Trip Recap, Part 6
Still in Zurich...
It's funny how some individuals have problems with certain things. Maybe you are squeamish about small birds; maybe you are scared of heights; maybe you are unable to use a cork screw; maybe you have problems opening and closing locks...well, European locks at any rate.
Imagine having meandered around Zurich, stopping here and there, checking out the scene, withdrawing funds from Swiss bank accounts, when suddenly, deep within the Zurich University Botanical Gardens, an urge to micturate overcomes you. Naturally, you would seek out the facilities, which, in our lucky case, happened to be dead ahead of us.
So, my traveling companion heads straight for the small building which appeared to house toilets. There were three doors. Suddenly, I had flashbacks to Monty Hall's Let's Make Deal. Will she take door number one, door number two, or door number three?
First, she heads of door number one and either pushes it or pulls it, but the door doesn't move. She moves on to door number two and either pushes it or pulls it, but the door doesn't move. Note that she either pushed or pulled, rather than attempting both directions. I was standing back, admiring the view of the city, as the gardens are raised and one got a rather good view of Zurich. The third door had a set of keys dangling provocatively in the lock. I hadn't noticed this until I turned to see C. turning the key in the lock, back and forth, round and round.
Of course, I had seen these lock manoeuvrings during our stay in Paris, at the impossibly small apartment. I neglected to mention that the door to that apartment had three locks. My companion, I realized, is European-lock-challenged. North American locks seem to pose no problems. It's the turn-left-two-and-a-quarter-turn type of lock that seems most confounding.
Suddenly, we hear banging and clanging and panicked screams from the inside. Within a few short seconds, she had managed to lock a workman in his office and was unable to unlock the door. I imagined that the Swiss gentleman must have been worrying that we were locking him in so that we could make off with various botanical samples, or worse.
I hurried over the scene, and freed the man, who looked completely stunned after having been confined to his office by two strange Canadians. His expression suggested that he needed an explanation, and my companion tried to comply, but then he looked decidedly non-impressed. I suppressed the urge to tell him that this is what happens when you leave you keys in the lock, but I was afraid of being expelled from Switzerland. He removed the keys from the lock and went back into his office. I hope he learned his lesson.
After rescuing the man, I wandered over and pushed or pulled on the door (you know, like tried both directions) of what appeared to be the female can and it opened. With her bladder empty, we were able to continue on through the foliage.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
A look at my CD collection, part 8: Anjani - Blue Alert
Finally, changing topics...
Q: What kind of a 76 year-old-man dates a 51 year-old-woman?
A: Leonard Cohen
I kind of hate Leonard Cohen, with his constant cadre of women and his perfect songs. Damn him all to hell. Blue Alert is what happens when you pair the best song-writer of the 20th Century with a good voice. It's a jazzy affair, but I think the lyrics are stronger than the music. There is something not quite right with the musical direction on the album, but I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's that the mellowness overwhelms the lyrics to such an extent as to make the songs anemic. But, I am not a jazz expert by any means.
Finally, changing topics...
Q: What kind of a 76 year-old-man dates a 51 year-old-woman?
A: Leonard Cohen
I kind of hate Leonard Cohen, with his constant cadre of women and his perfect songs. Damn him all to hell. Blue Alert is what happens when you pair the best song-writer of the 20th Century with a good voice. It's a jazzy affair, but I think the lyrics are stronger than the music. There is something not quite right with the musical direction on the album, but I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's that the mellowness overwhelms the lyrics to such an extent as to make the songs anemic. But, I am not a jazz expert by any means.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sometimes, Doctors are Wrong
Soon after visiting my brother in the hospital, he developed a fever. This turn of events seemed to strengthen the belief that the doctor had been quite correct. Everyone thought that this would be the thing to end it all, but then something almost miraculous happened.
After ten days of unconsciousness, he "woke up." This is amazing, unexpected news, but it is not exactly as good as is sounds. He cannot speak. He can only open his eyes for a few seconds at a time. His is so weak on the right side, that he cannot really move his right arm. He cannot swallow, meaning that they have to keep a tube in his throat. He cannot eat because his stomach will not function properly and nothing is kept down. He is on oxygen. Of course, since he cannot speak, it is unclear if he is suffering from any brain damage, aside from the obvious speech issue. He did manage to shake his head in reply to some questions.
What lies ahead, should he continue to come out of this, is months of rehabilitation and a long, slow recovery. I am not sure that recovery is the correct word since he will most likely have limited mobility and a poor quality of life. The doctor emphasized that my brother remains in grave condition and that he is very ill. The doctor is uncertain what lies ahead. In fact, his original prognosis might still hold true.
So, again, we wait.
Soon after visiting my brother in the hospital, he developed a fever. This turn of events seemed to strengthen the belief that the doctor had been quite correct. Everyone thought that this would be the thing to end it all, but then something almost miraculous happened.
After ten days of unconsciousness, he "woke up." This is amazing, unexpected news, but it is not exactly as good as is sounds. He cannot speak. He can only open his eyes for a few seconds at a time. His is so weak on the right side, that he cannot really move his right arm. He cannot swallow, meaning that they have to keep a tube in his throat. He cannot eat because his stomach will not function properly and nothing is kept down. He is on oxygen. Of course, since he cannot speak, it is unclear if he is suffering from any brain damage, aside from the obvious speech issue. He did manage to shake his head in reply to some questions.
