Tag Archives: food

The $47,283.77 Bowl of Beans

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There is a belief that eating beans – specifically black eyed peas – on New Year’s Day will bring prosperity. I’d never paid much attention to this superstition, as it’s mainly a belief in the South. Besides, the closest I’d ever gotten to a black eyed pea was downloading “I Gotta Feeling” from iTunes.

A bowl of black eyed peas on New Year's Day is believed to bring good luck.

Even though Nevada is about 18 states away from the South, Tara’s family honors this tradition by cooking up a pot of black eyed peas every New Year’s Day for their potluck. So, when we were down there on her uncle’s ranch on Sunday, she urged me to dig in. I happily did so – I love baked beans, and never pass up an opportunity to dish myself up a bowl. They were delicious, too. I could’ve polished off another couple of servings, but there was already so much other good food I didn’t want to fill up on beans alone. I urged Tara to grab a bowl, too – who couldn’t use an extra dose of wealth and luckiness? – but she isn’t as fond of beans as I am, and insisted that I’d eaten enough to assure good luck for us both in 2012.

I didn’t press the issue, because I’m not one to place much stock in superstitions. In fact, I have been known to intentionally walk beneath an open ladder just for the hell of it. I also refuse to freak out if a black cat crosses my path, and if I spill the salt, I don’t throw a handful over my shoulder afterwards – I merely grumble beneath my breath and wipe the mess up from the table. Lucky pennies? Four-leaf clovers? Rabbits’ feet? Give me a break. Frosted Lucky Charms may be magically delicious, but my cereal bowl is more likely to contain Rice Krispies. I’m all about the snap, crackle and pop, baby.

So, when I opened the envelope from the hospital where I spent six lovely nights and days right after Thanksgiving, the last thing I was thinking it would contain was good news. I figured it was a delinquency notice at best, or a threat to garnish my future wages for the next twenty-five years. Instead, I found the following paragraph.

Your application for a reduction in your bill under our Indigency Allowance Policy has resulted in a 100% charity allowance to the balance listed in the TOTAL AMOUNT DUE field of this letter. You owe nothing for this account. ~ Patient Financial Services.

My jaw dropped and I reread the letter to make sure I wasn’t missing the fine print somewhere, but there was no fine print, only the glorious words “you owe nothing” which danced before my eyes in a wondrous tango.

You owe nothing.

You owe nothing.

I owe nothing!! 

Which means my entire bill has been magically wiped out. The total amount due – $47,283.77 – has disappeared. It’s gone. Poof! Hasta la vista, baby. Sayonara, debt.

These Black Eyed Peas bring "Boom Boom Pow" through your stereo speakers.

This is nothing short of a miracle. Sure, I had completed the application for assistance. And yes, the woman who stopped by my room that first fateful day to collect the paperwork had said that it was possible my entire bill would be paid given my continued unemployment, lack of income, and responsibility to my dependents. But I never really believed that, and refused to get my hopes up. It seemed too good to be true. How does one walk into a hospital with no health insurance, have a surgery, stay in a private room for six nights, and leave without owing a cent?! It boggles the mind. I guess this makes me officially indigent, which is a bitter pill to swallow – wounded pride and all – but one in which I will happily gobble down in exchange for not having to fork over so much as a nickel. Take that, mutinous gallbladder! Ha!!

I eagerly called my girlfriend to share the news. She was a little relieved that I wouldn’t have to do something crazy like sell the townhouse or put an ad up on Craigslist for a kidney for sale or pimp myself out in order to pay that massive bill. And then she reminded me about the beans.

“Looks like they’re already bringing you good fortune,” she declared.

Holy crap. She was right! Surely this was no mere coincidence. The black eyed peas that I had eaten a mere 92 hours earlier were already working their magic. As if to hammer this point home, I had just gotten off the phone with the HR rep from a company I had applied to, setting up an interview for Monday. Hadn’t even had a chance to share that bit o’ good news with Tara yet.

True, I didn’t go all Rain Man while in Vegas and sock it to the casino, but then again I played the slots on January 2nd. Those beans probably hadn’t been fully digested yet, and I’m sure they at least have to run their course through your body in order to start working properly. Yeah, I know, eww – but it makes sense. I wish I’d saved the gambling for Tuesday instead.

Be that as it may, they’re workin’ just fine now. I am eager to sit back and see what other positive turns of events will be transpiring for me this year. And you can bet your ass that on January 1, 2013 I’ll be helping myself to a second bowl of those black eyed peas.

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Burning Down The House, Part 3

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It’s pushing 11:30, and I’ve had a busy and productive day. I should be curled up in bed – it’s right there, after all, soft and cozy and less than two feet away – but instead I’m writing in the ol’ blog. There is a reason for this, though.

