Fat Tuesday

Today I’m starting what I hope will be my second regular section entitled “Fat Tuesday” which will follow my culinary misadventures. I’ve always loved food. Just look at me. At some point I came to the realization that someone was preparing the wonderful things I was eating, and with a little effort, I could create such saliva inducing delights, or so I thought.

It took me several months in high school to master the art of the grill cheese. From there I moved on to soggy hashbrowns and scorched eggs. This was followed in college by experiments in an alfredo sauce that often transmuted from semi-liquid to solid from the time it went from pan to plate. My wife will gladly tell you of Italian sausage and red sauce creations that were heavy on the fat.

To my great credit, and my wife’s chagrin, none of these malfunctions deterred my confidence in my culinary skills. After great experimentation, extensive failure, moderate cost, and plenty of elbow grease expended scrubbing pans, I have become a passable house cook. This, in my mind, gives me free license to wander into any culinary experimentation that gathers my wimsy.

My most frequent fascination in cooking is spicy creations that tend to Mexican and Cajun roughly. This again has led to some decent outcomes as well as raised questions in my general competence. In creating a chipotle chicken sandwich, the recipe called for 2 canned chipotle peppers to be chopped and added to a mayo based sauce. I was confused. These are tiny little peppers and that is a lot of sauce I’m adding them to. That can’t be right. Maybe they mean 2 cans of chipotle peppers. But that seems absurd, 2 cans IS too many. I split the difference and went with one can, I think about 12 peppers.

Needless to say, the sauce was hot… very hot… burn your mouth and gullet and sear the stomach lining hot. But I will not be deterred. My wife chastised me for my mistake. “Nonsense, these sandwiches are delicious, I just like my food more spicy than you.” I wolfed down 3-4 of these sandwiches to prove my point. My wife shook her head. My brain nodded in agreement. Whatever, you two don’t know anything, I’m a great cook. Somehow, my sister-in-law jumped on the spicy bandwagon and managed to eat two of the sandwiches without suffering internal burns that I was aware of. Bless her heart, and stomach.

Ah, but I soldier on, and I have put forth delectable edibles that all have enjoyed. Seriously. With that, I will share with you my first fan favorite from the spicy realm, a Jambalaya that I have pieced together from several other recipes. I don’t know what type of Jambalaya it is, as I have read there are several types. It is spicy, but you can generally turn it down by (1) easing up on the cayenne or (2) finding a calmer andouille sausage. What I enjoy even more is that it keeps well in the fridge and is almost better the second and third day. Without further delay I present Jambalaya. (I don’t call it Ryan’s because as I said I’ve mostly pieced it together from other recipes).

2 Yellow Onions – diced

1 Green Pepper – diced

2-3 Garlic Cloves – minced

1 Cup Green Onions – chopped

1 lbs. Andouille Sausage – sliced

½ lbs. Ham – diced (I recommend the off-the-bone ham for best taste. You can also substitute chicken for a less salty flavor.)

1 Bay Leaf

½ tsp. Thyme

½ tsp. Cumin

¼ tsp. Cloves

¼ tsp. All-Spice

¾ tsp. Cayenne Pepper

¼ tsp. Oregano

¼ tsp. Chili Pepper

½ Quart Diced Tomatores

1 lbs. Raw Shrimp (The smaller shrimp work better for re-heating, but the large shrimp make for a better presentation.)

1 and ½ Cup Chicken Stock

1 Cup Beef Stock

(These are not firm measurements. Adjust to the rice cooking process.)

1 and ½ to 2 Cups of White Rice

In a large pot:

-Sautee vegetables in olive oil.

-Add sausage and ham and continue to sautee.

-Add spices and continue cooking until meat lightly browned.

-Add tomatoes and shrimp and continue to cook.

-Add beef and chicken stock and bring to a boil.

-Add rice and boil 20-30 minutes or until rice is to your liking.

-Serve topped with green onions and sour cream.

