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.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Finished this.



Series over.

Time to find something else to read.

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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.

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Finished reading this today.

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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.

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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.

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long day...

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It was twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play

An old friend of mine has been blogging/posting his journal entries from twenty years ago.

He's edited the postings, to protect the innocent.

I've been peeking in. Interested and somewhat voyeuristic as to where this is going.

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Long time no write...

but I may be back soon.

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(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.

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