Finished this.
This was an utterly amazing novel. I would highly recommend it to nearly anyone.
Continue Reading...
This was an utterly amazing novel. I would highly recommend it to nearly anyone.
Happy New Year!
9 years ago
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Last Oracle
Finished this.
Dan Brown-esque in a way. Pulp writing. Relatively well done.
Continue Reading...
Dan Brown-esque in a way. Pulp writing. Relatively well done.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Each Little Bird that Sings
Finished this.
This book (I would guess) is geared toward the 10-15 year old reader. And, my goodness gracious, it is a complete tearjerker. If I thought the last book I finished was rough, this one was gut wrenching 10x over. Very well written, and extremely heartfelt.
Continue Reading...
This book (I would guess) is geared toward the 10-15 year old reader. And, my goodness gracious, it is a complete tearjerker. If I thought the last book I finished was rough, this one was gut wrenching 10x over. Very well written, and extremely heartfelt.
Monday, November 30, 2009
I hate to admit it,
but the Bears do suck.
In a half-hearted attempt to bring some levity to what is making football season pretty dismal in our household:
I find this rather amusing.
(not suitable for work)
And this list of 20 Things Worth Knowing About Beer is rather amusing as well.
Continue Reading...
In a half-hearted attempt to bring some levity to what is making football season pretty dismal in our household:
I find this rather amusing.
(not suitable for work)
And this list of 20 Things Worth Knowing About Beer is rather amusing as well.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Book of Lost Things
Finished this.
John Connolly wrote an incredible novel. It's one of the books that I wish I had written. It has a gorgeous mix/melding of mythology (or in this case, folklore) interwoven into the story. I would have finished reading this one at least four minutes earlier but I was having a hard time reading the last few pages through my tear-filled eyes.
Continue Reading...
John Connolly wrote an incredible novel. It's one of the books that I wish I had written. It has a gorgeous mix/melding of mythology (or in this case, folklore) interwoven into the story. I would have finished reading this one at least four minutes earlier but I was having a hard time reading the last few pages through my tear-filled eyes.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Angel's Promise
Finished this.
I'm not sure if it was just me or the fact that this was a translated French novel, but in reading the 495 pages, I almost gave up on this book at least a half-dozen times. It was slow plodding through the first three quarters of it at least. But I may just not understand the pacing of a French novel.
The end justified the means.
Continue Reading...
I'm not sure if it was just me or the fact that this was a translated French novel, but in reading the 495 pages, I almost gave up on this book at least a half-dozen times. It was slow plodding through the first three quarters of it at least. But I may just not understand the pacing of a French novel.
The end justified the means.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Coming up on two years...
Thanksgiving is November 26th this year.
Two years ago, on November 26th, one of my grandma's died.
She was something.
I'm still having a difficult time coming to terms with my grandma's death. Yeah. Two years after.
I can't say that she was always pleasant to be around, though from my eulogy (which follows) you'd be hard pressed to find much of anything negative about her. That's probably part of the confliction that's niggling at me now.
Even two years after her death, I'm really having a hard time believing that she's dead. (I typed over that last word more than a half-dozen times. "dead" or "gone." I'm opting for dead because apparently she's not *gone* as far as this narrative is going.
Indulge me, if you will, a bit of reminiscence.
My grandma made the nastiest chop suey that was ever eaten by human beings. If it was a leftover in the fridge, and it didn't (appear to) have anything fungal or microbial growing on it, it was fair game to be cut into very small pieces and mixed with rice to become chop suey.
My grandma had geese, Huey and Louey. On at least a couple of occasions. White geese. They lived on her property and ate grass and goose feed that she would give them. And they shit in the pond. And everywhere else. Geese are, well, how should I put this... Um... they're not very sociable when it comes to other living creatures. In fact, they can be downright mean. And when my brother and I would play out in grandma's yard, they would, if we wandered too close to them, vent their anger, with loud goose hisses and a flurry of flapping wings. Quite terrifying to us, being pre-pubescent and not all that aggressive. But when we would tell Grandma about this, she would remind us that we should probably stay away from the geese because, in essence, they were wild animals. When I was 10, the immediate family clan went to Grandma's for Thanksgiving.
As was already mentioned. Grandma was never mistaken for a gourmet chef. C'mon, eggplants from the garden that she grew should probably never have been sliced and put into spaghetti what was tomato sauce, said eggplants, a bit of leftover catfish head boilings and noodles. I mean, really.
But that's an aside, I guess. Once again, forgive. After obligatory mingling we were invited to the table. For the Thanksgiving Feast.
It was, as I remember it, a wonderful bounty. There was a huge bird, roasted to golden perfection, in the center of main table that my grandpa proceeded to carve up with deft excellence, every slice juicier that the one before. A mound of smashed potatoes higher than my head that steamed to one side. A pile of corn, perfectly boiled and steeping in butter and its own juices, Stuffing nearly falling out of its bowl, the scent making me mad with hunger. Cranberry sauce, gelled and shimmering in its tart tang. Everything. Everything smelling and looking so wonderful. And I was given my helping. And I dove in. And ate with complete relish.
"Wow," and an uncle finally said, "This is so wonderful."
Mind you, we didn't always say that the food was wonderful because it was wonderful. Most times, the food was complimented because it was food. As I've said, Grandma was not a Chef.
"Thank you," my grandma said, smiling.
"This is the best turkey I can remember having," the uncle continued. "Where did you get it?"
"Oh," my grandma answered, "It's not a turkey. It's Huey. Or maybe Louey. Those damned geese kept coming after me whenever I went to feed them, I just got tired of them. I had Hank take care of them."
And Thanksgiving went on from there. I'm sure I had bits and portions of those geese for years to come.
But this was all an aside. Just a bit of reminiscence. Not all that pleasant, but hey, not all of life is pleasant.
I'm thinking of my grandma because she always pressed me. When I stopped going to grad school, she asked me, on quite a few occasions, when I was going to go back and finish my graduate degree.
In 1990, I earned a Bachelor of the Arts in English. I had a minor in philosophy. I went on to graduate school with the (at the time) thought, that I would one day teach in a University environment. Things didn't happen that way and I dropped out of graduate school. And I was never able to explain to my grandma why I didn't finish my graduate degree.
My grandma was a go-getter. She got her degrees like nobody's business. She got a teaching degree that had her teaching art. I remember being a little boy and going to her house for the weekend and having students from her art class come to work on projects, and she had me working (in my own, little boy way) also work the project. And then, years later, I ended up being a student in one of the schools that she had taught at. There was a file cabinet in a classroom that I went to that had her name, in her hand, markered on it.