I’m practically choking to death on burned popcorn fumes.

Delicious as popcorn is, the smell is another story. Even when it’s cooked perfectly, that aroma – which hangs around longer than an unwanted houseguest over the holidays – permeates the atmosphere and practically seeps into your pores. Kind of like bacon; delicious on the palate, but boy does it overstay its welcome on the nose. Burned popcorn is twice as nauseating, and the smell lingers four times as long. Admittedly, I’ve had issues with stovetop popcorn in the past, but nowadays I’m an expert at making it. In other words, I am not to blame for this latest fiasco. I was, in fact, upstairs in my bedroom, chatting away with Tara on the phone, when I first noticed that the house smelled like it was on fire. Fortunately this was not the case, but I learned later it nearly was the case; Rusty had decided to make himself popcorn, but had either forgotten about it or had the heat up too high or something or other – the exact details disappeared in a haze of teen-excuse-speak – and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all I know is, at one point he carried a smoking pan of popcorn outside in order to prevent a possible raging inferno. I suppose I ought to thank the boy rather than chastise him for the awful smell that is still here hours later.

The only thing worse than the smell of popcorn is the smell of BURNED popcorn. (Courtesy of thenondairyqueen.com)

You know what, though? It’s Christmas Eve Eve. I should have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but instead I close my eyes and see flames creeping up the stairway. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sleep when every inhaled breath fills your nostrils with the acrid odor of scorched popcorn?

It’s going to be a long night, folks.

By the way, this is the second time Rusty almost burned the place down. Just a few days after moving here in 2006, I smelled something burning one morning before work but couldn’t locate the source. After a fruitless search I dismissed it as paranoia and nearly walked out the door, but it was so strong I decided to make one more sweep of the premises. That’s when I found his bedspread, half off the bed and draped over a nightlight that was missing a cover. The bulb had burned a hole in the bedspread. Had I just gone to work that day without double checking the house, I’m convinced at some point I would have received a very unpleasant phone call from the fire department.

In all fairness, I too once nearly set my townhouse afire. I was frying chicken in a cast iron skillet, the oil got too hot, and – woosh! Hello, grease fire. Thankfully, I was smart enough to disregard my first instinct to throw water on the burning pan, and instead covered it with a lid. A close call, but honestly, at the time I was more upset that I had ruined that last batch of chicken. Because it had turned out really good. 

I sure hope my insurance agent isn’t reading this post, by the way. Otherwise my premiums might just skyrocket.

Like I said, today was pretty busy. I hit Target for some last minute Christmas items, mostly stocking stuffers, though in truth I hadn’t gotten my parents gifts yet, and to make matters worse I had no idea what to get them. I figured I would wander the aisles hoping for inspiration. Fortunately, it struck. They are just so damn hard to shop for! And whenever I ask them what they want, it’s always the same response: “You don’t have to get us anything.” I know they think that’s helpful, but it sort of isn’t – of course I’m going to get them something, unemployment be damned! You know what I love? When you hit upon the perfect gift idea for somebody. A week ago, I thought of an incredibly awesome and appropriate present for Tara’s mom, Tracy. The only problem is, I had to do some scrambling to put it all together, and I didn’t get it mailed out until this very afternoon. Too late to make it there by Christmas, but I’m hoping she appreciates the thoughtfulness and – let’s face it, modesty be damned, the sheer, unbridled genius of this present enough to overlook the fact that it’ll arrive a few days late. And yes, I know, I didn’t have to get Tracy a gift either, but you think I’m going to turn down an opportunity to impress my girlfriend’s mother? Not a chance, people. Next week, I’ll be busy trying to impress Tara’s friends and her dad’s side of the family, only I won’t have any cool gifts to rely on – just my charm and wit.

Lord help me.

So, this is it. Christmas Eve is 35 minutes away now, and I’m as ready for the holiday as I’m going to be. All the shopping is done, the presents are wrapped, and we’ve gone through our entire collection of holiday movies save for one or two. Saturday afternoon, we head to my aunt’s house in Oregon for our now-traditional Russian dinner, followed by It’s A Wonderful Life when we get home. Just me and the kids. I’ve already told them there will be no popcorn. Then it’s Sunday. Christmas Day. Up early for presents, breakfast with my parents, drop the kids off at their mom’s house, and a few hours later I’ll be deposited at the airport, ready to embark upon my first airplane ride in more than a decade. In a mere 42 hours, I will be in Las Vegas. In 48 or so, Ely.

Merry Christmas, all!

Apple Juice With a Bacon Swizzle Stick

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I miss apple juice.

