Pushing Cows, Chasing Girls and Shooting Guns

The little hamlet of Randolph, Utah has the distinction of being the most Republican town in the most Republican state in the country. In 2004, George W. Bush received 95.6% of the votes cast.

The four people who didn't vote for Bush have disappeared and have not been seen since.

OK, I made that part up.

The town got the attention of the Washington Post, who claims that they sent a reporter most of the way across the country to find out what the "mind-set of Utah" is all about. Personally, I think he got lost leaving Park City after the recent Sundance Film Festival.

Randolph is, of course, very Mormon, but there is "the Catholic woman, who is the one non-Mormon everyone mentions when the conversation turns to religious diversity." And, according to the town's school superintendent, the high school cheerleading squad includes a hispanic and a set of African-American twins. "We've probably got the most diverse cheerleading squad in the state."

In Randolph, Paul Anka plays on the stereo at the café and the young men pass time "pushing cows, chasing girls and shooting guns."

Related Links
Randolph Virtual Travel in 185 Images

Comparing Apples To Apples

Why do we have apple juice and apple cider?

On every supermarket shelf in America you bottles of apple juice, neatly arranged 6 wide by 6 deep, right next to bottles of apple cider, also neatly arranged 6 wide by 6 deep. As far as I can tell, and I have carefully studied the nutrition labels of both, they are exactly the same thing and they come from the same place.

No, as a matter of fact, I don't have much of a life. Now stop distracting my rant with your silly quips.

To me, the apple juice vs. apple cider conundrum is a failure of capitalism. Or it could be a success--it depends on how you look at it. Here in front of you at the supermarket are two bottles, each containing the exact same product. The only difference is the label. Which you buy is your choice.

Choice is a success of capitalism--I would never argue against that. But what are you choosing? This is not Coke vs. Pepsi, or even New Coke vs. Old Coke. It doesn't even amount to Coke in a can vs. Coke in a bottle. It's bottled Coke vs. bottled Coca-Cola. Tomato vs. tomahto. The fact that my supermarket offers me this "choice" is a failure of capitalism.

It's a failure of capitalism because it can't be more efficient to glue two different labels to the same bottle of stuff. But this redundancy probably does somehow employ more people. Over at the Old Orchard Juice Company there may be some guy who gets to decide when to throw the switch that turns the Apple Juice conveyer line into a Apple Cider conveyer line. In that sense capitalism succeeded because there is one less unemployed person though he probably lies to his mom and tells her he's an airline pilot.

Success or failure? I don't know.

All I know is that I pick the Apple Juice because I don't think it can be called Apple Cider unless it can get me drunk.

Peanut: Pea Or Nut?

A peanut is neither a pea, nor is it a nut.

So why the hell do we call it a peanut? A couple of years ago I had a girl on my soccer team whose name was Peanut. I don't know why the hell we called her Peanut either but she was a really good player--the best on the team--so I called her whatever she wanted to be called as long as she kept scoring. And she told me she wanted to be called Peanut.

So what about Peanut, the food, not the soccer player? Even though it's neither a pea--nor a nut--a peanut is actually more closely related to a pea than a nut. According to Wikipedia, The common green pea that goes into everybody's favorite soup--split pea soup--and gives the soup its lovely color is Pisum Sativum, a member of the Fabaceae family of pulses and legumes. I love split pea and ham soup, especially when it's done with a good smokey-flavored ham. But I don't like split pea and ham followed by a night of binge drinking. When you inevitably have to make your sacrifice at the altar of the porcelain god you will regret having ordered the split pea soup for dinner.

Peanuts are also members of the Fabaceae family and so they are technically legumes. Its latin name is Arachus Hypogaea which means "underground spider" and refers to the peanut shells that grow beneath the ground on the ends of stem arms.

So there you have it. A peanut is not a nut and it's not a pea. It's the pea's second cousin once removed.

Peanut, the soccer player, moved away to Clinton, Utah and doesn't play for me anymore. Maybe she's a second cousin to some girl named greenpea, but I'm not sure.