A number of years after her art teaching spree she went on to law school. She did phenomenally well. And she became a lawyer. It was in her lawyer phase that she actually questioned my stopping going to school. Asking me when I would finish my degree.
I'm not going to finish my degree, Grandma. I never wanted to teach students. I don't have that in me.
But I want to make art, like you did.
I gave you something that I made one time. Very late in your life. It was a compilation/collage kind of thing. I really thought you would like it. I brought it to a party that was being held for someone. I don't remember who the party was for. But I was shy about giving it to you. So when I finally asked you to come to my car so I could present it to you, and then bring it to your car so you could take it with you, I was shivering even though it was summer. Yes, I was, as I probably always will, still yearning for your acceptance.
I gave to you. And you were acceptant. You took my work. And you doted.
Then, not long afterward, you learned you would die.
The gift I had given you was in your garage. I had been since I had given it to you.
You asked, after you knew you were dying, but before you told anyone else, if you could give it away to my cousin, because your garage was getting pretty full. I said yes.
I really miss you, Grandma. So very much.
-----------------------------
My Eulogy for my grandma
Most of this is taken from something I wrote for my for my grandma's journal. She had asked that her sons and grandchildren each write a page for her journal that recounted our personal memories of being a member of this Engels clan. Mnemosyne: She's the ancient Greek goddess of memory and the mythic inventor of words. I'm not real strong when it comes to the ol' memory-department of my early childhood, but here go some words.
I have a number of clear memories from my childhood with my grandma; they range from my sitting on the floor to read a book in front of the chair she was sitting in and having her scratch my scalp and stroke my hair, to her teaching me how to swim by tossing me (wearing one of those orange life vests, of course) into the gently drifting waters of the Kankakee River. I remember nestling on the couch with both Grandma and Grandpa and a huge bowl of stove-popped popcorn to watch All in the Family, Grandma and Grandpa singing their respective parts of the opening theme song.
I remember when their Momence mailbox was at a far corner of their property because the mailman didn't drive any further down the dirt road that led to their driveway. At that time going to get the mail was a wonderful mini adventure; when my brother and I were old enough to make the trip to get the mail without an adult, it was a sign of being one step closer to being grown up. I also remember when we raised worms in a bathtub that was buried beside the house and whenever any of us would find a worm we'd bring it to the worm party. Reading, swimming, sewing projects, tadpoles and bullheads in the pond, wandering in the woods and sitting on the "bench" that was actually a plank between two trees that had grown to hold it into a platform, clearing huge piles of scrub brush from their property and piling it around a fire pit in which I would roast garden grown onions I'd wrapped in aluminum foil. These are just flickers of the many memories that flutter like moths around the flame of whom I've become.
Grandma was a perpetual entrepreneur, in business dealings as well as of life. She taught my brother and me our first lesson on working for wages: She calculated how many hours she thought it would take the two of us to deepen their crawlspace and told us that instead of paying us by the hour she would give us the lump sum on our completion of the task and if we got it done faster than the time she had calculated, she would have another job for us if we wanted, thus giving us the opportunity to earn more money by taking the job on a flat rate basis.
Probably the most important thing that she taught me, though, ultimately stemmed from the Red-Winged Blackbird.
When I was a young boy my brother and I would often spend summer weekends with Grandma and Grandpa. By the time I was seven or so I had already begun to show a slight predilection towards art, drawing in particular. With Grandma having been an art teacher, my brother and I always had supplies for drawing and painting. Now, decades down the road, and with a son of my own, I regret the environmentally spurred switch that grocery stores have made to plastic bags; paper grocery bags were always the best "sketch" paper to work out ideas before committing them to one of our art tablets.
One Saturday it got into my mind to draw red-winged blackbirds. I made some sketches, but was not very happy with them. When I showed them to my grandma to ask for her advice, she didn't comment on the quality of the figures. In essence, her "critique" for me was to pay attention to details. I, of course, was confused. These (self-perceived) misshapen scrawls were a disappointment to me, so I gave up on them.
The next morning we woke as usual with the air filled with the echoing coos of mourning doves and then we went to church. On the drive back from church, Grandma pointed out a number of red-
winged blackbirds and asked me to look at them, paying attention to the details. I did, memorizing each individual as best as my little mind could. When we got back home, grandma asked me to get my drawings from the day before. I had already smushed them up.
I flattened them as best I could and brought them to her. She asked me to look at the pictures and then look in my mind at the memories I had from the drive home and to compare them. I did, and my hopeless lumps were not too encouraging. I said nothing.
After a few minutes Grandma finally said that the drawings themselves were fine and that the only thing she would change is the fact that I had one of my red-winged blackbirds standing on a wire strung between two fence posts. I'm sure I looked more confused so she explained that red-winged blackbirds always perch on verticals. I searched my memories from the morning, and she was right but when I had been drawing them the day before, I hadn't made that connection.
After high school, I packed up my bags and went off to college. Initially I had envisioned myself going into a pre-law program and then going on to law school, following in my grandma's footsteps. As I discovered more and more of myself in college, though, I realized that her steps were not going to be mine in that particular regard. I still carried with me, though, the lesson she taught me of paying attention to detail.
I actually enrolled in an entry level drawing class even though I was not an art student and hadn't had an art class since junior high. I got an A (some of the art majors got grades as low as C-
minuses) and enjoyed the class thoroughly, though by then I had already settled on a course-load focusing mainly on English and, secondarily, Philosophy.
I had already begun to apply the attention to detail to my creative writing and had been told by many that it is one of the strengths of my writing, both fiction and poetry. My stories and poems are positively littered with the shards of memories I have of spending weekends with my grandparents.
I don't think I'll ever square dance or SCUBA dive. I am not a teacher, not a lawyer, nor any sort of entrepreneur. In my life, though, I try, in my own way, to meld some of the things that Grandma did and was. I continue to write stories and poems, paying attention to the details of the world around me. Grandma had a zeal for life that I've never experienced in anyone else. She reached out for and took hold of, with her mind and with her heart, everything within reach and much that was not. She reached the unreachable and attained the unattainable. Thank you, Grandma, for teaching by example. We all miss you.
Continue Reading...
Two years ago, on November 26th, one of my grandma's died.
She was something.
I'm still having a difficult time coming to terms with my grandma's death. Yeah. Two years after.