Serves 6-8 people

40 Days to my Dream Job

As you may have deciphered from my previous posts, I am currently employed as a contract attorney/stay-at-home dad. While I am enjoying both career functions, I still harbor dreams of being a writer. Even though I have not always had the ability to work on my writing, this hope for an eventual career has consistently gnawed at my brain, refusing to be ignored. To this day I have made a few attempts at short stories, poetry, some freelance journalism, and I even hacked out twenty pages of a planned novel before determining it was not what I really wanted to write about.

Recently this quiet gnawing has been gaining moment and chewing away at my brain. I am a few weeks out from my 28^th birthday, and most of my favorite authors were working on and publishing their first works during the ages of 27-33. Therefore, I am feeling a weighty pull to be really putting pen to paper if I reserve genuine hopes of breaking into the writing field.

In the past I have refrained from telling people that I am writing, or working on some writing, or have aspirations to be a writer out of fear that I will not have anything to show for it the next time they see me and ask how my writing is going. No more. I am announcing to the void in cyberspace that I want to be a writer. I need to be a writer. It is now forty days until my 28^th birthday. I have a story framed out as much as I can with characters, plotlines, and other such things. I am officially declaring the next forty days: “40 Days to My Dream Job.”

During the next forty days I have a goal of writing 2000 words a day, eventually leaving me with 80,000 words at the end, roughly a novella to half a novel. It doesn’t have to be great, I just have to do it to have something to work with. And now, the goal has been made open for the public to stumble across in their internet surfing, making it possible for someone to ask me in forty days, “how’s the novel coming.”

So here goes nothing and possibly everything.

Late to the Game

I’d like to start a little section, hopefully to be visited upon every Friday, that I like to call “Late to the Game”. The idea was conceived of several years ago and reinforced by my brother and sister-in-law’s ongoing joke. Many years ago I arrived at my future sister-in-law’s apartment in Ames, IA to visit them for the weekend. As we sat shooting the proverbial poo, our conversation eventually turned toward music, as conversations involving college students have a tendency to do.

Just starting out in my musical ventures, I was continually discovering gems of transformative power and transcendent lyrics. Eager to earn marks with these weathered veterans of the college music scholars’ circle, I dropped on them a little ditty of a funky sweet folk tale. Round about ten seconds into the song my brother and sister-in-law traded looks and released giggles like five-year old girls rising into uproarious laughter that could not be calmed. Finally, as my musical find was wrapping up, my brother was able to reign in his breath and kindly explain to me that this new hip track was a solid three-to-four years old. What can I say, I’m late to the game.

Unfortunately, this was not an isolated occurrence. It seems that my cutting edge is about as sharp as a hammer. Music, books, movies, fashion, activities, whatever, I always happen to run a few years behind. That, in itself, should not stop me from sharing my great finds with the world. Thus, in this section, I will be reviewing, critiquing, and sharing my new finds with the anonymous void in cyberspace. Just be warned that my new finds may be a couple years behind the times.

First up this week is the most recent book I finished, “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz, released in 2007 and winner of the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. The immigrant novel for the new generation? Maybe, I don’t know if I’m qualified to comment as a native born white boy. The structure is not new to the game as Marquez’s influence is definitive throughout. However, I don’t have a problem with this because all writers must draw influence from someone, and at this point, is anything really truly original.

I’m assuming what caught a lot of people was his colorful use of urban language and Spanglish, an entertaining sidetrack if you weren’t in high school in the nineties. Twain utilized this same technique in Huck and in Tom, the so-called lingua franca. Aside from those distractions, Diaz weaves a series of short stories together to tell the multi-generational story of a Dominican family’s emigration from the DR to New Jersey and back again, while giving the reader a short history of the DR.

The primary focus of the story is on the modern mother with her defiant daughter and misfit son considering their lot in life and the potential curse on their family. Sections of the novel are slow-moving and sociological, presumably setting the groundwork for the greater story of the title character Oscar. Diaz does well in working the details of Oscar into the reader without exacerbating the reader. The pudgy outcast who cites Tolkien, writes sci-fi, and pines over every third girl, becomes the loveable loner you have to pull for. Add in the elements of mysticism derived from the Dominican culture, and Diaz puts together an engaging read backed up by his absorbing accounts of his cultural heritage.