Or maybe it’s the idea of apple juice I miss. I just had a cup last week in the hospital. It was the first beverage I drank that actually had flavor following my surgery. After days of being hooked up to an IV and subsisting on nothing more than ice water, it tasted like a nectar from the gods. Sweet and succulent and oh, so delicious. Paired with chicken broth, I felt like I was dining on lobster and champagne that evening.

Arsenic? Lead? Sugar? Yummy! (Courtesy of inhabitots.com).

But then, the very next day, I started hearing news reports about how apple juice is no good for you. How this study showed that dangerous levels of arsenic were found in samples of apple juice. Damn you, Dr. Oz and FOX News. You’re both nothing but a bunch of killjoys! If I want to ingest poison, I should be able to do so without feeling guilty about it. The FDA is saying hey, relax, arsenic is naturally present in water, air, food and soil, and we need to stop getting our panties in a bunch because the levels found in apple juice are well within accepted safety standards. Consumer Reports says those standards are much too high and need to be lowered, and the whole thing has turned into one big pissing match. The loser? Me! Because now I’m going to think twice before drinking apple juice, and that’s just sad. Even without worrying about arsenic (and lead, too – when it rains, it pours), they say apple juice contains too much sugar, is high in calories, etc. They’re vilifying it like the poor ol’, much-maligned Big Mac.

That ain’t right.

You know what else I miss? Bacon. Ever since I landed in the hospital, I’ve had to contend with well-meaning friends who keep telling me to “lay off the bacon” now. For some reason, over the years I have developed a reputation as a person who loves bacon. Well, okay…I do love bacon. Fair enough. But I don’t eat any more of it than the average person! It’s an occasional treat and nothing more. Boy, you write one blog post about the maple bacon bar at Voodoo Doughnut and you’re branded for life. And okay, I suppose in retrospect buying that bottle of bacon vodka a couple of months ago didn’t help. Nor did posting a picture of the chicken fried bacon Tara, the kids and I enjoyed  at Slappy Cakes the day before Thanksgiving…which, coincidentally, happened to be two days before I ended up in the hospital. In my defense – in all of our defenses – we split two pieces four ways. It was merely a decadent taste. But oh, how everybody latched onto that when I was suddenly near death hooked up to an IV in great pain. The truth is, I first started feeling sick after eating leftover turkey that morning, a food that is generally considered to be healthy. There’s no rhyme or reason for what happened to me. Was it related to diet? Perhaps, or it may have been the trigger, or none of the above. Even the doctors don’t know. Now, I am not complaining about my friends’ admonitions or warnings. It just means they care about me and want to see me healthy, and I appreciate that very much. I intend to take care of myself, and have already made adjustments toward a lower-fat, less-sodium diet. I am also stubborn – that would be the Taurus in me – and maintain a philosophy that life is too short to give up everything that makes you happy, and practicing moderation is key. I believe in long-term goals and short-term indulgences, and intend to partake in both.

At least I didn't cook my turkey like this! (Courtesy of madville.com).

In fact, I’m kinda feeling like a nice, tall glass of apple juice right now. With a crispy strip of bacon for stirring.

And then there’s alcohol. I haven’t had a sip in fourteen days, which is some kind of record for me. Am I a teetotaler now? Ha! Fat chance. I am way too addicted to Bloody Marys to ever give them up, and I’ve even started liking beer now. It’s just that I haven’t felt like having a drink since getting sick. Every doctor and nurse in the hospital asked me if I was a drinker, and I said socially, which by my definition was 1-2 drinks a day, five days a week. Nobody ever looked alarmed when I said that, but the news wasn’t exactly met with approving glances, either. One nurse suggested my sweaty brow might have been a reaction to booze withdrawal, but in reality the thermostat was simply too freakin’ high in the room. I was actually offended by her comment – can’t a guy perspire without getting the second degree?! –  and the moment she left I snuck a few shots of whiskey in order to forget the sting of her words.

I kid, I kid.

And I will be the first to admit that a near-daily Happy Hour was more of a ritual or a habit for me than anything else. Tsk, tsk – I know. I considered it almost a birthright; I’m a writer, after all, and we stereotypically have a long and prosperous association with alcohol. I have come to realize, since returning home, that the slight buzz does not make up for all those empty calories. I will still enjoy the occasional drink – but it’ll be when I feel like it, not because it’s 3:55 5:00. Once again, it’s all about moderation.

Love the concern, appreciate the advice, but don’t you worry – I don’t intend on going anywhere (and by that, I mean dying) anytime soon.

A trip to Ely, on the other hand, is right around the corner. In seventeen more days!

And if you think I’m stepping onto an airplane without a drink or two to calm my nerves, you’re out of your mind.