I love peanuts any which way they come: dry roasted, french burnt, boston, salted, unsalted, or peanut butter (the PBJ is a holy, inspired creation). But I most like peanuts in peanut butter cookies. Peanut butter cookies are kind of forgotten by most people who, when thinking cookies, think chocolate-chip, sugar, or oatmeal raisin. Don't get me wrong, I will never turn away a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies looking for a good warm tummy to call home, but the peanut butter cookie is king in my book. Not too sweet, with just a touch of saltiness to remind you of its humble earthy beginnings.

Peanut Butter Cookies

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup butter, room temperature
3/4 cup CHUNKY peanut butter (ok, use smooth if you want)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla

In a bowl, stir together flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt.

Beat together the butter, peanut butter, and sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Gradually beat in the flour mixture.

Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate until chilled, or about 2 to 4 hours.

Take tablespoonfuls of dough and roll into balls with hands. Place about 3 inches apart on greased baking sheets. Using a dinner fork dipped in flour, lightly press cookies, flattening and forming a criss-cross pattern on each cookie.

Bake at 375° until golden brown, or about 10 to 12 minutes. Cool on baking sheets for a minute then transfer to rack to cool completely.

Makes about 4 dozen peanut butter cookies.

The Five Stages of Drunkeness

How to recognize the Five Stages of Drunkeness.

And, of course, the Five Stages of Sobering Up.

Carolina In My Mind

In my mind i'm going to carolina
Can't you see the sunshine
Can't you just feel the moonshine
Ain't it just like a friend of mine
To hit me from behind
And i'm going to carolina in my mind
-- James Taylor

This last Sunday I was over at a friend's house watching the NFC Championship game which turned out to be a throrough spanking of the Carolina Panthers by the Seattle Seahawks. As it slowly dawned on us that the game was going to be a non-game, somebody brought up the Carolina Panthers. Specifically, which Carolina? North or South? We all agreed it had to be North Carolina since you never hear anything about South Carolina. But nobody could say what city in North Carolina the Panthers hail from. But I want to tell my 8th grade Geography teacher Mr. Henderson that I remembered that the capitol of North Carolina is Raleigh. I want to also tell my 9th grade English teacher Mrs. Greene that I still know the difference between capitol and capital. Thanks guys, you taught me well. And I still know how to brown-nose.

But it got me thinking about South Carolina (yes, Mr. Henderson, I remember the capitol of South Carolina is Columbia). I don't know anybody from South Carolina. I've never met anybody from South Carolina. "Does South Carolina even exist," I asked the people in the room, "has anybody ever met someone from South Carolina?" Nobody else had ever met anybody from South Carolina either, except for Holly. She claims that she has been to South Carolina but the only proof she has is some dark blurry picture of her in a hotel lobby that looks like it could have been taken in Poughkeepsie, New York. I've been to Poughkeepsie. I know it's there. So I'm not convinced that Holly has been to South Carolina.

But why would she lie about that? My theory is this. A long time ago, the U.S. got to 49 states but 49 is just not a good number. 50 is a nice, even number and 50 stars looks good on a flag, so some people decided to invent a new state just to up the number to 50. That's how we got South Carolina.

South Carolina doesn't actually exist. But through some very thorough indoctrination, we all now believe in the existence of South Carolina though nobody has ever been there and nobody has ever met anybody who comes from there. I know it's dangerous to question this and even more dangerous to publish my doubts. I'm sure that Black helicopters are now coming for me, but I must have the courage to expose the truth.

A couple of people brought up the "fact" that Steve Spurrier coaches football at the University of South Carolina. I asked them if they have ever seen them play? Of course they haven't. A nonexistent football team at a nonexistent college in a nonexistent state is not gonna be seen on TV.

What about the big chunk of land where South Carolina is supposed to be? I think the land exists, but nobody lives there. It's a big government facility.

It's where they filmed the moon landing.

To Bean Or Not To Bean

Today is a bad hair day.

Apparently I have done something to displease the hair gods because I got out of bed late with a really bad case of bedhed. There was only time for one person to shower and both Holly and I know it wasn't gonna be me. My hair was beyond help today so I did the only thing I could do. I pulled out my favorite beanie.