I can't say that she was always pleasant to be around, though from my eulogy (which follows) you'd be hard pressed to find much of anything negative about her. That's probably part of the confliction that's niggling at me now.
Even two years after her death, I'm really having a hard time believing that she's dead. (I typed over that last word more than a half-dozen times. "dead" or "gone." I'm opting for dead because apparently she's not *gone* as far as this narrative is going.
Indulge me, if you will, a bit of reminiscence.
My grandma made the nastiest chop suey that was ever eaten by human beings. If it was a leftover in the fridge, and it didn't (appear to) have anything fungal or microbial growing on it, it was fair game to be cut into very small pieces and mixed with rice to become chop suey.
My grandma had geese, Huey and Louey. On at least a couple of occasions. White geese. They lived on her property and ate grass and goose feed that she would give them. And they shit in the pond. And everywhere else. Geese are, well, how should I put this... Um... they're not very sociable when it comes to other living creatures. In fact, they can be downright mean. And when my brother and I would play out in grandma's yard, they would, if we wandered too close to them, vent their anger, with loud goose hisses and a flurry of flapping wings. Quite terrifying to us, being pre-pubescent and not all that aggressive. But when we would tell Grandma about this, she would remind us that we should probably stay away from the geese because, in essence, they were wild animals. When I was 10, the immediate family clan went to Grandma's for Thanksgiving.
As was already mentioned. Grandma was never mistaken for a gourmet chef. C'mon, eggplants from the garden that she grew should probably never have been sliced and put into spaghetti what was tomato sauce, said eggplants, a bit of leftover catfish head boilings and noodles. I mean, really.
But that's an aside, I guess. Once again, forgive. After obligatory mingling we were invited to the table. For the Thanksgiving Feast.
It was, as I remember it, a wonderful bounty. There was a huge bird, roasted to golden perfection, in the center of main table that my grandpa proceeded to carve up with deft excellence, every slice juicier that the one before. A mound of smashed potatoes higher than my head that steamed to one side. A pile of corn, perfectly boiled and steeping in butter and its own juices, Stuffing nearly falling out of its bowl, the scent making me mad with hunger. Cranberry sauce, gelled and shimmering in its tart tang. Everything. Everything smelling and looking so wonderful. And I was given my helping. And I dove in. And ate with complete relish.
"Wow," and an uncle finally said, "This is so wonderful."
Mind you, we didn't always say that the food was wonderful because it was wonderful. Most times, the food was complimented because it was food. As I've said, Grandma was not a Chef.
"Thank you," my grandma said, smiling.
"This is the best turkey I can remember having," the uncle continued. "Where did you get it?"
"Oh," my grandma answered, "It's not a turkey. It's Huey. Or maybe Louey. Those damned geese kept coming after me whenever I went to feed them, I just got tired of them. I had Hank take care of them."
And Thanksgiving went on from there. I'm sure I had bits and portions of those geese for years to come.
But this was all an aside. Just a bit of reminiscence. Not all that pleasant, but hey, not all of life is pleasant.
I'm thinking of my grandma because she always pressed me. When I stopped going to grad school, she asked me, on quite a few occasions, when I was going to go back and finish my graduate degree.
In 1990, I earned a Bachelor of the Arts in English. I had a minor in philosophy. I went on to graduate school with the (at the time) thought, that I would one day teach in a University environment. Things didn't happen that way and I dropped out of graduate school. And I was never able to explain to my grandma why I didn't finish my graduate degree.
My grandma was a go-getter. She got her degrees like nobody's business. She got a teaching degree that had her teaching art. I remember being a little boy and going to her house for the weekend and having students from her art class come to work on projects, and she had me working (in my own, little boy way) also work the project. And then, years later, I ended up being a student in one of the schools that she had taught at. There was a file cabinet in a classroom that I went to that had her name, in her hand, markered on it.
A number of years after her art teaching spree she went on to law school. She did phenomenally well. And she became a lawyer. It was in her lawyer phase that she actually questioned my stopping going to school. Asking me when I would finish my degree.
I'm not going to finish my degree, Grandma. I never wanted to teach students. I don't have that in me.
But I want to make art, like you did.
I gave you something that I made one time. Very late in your life. It was a compilation/collage kind of thing. I really thought you would like it. I brought it to a party that was being held for someone. I don't remember who the party was for. But I was shy about giving it to you. So when I finally asked you to come to my car so I could present it to you, and then bring it to your car so you could take it with you, I was shivering even though it was summer. Yes, I was, as I probably always will, still yearning for your acceptance.
I gave to you. And you were acceptant. You took my work. And you doted.
Then, not long afterward, you learned you would die.
The gift I had given you was in your garage. I had been since I had given it to you.
You asked, after you knew you were dying, but before you told anyone else, if you could give it away to my cousin, because your garage was getting pretty full. I said yes.
I really miss you, Grandma. So very much.
-----------------------------
My Eulogy for my grandma
Most of this is taken from something I wrote for my for my grandma's journal. She had asked that her sons and grandchildren each write a page for her journal that recounted our personal memories of being a member of this Engels clan. Mnemosyne: She's the ancient Greek goddess of memory and the mythic inventor of words. I'm not real strong when it comes to the ol' memory-department of my early childhood, but here go some words.
I have a number of clear memories from my childhood with my grandma; they range from my sitting on the floor to read a book in front of the chair she was sitting in and having her scratch my scalp and stroke my hair, to her teaching me how to swim by tossing me (wearing one of those orange life vests, of course) into the gently drifting waters of the Kankakee River. I remember nestling on the couch with both Grandma and Grandpa and a huge bowl of stove-popped popcorn to watch All in the Family, Grandma and Grandpa singing their respective parts of the opening theme song.
I remember when their Momence mailbox was at a far corner of their property because the mailman didn't drive any further down the dirt road that led to their driveway. At that time going to get the mail was a wonderful mini adventure; when my brother and I were old enough to make the trip to get the mail without an adult, it was a sign of being one step closer to being grown up. I also remember when we raised worms in a bathtub that was buried beside the house and whenever any of us would find a worm we'd bring it to the worm party. Reading, swimming, sewing projects, tadpoles and bullheads in the pond, wandering in the woods and sitting on the "bench" that was actually a plank between two trees that had grown to hold it into a platform, clearing huge piles of scrub brush from their property and piling it around a fire pit in which I would roast garden grown onions I'd wrapped in aluminum foil. These are just flickers of the many memories that flutter like moths around the flame of whom I've become.