What lies ahead, should he continue to come out of this, is months of rehabilitation and a long, slow recovery. I am not sure that recovery is the correct word since he will most likely have limited mobility and a poor quality of life. The doctor emphasized that my brother remains in grave condition and that he is very ill. The doctor is uncertain what lies ahead. In fact, his original prognosis might still hold true.
So, again, we wait.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
I Have two Brothers but I am Brotherless
My brother is going to die.
It's almost impossible to describe the overwhelming sense of sadness in that hospital room. With my sister, step-mom, my brother's step-daughter, and her child, we stood around trying to make sense of it all. Five days after his hemorrhagic stroke, he is still unresponsive. The doctor described two possible outcomes. The less likely is that he will surface and, in the best possible scenario, will de disabled and have massive brain damage. The other - more likely scenario - is that he will slip into a coma and die of something else, like an infection, perhaps pneumonia. So certain is he of this outcome, that we all agreed with a "do not resuscitate" plan. In short, my brother is going to die, but we don't know exactly when. It could take hours or days or weeks or longer. But, the timing is irrelevant: my brother is already gone.
The average hospital bed is not up to the task of containing a 475+ pound man. By some estimates, he is over 500 pounds, but that won't last, not in a hospital bed, especially since his stomach no longer functions: the food forced into him by a tube is regurgitated immediately. My brother fills the bed completely, like a child lying in a bed made for a toy doll. Cables and tubes connect him to an array of medical instruments: a heart rate monitor, a blood pressure cuff, two IVs, and a respirator with its long tube running down his throat.
Throughout the day, I experienced a deep sense of guilt and anger. My brother is such an asshole. It's difficult to write that about a family member, one who is on the verge of death, but he is an asshole and it has always pissed me off. I was supposed to be his friend. I was supposed to be close to him for my entire life. We were both supposed to have kids who would play with each other and come over at Christmas. We were supposed to go to the beach together. Or, he was just supposed to be around, to be an unconditional friend, to a part of my life. Instead, he bailed on his entire family, after being a jerk when he was an adolescent.
His three kids (the first of whom came when he was only 16) were sexually abused; the mother and step-father were sent off to prison, the kids being distributed to various foster homes, never to be seen again, though we are looking for them. Sure, he paid some child support, but only after court orders, and then that dried up when he went on a disability pension. He made no effort to find them. He didn't try to obtain custody after the trial when their step-father was found guilty of sexual assault and the mother found guilty of permitting it to happen.
I am angry with my brother for ruining so much of my childhood. From his violent behaviour toward me to the theft of family possessions, he was a complete bastard. What can you say about someone who would steal from his own family? At least my other brother, the one who left home when I was 4 years old, never stole from us. He sold drugs and paid the price, and then I never really saw him again. He disappeared and I have seen in a handful of times, and only twice in the past 25 years, maybe 5 times since I was four years old. It's like he was never my brother. He is a mystery to me and I can't even say that I know him.
In the hospital, staring at him in the bed, I was inexplicably on the verge of tears, for a man I never liked, for a man that failed to be a brother, who was a terrible son, a lousy human being, and a disinterested father. He spent his life barely able to survive, finally ending up a on disability pension because he was too obese to work. He has sleep apnea, hypertension, diabetes, asthma, troubles with blood clots, and a weak heart. By all accounts he ate massive amounts of unhealthy food and had an immense passion for smoking. I still insist that this is the outcome he wanted: he wanted to be pitied, to be the village freak, and he did it. In the end, I might compare him with Ignatius J. Reilly, but without the creativity, or maybe Homer Simpson, but a Homer without any sense of responsibility or love for anyone other than himself.
You may think this uncharitable, but it's true. The way he spoke clearly indicated that he loved attention. If he was sick, everyone knew about it. Everyone knew how many pills he had to take each day because he displayed them in his apartment for some sort of pitying effect.
After a conversation with the doctor, we went to have lunch, and then drove to his apartment. It's difficult to think about him as being dead, when his is still alive and breathing, but we were forced to investigate the bills, to pay the landlord the overdue rent, to plan for the emptying of the apartment.
The floor around his bed is scarred with burns from cigarettes that fell through his hands as he drifted off to sleep. Miraculously, there was never a fire. He gave up smoking six months ago when he needed oxygen. The bedroom has six oxygen tanks; he has a night-time breathing apparatus. Another oxygen machine sits in the living room. I looked around the dismal place and was stunned to see a shelf of family photographs.
I didn't speak to him over the past 25 years, maybe once or twice. I was angry with him and could never understand how my father could have forgiven him so easily. My mother too. But, I guess that's what parents do. Standing there, staring at the photographs, I began to feel angry with myself for being the holdout, especially when my sister said she had been speaking with him recently. And then, I saw two photos of me and my two kids (whom he has never met) on a shelf along with recent photos of my sister. My sister had sent him photos and he ran out to buy frames so he could display them.
I felt like such an idiot. In the back of my mind, I always assumed that our paths would cross, that we would speak again, that we could forget all of the garbage of the past, but now that's impossible. He is dying in a hospital, and I am pissed off, but I am not sure if I am angry about him dying or for him failing to be a brother. How is it that I ended up with two brothers who walked away from their family and never tried to keep in contact with any of us?
I got back in the rental car and headed back to Toronto, feeling a profound sense of loss for a brother I hardly knew.