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(Don’t Fear) The Pepper…or Salt

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I hate when you order something that looks delicious, only to take a bite and find that the chef under seasoned it.

Case in point: I went to the farmer’s market earlier today. Part of the fun is in stocking up on fresh produce, and I definitely came away with my share. Apples, cherry tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, and fresh dill. But it’s also an excuse to grab lunch on the go, and the Portland Farmer’s Market has no shortage of vendors serving great food there. Salvador Molly’s, Pine State Biscuits, and C’est Si Bon all serve wonderful meals. I like to try new things though, and today a Mexican place called Verde Cocina caught my eye. They were selling Huevos Rancheros, Chilaquiles, and Gringas. Their menu describes these as:

Gringas are soft, rolled tacos made from our handmade corn tortillas, spread with garbanzo-white bean mash, filled with either fresh local pork or fresh local veggies. They are covered with our signature housemade molé sauce, and served with whole beans and a mountain of veggies.

Sounded too good to pass up, so I opted for the pork version, which cost me $9 (ouch – that’s more than any of the other aforementioned vendors charges for lunch, but I was in a generous mood and the aroma from the freshly grilled sweet onions beckoned to me). They handed me my plate, and it was piled high with a colorful, appealing mound of fresh vegetables smothered in a thick, brick-red sauce. Yum, right?!

Not so much.

Dude. We rock! Food needs us!!

I found a spot to sit, eagerly dug in with my fork, and was dismayed to find the food bland and largely flavorless. This sucked because A) It wasn’t cheap, and B) There were plenty of other options available with proven track records. But what could I do at that point? Maybe if I’d been in a restaurant I’d have sent the meal back, but I had already wandered away from the booth and there was a long line of patrons waiting to order there anyway. It’s not that the food was bad…but it positively screamed out for salt and pepper. One of my biggest pet peeves is people who are afraid to season their food. A little salt and pepper goes a long way toward bringing out the flavors in a dish! I know I’m not alone in this way of thinking. I watch a lot of cooking shows, and the judges always gives chefs a hard time for under seasoning their dishes. It’s a cardinal sin! My meal would have been so much better with a sprinkling of both. You know how some people carry around flasks filled with the booze of their alcoholic choice? I’m tempted to start packing a flask full of salt, and another filled with pepper. And if that insults the sensibilities of the cook who prepared the dish, they can bite me since they have no business serving me something that lacks flavor in the first place!

I should’ve known better. This place was all hey, we have vegan dishes and our meals are all gluten-free!! Then again, that describes the majority of Portland restaurants, so it probably wouldn’t have done me any good. I ate most of it, and it filled me up. That’s about the best I can say, other than lesson learned. Next time I’m going for the biscuit topped with fried chicken, cheese and gravy. Gluten-free? Nope. Healthy? Not a chance. But you can bet your ass it tastes good!

/Seasoning rant.

Afterwards, I wandered around downtown Portland for an hour, just walking and enjoying what may be the last warm weekend day of the year. OK, “enjoying” is too strong a word because it was too hot for my blood and also humid, but the weatherman is calling for rain the next few days so I won’t complain too bitterly. Besides, today is only the 2nd day of autumn. I had no destination in mind; I just wanted to wander the streets, taking in the sights and sounds. That’s the great thing about P-Town; you’re guaranteed to spot something out of the ordinary, every time. Today it was a homeless man asleep in a doorway who demonstrated terrible fashion sense by wearing mismatched shoes: one was black and the other, white. Tsk-tsk. A little coordination next time please, buddy! I also spied a man in a white mariachi suit blowing a horn on a spare corner for change, another man yelling at everybody to Repent Now because The End Is Near but don’t worry, Jesus Loves You. This was topped off with a bunch of new solar-powered trash compactors lining the streets. I’m telling you, this was all a veritable smorgasbord of Portlandia.

Properly seasoned, of course.

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I Have No Beef With Cows

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Yesterday was National Cow Appreciation Day. I would not have known this if Tillamook Cheese hadn’t been so kind as to remind me in an e-mail that morning. I’ve got no beef with cows – I love ‘em, in fact! – and I figured the best way to appreciate them would be to not eat them that day. At the grocery store, I picked up a nice cod filet and decided to make fish tacos. I was very moo-ved by this whole dedication to our bovine friends, and felt quite committed to keeping them off my plate for one day. Naturally, I updated my Twitter/Facebook accounts to wish everybody a happy Cow Appreciation Day and to let them know about my meatless dinner plans.

My friend Laurie brought up a good point, though. She responded to my Facebook post, I don’t get it? Isn’t the best way to appreciate a cow to savor the flavor?