This definitely one of those times when being an engineer is cool. I can wear pretty much whatever I want. It's also the middle of the freakin winter here in Salt Lake City so nobody thinks you're weird for wearing a beanie in the office. Well, nobody in my office, but we're a little strange. We're engineers. Come to think of it, I could have just come to work with bad hair and nobody would have batted an eye.

I realize other people see things differently than we engineers, including people in Holly's office. I usually run up to the sixth floor a few times a day because Holly is nice to me and she feeds me. But today it was for stamps to mail a letter. Damn the Postal Service. I mean, what is up with a $0.02 postage rate increase? Why do I have to run all over my office building looking for TWO CENTS of postage? I thought about just sticking TWO 37 cent stamps on the letter but I know that those weenies at the U.S. Postal Service would want just that, and I am not going to participate in their diabolical plan to take over the world, two cents at a time. That, and I am one cheap bastard.

Anyways, I'm up at Holly's office, mooching stamps from her, and Dean, who works in her office, happens by and says "nice beanie. I like those colors."

Thanks, Dean!

I'm glad I decided on the beanie. I think that would have been better than "Dude, here's a dollar. Go buy a comb."

Don't Eat Me Mr. Snake, I'll Be Your Friend

This is a story that is dying to become a parable, a modern Aesopian fable.

From an AP story:

TOKYO - Gohan and Aochan make strange bedfellows: one's a 3.5-inch dwarf hamster; the other is a four-foot rat snake. Zookeepers at Tokyo's Mutsugoro Okoku zoo presented the hamster — whose name means "meal" in Japanese — to Aochan as a tasty morsel in October, after the snake refused to eat frozen mice.

But instead of indulging, Aochan decided to make friends with the furry rodent, according to keeper Kazuya Yamamoto. The pair have shared a cage since.

"I've never seen anything like it. Gohan sometimes even climbs onto Aochan to take a nap on his back," Yamamoto said.

Here's the story as I think Aesop would have told it:

A snake was captured by some people and put into a cold glass prison where other people came and stared at him all day long. He no longer had family or friends around and he got really sad and lonely even though the people fed him really delicious frozen rats all the time. He got so depressed that even the frozen rats no longer made him happy so he stopped eating and told the people that he wanted a friend. The next day they dropped a furry hamster into the glass prison. "Don't eat me, Mr. Snake! I'll be your friend!" The snake was really happy now even though the hamster is scared shitless and is depressed because he no longer has friends or family around.

The moral? (Because there always has to be one at the end of Aesop's fables.) Misery loves company!

Mac & Cheese

Kraft Mac & Cheese. Utter those three words in any daycare and you'll have kids running and knocking over each other looking for the bowl of yellow noodles. Little Emma will be on the floor bawling cuz there ain't any, and pretty soon they'll all be bawling and you won't shut them up till you start cooking. If you say "Mac & Cheese" in a day care you'd better be able to back it up.

Say the same three words in just about any restaurant and the the staff will look at you in disgust as if you just brought in a sack lunch and pulled out your own ham sandwich. The social stigma associated with the little blue box is so great that if a friend comes over and finds one in your house you quickly say "oh, that's for the kids. I buy it for them." Or if you don't have any kids you hide the box waaay in the back of the pantry, up on the top shelf where nobody will know it's there except you.

The truth is: You like love the blue box, even though the thought that something resembling cheese can come from a tear-open paper packet horrifies you. And you have to work hard to suppress those feelings of guilt and shame as you open the box and cook the pasta. "I am a better cook than this" you think to yourself, over and over again, "I just don't have any time and I am hungry now." "I won't do this to you again," you promise your very expensive All-Clad pan.

But it's a promise bound to be broken. You can't walk by those blue boxes in the grocery store without pulling one down (or two or three or four--"They're on sale for $0.69, I'm saving money," you tell yourself as you hide the boxes underneath the organic tomatoes and fat free yogurt and the latest issue of Healthy Living).

When it comes to Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, there is a code of silence. All adults know this. But every once in a while somebody breaks the code.

