a friend, and I'm in the armchair, listening to the new Dylan and drinking a Duvel from a pewter mug.
And the snow it does fall.
*
I nearly broke Billy's heart yesterday by misreading my check and thinking they'd given us a Christmas bonus. He's dropped over two grand into his broken down old Dodge neon over the past few months, and is short on Christmas money. But I was misreading info about Afflac, which we both pay in for.
He told his girl that, driving home last night, he could barely see the road at various points. His heating coil had given out.
"I can't take this anymore," she told him.
"You can't take it?" Billy said to me. "It's me who can't see shit!!!"
*
What else am I doing? Making turkey stock. I drove around with the bones of the bird in a garbage bag yesterday, and asked that the legs and wings be left on. I reached into the bag for a wing for lunch, and had to fight to get it out. When it finally gave, it popped and sprayed a glob of liquid turkey fat across my glasses. That's yesterday, in short.
And oh yeah, I electrocuted myself. But I'm okay. End of story.
*
There are three distinct scars on my hand from where Billy squeezed it during our armwrestling contest.
*
And oh yeah, aside from the stock, I'm cooking up a leg of lamb for dinner. I bought that, along with some pork neck bones.
I rubbed the lamb in a dry spice rub and I'm slow cooking it. Should be ready by seven. My purchases were all guy-oriented, since the original plan was for Jess to stay with a friend in Watertown if the weather got bad. She got out early enough, and was able to make it to Townsend before travel would have become dangerous.
*
So here we sit, listening and enjoying the quiet (the Dufflebag is with his father), watching the snow fall down, white, but with a faint shadow of Christmas lights.
Jess is on the couch, IMing a friend, and I'm in the armchair, listening to the new Dylan and drinking a Duvel from a pewter mug.
And the snow it does fall.
*
I nearly broke Billy's heart yesterday by misreading my check and thinking they'd given us a Christmas bonus. He's dropped over two grand into his broken down old Dodge neon over the past few months, and is short on Christmas money. But I was misreading info about Afflac, which we both pay in for.
He told his girl that, driving home last night, he could barely see the road at various points. His heating coil had given out.
"I can't take this anymore," she told him.
"You can't take it?" Billy said to me. "It's me who can't see shit!!!"
*
What else am I doing? Making turkey stock. I drove around with the bones of the bird in a garbage bag yesterday, and asked that the legs and wings be left on. I reached into the bag for a wing for lunch, and had to fight to get it out. When it finally gave, it popped and sprayed a glob of liquid turkey fat across my glasses. That's yesterday, in short.
And oh yeah, I electrocuted myself. But I'm okay. End of story.
*
There are three distinct scars on my hand from where Billy squeezed it during our armwrestling contest.
*
And oh yeah, aside from the stock, I'm cooking up a leg of lamb for dinner. I bought that, along with some pork neck bones.
I rubbed the lamb in a dry spice rub and I'm slow cooking it. Should be ready by seven. My purchases were all guy-oriented, since the original plan was for Jess to stay with a friend in Watertown if the weather got bad. She got out early enough, and was able to make it to Townsend before travel would have become dangerous.
*
So here we sit, listening and enjoying the quiet (the Dufflebag is with his father), watching the snow fall down, white, but with a faint shadow of Christmas lights.
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