I had to admit, I was suddenly flummoxed. The logic behind Laurie’s reasoning seemed sound. In order to clear up my confusion, I turned to the internet for the answers. According to holidayinsights.com, Cow Appreciation Day should be celebrated thusly:

Our appreciation for cows can be expressed in many ways. Some websites suggest you go out and give a cow a big hug and/or a kiss. While it might sound like fun, you don’t have to go to extremes to enjoy this special day. It can be as simple as pausing for a moment to think about cows, and all that they do for us.

Not having a cow handy for hugging purposes, I figured I was right on in keeping my evening beef-free. But then Laurie – she’s got a quick wit, that one – said, in response to the above quote, Maybe you could kiss a burger and thank The Grand Bovine in the Sky for providing such a juicy and delicious dinner for you. Had I read the holiday website further, I might have done so, because it went on to say,

Now that we’ve had our moment of silence, it’s time to celebrate. Have an ice cold glass of milk. Add chocolate syrup, if you prefer. Then, fire up the grill, and cook some burgers or a steak. And, don’t forget to get your fill of cheese. Sorry, goat cheese is not allowed today.

Clearly, I had taken the wrong approach to Cow Appreciation Day! But the fish was fresh and the accompanying creamy lime/chile sauce had already been prepared, so I went ahead with my taco plan. They were good, too! No complaints. I figured I would appreciate cows the next day instead.

Making crepes at C'est Si Bon.

Saturday morning dawned cool and wet. I would have sworn it was early October had the calendar not been stuck on July. I grabbed rain gear (seriously?) and headed downtown to do some shopping at the Portland Farmer’s Market at PSU. Having been limited to asparagus during my last two visits to a farmer’s market, I was thrilled this time to see a wide assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. Though it may not feel like it, summer is finally in full swing around here. I found a parking meter, and had ninety minutes to visit the market, which is less time than you might think given the fact that a) it was many blocks away (a good ten-minute walk…oops, should have searched for a closer spot), and b) the market is huge. First I made a circuit, stopping to browse and try many free samples while planning what to buy. Then, since it was lunchtime, I stopped at a booth selling French crepes. Called C’est Si Bon, they offered a selection of both sweet and savory crepes. Tough decision – they all sounded good! – but I was in the mood for lunch instead of breakfast, so I chose from the savory side of the menu. I opted for a pork confit crepe: it was stuffed with slow-roasted pork, caramelized onions, apple butter, and organic herb salad. Oh. My. God. Delicious!! I later learned that Bon Appetit Magazine ranked the Top 10 Farmer’s Market Lunches and the Portland Farmer’s Market made the cut…and, in fact, they specifically mentioned the crepes at C’est Si Bon. I chose wisely!

Savory pork confit crepe. Heaven on a plate.

After devouring my crepe, I went back through the market and filled my ecologically sensible canvas tote (it’s Portland, after all) with Rainier cherries, green beans, cherry tomatoes, blueberries, a wedge of handcrafted artisan cheese, and a dozen farm-fresh, organic, free-range eggs (go, me!). I’ve never tried fresh eggs from a farm, but my brother swears they are nothing like the kind you find in the grocery store, so I figured the steep price ($6.00) would be worth it. They’re a fun mixture of colors, mostly brown and beige. Can’t wait to try them for breakfast! Time was running out, so I hurried back to my car, making it with three minutes to spare. Whew! From there, I stopped at Gartner’s Country Meats, a local meat market that I’ve been going to for about fifteen years now. By meat market, I mean butcher shop and retail purveyor of beef, pork and chicken, not a seedy, dimly-lit bar where men hurl vapid come-on lines to bored-looking, curvy women. It’s a very well-known (read: packed to the rafters) place where you have to take a number for service. I was 98, they were on 67, which is about par for the course. Totally worth the twenty-minute wait, though, as I came home with a marvelous-looking ribeye steak that will truly show my appreciation for cows, especially when it’s plopped on the grill tonight and cooked to medium-rare perfection. I also grabbed some pepper bacon and garlic smoked bratwurst. I hardly ever get to Gartner’s anymore – it’s been about a year – so when I do go, I try to buy several different meats.

I have really been “getting my Portland on” these past few days, and loving it! The rest of the afternoon will be spent on my back patio, magazine in hand, records playing, cold drink by my side. My kind of Saturday!

Wilbur’s Guide to Setting your Tongue on Fire

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I went to the farmer’s market yesterday. Last time I went, about a month ago, the only fresh produce they had for sale was asparagus and apples. I figured, since it was now JUNE – and the first really warm summer day this year (86 in Portland…ouch) – that there was bound to be more of a selection this time. I was hoping for some corn on the cob. Maybe some apricots or nectarines. A peach would be peachy. Strawberries ripen in June, and there are none better than freshly grown Oregon or Washington berries (sorry, California, but yours don’t even come close). So I eagerly joined the throngs of people walking en masse amongst the myriad booths and tents, only to find…

Asparagus. And apples.