"I like Kraft Mac & Cheese."

But instead of condemnation, we all feel relieved that somebody had the guts to say something we ourselves can't say. "I do too!" each of us say in turn. Such a big weight is lifted that we could almost join in a group hug and fall to the floor sobbing in each others arms. OK, maybe not. But it feels good to be able to say "I like Kraft Mac & Cheese" without fear of ridicule.

For those who don't have the courage to buy the blue box, I offer the following recipe. It's a grown-up version of Kraft Mac & Cheese using a French béchamel sauce.

No-Shame Mac & Cheese
Serves 6 as a main course, 10 as a side dish.

For the béchamel
4 Tbsp butter
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
4 cups milk
1/2 tsp salt
pepper to taste

For the Macaroni & Cheese
1 lb Elbow macaroni
1/4 tsp Cayenne pepper (optional)
pinch grated nutmet (optional)
1/2 lb. Monterey Jack cheese, grated
1/2 lb. Sharp Cheddar, grated
1 tsp. salt
breadcrumbs (optional, for topping)

Bring a pot of water to boil. Add a tablespoon of salt and boil the pasta as you prepare the sauce. Follow the pasta package directions. Drain well and set aside.

Make the Béchamel
Melt the butter in a sauce pan over medium heat, whisk in the flour. Continue to cook and whisk until the sauce turns blonde, but don't let it brown. Add the milk and keep whisking while you bring the sauce to a full boil. Add the salt and pepper and reduce to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent scalding. The sauce will thicken.

When the sauce is done, take off heat and add the cheeses and the salt. Stir until the cheese is completely melted and combined. Add the pasta, cayenne and nutmeg, mix well and pour into a 13 x 9 baking dish. If you want a breadcrumb topping, sprinkle the breadcrumbs on top and place under a broiler until the breadcrumbs are browned.

Beauty and the Beast

Though we work at different companies, Holly and I work in the same office building so it is really convenient for us to drive to work together. It's something we do unless one of us has something they have to do after work, such as soccer practice. So we walk into the building together in the morning and walk out together in the evening. We also have lunch together on most days so--long story short--we walk in and out of the building together a lot. This is a fact that has apparently not escaped the notice of other people who also work in the building. Last week two separate incidences made that plainly obvious.

Before I tell you about the first incident, I have to explain that I am a software engineer. If you know somebody who is a software engineer, you probably know that we can wear whatever we want to work. People think that there's no dress code. I beg to differ. There certainly is a dress code, and it's commonly referred to as slacker, or loser. But the dress code will not allow us to be bums or look homeless. That would be a no-no. Polo shirt & Jeans is acceptable to every software company. T-shirts are accepted by most. Shorts and flip-flops are OK'd by many companies as well. The dress code also won't allow us to wear suits. Doing so will immediately send your boss into a tizzy because they'll think you're going to a job interview.

Holly, on the other hand, works with business clients all day and she has to look very professional--business suits, heels, the whole nine yards. And she always looks incredible and beautiful.

Last week she got on the elevator one day (I wasn't with her) and there was another guy there. They struck up a conversation and he said to Holly, "I see you with another guy a lot."

"Yes, that's my friend Jim," she replied.

"You guys don't work together, though."

"No."

"I figured that because you always look nicer than he does."

OUCH!

The other incident happened as we were walking in one morning. Another guy was coming in at the same time and he said to us, "You guys must ride to work together since I always see you come at the same time."

I replied jokingly, "Pure coincidence."

We all got in the elevator together. I get off first on the third floor and Holly continues up to her company on the 6th floor, along with the guy.

Later she told me that the guy asked, "you guys don't work together?"

I told her that next time she should say, "It's weird. He's always there when I pull up and he's always following me out of the building. I think he's stalking me."

Leaving Things In Bathrooms

As I posted earlier, I usually make myself a big latté every morning. You don't buy coffee. You rent it. Caffeine, being a diuretic, forces me to make a couple of trips to the restroom at my office. This morning I noticed a pair of glasses sitting next to the washbasin. These weren't sunglasses, they were spectacles. The kind you need in order to see.