My brother is going to die.
It's almost impossible to describe the overwhelming sense of sadness in that hospital room. With my sister, step-mom, my brother's step-daughter, and her child, we stood around trying to make sense of it all. Five days after his hemorrhagic stroke, he is still unresponsive. The doctor described two possible outcomes. The less likely is that he will surface and, in the best possible scenario, will de disabled and have massive brain damage. The other - more likely scenario - is that he will slip into a coma and die of something else, like an infection, perhaps pneumonia. So certain is he of this outcome, that we all agreed with a "do not resuscitate" plan. In short, my brother is going to die, but we don't know exactly when. It could take hours or days or weeks or longer. But, the timing is irrelevant: my brother is already gone.
The average hospital bed is not up to the task of containing a 475+ pound man. By some estimates, he is over 500 pounds, but that won't last, not in a hospital bed, especially since his stomach no longer functions: the food forced into him by a tube is regurgitated immediately. My brother fills the bed completely, like a child lying in a bed made for a toy doll. Cables and tubes connect him to an array of medical instruments: a heart rate monitor, a blood pressure cuff, two IVs, and a respirator with its long tube running down his throat.
Throughout the day, I experienced a deep sense of guilt and anger. My brother is such an asshole. It's difficult to write that about a family member, one who is on the verge of death, but he is an asshole and it has always pissed me off. I was supposed to be his friend. I was supposed to be close to him for my entire life. We were both supposed to have kids who would play with each other and come over at Christmas. We were supposed to go to the beach together. Or, he was just supposed to be around, to be an unconditional friend, to a part of my life. Instead, he bailed on his entire family, after being a jerk when he was an adolescent.
His three kids (the first of whom came when he was only 16) were sexually abused; the mother and step-father were sent off to prison, the kids being distributed to various foster homes, never to be seen again, though we are looking for them. Sure, he paid some child support, but only after court orders, and then that dried up when he went on a disability pension. He made no effort to find them. He didn't try to obtain custody after the trial when their step-father was found guilty of sexual assault and the mother found guilty of permitting it to happen.
I am angry with my brother for ruining so much of my childhood. From his violent behaviour toward me to the theft of family possessions, he was a complete bastard. What can you say about someone who would steal from his own family? At least my other brother, the one who left home when I was 4 years old, never stole from us. He sold drugs and paid the price, and then I never really saw him again. He disappeared and I have seen in a handful of times, and only twice in the past 25 years, maybe 5 times since I was four years old. It's like he was never my brother. He is a mystery to me and I can't even say that I know him.
In the hospital, staring at him in the bed, I was inexplicably on the verge of tears, for a man I never liked, for a man that failed to be a brother, who was a terrible son, a lousy human being, and a disinterested father. He spent his life barely able to survive, finally ending up a on disability pension because he was too obese to work. He has sleep apnea, hypertension, diabetes, asthma, troubles with blood clots, and a weak heart. By all accounts he ate massive amounts of unhealthy food and had an immense passion for smoking. I still insist that this is the outcome he wanted: he wanted to be pitied, to be the village freak, and he did it. In the end, I might compare him with Ignatius J. Reilly, but without the creativity, or maybe Homer Simpson, but a Homer without any sense of responsibility or love for anyone other than himself.
You may think this uncharitable, but it's true. The way he spoke clearly indicated that he loved attention. If he was sick, everyone knew about it. Everyone knew how many pills he had to take each day because he displayed them in his apartment for some sort of pitying effect.
After a conversation with the doctor, we went to have lunch, and then drove to his apartment. It's difficult to think about him as being dead, when his is still alive and breathing, but we were forced to investigate the bills, to pay the landlord the overdue rent, to plan for the emptying of the apartment.
The floor around his bed is scarred with burns from cigarettes that fell through his hands as he drifted off to sleep. Miraculously, there was never a fire. He gave up smoking six months ago when he needed oxygen. The bedroom has six oxygen tanks; he has a night-time breathing apparatus. Another oxygen machine sits in the living room. I looked around the dismal place and was stunned to see a shelf of family photographs.
I didn't speak to him over the past 25 years, maybe once or twice. I was angry with him and could never understand how my father could have forgiven him so easily. My mother too. But, I guess that's what parents do. Standing there, staring at the photographs, I began to feel angry with myself for being the holdout, especially when my sister said she had been speaking with him recently. And then, I saw two photos of me and my two kids (whom he has never met) on a shelf along with recent photos of my sister. My sister had sent him photos and he ran out to buy frames so he could display them.
I felt like such an idiot. In the back of my mind, I always assumed that our paths would cross, that we would speak again, that we could forget all of the garbage of the past, but now that's impossible. He is dying in a hospital, and I am pissed off, but I am not sure if I am angry about him dying or for him failing to be a brother. How is it that I ended up with two brothers who walked away from their family and never tried to keep in contact with any of us?
I got back in the rental car and headed back to Toronto, feeling a profound sense of loss for a brother I hardly knew.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Brother
My estranged brother has had a stroke. This is both odd and not odd. It is odd because he is young, only 17 months older than me. On the other hand, he is morbidly obese and he leads a very unhealthy lifestyle. (You can read more about my brother here and here).
He remains unresponsive in a hospital bed, about to be shifted to a different hospital where a neurologist can examine him. Initially, we were told that the prognosis is grave. Currently, I have no idea and am just waiting to get the updates.