Well, damn. Nothing had changed in a whole month, except the outfits my fellow market patrons wore (gone were the sweatshirts and umbrellas, replaced by shorts and flip-flops). The whole scene screamed summer, except for the produce. And to think that I had better luck last Halloween, when I was able to put together an entire meal from my farmer’s market purchases despite the gloom and chill. I guess I was fooled by all the fruits and veggies in the supermarket, which are of course trucked in from locations where it hasn’t been cool and wet for months on end. I went ahead and bought some asparagus, because I didn’t want to come away totally empty handed, and treated myself to a corn dog for lunch. Then I promptly made my way to Trader Joe’s, where I found the corn I had been seeking, along with the requisite other cool things you can only find there, like fresh avocado salsa verde and cheap-but-good wine. Ahh, TJ’s, how I love thee.

Earlier in the week, I’d ventured into Portland on a quest for Secret Aardvark Drunken Garlic & Black Bean Habanero sauce. I’d read about this stuff in the latest issue of Willamette Week and was intrigued enough to seek it out, foodie that I am. I found it at New Season’s Market, and bought a bottle (along with their trademark regular Habanero Hot Sauce, both of which are made with whiskey). Turns out Secret Aardvark Trading Company is a local, two-man operation that started out selling their products at the Portland Farmer’s Market in 2004. I love stories like that and am all about supporting the local economy. In addition to the sauces, I came home that day with a bag of New York-style boiled bagels, a handful of guitar picks, and a couple of MAKE PORTLAND WEIRDER bumper stickers. It was an odd sort of day, but productive.

Wilbur Scoville's fiery chile pepper chart of death (not the official name).

So last night, I decided to try the Habanero Hot Sauce. I love spicy foods, but have never been able to master and enjoy habanero peppers, which are 50 times hotter than jalapenos on the Scoville Scale, a method of measuring the spiciness of chili peppers that was developed by Wilbur Scoville in 1912. It’s a handy and rather scary-looking chart, especially if you’re contemplating digging into some of the hotter chilies. A jalapeno, for instance, is measured at 3500-8000 Scoville units, while a habanero comes in at 200,000-350,000 units. Ouch, right? Every time I’ve tried to eat something with habaneros, my body has protested vigorously. My tongue catches fire and I am wracked with hiccups (apparently a common reaction and a defense mechanism of your diaphragm, which is now screaming get this shit away from me!!).

However, I’m no pepper pansy. I have annihilated anaheims, punished poblanos and pasillas, slaughtered serranos, and conquered cayennes. It was time to take the next step in my chili pepper war and humiliate habaneros.

Here’s the thing: I like the flavor of habaneros. They are piquant and citrusy. If it weren’t for the damn heat, I’d use them in everything. My dad (who can barely handle a bell pepper) was asking how one can distinguish the flavor of a chili pepper when it feels like you’re gargling with molten lava, and that’s an interesting question, but you certainly can. All chilies have different flavors, and that is why there’s such a proliferation of hot sauces on the market.

Anyway. I fired up the grill last evening and barbecued some chicken. (I also threw my corn on the cob on the grill, something I’ve always wanted to try, and it turned out pretty good, with a unique smoky flavor you don’t get from boiling, unless your stove catches on fire in the process). When dinner was ready, I broke out the Secret Aardvark sauce and squeezed a few dollops on my plate, dipping bite-sized pieces of chicken in the habanero chile puddle. And, guess what?

I didn’t die.

Actually, I rather enjoyed the flavor. Secret Aardvark is good stuff! Maybe it’s the whiskey. My mouth burned and my tongue protested for awhile, but eventually they got used to it, and the sauce added a tangy, almost tropical flavor to the chicken. This morning I made myself an omelette and, wanting to prove that the previous evening wasn’t a fluke, doused it with some more of the habanero sauce. Surprisingly, it was eggcellent, elevating the omelette experience to a whole new level. It appears I may have finally put the habanero in its place and shown it who’s in charge.

I’m eyeing the ghost chili next, but at 1,000,000+ Scoville units, I’m in no hurry to dethrone that little guy.

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If At First You Don’t Succeed Pop, Pop Again

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I had such an outpouring of comments in favor of stovetop popcorn after I wrote about how difficult it was to make that I couldn’t help but come to a rather unpleasant conclusion afterwards.

It must have been “operator error.”