"I'm sure somebody will come back soon for these," I thought to myself and left them alone.

About an hour later I had to make a return trip to the restroom (it was a big latté). The glasses were still there! How does this happen? I mean, I can understand if they were sunglasses, or a cell phone, or even a baby. But somewhere in my building there is a guy walking around wondering why he can't see.

I'll go back later this afternoon to see if they have been retrieved.

Afternoon Update: The glasses are gone. One less blind man to worry about on the freeway.

No Caption Needed

Girl: "So, where do you live?"

Guy: "At the corner of Bangher and Leever."

Girl: (SLAP!) "Asshole."

I'm Zoe, I'm 15, this is my radio show.

15 year old Zoe publishes her own weekly podcast radio show that features bands such as One Block Radius, The Hold Steady, Okkervil River, Brendan Benson, Alaska!, The Break and Repair Method, Dios Malos, Art Brut, Fannypack, Natasha Benningfield, Kanye West, Fallout Boy, Deerhoof, Jamie Lidell, The New Pornographers, The Books, and Ted Leo.

Easily one of the best podcasts I've come across. Check it out.

Escapa!

This is a very addictive game. My high is 21.188 seconds.

And Baby Makes 3 (hundred bajillion)

If you and your spouse want to have the 300 millionth American, you'd better get busy. The U.S. Census Bureau says that the 300 millionth American is going to be conceived sometime this month. The article further predicts that the baby will either be born in the South or the West. My money's on either Sandy or Orem, Utah.

TuneBuckle

For the ladies: The best iPod Nano accessory. Ever.

Fondue is Fun To Do!

Fondue. No other word can match it in conjuring up that era of the mindless drug-induced pursuit of leisure, The 70's. Well, no other word except for maybe wife-swapping. But that's two words and it's a whole 'nother topic in itself. I'm writing about fondue because my buddy Darren chose to write about cheese today over at his blog.

Like any other child of the 80's, I avoided fondue like polyester. Besides, I was much too busy in my teen years trying to get my Billy Idol look just right (My Hell I went through a lot of hairspray) and daydreaming about running away from home and joining up as a roadie for The Go Gos.

But during a vacation to Paris 5 or 6 years ago my French friends Eric and Caroline introduced me to the yumminess of real fondue. I was at their Parisian apartment one day and asked them what the dinner plans were going to be.

"Fondue!" Eric replied.

And before you could say "leisure suit" he was grating away at a couple of blocks of cheese. With the practiced ease in which Eric threw together the garlic, wine, cheeses and spices you could tell the man knew how to melt cheese. Eric grew up near Bensançon Bensaçon in eastern France, near the Swiss border. Switzerland and surrounding areas in France is the home of fondue and it's a staple for the people in these regions, especially in the cold winter months. It was November in Paris, cold and dry, perfect weather for fondue.

Caroline sliced the crusty French baguettes and I got comfortable on the couch with a glass of champagne (The French can be soooo gracious!) as the cheese was melted and started bubbling in the pot. Eric used an electric burner. We in America use stupid little alcohol cans to try to melt the cheese but what usually happens instead is we set fire to aunt Edna's newly permed hair.

With the fondue course Eric served a very delicious dry Alsatian white wine that had enough force to cut through the strong flavors of the cheese. We don't have any wine like that here in America. Well, there might be something for more than $7.95 but I don't spend that unless the Pope's coming for dinner.

The fondue was incredible. Absolutely delicious. When I got back to the U.S. the first I did was order a real nice German made electric fondue pot, which the ex took in the divorce (she liked fondue too). I have since bought an el-cheapo one off eBay. Hey, it works and aunt Edna is safe.

Here is the Eric's fondue recipe (this is from memory... I'm sure Eric will correct me after he reads this). It uses two cheeses which I remember to be Emmentaler and Gruyère. The Emmentaler adds sharpness and the Gruyère adds a sweeter nutty flavor. Start with an equal ratio of the two cheeses and adjust to your liking. I think Eric used a little more Emmentaler than Gruyère.