My estranged brother has had a stroke. This is both odd and not odd. It is odd because he is young, only 17 months older than me. On the other hand, he is morbidly obese and he leads a very unhealthy lifestyle. (You can read more about my brother here and here).
He remains unresponsive in a hospital bed, about to be shifted to a different hospital where a neurologist can examine him. Initially, we were told that the prognosis is grave. Currently, I have no idea and am just waiting to get the updates.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Olympics, a few words...
In the spirit of athleticism, I spent most of the last four days on the couch watching the Olympics. Too bad I had to go back to work. Well, there was a break long enough for a trip to the theatre to see Up in the Air.
Thank God we got a gold medal. I was sick of hearing that we had never won on home soil. It was as if that was all the reporters could find to talk about. The media kind of sucks, when you think about it. The media pumps up medal hopes to a point of hysteria. How is that fair to the athletes? You would have thought that gold in the men's downhill and men's 500m speed skating were guaranteed. Give it a rest.
And, a word to Brian Williams about math. He suggested that Canada has gone 33 years (or so) without winning a gold. That is stupid. The Olympics have not been running continuously in Canada since 1976.
What else? Dale Begg-Smith is a loser, a loser who made a fortune creating malware that might have infected your computer. I have never seen someone so upset with a silver medal. What a suck. Stay in Australia.
More later.
In the spirit of athleticism, I spent most of the last four days on the couch watching the Olympics. Too bad I had to go back to work. Well, there was a break long enough for a trip to the theatre to see Up in the Air.
Thank God we got a gold medal. I was sick of hearing that we had never won on home soil. It was as if that was all the reporters could find to talk about. The media kind of sucks, when you think about it. The media pumps up medal hopes to a point of hysteria. How is that fair to the athletes? You would have thought that gold in the men's downhill and men's 500m speed skating were guaranteed. Give it a rest.
And, a word to Brian Williams about math. He suggested that Canada has gone 33 years (or so) without winning a gold. That is stupid. The Olympics have not been running continuously in Canada since 1976.
What else? Dale Begg-Smith is a loser, a loser who made a fortune creating malware that might have infected your computer. I have never seen someone so upset with a silver medal. What a suck. Stay in Australia.
More later.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Trip Recap, Part 5
Skipping ahead to Zurich, here's something you would never see in Toronto: a bar under a freeway. It worked. It's really difficult to explain why this worked and I am not sure how such a thing would be received in Toronto. I tried to imagine such a place under the Gardiner, and I couldn't.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Look at my CD Collection, part 7: Aidan Baker, including ARC
Several years ago, I picked up a copy of ARC's Feral and was really impressed. Later, I made sure that I checked them out when they played at C'est What? (on August 19th, 2003). My CD collection contains:
A couple of these were free downloads. It's Thursday, but it really feels like Friday because I am taking tomorrow off and Monday is Family Day, so I am looking ahead to a four day weekend. What I am trying to say is that I have not the energy to try to describe the music. Also, I just got back from an hour of lunchtime yoga, and I feel all bendy and relaxed. My fingers are not responding well to the task of typing. But, here is a good review of Feral.
Baker likes to use looping techniques on various instruments, notably the guitar, but also the flute, for example. If you like this kind of treatment, you might like it, but this is not the kind of music you would sing along to or dance around the bedroom to while putting away laundry. It's more complex than that.
Oddly, everyone I spoke to at the Ambient Ping that evening assumed that I was a musician. I am not sure why. Perhaps ARC is musicians' music or perhaps it's that musicians seem to have more of an open mind when it comes to music than your average iTunes shopper. It really kills me, as I have often said, that people only want to buy a song or two from a CD. I have always been an album man. If there are only one or two good songs on an album, I wouldn't buy it. I still listen to albums, rather than songs, but I do occasionally put the iPod on shuffle to see what kind of magic might happen.
Why, just yesterday as I was walking with the iPod, I heard European Son by the Velvet Underground followed by Bowie's Queen Bitch and then Bauhaus covering Bowie's Ziggy Stardust. That was quite the playlist. Sometimes, the shuffle seems to be possessed and every other song is from the same artist, which is odd.
Baker is a poet too, and has published a few volumes. I am not familiar with his writing. He has an extensive discography. Check out his Wikipedia entry for those details.
Happy Friday and have a good weekend.
Several years ago, I picked up a copy of ARC's Feral and was really impressed. Later, I made sure that I checked them out when they played at C'est What? (on August 19th, 2003). My CD collection contains:
ARC/Aidan Baker - Repercussion (Piehead Records 2002 Series – Volume 1)
ARC - Feral
Aidan Baker - Concretion
Aidan Baker - Cicatrice
Aidan Baker - Within the Final Circle
Aidan Baker - Ichneumon
Aidan Baker - Tense Surfaces
Aidan Baker - Dance of Lonely Molecules
A couple of these were free downloads. It's Thursday, but it really feels like Friday because I am taking tomorrow off and Monday is Family Day, so I am looking ahead to a four day weekend. What I am trying to say is that I have not the energy to try to describe the music. Also, I just got back from an hour of lunchtime yoga, and I feel all bendy and relaxed. My fingers are not responding well to the task of typing. But, here is a good review of Feral.