Case in point: You are CRAP at stovetop popcorn, wrote PlaneJaner, whose blog is one of my favorites despite the dis. When I replied that it might have been my fault, she responded again – in all caps this time – indicating that it was, indeed, all my fault. Talk about a woman who calls ‘em like she sees ‘em. Plenty of others told me how much more superior stovetop popcorn is to microwave popcorn, and gave me plenty of tips on making it just right.

Being a person who never quits…wait, that’s not true…well, anyway, after receiving so much positive feedback, I decided to make a second attempt at stovetop popcorn one day last week. So, Friday night I once again hauled out the frying pan, popcorn kernels (which I had very nearly tossed into the trash following my last disastrous attempt but, fortunately, had hung onto), oil, salt, and butter.

Stovetop popcorn: it's the shizzle. (Courtesy of thecookingphotographer.com)

“I’m going to make you my bitch,” I said out loud. This might strike you as odd, but it shouldn’t. I always talk to inanimate objects when I’m alone. And, let’s face it, the unpopped popcorn had to be put in its place, so a little verbal smackdown was in order.

I decided to read the back of the bag this time, rather than follow that so-called recipe for “the perfect stovetop popcorn” which turned out to be anything but, plus utilize the tips and techniques my fellow bloggers and readers shared with me. Stage one called for a scant two tablespoons of oil on the bottom of the pan instead of the veritable sea of grease I’d used last time. I was instructed to add three unpopped kernels, turn the heat to medium high, put the lid on, and wait. When the first kernel popped, I was to add 1/3 cup of kernels to the mix.

Since it took some 40 minutes for the popcorn last time, I assumed I’d have another long wait ahead of me, but before I could even begin to work up a bad mood over what was sure to be another failed attempt, I was greeted to a most glorious and unexpected sight and sound.

A kernel had popped.

So I dumped the rest of the kernels in, and they came to life almost immediately. I shook the pan occasionally as suggested, popped the lid open once to let out a quick burst of steam, and – voila! – had a perfectly full pan of popcorn, with nary an unpopped kernel to be found.

I still had doubts about the finished product, but one bite erased those. The popcorn was, in a word, delicious. It wasn’t greasy or burned like my last batch, but instead turned out light and golden and fluffy. A little bit of melted butter, a dash of salt, and I experienced popcorn nirvana.

And now, of course, I can never go back to microwave popcorn. PlaneJaner was right. Stovetop really is “the shizzle.”

To top it off, even the movie I watched was better. Netflix sent me this little film called It’s Kind Of A Funny Story. Other than Zach Galafianakis, there were no big stars. It was one of those indie dramedies that I seem to really enjoy, about a teenage boy who almost commits suicide but checks himself into a mental hospital instead. LMAO!!! I know, right?!

No, but seriously. It was good.

The rest of the weekend was kid-free and cool and showery, so I didn’t do all that much. Ran some errands. Waged a fierce battle with the ex over e-mail. Made homemade lumpia and fried rice. Probably the highlight was creating a homemade mashup on Sunday.

About a year ago, I heard this great song on the local alternative radio station. It was a mashup of Coldplay’s “The Scientist” and Extreme’s “More Than Words.” Two great songs, and mixing them together turned them into one great song. Way to go, Mighty Mike! And then Glee (which I’ll admit to watching as a guilty pleasure) had an episode this season that featured mashups and I started thinking, hey, it would be really cool if I could make one of those. Well, my Mac came preloaded with this great music software application called GarageBand that does everything from teaching you how to play guitar to allowing you to record tracks and create mixes.

To record a mashup, you need an a-capella vocal track and an instrumental track. The goal is to take two distinctly different songs and sync them together so that you have a fresh new mix. It’s a ton of fun and a great way to get creative. I took Janis Joplin’s vocals and Queen’s instrumental and created a song I’m calling We Will Rock Your Mercedes Benz. Check it out if you’d like!

 

I guess I’ll have to add DJ to my resume now. In addition to writer, ghost hunter, Portland food blogger, stovetop popcorn aficionado…

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If You Fall Off Your Bicycle – Stay Off!

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Thursday, I was craving a break from work, so I decided to take myself out on a date. Lunch and a movie in downtown Portland. All work and no play makes Mark a dull boy, and I needed desperately to get out of the house. Before you say Hey, wait a minute, Mark is unemployed – what’s all this crazy talk about needing a “break” from “work”? the ironic truth, even though I’m technically unemployed, I’ve been working much harder at freelance writing than I ever did when I had a “real” job. The articles I was assigned this week took a lot of work. There was research, and writing, and rewriting, and keeping track of keyword densities. Fortunately, while my first one took some four hours to write, I managed to knock that time down to a little over an hour by the time I finished the last one. Whew. I was working for below minimum wage in the beginning! Hardly the road to self-sufficieny and financial security.