1 clove garlic
Big splash of dry white wine (about 2 tablespooons)
1/2 lb Emmentaler, grated
1/2 lb Gruyere, grated
Fresh grated nutmeg
1 Baguette, cut into 1" cubes, for dipping.

Split the clove of garlic and use it to rub the inside of the pot. Heat the pot over medium and when it's warm pour in the wine. Let it reduce in half. Add the cheeses and a couple of grates of nutmeg. Stir it frequently as it melts so that it doesn't burn at the bottom. When it starts to bubble slightly it's ready to be served. Spear a piece of bread onto a skewer and enjoy. This will serve 4-6 people.

January 11 update: Eric emailed some suggestions. He says that for the recipe you can use a dry white wine such as Alsace, Jura (a really interesting vin jaune--yellow wine--made from savagnin grape that he served with sautéed frogs legs on a different evening) or Vins de Savoie. For the cheeses, he says that he also uses Comté (a mild and nutty cheese that you could use instead of gruyère), or other cheeses such as switzerland, beaufort or even muenster, combined or by themselves. He also wanted to remind me to make "figure-9s" with the wooden spoon when stirring the cheese. At the end when you have a cheesy crust at the bottom of the pot Eric says that you can add a small glass of schnapps or crack an egg and stir to combine with the cheese. I have done the egg and it makes a delicious cheesy egg scramble. I have not tried the schnapps but I will next time.

Must. Have. Caffeine.

I had to deviate from my usual morning caffeine ritual today so that I wouldn't be late to work. My usual routine consists of waking up, turning on the Saeco espresso maker to let it heat up while I take a shower, then making myself and Holly some dee-lishus double lattés. I used to drink whole milk lattés, Holly prefers skim. We settled on 1%. That way neither of us are happy, which is how it should be because the only thing worst than two unhappy people would be an unhappy person having to drive to work with a happy person.

When I can't make my own latté I stop at Starbucks. Please, don't send me emails telling me that I'm a corporate sellout whore. Starbucks has good espresso. Their quality control is high, the coffee is nicely roasted and their baristas are well trained and friendly.

That isn't to say that I don't have nitpicks with the Starbucks MegaMegaCorporation. Just like any other Big Corp, it's overrun with lawyers, which is evidenced by the fact that my cup and sleeve has no fewer than three lawyer-approved warning disclaimers. First, this warning appears twice, on the cup and the sleeve: "Careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy is extremely hot." Duh. And people, please, let's all try to remove the word extreme from the American English lexicon. I propose that we replace it with a more sublime adjective, like passionate. That asinine label would then say: Careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy is passionately hot. Now that's a coffee you want to drink!

The other disclaimer comes from Starbucks' current advertising campaign, The Way I See It, in which they are printing a series of humanist quotes on their cups. I bet you didn't know that because the sleeve nicely obscures most of the quote. Below the quote is this disclaimer: "This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Starbucks." Most of us have enough brain activity to know that corporations don't have opinions, but why is Starbucks (or its board members, officers or employees) disclaiming the viewpoint? If it's good enough to go on your cup, it should be good enough for you to say "we believe in that." Otherwise you are just saying that you are a poseur mega corporation, that you just want us to think your CEO is Dudley Dooright, but in fact all you want to do is sell us coffee. Yes, I know: I just hit the proverbial nail right on the proverbial head.

Anyways, I got a regular (whole milk) latté for myself and a skinny for Holly. That got me to thinking about what your coffee says about you.

• Regular Quadruple Shot Latté: I Love Coffee Like Elvis Loved Donuts.
• Regular Latté: The perfect drink. For people who want to live life to the fullest. (This is my drink.)
• Skim Milk Latté: I'm better than you because I can drink this crap and you can't.
  
• Half-Caf: I have issues. I can't make up your mind. I need help.
• Decaf Skim Latté: It's like sex without the spanking. I mean, what's the point?
  