Baker likes to use looping techniques on various instruments, notably the guitar, but also the flute, for example. If you like this kind of treatment, you might like it, but this is not the kind of music you would sing along to or dance around the bedroom to while putting away laundry. It's more complex than that.
Oddly, everyone I spoke to at the Ambient Ping that evening assumed that I was a musician. I am not sure why. Perhaps ARC is musicians' music or perhaps it's that musicians seem to have more of an open mind when it comes to music than your average iTunes shopper. It really kills me, as I have often said, that people only want to buy a song or two from a CD. I have always been an album man. If there are only one or two good songs on an album, I wouldn't buy it. I still listen to albums, rather than songs, but I do occasionally put the iPod on shuffle to see what kind of magic might happen.
Why, just yesterday as I was walking with the iPod, I heard European Son by the Velvet Underground followed by Bowie's Queen Bitch and then Bauhaus covering Bowie's Ziggy Stardust. That was quite the playlist. Sometimes, the shuffle seems to be possessed and every other song is from the same artist, which is odd.
Baker is a poet too, and has published a few volumes. I am not familiar with his writing. He has an extensive discography. Check out his Wikipedia entry for those details.
Happy Friday and have a good weekend.
Monday, February 08, 2010
ZF's Perfect Frittata Recipe
The perfect frittata starts with a chicken. Oh, and if you don't have any idea what a frittata is, let me enlighten you. It's evidently of Italian origin and normally made with eggs and chopped vegetables or meat. It's probably best just to look up a few recipes, and then try this one as it is the best one.
So, as I was saying, the perfect frittata recipe commences with a chicken. So, first you buy a nice chicken and take it home. You will want a dead chicken, unless you are fond of killing things. Slather some olive oil and sea salt on the chicken and set the bird aside. (If you have a preferred chicken recipe, please follow it. Alert: don't put potatoes in with your chicken because they don't belong there. If you really want potatoes, roast them in a separate pan. And, for the love of God, don't put plain white potatoes in the frittata!).
Step two: cut up lots vegetables. And, by this I mean parsnips (remember to cut out the woody cores), carrots, sweet potatoes (yams), one or two onions, and squash. Alert: please use butternut squash. Most other types of squash are inferior.
Put the vegetables in a large roasting pan. Remember I said to cut up lots of vegetables? We need extra for part two of the recipe, so cut up lots and use a large roasting pan. I use a pan large enough for a turkey or a medium penguin. Throw in the vegetables along with sea salt and olive oil.
I like to give the vegetables a head start, so pop them into the oven for ten minutes or so at 375 and then throw the bird on top and cook until done. When I was a younger man, I hated recipes that said "cook until done." How the hell are you supposed to know what that means if you have never cooked before? I am so over that now, so I can say things like "cook until done" and laugh at those who have no idea what it means.
Now, eat your chicken and vegetables, but remember that we have to save some for the frittata that you will make the next day.
After dinner, go to bed. Well, I suppose that you will have to clean up the kitchen first, and put the leftovers in the fridge. Get out of bed the next day. Now, you can either have the frittata for breakfast, brunch, lunch, or dinner. Yes, it is that versatile. If you are having it for breakfast or brunch, start making it when you get out of bed. Otherwise, cook up some bacon and eggs for breakfast and do this later.
OK, so here is the recipe.
Chop up some bacon. Use half a package or a third of a package. This all depends on how many leftover vegetables you have and how big of a frittata you plan to make. Throw the pieces of bacon into a cast iron pan and cook until crisp. Once crisp, remove from pan and place the bacon on a paper towel.
Retain some or all of the bacon grease in the pan and add a sliced onion and garlic. When these have partially cooked, add a zucchini (cut in rounds) and a red or orange or yellow pepper (cut in slices). Alert: please do not use green peppers. This is an inferior pepper. And, remember a green bell pepper is simply an immature red pepper. It's like eating a green banana. You want a ripe red bell pepper or its luscious cousins, the yellow or the orange. Oh, and you could add broccoli, but I only do that if I have no zucchini. It's OK, but I think it's not as good as using a zucchini. You could also use asparagus.
Once the vegetables are nicely on their way, add the leftover vegetables from the chicken. Stir it up and let it all warm through. Beat some eggs in a bowl. The size of your pan and the amount of vegetables will determine the number of eggs. It could be 5, 6, or 7 or more. Don't include the shells. Add a bit of milk (soy milk, please) and some pepper. You won't need any salt.
Pour this over the contents of the pan. You may find that you will need an extra egg. If so, beat one up and pour it in. It's probably best to cover the pan with a lid to help it cook through the middle. When it looks cooked on top, just stick a knife in to make sure you don't have any gooey egginess inside.
Now, you will stick the pan under the broiler in your oven. I put in in for a short time, and then sprinkle the bacon over the top. Some of you people who are addicted to cheese may want to add the congealed breast milk of a hairy 2000 pound animal, or even parmesan. Feel free to ruin it, but I would prefer if you didn't. Don't burn it.
Cut it and serve it, perhaps with a salad on the side, if this is a lunch menu item.
And, there you have an easy recipe.
By the way, you can use the leftover chicken in any number of ways. I like to make chicken salad. Mmmmn, mayo...
The perfect frittata starts with a chicken. Oh, and if you don't have any idea what a frittata is, let me enlighten you. It's evidently of Italian origin and normally made with eggs and chopped vegetables or meat. It's probably best just to look up a few recipes, and then try this one as it is the best one.