Anyway, like I said, yesterday my brain was feeling a little fried, so I ventured forth unto the Rose City for a fun little outing. My first stop was Little Big Burger, a new “gourmet fast-food” joint in the Pearl District. They’re Portland’s answer to In ‘N Out Burger, with a similar concept – a small menu specializing in just a few items. There are hamburgers, cheeseburgers (with a choice of 4 different cheeses), fries, and beverages. Everything is local and organic. I’m a firm believer in doing one thing and doing it right, and Little Big Burger definitely does burgers and fries right! Their burgers are a little larger than sliders (hence the name) and served on freshly-baked brioche buns sourced from a local bakery. I ordered mine with chevre, a soft goat’s milk cheese that was tangy and creamy and elevated the burger to something unique…and utterly delicious. And the fries? Almost indescribable – they are seasoned with sea salt and a dash of white truffle oil, and are perfectly crispy and tasty. Considering that Little Big Burger is right across the street from my favorite place in Portland, Powell’s Books, the chances of a return visit are hovering around 100%.

Satisfied after a great lunch, I made my way to the Fox Tower cinema next. I’d been wanting to see 127 Hours since it first came out weeks ago, but for some reason it’s been in limited release. The only place I could find it playing locally was at the Fox Tower in Portland, which is considered an art-house cinema of sorts. This was pretty obvious considering the trailers they showed before the movie – foreign films and indie dramas I’d never heard of. But the seats were leather-padded and tilted backwards, so I was more than happy, even though ticket prices cost an arm and a leg these days.

It's all fun and games until you end up with your arm pinned beneath a boulder. (Image courtesy of adventuredrop.com).

Yes, that’s my attempt at humor, because if you aren’t familiar with the film, 127 Hours tells the true story of Aron Ralston, the  mountain climber whose arm became pinned by a boulder in a remote Utah canyon and only managed to escape, five days later, after amputating his trapped limb with a dull pocket knife. It’s an intense and moving tale, wonderfully acted by James Franco. The scene where he severs his own arm is so bloody and agonizing to watch that some moviegoers have apparently fainted while watching it. Even though the arm is of course fake, I don’t blame them – it looks real enough, and it’s a tough thing to watch! I kept telling myself it’s only a movie, it’s only a movie during that scene, but then my brain reminded me that it really happened. I nearly had to look away from the screen, and I’m not generally a squeamish person.

Here’s the part I don’t get. At the end of the film, there are photos of the real Aron Ralston, and captions that tell us he is still an avid mountain climber and continues to go canyoneering on a regular basis.

Umm….really? No offense, but hasn’t this guy learned his lesson? There’s an old axiom that goes, if you fall off your bicycle, get right back on it. Well, you know what? If I fall off my bicycle, the last thing in the world I want to do is climb back on. If I did that, I might fall off again, and all I can say is – ouch! I’ll stick to scooters or cars or trains, thank you very much. If you touch a hot stove and burn your finger, chances are you won’t be clamoring to touch that hot stove again anytime soon. Likewise, if you are hiking in a canyon and you end up amputating your own arm after it becomes trapped beneath a boulder – why would you want to go anywhere near a canyon again? And don’t say “because it’s there.” That’s just stupid, and I blogged about a similar topic once before. It’s like that surfer who had her arm bitten off by a shark – and then decided to keep surfing after recovering from the accident. I’m sorry, and excuse my language, but WTF? Did she not learn her lesson the first time? Surfing could be my overriding passion in life, but the moment I was attacked by a shark, I would chop the board into a thousand little pieces (no, wait, I couldn’t do that – because I’ve only got one arm! I’d ask for help, though) and never dip a toe in the ocean again. Hell, I might get rid of my goldfish, too – just for good measure. Anything even remotely fish-related would creep me out, and besides, one can never be too cautious.

But I digress. Like I said, great movie, as gruesome as it is. Afterwards, I walked around the city for awhile, reveling in the sounds of the season – every street corner was filled with a musician (most of whom were probably homeless) playing Christmas carols on guitars or plastic buckets or spoons for spare change. And then I passed a one-legged guy – I’m not kidding; his blue jeans were tied in a knot at his right knee and dangling emptily underneath, flapping in the breeze – and nearly screamed, just because of where my mind was.

I hope the poor guy didn’t notice the look of horror that flashed across my face, albeit briefly. I would have given him a dollar or two, but he wasn’t performing or anything – he was just standing there (I’m not trying to be funny this time) talking to one of the street musicians. Slipping him a buck would have made it seem like I felt pity for him, and I do, but I don’t want him to know that!

Being PC these days is a fine line to walk, let me tell you.

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