Another Unfinished Book

I usually don't read fiction and I want to thank Sue Monk Kidd for reminding me why. Halfway through I decided that I could not turn another page of Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees. Overall, this book isn't as bad as The Bridges of Madison County but many passages recall that book's soporific sap. It's no wonder that a movie is being made from this book because it seems that the book was written only for that purpose. Kidd's style discards deep character development for shallow emotive drivel. It's perfect for a 90 minute movie but it's a shame that this is probably the best material that black female actresses can find.

To clear the syrupy aftertaste I have started reading The Future of Ideas by Lawrence Lessig.

So It Begins Again

"Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach." -- Anonymous.

I used to do, but now I teach. Soccer, that is. I still play soccer occasionally but my involvement now mostly amounts to coaching a girls under-13 competitive club soccer team ("comp soccer" in soccer-mom lingo). In addition to this I am also an assistant soccer coach at Judge Memorial Catholic High School in Salt Lake City.

It's a very rewarding pastime--I call it a pastime because I do it in addition to my career as a software engineer--but it takes a lot of time. There are two playing seasons per year that each run about two months long but many comp teams practice and travel to regional and national tournaments year-round. I am not as immersed as that but my team starts practice 2-3 months before the season, making it a 4-5 month involvement twice a year. The spring season is still a ways away--April--but we are starting to prepare this week with weekly indoor practices through the months of January and February. In March we will move practices outdoors and increase the number of sessions to three per week.

The last fall season ended in October and I always impose a two month time-off period for my players and myself in November and December. I spent that time cooking, building biycles, getting back in touch with old friends and getting to know Holly better. I enjoyed my time off and now I'm ready to jump back into the world of soccer moms in minivans, screaming parents and angry coaches. FUN!

Rhyme & Reason

Last night as Holly & I were drifting to sleep I remembered a poem. It's a very romantic little sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay titled "Love Is Not All." In an ever-so-soft voice I recited the poem to Holly as she layed there in my arms:

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Her response?

"Food and would don't rhyme."

What I Cooked This Weekend

"In France, cooking is an art form and a national sport." -- Julia Child

I love to cook. That's because I'm a practical guy and eating is a practical pleasure. It's the only form of pleasure and indulgence that keeps you alive. And if I am going to eat, there's no sense in wasting calories on bad food, so I cook.

The task of cooking is dichotomous and appeals to both the scholastic and artistic sides of me. I can't help but picture the chains of protein molecules forming as I knead my pizza dough, and the yeast converting the simple carbohydrates into teenie pockets of carbon dioxide that will eventually give the crust its rise and texture. But as I am stretching the dough into its final shape, I take care to make sure that it looks good, though not necessarily perfectly round (I prefer my pizzas to be slightly ovular), and that the toppings are spaced evenly and the cheese is uniform across the entire pie. A bit anal? Maybe so, but I believe that good food should appeal to all the senses.

In Vietnamese and Thai cooking, the perfect dish or meal blends the "Four S's": Spicy, Salty, Sweet, and Sour. These flavors are summed up in classic dishes like Pad Thai, with its sweet and salty sauce, the sourness from the lime, and the spiciness from the chilis. On New Years Day I made a coconut chicken curry, served with jasmine rice and slices of baguette. It too has a classic blend of the "Four S's": Sweet coconut, Spicy chilis, Salty chicken marinade, and sour tartness from the lemongrass and tomatoes.

Coconut Chicken Curry
Serves 6
1 lb. boneless skinless chicken breast, sliced 1/4" thick
1/4 c chopped lemongrass
6 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
4 shallots, coarsely chopped
2 T massaman curry paste
2 T indian (madras, if possible) curry powder
1/4 c Vietnamese or Thai fish sauce (you can substitute with 3 T soy sauce if you don't have or can't find fish sauce)
1 chili pepper (thai chili or jalapeno), seeded & chopped (if you want it really spicy, increase this to 2 chili peppers)
black pepper
1 14 oz. can of whole peeled tomatoes
2 cups chicken broth
2 large onions, each sliced into 8 wedges
3 large or 4 medium russet potatoes, chopped into 1" cubes
2 carrots, 1/2" slice rounds
2 bay leaves
3 cups coconut milk
cornstarch, for thickening
vegetable oil for cooking

Combine the lemongrass, garlic, shallots, curries, fish sauce, and chili peppers in a food processor. Add black pepper to taste (about 1/2 teaspoon). Process to a very fine paste. Reserve half of the paste and toss the other half with the chicken and let marinate for at least 30 minutes, or overnight if possible.