So, as I was saying, the perfect frittata recipe commences with a chicken. So, first you buy a nice chicken and take it home. You will want a dead chicken, unless you are fond of killing things. Slather some olive oil and sea salt on the chicken and set the bird aside. (If you have a preferred chicken recipe, please follow it. Alert: don't put potatoes in with your chicken because they don't belong there. If you really want potatoes, roast them in a separate pan. And, for the love of God, don't put plain white potatoes in the frittata!).
Step two: cut up lots vegetables. And, by this I mean parsnips (remember to cut out the woody cores), carrots, sweet potatoes (yams), one or two onions, and squash. Alert: please use butternut squash. Most other types of squash are inferior.
Put the vegetables in a large roasting pan. Remember I said to cut up lots of vegetables? We need extra for part two of the recipe, so cut up lots and use a large roasting pan. I use a pan large enough for a turkey or a medium penguin. Throw in the vegetables along with sea salt and olive oil.
I like to give the vegetables a head start, so pop them into the oven for ten minutes or so at 375 and then throw the bird on top and cook until done. When I was a younger man, I hated recipes that said "cook until done." How the hell are you supposed to know what that means if you have never cooked before? I am so over that now, so I can say things like "cook until done" and laugh at those who have no idea what it means.
Now, eat your chicken and vegetables, but remember that we have to save some for the frittata that you will make the next day.
After dinner, go to bed. Well, I suppose that you will have to clean up the kitchen first, and put the leftovers in the fridge. Get out of bed the next day. Now, you can either have the frittata for breakfast, brunch, lunch, or dinner. Yes, it is that versatile. If you are having it for breakfast or brunch, start making it when you get out of bed. Otherwise, cook up some bacon and eggs for breakfast and do this later.
OK, so here is the recipe.
Chop up some bacon. Use half a package or a third of a package. This all depends on how many leftover vegetables you have and how big of a frittata you plan to make. Throw the pieces of bacon into a cast iron pan and cook until crisp. Once crisp, remove from pan and place the bacon on a paper towel.
Retain some or all of the bacon grease in the pan and add a sliced onion and garlic. When these have partially cooked, add a zucchini (cut in rounds) and a red or orange or yellow pepper (cut in slices). Alert: please do not use green peppers. This is an inferior pepper. And, remember a green bell pepper is simply an immature red pepper. It's like eating a green banana. You want a ripe red bell pepper or its luscious cousins, the yellow or the orange. Oh, and you could add broccoli, but I only do that if I have no zucchini. It's OK, but I think it's not as good as using a zucchini. You could also use asparagus.
Once the vegetables are nicely on their way, add the leftover vegetables from the chicken. Stir it up and let it all warm through. Beat some eggs in a bowl. The size of your pan and the amount of vegetables will determine the number of eggs. It could be 5, 6, or 7 or more. Don't include the shells. Add a bit of milk (soy milk, please) and some pepper. You won't need any salt.
Pour this over the contents of the pan. You may find that you will need an extra egg. If so, beat one up and pour it in. It's probably best to cover the pan with a lid to help it cook through the middle. When it looks cooked on top, just stick a knife in to make sure you don't have any gooey egginess inside.
Now, you will stick the pan under the broiler in your oven. I put in in for a short time, and then sprinkle the bacon over the top. Some of you people who are addicted to cheese may want to add the congealed breast milk of a hairy 2000 pound animal, or even parmesan. Feel free to ruin it, but I would prefer if you didn't. Don't burn it.
Cut it and serve it, perhaps with a salad on the side, if this is a lunch menu item.
And, there you have an easy recipe.
By the way, you can use the leftover chicken in any number of ways. I like to make chicken salad. Mmmmn, mayo...
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Blogger Fail
Well, you know when you have failed as a blogger when you receive email like this:
Well, you know when you have failed as a blogger when you receive email like this:
More importantly, what has happened to your blog? It used to be hip (like the Simpsons) now it's not (like the Simpsons). Perhaps you can inject some life into it by writing entries under a series of "guest contributers" such as "Lionel the 30-Year Old Bedwetter" or "The Fetus." Just a suggestion.I am not sure about writing guest entries myself, but I'd be happy to entertain posts from guest contributors. Send them on.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Be Careful what you Ask for
The temperature in my office soared to a crazy 80.6 degrees after hovering around 61 degrees for weeks. This, after it was fixed, and fixed a bit too well, if you ask me. Still, I'd rather work in the 80s than the 60s. I couldn't really type with cold hands, but in this heat, I am all limber, but craving a piña colada and wondering where my sandals are.
After leaving my office door open, and permitting some of the heat to flow out, it drops a bit, but it is still a bit too hot. I'd hate to complain, and be thrust back into the ice age.
On the downside, the high temperatures force me to remember to put my lunch in the fridge, something I normally forgot to do, but with such cool temperatures, it mattered not.
Oh, and I think (as I crack a yawn) that the warm temps are causing me to tire more quickly that when it was cold. I need to create space under my desk to sleep, like George Costanza. That would be sweet.
The temperature in my office soared to a crazy 80.6 degrees after hovering around 61 degrees for weeks. This, after it was fixed, and fixed a bit too well, if you ask me. Still, I'd rather work in the 80s than the 60s. I couldn't really type with cold hands, but in this heat, I am all limber, but craving a piña colada and wondering where my sandals are.