Grandma was a perpetual entrepreneur, in business dealings as well as of life. She taught my brother and me our first lesson on working for wages: She calculated how many hours she thought it would take the two of us to deepen their crawlspace and told us that instead of paying us by the hour she would give us the lump sum on our completion of the task and if we got it done faster than the time she had calculated, she would have another job for us if we wanted, thus giving us the opportunity to earn more money by taking the job on a flat rate basis.
Probably the most important thing that she taught me, though, ultimately stemmed from the Red-Winged Blackbird.
When I was a young boy my brother and I would often spend summer weekends with Grandma and Grandpa. By the time I was seven or so I had already begun to show a slight predilection towards art, drawing in particular. With Grandma having been an art teacher, my brother and I always had supplies for drawing and painting. Now, decades down the road, and with a son of my own, I regret the environmentally spurred switch that grocery stores have made to plastic bags; paper grocery bags were always the best "sketch" paper to work out ideas before committing them to one of our art tablets.
One Saturday it got into my mind to draw red-winged blackbirds. I made some sketches, but was not very happy with them. When I showed them to my grandma to ask for her advice, she didn't comment on the quality of the figures. In essence, her "critique" for me was to pay attention to details. I, of course, was confused. These (self-perceived) misshapen scrawls were a disappointment to me, so I gave up on them.
The next morning we woke as usual with the air filled with the echoing coos of mourning doves and then we went to church. On the drive back from church, Grandma pointed out a number of red-
winged blackbirds and asked me to look at them, paying attention to the details. I did, memorizing each individual as best as my little mind could. When we got back home, grandma asked me to get my drawings from the day before. I had already smushed them up.
I flattened them as best I could and brought them to her. She asked me to look at the pictures and then look in my mind at the memories I had from the drive home and to compare them. I did, and my hopeless lumps were not too encouraging. I said nothing.
After a few minutes Grandma finally said that the drawings themselves were fine and that the only thing she would change is the fact that I had one of my red-winged blackbirds standing on a wire strung between two fence posts. I'm sure I looked more confused so she explained that red-winged blackbirds always perch on verticals. I searched my memories from the morning, and she was right but when I had been drawing them the day before, I hadn't made that connection.
After high school, I packed up my bags and went off to college. Initially I had envisioned myself going into a pre-law program and then going on to law school, following in my grandma's footsteps. As I discovered more and more of myself in college, though, I realized that her steps were not going to be mine in that particular regard. I still carried with me, though, the lesson she taught me of paying attention to detail.
I actually enrolled in an entry level drawing class even though I was not an art student and hadn't had an art class since junior high. I got an A (some of the art majors got grades as low as C-
minuses) and enjoyed the class thoroughly, though by then I had already settled on a course-load focusing mainly on English and, secondarily, Philosophy.
I had already begun to apply the attention to detail to my creative writing and had been told by many that it is one of the strengths of my writing, both fiction and poetry. My stories and poems are positively littered with the shards of memories I have of spending weekends with my grandparents.
I don't think I'll ever square dance or SCUBA dive. I am not a teacher, not a lawyer, nor any sort of entrepreneur. In my life, though, I try, in my own way, to meld some of the things that Grandma did and was. I continue to write stories and poems, paying attention to the details of the world around me. Grandma had a zeal for life that I've never experienced in anyone else. She reached out for and took hold of, with her mind and with her heart, everything within reach and much that was not. She reached the unreachable and attained the unattainable. Thank you, Grandma, for teaching by example. We all miss you.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Cross Country
Finished this.
It's another Alex Cross novel by James Patterson. Really nothing to say except that it's a mindless (and for me, entertaining) read.
Continue Reading...
It's another Alex Cross novel by James Patterson. Really nothing to say except that it's a mindless (and for me, entertaining) read.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Another great thing about Autumn...
(not my image)Geese flying overhead low enough that I can hear the wind flowing through their feathers.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Once and Future Myths: The Power of Ancient Stories in Our Lives
Finished this.
I especially liked (though I wasn't expecting to at the outset) the last chapter/essay: "The Myth of Sports." I should send a copy of it to my friend EDP
Continue Reading...
I especially liked (though I wasn't expecting to at the outset) the last chapter/essay: "The Myth of Sports." I should send a copy of it to my friend EDP
Monday, November 2, 2009
On the Job: Behind the Stars of the Chicago Police Department
Finished this.
Mouse took Ursa Minor and me to HalloweeM 34. We had a great time, and one of the speakers that I went to see was Daniel P. Smith, talking about his above-mentioned book. He made a great presentation and I really enjoyed his book.
I think my favorite snippet is this:
Continue Reading...
Mouse took Ursa Minor and me to HalloweeM 34. We had a great time, and one of the speakers that I went to see was Daniel P. Smith, talking about his above-mentioned book. He made a great presentation and I really enjoyed his book.
I think my favorite snippet is this:
Often in his [undercover] role as a priest blending into the city's background, [Officer Rick] King provided close cover to any number of his colleagues who played the role of would-be victim, the easy target inviting crime to come his or her way.
"I'll never forget Art Novitt and his Superman costume," says King, recalling one of the unit's most notorious tales. "His wife was an excellent seamstress and put together this Superman costume for him that would have made Hollywood jealous. Fit him perfectly."
Novitt served as the centerpiece in a pickpocket set-up in the city's underground El stations. The group positioned Novitt, clad in the royal blue outfit with a blaring S on the chest, in one of the worker's booths. The team then removed the hinges of the door and rigged fire extinguishers to release cloudy gas upon the door being pushed open by Novitt. The act only began, however, when the decoy, playing the part of a drunken construction worker with money hanging out of his pocked, was the robbery target.
"So the decoy was lying on the bench," tells King, "and we'd see the guy come by with big eyes once he spotted the money. And when he went for the money, Novitt would push open the door, smoke would come up, and you'd hear Novitt say, ‘Halt, wrongdoer.'"
King and the other team members then emerged from beyond the subway's corners to discover Novitt and a stunned thief amid the cloud of gas.
"We'd say, ‘Superman, Superman, what's the problem?' and he'd say how this guy was trying to take the man's wallet. We'd thank Superman and lead the man away. Then, Novitt ran down the platform and it would look like he jumped off the side and began flying down the tunnel. You couldn't help but chuckle at the situation."
The next day in court the thief pleaded guilty, something King says all the pickpockets did, giving that the frequent consequence — 30 days' probation and time served — offered little punishment. In the courtroom, however, the judge asked the defendant if he had anything to offer in defense. And this rare time, the defendant spoke.