In a dutch oven or similar pot heat the oil on medium high heat. Saute the chicken until slightly brown. Remove the chicken pieces and reduce the heat to medium. Add additional oil if needed and sautee the reserved curry paste along with the bay leaves for about 2 minutes until aromatic. Add the onions and sautee for an additional 2 minutes until slightly softened. Add the tomatoes and all the liquid in the can and cook for 3-4 minutes while breaking the tomatoes with a wooden spoon into smaller chunks. Add the chicken, carrots and chicken broth. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cover. Simmer for 20 minutes. Add the potatoes. Simmer for another 20 minutes. Add the coconut milk and bring back to boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to a simmer. Simmer for an additional 15-25 minutes, or until the potatoes are cooked through. After 10 minutes of simmering, check the thickness of the curry. Blend in cornstarch 1 tablespoon at a time until you get the desired thickness. Adjust the seasoning and serve over hot jasmine rice with sliced baguette on the side.

Yo, Son Of God, Pass The Doob

According to Chris Bennett writing in High Times Magazine, Jesus was a stoner. I also heard a rumor that a bag of Doritos was found with the Shroud of Turin.

Red, White & U

A good day to be a Ute fan.

Kirkbride Buildings

Last year I saw a very scary movie named "Session 9," a ghost story/psychological thriller set at the Danvers State Mental Hospital. This building is one of the Kirkbride Buildings built in the late 19th century as state-of-the-art mental health facilities. The Danvers building is absolutely gorgeous, in red brick with copper-topped neogothic spires, but the current state of its interior gives me the creeps, especially when you know its history.

What I'm Doing This Year

I'm looking forward to 2006. Under the chinese zodiac it will be The Year Of The Dog. I don't know what kind of year it will be but what a great title for a movie. By the way, 2005 was under the sign of the Rooster, which is my sign. According to this Chinese zodiac page,

"People born in the Year of the Rooster are deep thinkers, capable, and talented. They like to be busy and are devoted beyond their capabilities and are deeply disappointed if they fail. People born in the Rooster Year are often a bit eccentric, and often have rather difficult relationship with others. They always think they are right and usually are! They frequently are loners and though they give the outward impression of being adventurous, they are timid. Rooster people¡¦s emotions like their fortunes, swing very high to very low. They can be selfish and too outspoken, but are always interesting and can be extremely brave."

That's me to a T.

Back to 2006. I already have a bunch of projects lined up. First, I am building some new bicycles. I got a brand new handcrafted Podium frame from Clark Metcalf at Abici Bicycles. It's unpainted and I'm thinking of painting it metallic copper. I also got a new Alpe D'Huez frame from Greg LeMond Bicycles that, when built, will be my ride until the Abici Podium is finished. Then the LeMond will become Holly's bike. Holly's current bike is a Fuji Professional that I built up a couple of months ago. I also have a Diamond Back downhill bike that I hope to build up sometime this spring. It'll have about 7" of front and 5" of rear travel and disc brakes front & rear.

Also in the project pipeline is a vintage Vespa scooter. I have picked up a 1957 Vespa Allstate with a brand new Stella Fireball motor. The thing is in pieces but fairly complete. I will paint it a seafoam green, which is a good color for that vintage. Think Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in the movie Roman Holiday. The scooter will look almost exactly like that one when I get done with it. Those of you who know me know that I used to race motorcycles and was almost killed a few years ago in a nasty, nasty track accident. I am no longer racing but I still love working on mechanical things so this Vespa project is perfect.

If you haven't seen it yet, go rent The 40 Year Old Virgin. I saw it a couple of nights ago with Holly and I think it is the funniest damned movie of the year. Best line: "I hope you have a big trunk, cuz I'm puttin' my bike in it."

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Happy Two-Double-Oh-Six to everyone.

In case you were asleep, this is what happened in 2005.