After leaving my office door open, and permitting some of the heat to flow out, it drops a bit, but it is still a bit too hot. I'd hate to complain, and be thrust back into the ice age.
On the downside, the high temperatures force me to remember to put my lunch in the fridge, something I normally forgot to do, but with such cool temperatures, it mattered not.
Oh, and I think (as I crack a yawn) that the warm temps are causing me to tire more quickly that when it was cold. I need to create space under my desk to sleep, like George Costanza. That would be sweet.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Heat!
Finally, I have heat! My office has been cold, very cold, as cold as 60 degrees, necessitating the wearing of a fleece. It was so cold, I had difficulty typing. I hated coming back to my office, preferring to stay wherever was warmer, like my bed. But, finally, after some visits from the folks who are supposed to fix things, it is fixed.
The dude climbed into the ceiling and noted that the vent to my office was closed. He opened it and I can actually feel the heat coming in. It is so nice. Of course, if it gets too warm (unlikely in this brutal building), I might need a nap. Wait, I need a nap anyway, owing to the difficulty I had in sleeping last night.
I am generally a good sleeper, taking no longer than a few minutes to fall asleep. But, last night, the hours ticked away and nothing. I hate it when that happens. So, I am yawning. In fact, I am yawning while I type this, but at least I am warmer. No more long underwear in my office!
Finally, I have heat! My office has been cold, very cold, as cold as 60 degrees, necessitating the wearing of a fleece. It was so cold, I had difficulty typing. I hated coming back to my office, preferring to stay wherever was warmer, like my bed. But, finally, after some visits from the folks who are supposed to fix things, it is fixed.
The dude climbed into the ceiling and noted that the vent to my office was closed. He opened it and I can actually feel the heat coming in. It is so nice. Of course, if it gets too warm (unlikely in this brutal building), I might need a nap. Wait, I need a nap anyway, owing to the difficulty I had in sleeping last night.
I am generally a good sleeper, taking no longer than a few minutes to fall asleep. But, last night, the hours ticked away and nothing. I hate it when that happens. So, I am yawning. In fact, I am yawning while I type this, but at least I am warmer. No more long underwear in my office!
Monday, January 11, 2010
A Dream
Last night, I had a dream that I was hangin' out with David Bowie. I am not sure if we were friends, but I was in his house, helping myself to beverages from his fridge, which had doors at both front and back, I gather so that nothing got lost in the recesses of the appliance. And, the fridge was situated in such as way so that you could approach it from two sides. Talk about conveniences.
After eying a nice, cool drink, I suddenly was only able to find small cold medicine vials and other things that appeared to be homeopathic substances. I never did find my drink, and then Iman came into the kitchen and I decided to find out where David went.
The end.
Last night, I had a dream that I was hangin' out with David Bowie. I am not sure if we were friends, but I was in his house, helping myself to beverages from his fridge, which had doors at both front and back, I gather so that nothing got lost in the recesses of the appliance. And, the fridge was situated in such as way so that you could approach it from two sides. Talk about conveniences.
After eying a nice, cool drink, I suddenly was only able to find small cold medicine vials and other things that appeared to be homeopathic substances. I never did find my drink, and then Iman came into the kitchen and I decided to find out where David went.
The end.
WTF?
At lunch, I stood in line behind a youngish-looking university student as she paid for her $1.00 can of pop. I have yet to understand why people drink diet pop (or even regular pop for that mater).
I considered that topic for a moment and was then stunned as I watched her pay for her purchase. After tax, she was looking at a massive $1.13 bill. Out came the debit card.
Seriously? She used a debit card to pay for $1.13! I never use any kind of plastic if it's under $10. I bet her transaction fee was 50 cents. For a brief moment, I considered paying for her drink, but that feeling of chivalry (or whatever it was) passed quickly.
This was on my way back from checking out some lingering sales. I am in a clothing crisis and really need to add to my wardrobe in a bad way. I am not done yet, though I picked up two shirts and two pairs of pants.
At lunch, I stood in line behind a youngish-looking university student as she paid for her $1.00 can of pop. I have yet to understand why people drink diet pop (or even regular pop for that mater).
I considered that topic for a moment and was then stunned as I watched her pay for her purchase. After tax, she was looking at a massive $1.13 bill. Out came the debit card.
Seriously? She used a debit card to pay for $1.13! I never use any kind of plastic if it's under $10. I bet her transaction fee was 50 cents. For a brief moment, I considered paying for her drink, but that feeling of chivalry (or whatever it was) passed quickly.
This was on my way back from checking out some lingering sales. I am in a clothing crisis and really need to add to my wardrobe in a bad way. I am not done yet, though I picked up two shirts and two pairs of pants.
Friday, January 08, 2010
On Books and Trophies
My bookcases are overflowing. I have boxes of books in a closet that I have not unpacked since the last move because I have no shelf space for them. I acquire new books frequently. I may have finally figured out why I have so many books.
While watching Dexter the other day, I was hit with an interesting insight, which may or may not be original. Dex finds his way into a serial killer's house and notes the killer's collection of trophies. These were award plaques hanging on a wall for various projects he had undertaken that correspond with and commemorate his kills. If you watch Dexter, you will know that Dex has his own collection of trophies. I thought about that while thinking about the Kindle and book piracy and music downloading.