As King retells it, calling upon his repertoire of voices to play the role of judge and thief: "The guy says, ‘Well, yes, your honor, I would like to say something. It is true, I did take the man's wallet, but it wasn't the cops who arrested me, your honor. It was Superman.' All I remember was the judge shaking his head, thinking this one was new, and then giving the guy 30 days and an evaluation by a doctor.
"You have to allow yourself a laugh or two no this job, you have to break the monotony of things because most of what you see is the negative — it's ‘gallows humor,' making light of awful situations just to save your sanity."
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Joys of Autumn
I and the boy raked leaves. Lots of leaves.
The neighbors have a *huge* maple tree. We take their leaves every year and dump them into our garden to compost over the winter.
There are a lot of leaves every year.
The boy did a great job helping. And he sure had a great time afterward.
Continue Reading...
The neighbors have a *huge* maple tree. We take their leaves every year and dump them into our garden to compost over the winter.
There are a lot of leaves every year.
The boy did a great job helping. And he sure had a great time afterward.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Gods Behaving Badly
Finished this.
This uses some of the same ideas, and is kind of a romantic comedy lite vision of, the "genre" tackled by Neil Gaiman's American Gods (ancient gods and goddesses living in contemporary society). I enjoyed Gods Behaving Badly, and would recommend it to anyone vaguely appreciative of magical realism and even slightly familiar with Greek mythology.
Continue Reading...
This uses some of the same ideas, and is kind of a romantic comedy lite vision of, the "genre" tackled by Neil Gaiman's American Gods (ancient gods and goddesses living in contemporary society). I enjoyed Gods Behaving Badly, and would recommend it to anyone vaguely appreciative of magical realism and even slightly familiar with Greek mythology.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Out of 100 calls of "Daddy?" this weekend, this is my favorite.
>Daddy?
>Yeah, Babe?
>Look at this. I'm a reindeer.
---It's an old set of antlers he got a couple/few Christmases back.
>Why, yes, you are!
---I go back to reading my book.
...
>Daddy?
>Yes?
>Now I'm a stag beetle.
---I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. This dude kills me. Thankfully not in an Oedipal fashion.
(Photos taken after the fact.)
Continue Reading...
>Yeah, Babe?
>Look at this. I'm a reindeer.
---It's an old set of antlers he got a couple/few Christmases back.
>Why, yes, you are!
---I go back to reading my book.
...
>Daddy?
>Yes?
>Now I'm a stag beetle.
---I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. This dude kills me. Thankfully not in an Oedipal fashion.
(Photos taken after the fact.)
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest To Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible
Finished this.
Continue Reading...
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Ever Dream This Man?
This Ever Dream This Man? website is kinda spooky to me. (Happy Hallowe'en, y'all)
Here is the party line picture.
Here is another picture that is close to the party line picture.
Here is a final picture that completely creeps me out.
Continue Reading...
Here is the party line picture.
Here is another picture that is close to the party line picture.
Here is a final picture that completely creeps me out.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
One reason not to encourage classical studies...
>Daddy?
>What, Babe?
>What's that?
He points to an old hand cranked meat grinder that we have sitting on a window sill in front of the sink.
>It's a meat grinder.
–Thirty or forty seconds pass.
>Daddy?
>Yeah, Babe?
>What's a meat cleaver?
I happen to have a small meat cleaver that I bought at a barn sale over the summer. It's still in the box I bought it in. I pick up the box that has a picture of said cleaver printed on the box top. I show him the box.
>This is a meat cleaver.
Then I put the box back.
–Another thirty or forty second pause.
>Uh... Daddy?
>Babe?
>What does it mean to "wield a meat cleaver?"
–Five second pause on my part.
>What do you mean by "wield a cleaver?"
>It was something I heard in a story, I think. I'm not sure. What does it mean? To "wield a meat cleaver?"
I take the box back into my hand and hold my hand over the picture so as to show him cleaver wielding. I show him a couple of shakes of what cleaver wielding would look like and put the box back. He wanders off and goes to play.
–A few minutes later I go to him and ask:
>Babe?
>Yeah, Daddy?
>What story did you hear about wielding a meat cleaver?
>It was one of my CDs
>Oh. Do you remember which one?
>It was one of the CDs about the Greek legends. I think it was Theseus or somthing.
(I mutter under my breath:
>I hope it wasn't Oedipus.
Continue Reading...
>What, Babe?
>What's that?
He points to an old hand cranked meat grinder that we have sitting on a window sill in front of the sink.
>It's a meat grinder.
–Thirty or forty seconds pass.
>Daddy?
>Yeah, Babe?
>What's a meat cleaver?
I happen to have a small meat cleaver that I bought at a barn sale over the summer. It's still in the box I bought it in. I pick up the box that has a picture of said cleaver printed on the box top. I show him the box.
>This is a meat cleaver.
Then I put the box back.
–Another thirty or forty second pause.
>Uh... Daddy?
>Babe?
>What does it mean to "wield a meat cleaver?"
–Five second pause on my part.
>What do you mean by "wield a cleaver?"
>It was something I heard in a story, I think. I'm not sure. What does it mean? To "wield a meat cleaver?"
I take the box back into my hand and hold my hand over the picture so as to show him cleaver wielding. I show him a couple of shakes of what cleaver wielding would look like and put the box back. He wanders off and goes to play.
–A few minutes later I go to him and ask:
>Babe?
>Yeah, Daddy?
>What story did you hear about wielding a meat cleaver?
>It was one of my CDs
>Oh. Do you remember which one?
>It was one of the CDs about the Greek legends. I think it was Theseus or somthing.
(I mutter under my breath:
>I hope it wasn't Oedipus.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Finished this.
Series over.
Time to find something else to read.
Continue Reading...
Series over.
Time to find something else to read.
Monday, October 12, 2009
This American Life
I've been listening, on the web, to past This American Life broadcasts.
This one, entitled, "The House by Loon Lake" really got to me.
It's the story of a kid (and his friends) that discover an abandoned house, enter it, and is subsequently haunted to find out the history of the home's former owners.
Continue Reading...
This one, entitled, "The House by Loon Lake" really got to me.
It's the story of a kid (and his friends) that discover an abandoned house, enter it, and is subsequently haunted to find out the history of the home's former owners.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
I used to, on a previous incarnation of this thingie, list books I had read.
I'm thinking I will start doing that again.
I've finished reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Continue Reading...
I'm thinking I will start doing that again.