In rating all things I don’t know what exactly to use. I only have two thumbs and that doesn’t seem to count for much. Ten points is a lot of variation without definition. Therefore, I will give this book two evaluations. First is whether I would recommend this book or not. Yes, I would recommend this book to you no matter what your interests. It is engrossing and unique enough to be a worthwhile read for anyone, no matter your interests, and its breath of topics and issues means it’s most people should find something to like about it. The second evaluation is the one I use for my personal information. I like TV. I’m not a fanatic, I don’t watch every new show that comes out, but I probably watch at least a show or two a day, even if it is just re-runs of Seinfeld, Friends, or Law and Order. That said, my second evaluation standard is “would I read this book instead of watching TV.” Diaz’s book achieves this standard, surpassing the draw of most television programming, persuading me to pass the remote for another hour while I finish a couple more pages.

This concludes my first installment of “Late to the Game”. Join me next Friday when I will be reviewing the musical talents of Jack White. Until then.

KVJ not to be mistaken for KJV

I like my parents very much, they’re good people. My high school days were not rife with the parent-teen struggles that are so commonly spoken of in modern lore. The memories I have of high-school consist of events such as encouraging notes from my dad, special cooked meals from my mom, constant attendance at basketball games, and the like. In fact, my 17^th birthday was spent just me and them breaking bread and crabs at a restaurant. All this to say, the most difficult adaptation to Virginia has been the loss of the proximity relationship with my folks.

May brought a much-needed opportunity to return to my native land and spend time with family after six months away. After the first ventures with my daughter on the airplane concluded with eventual success and touching down in Minnesota, we arrived on the Briese reserve mid-day on a weekday when no one was home. Correction: no people were home.

We were greeted to the Briese reserve by a resident tribe of wild turkeys whom, when provoked, (ie I let loose my best turkey impression) filled the wooded air with an overwhelming battle cry – gobble gobble gobble. Needless to say my daughter was tickled pink by the natives’ display.

Inside, the familial scents settled in my nose and rushed me back ten years to summers past spent on the reserve. I retook my sleeping quarters, now deprived of the traditional trappings of youth such as my Che poster, rebellious sixties rock that my dad introduced me to, and all manner of basketball paraphernalia. But the scents remained, now working into my bloodstream, confusing my mind as to what year it was, and who was this good-looking woman standing beside me with a baby and a look of thorough confusion.

I rattled myself from my nostalgic slide and set our bags bedside when my view was interrupted by a coloration on the bedside table. I was bewildered at first until the stirring within me brought focus to the letters and then words. There on the white faux marble Roman inspired end table sat a crisp new copy of “Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut. Left, without a doubt, by my mom.

Let me take a moment to speak of Kurt Vonnegut. I am a devout fan of the late Kurt Vonnegut. He is hands down the most brilliant and socially relevant writer of the 20^th century and its transition into the 21^st. I could spend days talking about how phenomenal and groundbreaking his writing is, and perhaps in time I will. All this to say I have only one Vonnegut novel left to read, “Sirens of Titan”, and I am mourning the impending closure of Vonnegut. Granted, I in time I will eventually go and re-read his collection, and I still have not read all his short stories and collections, but on the whole those cannot compare with his novels. (However, check out his writings for In These Times magazine for some of the most brilliant social commentary laid to page).

Now my mom is not necessarily a fan of Kurt Vonnegut. I would assume her general take on him is benign, especially considering his sci-fi elements. However, my mom is well aware of my great affinity for him and has in fact on occasion acted as supplier to my literary addiction. Why this particular stack of wood pulp carried such impact I cannot say for sure. Perhaps it was the extended absence from home, or maybe my mom’s particular thoughtfulness. But wrapped up somewhere inside this emotive pause was the realization that my mom took the time to care about what I cared about and was able to pass to me the final chapter in this significant literary journey in my life, and this, this would forever form a tie between the three of us, me, my mom, and Mr. Vonnegut.

I gathered the pages in hand and thumbed the cover for a few moments before replacing it back on its white shrine; it would not be read that day. My parents arrived home amidst hugs and our vacation continued from there, family gathering over food, discussing children, and recalling stories of past hilarity. Our days in Minnesota withered as time is prone to do, and soon it came for our clan to return to the East. In those remaining days I would occasionally pick up the book and page through the foreword, read the back cover acclaim, or just grasp its physical measure. But the gravity of the tome would prevent me from reading it during this Minnesota venture.