I have zero interest in the Kindle or any other eBook reader. To me, an eBook reader is about as exciting as a lump of coal. I have always loved the tactile experience of reading: turning the pages, holding the book, appreciating the design, deciding if the font is a good choice, touching the paper. Much of that disappears when a book is transformed into ones and zeros. I think that sucks and it could well mean that the end of the world is upon us. I feel the same way about music: I like to own the CD, not an inferior digital copy.
For some reason, I do not necessarily feel this way about movies or TV shows. These have always been disposable to me. Although I own some DVDs, I don't have an urge to collect them, unless they are absolute favourites, like Seinfeld, or are ludicrously cheap, like Strangers With Candy (the movie), which I bought for $1.99.
I have often wondered why I like to own books. I rarely read library books and I rarely borrow books from others. I like to own books. Here's another curious fact: I rarely read books twice, though it has happened (Brave New World, for example). So, why do I own them? Well, there I was watching Dexter and then it occurred to me that perhaps I get the same pleasure from having shelves of books as Dexter does from having a bunch of microscope slides with drops of blood. Both are trophies.
I can look at my shelves and feel a certain sense of accomplishment, a certain sense of erudition (though that is arguable), and a certain sense of my own history from what I see lined up. Of course, if that were truly the case, I ought to eliminate the books I attempted to read but stopped from boredom or frustration. But, I suppose they are also part of my reading history. There are, of course, those books I have acquired but never got around to reading. Maybe someday, my pretties, maybe someday.
My bookcases are overflowing. I have boxes of books in a closet that I have not unpacked since the last move because I have no shelf space for them. I acquire new books frequently. I may have finally figured out why I have so many books.
While watching Dexter the other day, I was hit with an interesting insight, which may or may not be original. Dex finds his way into a serial killer's house and notes the killer's collection of trophies. These were award plaques hanging on a wall for various projects he had undertaken that correspond with and commemorate his kills. If you watch Dexter, you will know that Dex has his own collection of trophies. I thought about that while thinking about the Kindle and book piracy and music downloading.
I have zero interest in the Kindle or any other eBook reader. To me, an eBook reader is about as exciting as a lump of coal. I have always loved the tactile experience of reading: turning the pages, holding the book, appreciating the design, deciding if the font is a good choice, touching the paper. Much of that disappears when a book is transformed into ones and zeros. I think that sucks and it could well mean that the end of the world is upon us. I feel the same way about music: I like to own the CD, not an inferior digital copy.
For some reason, I do not necessarily feel this way about movies or TV shows. These have always been disposable to me. Although I own some DVDs, I don't have an urge to collect them, unless they are absolute favourites, like Seinfeld, or are ludicrously cheap, like Strangers With Candy (the movie), which I bought for $1.99.
I have often wondered why I like to own books. I rarely read library books and I rarely borrow books from others. I like to own books. Here's another curious fact: I rarely read books twice, though it has happened (Brave New World, for example). So, why do I own them? Well, there I was watching Dexter and then it occurred to me that perhaps I get the same pleasure from having shelves of books as Dexter does from having a bunch of microscope slides with drops of blood. Both are trophies.
I can look at my shelves and feel a certain sense of accomplishment, a certain sense of erudition (though that is arguable), and a certain sense of my own history from what I see lined up. Of course, if that were truly the case, I ought to eliminate the books I attempted to read but stopped from boredom or frustration. But, I suppose they are also part of my reading history. There are, of course, those books I have acquired but never got around to reading. Maybe someday, my pretties, maybe someday.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
A Look at my CD Collection, part 6: Apostle of Hustle
Well, I hope I am not boring you with these musical excursions. If I am, so be it. So, on to Apostle of Hustle (as much as I hate to link to a myspace Page; is there anything uglier than myspace?). By the way, I am still in the A section.
Andrew Whiteman, the guy who formed Apostle of Hustle, is also the lead guitarist for Broken Social Scene (note that I opted against linking to myspace). By the way, more about BSS later. In my opinion Folkloric Feel, the first A of H Album, is the best one, and Folkloric Feel is the best song. You might disagree with me.
I read somewhere that Andrew Whiteman dated Feist for a while. I think this was before she appeared on Sesame Street. I don't keep up with celebrity gossip as it takes too much brain power. I walk around in a state of blissful ignorance. I can confirm that ignorance is bliss. I am ignorant about so many things that my life is almost pure bliss.
And now, a very weird video from Apostle of Hustle:
Well, I hope I am not boring you with these musical excursions. If I am, so be it. So, on to Apostle of Hustle (as much as I hate to link to a myspace Page; is there anything uglier than myspace?). By the way, I am still in the A section.
Andrew Whiteman, the guy who formed Apostle of Hustle, is also the lead guitarist for Broken Social Scene (note that I opted against linking to myspace). By the way, more about BSS later. In my opinion Folkloric Feel, the first A of H Album, is the best one, and Folkloric Feel is the best song. You might disagree with me.
I read somewhere that Andrew Whiteman dated Feist for a while. I think this was before she appeared on Sesame Street. I don't keep up with celebrity gossip as it takes too much brain power. I walk around in a state of blissful ignorance. I can confirm that ignorance is bliss. I am ignorant about so many things that my life is almost pure bliss.
And now, a very weird video from Apostle of Hustle:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)