I've finished reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
recipe
This is a special breakfast for Two, from One, though it can be adapted to accommodate as many (or as few) as you may wish. So far, I have only made it for Mouse and myself because Ursa Minor is not fond of eggs unless they've been scrambled.
Eggs Benedict is something that I have considered a luxury since I was first introduced to it when I was 18 years old or so. Since discovering it, I was once taught how to make a Hollandaise sauce from scratch by someone who was an actual Chef. I won't bore you with the details of making the sauce from scratch, because I only did it once, and it was a flop and I never tried it again, opting, instead, to go with a packaged mix which, while not gourmet, is certainly adequate for *my* palate.
Without further ado, I give you: The Pigamus Variation on Eggs Benedict
Ingredients:
One pouch (Knorr is good) of Hollandaise sauce mix (and whatever milk and butter is needed per the packet's instructions).
Three English muffins
Six slices of Canadian bacon
Twelve half slices of bacon
Six eggs
To start off, I begin cooking, in a large skillet, on a front burner, the half slices of bacon, cooking over a medium heat. Then, in a small sauce pan, on a back burner, I put on some water over medium heat that will be my water for poaching the eggs. When the water is on for poaching, on a front burner, in another small sauce pan I start the preparation of the Hollandaise sauce, following the directions on the package (and adding a couple extra tablespoons of butter for good measure).
Non-Chef Pigamus makes a first note: the Hollandaise sauce package will invariably give a recipe for making eggs benedict and will call for four English muffins. I am a Hollandaise sauce glutton, though, and prefer my proportions of sauce to food.
While the bacon, water and sauce are doing their business, I start to toast English muffin halves, watching over the pan and pots to make sure they're progressing without burning or boiling over.
When the bacon is finished to a crispy golden brown, I transfer this to a plate with paper towel on it to drain and put the Canadian bacon slices into the same pan (usually pouring off at least a little bit of the bacon drippings).
While the Canadian bacon begins to get its groove on in the bacon fat, the Hollandaise sauce should probably be reaching its simmer stage. At that point, I switch the two sauce pans from back to front and vice versa.
At this point, things become a bit more juggle-some, what with tending all the separate components and getting them onto the plate at the moment of their being finished.
Once I've got at least two English muffin halves toasted (and as an added treat, buttered), and the Canadian bacon slabs are cooked at least on one side, I turn the sauce pan of water on high heat and bring it to a vigorous boil.
To poach the eggs, I crack one into a small bowl. When the water is boiling like mad, I use a slotted spoon and stir the water into a whirlpool and dump the egg into the vortex. I have to be careful, at this point, adjusting the heat accordingly so the egg water does not boil over as it begins to foam. After a minute or so of boiling (more if I want the yolks cooked more solidly, which, frankly, isn't the way that *I* would cook them), the whites will begin to look rather congealed. The egg can be stirred a bit more to get all of the white flecks to congregate toward the main mass.
When the first egg is done cooking, the Canadian bacon should be fully cooked and left on a low heat to keep warm (I also return the bacon to the pan to keep it a bit warmer). The first (buttered!) English muffin half should be plated and one of the Canadian bacon slabs should be put atop it. Swirl the egg again, to get as much of the white in the middle of the sauce pan and then scoop it out with the slotted spoon, trying to retrieve as much of the egg on the first dip as possible. Gingerly shake the spoon so as to get as much of the water off of the egg as possible and then gently dollop the egg onto the already plated English muffin and Canadian bacon. I then put two of the cooked half slices of bacon on top of the egg in an X shape and then ladle on as much of the now shimmeringly beautiful sauce as I think is possible to ingest in one serving.
I then race over to Mouse and serve her first helping.
She tucks in, compliments me on the masterful job I've done, and I'm back to the races, poaching eggs, toasting English muffins, making sure the sauce isn't scorching, intermittently flipping Canadian bacon and bacon, and piling meat and eggs and sauce onto a prep plate that's transferred to the eating plate.
Non-Chef Pigamus second note: During the egg poaching process, the water may tend to start getting filled with flecks of egg white that just cannot be scooped up. I will usually have a tea kettle on the fourth burner that I set to boil as soon as I start the process. This way, if the egg gunk gets too thick, I'll dump the clotted water into the sink and start with fresh water that doesn't need to be boiled from cold, thus keeping the conveyer cooking moving along.
Enjoy! And if you eat three apiece, like I do, be prepared to have a nap immediately afterward.
Continue Reading...
Eggs Benedict is something that I have considered a luxury since I was first introduced to it when I was 18 years old or so. Since discovering it, I was once taught how to make a Hollandaise sauce from scratch by someone who was an actual Chef. I won't bore you with the details of making the sauce from scratch, because I only did it once, and it was a flop and I never tried it again, opting, instead, to go with a packaged mix which, while not gourmet, is certainly adequate for *my* palate.
Without further ado, I give you: The Pigamus Variation on Eggs Benedict
Ingredients:
One pouch (Knorr is good) of Hollandaise sauce mix (and whatever milk and butter is needed per the packet's instructions).
Three English muffins
Six slices of Canadian bacon
Twelve half slices of bacon
Six eggs
To start off, I begin cooking, in a large skillet, on a front burner, the half slices of bacon, cooking over a medium heat. Then, in a small sauce pan, on a back burner, I put on some water over medium heat that will be my water for poaching the eggs. When the water is on for poaching, on a front burner, in another small sauce pan I start the preparation of the Hollandaise sauce, following the directions on the package (and adding a couple extra tablespoons of butter for good measure).
Non-Chef Pigamus makes a first note: the Hollandaise sauce package will invariably give a recipe for making eggs benedict and will call for four English muffins. I am a Hollandaise sauce glutton, though, and prefer my proportions of sauce to food.
While the bacon, water and sauce are doing their business, I start to toast English muffin halves, watching over the pan and pots to make sure they're progressing without burning or boiling over.
When the bacon is finished to a crispy golden brown, I transfer this to a plate with paper towel on it to drain and put the Canadian bacon slices into the same pan (usually pouring off at least a little bit of the bacon drippings).
While the Canadian bacon begins to get its groove on in the bacon fat, the Hollandaise sauce should probably be reaching its simmer stage. At that point, I switch the two sauce pans from back to front and vice versa.
At this point, things become a bit more juggle-some, what with tending all the separate components and getting them onto the plate at the moment of their being finished.
Once I've got at least two English muffin halves toasted (and as an added treat, buttered), and the Canadian bacon slabs are cooked at least on one side, I turn the sauce pan of water on high heat and bring it to a vigorous boil.