So two months later, safely burrowed back in Virginia, the book still sits on my shelf. It does not taunt me like other books of high-brow literature, purchased in aspirations of social enlightenment. It does not cry out, begging for my attention like the made for movie thrillers. It does not challenge me as the books of intellectual warfare, daring me to engage in battle. It waits. For a time when I am thoroughly confused. For a time when I am wholly frustrated. For a time when I am despairingly alone. It waits. And one day I will turn my attention, and clear my schedule, and spend the evening with Mr. Vonnegut and my mom.

Of dirty diapers and legal defense.

So it has been a while since I last posted. Luckily, I don’t think anyone read the first one, so it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve been busy lately. Currently, I am a stay at home dad with my 10-month old daughter, and I do contract legal work from home mostly consisting of drafting criminal defense appeals. This makes for an interesting composition of daily activities, while trying to continually shift gears from dad to attorney.

6:00AM – Wake up to either go to the gym, or more likely, look out our bedroom window, which still lacks curtains, at the ethnic gathering of construction workers drinking coffee and perhaps checking out my wife before pulling the blankets up over my naked butt to sleep for another hour. (I didn’t mean to be presumptive. Maybe they were checking me out.)

7:00AM – Get my daughter out of bed, (which coincidentally is still the same bed my wife, and occasionally I, sleep in), change a diaper, and head downstairs for breakfast and coffee. Breakfast and coffee has now become a one-armed operation as my daughter refuses to conduct her morning routine out of the arms of either myself or my wife. This makes for some difficulty in cleaning out and preparing the coffee maker, but it provides me with a definitive excuse for why I only brewed drip coffee instead of making lattes for myself and said wife. Note to self: No need to work your biceps at the gym anymore… if you still go to the gym.

7:30AM – Feed daughter. Since my wife works about two-thirds from home, she usually handles this morning routine. This usually allows me to finish the wheat mush that was previously a crisp brand name cereal.

8:00AM – My wife officially starts her workday which means I am on full-force daddy duty. I’m not sure what all activities I’m supposed to providing for my daughter. As of current I act as formidable mountain for her to climb over back and forth repeatedly, duet musician as we jam on her music contraption (not sure what it is other than a small table with produce colored gadgets and buttons that emits about eight different musical tones), and evil dictator who prohibits her from engaging in delightful activities like such as calling dad’s friends on his cell phone or sending ill-advised faxes to her mom’s business associates.

9:00AM – My daughter and I gear up for the one daily activity I try to take seriously, reading to her. I try to get her to sit still in my lap, but that usually lasts all of six seconds before she is crawling around my feet flinging objects about the living room. No matter, we can still do this. I like to start out with short poems and rhymes like Simple Simon and the goops. After that we move on to the longer stories that so far have consisted of Orwell, Vonnegut, and a little Twain. I’m not sure if reading my daughter Mark Twain at this early of an age will make her too cynical. I’m betting it won’t do anything worse that what she’s already destined for having me as her dad.

9:55AM – Feed daughter. This one is on me if the wife isn’t home or is in a conference call.

10:00AM – Naptime, finally. Unfortunately, my daughter has convinced me that a crib is no place for a baby to nap. As such, she sleeps in my arms while I rock her. Oh well, at least I don’t have to chase her and I can try and get some work done.

10:05AM – Resume editing my brief that is due next week. Appealing a conviction for attempted murder. Good stuff.

11:15AM – Start work on next appeal. Federal drug conviction. I begin with reviewing police reports and trial transcripts. The good news is the probable cause the police used to justify the raid is shaky at best. The bad news is the courts won’t care.

11:30AM – The police reports indicate the client was carrying 30 grams of crack. He’s in deep poop.

11:37AM – The putrid odor of organically processed mashed peas and avocado rising from my lap where my daughter sleeps tells me I’m in deep poop.

Since my daughter is now crying and I have no idea what the reason is I will have to continue my schedule rundown at another time. Hopefully sooner than 5 months from now.