To poach the eggs, I crack one into a small bowl. When the water is boiling like mad, I use a slotted spoon and stir the water into a whirlpool and dump the egg into the vortex. I have to be careful, at this point, adjusting the heat accordingly so the egg water does not boil over as it begins to foam. After a minute or so of boiling (more if I want the yolks cooked more solidly, which, frankly, isn't the way that *I* would cook them), the whites will begin to look rather congealed. The egg can be stirred a bit more to get all of the white flecks to congregate toward the main mass.
When the first egg is done cooking, the Canadian bacon should be fully cooked and left on a low heat to keep warm (I also return the bacon to the pan to keep it a bit warmer). The first (buttered!) English muffin half should be plated and one of the Canadian bacon slabs should be put atop it. Swirl the egg again, to get as much of the white in the middle of the sauce pan and then scoop it out with the slotted spoon, trying to retrieve as much of the egg on the first dip as possible. Gingerly shake the spoon so as to get as much of the water off of the egg as possible and then gently dollop the egg onto the already plated English muffin and Canadian bacon. I then put two of the cooked half slices of bacon on top of the egg in an X shape and then ladle on as much of the now shimmeringly beautiful sauce as I think is possible to ingest in one serving.
I then race over to Mouse and serve her first helping.
She tucks in, compliments me on the masterful job I've done, and I'm back to the races, poaching eggs, toasting English muffins, making sure the sauce isn't scorching, intermittently flipping Canadian bacon and bacon, and piling meat and eggs and sauce onto a prep plate that's transferred to the eating plate.
Non-Chef Pigamus second note: During the egg poaching process, the water may tend to start getting filled with flecks of egg white that just cannot be scooped up. I will usually have a tea kettle on the fourth burner that I set to boil as soon as I start the process. This way, if the egg gunk gets too thick, I'll dump the clotted water into the sink and start with fresh water that doesn't need to be boiled from cold, thus keeping the conveyer cooking moving along.
Enjoy! And if you eat three apiece, like I do, be prepared to have a nap immediately afterward.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
It was twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play
A
He's edited the postings, to protect the innocent.
I've been peeking in. Interested and somewhat voyeuristic as to where this is going.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
(not a re-post but a re-write of a post from an earlier web entity
I open the ‘fridge and pull the pale green head out of the bottom drawer. It is still wrapped in the thin plastic bag I had put it in when I picked it from the dozens of others at the store. I strip it of this transparent skin and place it on my mother’s mother’s chopping board. It’s not her “original” chopping board, that one went to my aunt Jean, but even this “secondary” board is a piece of Grandma’s kitchen, and therefore means the world to me.
I was too young, when my grandma died, to have ever really cooked meals with her. And even if she had lived longer, I was more than likely too male. I was, nonetheless, still the only grandkid, even with my being one of the youngest, to ever be allowed in the kitchen while she cooked. She was always so particular about cooking. She rarely let anyone around while she worked, not even Grandpa, though I doubt that he much minded. Like I said, though, I was too young to have ever really helped in the kitchen, and being young I never really picked up many, if any, of her techniques, though through the years I’ve tried to recreate them somehow. My son is not yet two years old, but I talk to him about what I’m doing when I’m in the kitchen and he decided to wander in to watch. I’m 30-some-odd years old. I want to make sure he knows as much about me as possible.
I turn the water on cold in the sink and wait until it is icy before dunking the cool cabbage head beneath its steady flow. I let the water course over its waxy surface, rinsing away any grit that may be left behind, while pulling off the outer layer of its leaves. The green of the cabbage is enthralling. Especially this far along in the winter. The weather of late has taken a sharp snap to the colder. It is early January, and statistically, the average temperature should be starting to rise, even if ever so slowly. It makes me long for the spring’s return even more, this delicate pale green cabbage.
I turn off the spigot and roll the weight of the cabbage in my cold fingers, checking it for any stray grime that may still be clinging to its folds and ridges. It shines in the early afternoon light that streams into the kitchen. My son is napping or I would make it a point to show him the vividness of the green nestled in my hands. He would surely love it. And I would peel a sliver of leaf off and let him taste it.
I shake the head dry over the basin and then put it on the chopping board again and daub the extra wetness from it with a towel. I unsheathe the biggest of the knives from its block and cut the head into quarters. The crunch as it splits is heady. I core out the stem from each of the quarters and put them all into a pot that I’ve already filled with water. I turn the flame on the stove up to a medium height. In an hour or so the scent of the cabbage will soak the house with its heaviness. For now, though, I go to my son’s bedroom. I listen outside his door and can hear the barest of snuffling as he snores softly. I sit on the floor outside his room and talk silently to my grandma. I ask her what it is that he dreams about when he sleeps because he’s still too young to tell me yet.Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Spring's sprung?
Heard the first robins this morning, I think.
I'll have to check with Mouse to be sure.
Continue Reading...
I'll have to check with Mouse to be sure.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Saturday Morning...
Rain was pretty heavy. Well, really heavy.
And I'm not a good driver into the city even in the best of circumstances.
We (Ursa Minor and I) went to the Field Museum to see the Real Pirates Exhibit (and wander around for a bit). It was a great time.
Continue Reading...
And I'm not a good driver into the city even in the best of circumstances.
We (Ursa Minor and I) went to the Field Museum to see the Real Pirates Exhibit (and wander around for a bit). It was a great time.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Square Root Day
I picked up Ursa Minor from the after school program as I do every Tuesday through Thursday.
On our way out, we passed some student work displayed on the wall.
Ursa Minor enjoys Greek/Roman mythology, and I noticed there were references that he might appreciate so we stopped and looked.
I don't know what grade the students who made the works were, but one image startled me a bit. It was a crayon drawing of Cronos, drawn in crayon, quite accurately, from the famous Victor Montoya image below:
Ew.
I much prefer Ursa Minor eating a Peep in one bite and saying, "I swallowed it whole, mistaking it for my child."
Continue Reading...
On our way out, we passed some student work displayed on the wall.
Ursa Minor enjoys Greek/Roman mythology, and I noticed there were references that he might appreciate so we stopped and looked.
I don't know what grade the students who made the works were, but one image startled me a bit. It was a crayon drawing of Cronos, drawn in crayon, quite accurately, from the famous Victor Montoya image below:
Ew.
I much prefer Ursa Minor eating a Peep in one bite and saying, "I swallowed it whole, mistaking it for my child."
Saturday, February 28, 2009
A moment of silence
I listened to Paul Harvey when I was younger and working with my grandpa.
I was always enrapt whenever I heard him come on the air. I haven't listened to him in quite a long time.
The one positive I can say about his passing is that I'm sure Grandpa is enjoying the rest of his stories.
Oh, and and for the completely sacreligious, Paul loved him a bong (questionable audio content)
Continue Reading...
I was always enrapt whenever I heard him come on the air. I haven't listened to him in quite a long time.
The one positive I can say about his passing is that I'm sure Grandpa is enjoying the rest of his stories.
Oh, and and for the completely sacreligious, Paul loved him a bong (questionable audio content)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tall Tales
Me: Let's go work on that packet from school.
Ursa Minor: What packet?
Me: You know, the one with all of the tall tales? With that hammer guy and the others?
UM: John Henry?
Me: Yeah, and Pecos Bill and Slue Foot Sue and Paul Bunyon. And all of them.
UM: And John McCain, right?
Continue Reading...
Ursa Minor: What packet?
Me: You know, the one with all of the tall tales? With that hammer guy and the others?
UM: John Henry?
Me: Yeah, and Pecos Bill and Slue Foot Sue and Paul Bunyon. And all of them.
UM: And John McCain, right?
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Happy Valentine's Day
What a wonderful Valentine's Day.
The family took a short jaunt to Chicago. Not to visit the site of the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre. No, we went for a delightful afternoon of Theatre.
Mouse found that the Depaul theater school was having a performance of Alice in Wonderland.
It was a good show. We all enjoyed it very much. All in all, a delightful afternoon excursion.
Continue Reading...
The family took a short jaunt to Chicago. Not to visit the site of the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre. No, we went for a delightful afternoon of Theatre.
Mouse found that the Depaul theater school was having a performance of Alice in Wonderland.
It was a good show. We all enjoyed it very much. All in all, a delightful afternoon excursion.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
An Improvised Recipe
When I was a kid, I used to really like poached eggs served on toast. It was always so wonderful to cut into the egg and have the liquid yolk burst out and soak a butter slathered piece of toasted bread.
Then, in college, I discovered Eggs Benedict, complete with spring asparagus shoots and Canadian bacon. Hollandaise sauce became a mead of sorts.
After college, that KIPLog guy, who happens to be a chef trained food dude taught me one Easter how to actually make a Hollandaise sauce. The experiment failed, but I at least learned the fundamentals.
Since then, I've availed myself of using store-bought Hollandaise mix-kits whenever I've had a Hollandaise hankerin'. Sure, it's not as luscious as the real thing (but I still use Hellmann's when I want to mayo-up a sandwich because I, as a cook, to quote the outgoing President, have misunderestimated the fine art of emulsion.
Short story getting longer, make an occasional Eggs benedict for Mouse and I on some certain Sundays (or an off-chance Saturday). Ursa Minor still doesn't appreciate the wonder of liquid egg yolk as of yet, so he has yet to partake in the glory of it.
Today, though, I made something new.
Ingredients:
6 patties of Mr Dee's Hash Brown Potato Patties
One can of Spam
Two packets of Knorr Hollandaise sauce (and whatever it says on the pouch to add)
6 eggs.
First step: Begin preparing the Hollandaise sauce per the directions, adding a bit more butter if you would like.
Second step: Begin to brown the hash brown patties in one pan and slices of Spam in another pan.
Third step: Set a pot of water on to boil so as to poach some eggs.
Fourth step: Once the hash brown patties and the spam are adequately browned and the Hollandaise sauce is nicely thickened and the egg-poaching water is at a roiling boil, begin to poach eggs.
The set-up for this dish is relatively simple:
A slab of hash browns, fully browned, goes on the plate. On top of that, a slice or two of the sizzling Spam. Next, ladle on a jiggling poached egg. Then pour on a ladle or so of the Hollandaise.
Voila.
A heart-attack just waiting to happen.
Bon Appetite-o.
Continue Reading...
Then, in college, I discovered Eggs Benedict, complete with spring asparagus shoots and Canadian bacon. Hollandaise sauce became a mead of sorts.
After college, that KIPLog guy, who happens to be a chef trained food dude taught me one Easter how to actually make a Hollandaise sauce. The experiment failed, but I at least learned the fundamentals.
Since then, I've availed myself of using store-bought Hollandaise mix-kits whenever I've had a Hollandaise hankerin'. Sure, it's not as luscious as the real thing (but I still use Hellmann's when I want to mayo-up a sandwich because I, as a cook, to quote the outgoing President, have misunderestimated the fine art of emulsion.
Short story getting longer, make an occasional Eggs benedict for Mouse and I on some certain Sundays (or an off-chance Saturday). Ursa Minor still doesn't appreciate the wonder of liquid egg yolk as of yet, so he has yet to partake in the glory of it.
Today, though, I made something new.
Ingredients:
6 patties of Mr Dee's Hash Brown Potato Patties
One can of Spam
Two packets of Knorr Hollandaise sauce (and whatever it says on the pouch to add)
6 eggs.
First step: Begin preparing the Hollandaise sauce per the directions, adding a bit more butter if you would like.
Second step: Begin to brown the hash brown patties in one pan and slices of Spam in another pan.
Third step: Set a pot of water on to boil so as to poach some eggs.
Fourth step: Once the hash brown patties and the spam are adequately browned and the Hollandaise sauce is nicely thickened and the egg-poaching water is at a roiling boil, begin to poach eggs.
The set-up for this dish is relatively simple:
A slab of hash browns, fully browned, goes on the plate. On top of that, a slice or two of the sizzling Spam. Next, ladle on a jiggling poached egg. Then pour on a ladle or so of the Hollandaise.
Voila.
A heart-attack just waiting to happen.
Bon Appetite-o.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Vacation...
Summer's a long time away. Sure, we had a thaw, but this winter's only just begun. And what better time than the bitter cold of winter to prepare for the days of summer?
In other words, it's my turn to choose where Mouse and I will go for vacation this summer.
I took a look at a map of the 48 states and thought long an hard on this one. I went for a warm weather clime.
Austin, TX it will be.
Any suggestions are warmly welcomed.
Continue Reading...
In other words, it's my turn to choose where Mouse and I will go for vacation this summer.
I took a look at a map of the 48 states and thought long an hard on this one. I went for a warm weather clime.
Austin, TX it will be.
Any suggestions are warmly welcomed.
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