One down...

...five to go.  Semesters, that is.  I am studying American History in pursuit of my Master's degree.  It's been a rough semester.  And this past week, my dog needed to get surgery to fix an obstructed bowel.  A vacation is in order!

I'm tired.

My Great-grandmother



My great-grandmother Emilia is 95 years old.  She is the only great-grandparent that I've had in my life so far and was there from the beginning; she even changed my first diaper as she is wont to brag/remind my mother.  She is present in many of my earliest memories as a toddler:  making me sweetened corn mush (or polenta for those fancy Food Network types) for breakfast, having me sit next to her in church so I'd behave, scolding me when I played in the street, and smacking me with a wooden spoon when I really acted up.

Oh, but her sense of humor and love for life make up for any yelling she did when we were kids.  She's barely five feet tall, but she gives the biggest hugs anyone could hope for.  She has been faithful to God even as she has buried her husband, all her siblings, and even a great-grandson; she has a deep, unwaning joy that I have yet to experience.

I hope to be as much at peace as she is.

St. Emilia, pray for my Great-grandmother.



The late Archbishop Job 15th Antiphon from Great & Holy Friday Matins

This is a favorite of mine.  May Archbishop Job's memory be eternal.

Chicken and Taters

I don't care, this triple-stack is AMAZING.

I like cooking.  My mom taught me to cook simple things growing up and, once I got to high school, I could cook whole meals.  When I went off to college and started living off campus, I never went hungry; the horror stories of students living on nothing but cheap ramen never came my way.  If I wanted ramen, I'd make it because I wanted it - not it being the only option available.  My enjoyment of cooking melds really well with my love of books.  As evidence, next to my sleeping dog is a bookshelf filled with cookbooks.  Behind my wife (who took the picture) is another one of those bookshelves filled with more cookbooks and books about wine, beer, and cocktails.  Sometimes, Often, I sit and read through recipes.  I'll plan menus and cooking times in my head, simply thinking about dinner parties.  Several people have asked me why I didn't become a chef.  God, no.  If I ever did have a restaurant, it'd be for 10 people per night; small, intimate with delicious food that people won't bitch about.  That's all ego, though.

Anyway, I hadn't cooked in a while, so I bought a chicken for roasting.  I seasoned it with Stubb's Chicken Rub.  I seasoned it inside, outside and made sure I got under its skin.

I left the chicken in the fridge for over 24 hours.  Then I took it out for about an hour before roasting to get the chill off of it.

Bowl on right contains victim.



My parents-in-law gave my wife and I this cool roaster from Pigeon Forge, Tennessee several years ago.  If you've done "beer can chicken", it's the same concept but better and made for the oven.  The cast iron deep skillet (Lodge...super products) was gifted to us by my brother-in-law and his boyfriend not more than two weeks ago.

Bird wonders what its fate will be...

Relax, nothing bad's happening yet.

A meal without drink is no meal.



Simple.

So, in the center of the roaster is a little well - about 4 or 5 inches deep.  I chopped up a garlic clove and a whole lemon.  In the well they went, topped up with some homemade Piesporter-style wine.  It's a well-balanced white, with the sweetness of a spatlese; I've had it with a variety of food styles and preparations and have never been disappointed.  It has a nice taste of crisp apple and cantaloupe; the bouquet is of elderflowers.



After that, chicken went on the roaster.  The well went into the cavity and the bird stood up straight.

Then into a cold oven (as in not turned on; it's for the ceramic's sake) it all goes.

Hmm, I can get used to this.

I set it for 350 degrees Fahrenheit (176.667 Celsius or Gas 4, if you're not American).  Then I started prepping for my side dish: stove-roasted potatoes.  The recipe I was looking at was for oven roasting these taters, but, as you can see, there's not a lot of room to have another pan.  Plus, the potatoes needed a higher temperature, about 450 degrees (I'm not calculating Celsius, figure it out). 











Yeah, Wal-Mart, Kroger, and Aldi products in da house.

I had about a pound and a half of red potatoes (some nice new potatoes would probably be better), a sweet onion (the recipe called for a red onion), 8 cloves of garlic, salt, ground black pepper, and dried rosemary.  I didn't have any peppercorns to mill, as that would be better.  Fresh rosemary would be nice, too, but my plant's not ready and I'm not paying six dollars for a flimsy sprig of rosemary.  So prep:

Not too small; I also like potato skin.

Peel garlic, leave whole.

Remove any green stems if you see them.

2 Tablespoons of unsalted butter.

Throw it into skillet (range set on medium heat) along with 2 Tbs of olive or veg oil.

Slice onion.

Butter/oil foaming?  Throw in garlic.  Picture sucks - potatoes set aside in clean bowl (yes, I washed it - salmonella is not as tasty as people make it seem).

Once garlic is fragrant and has a little color, throw in onion.  Let those cook a bit.

Get the taters in, make sure you toss it up to cover everything in the butter/oil mix.

About a tablespoon of dried rosemary.  Use more or less, if you like.

Sprinkle about a tablespoon of sweet paprika, then toss it all around.

It's been about an hour, temp check says it's still not safe to eat.  Rotate the dish, it'll need another 30 minutes or so.  Boost the heat to 400 degrees.

Taters been cooking for about 20 minutes.  Add a little water for steam and cover.  Test taters for doneness with a fork.

While all the magic is happening, pour yourself a glass.

Take the chicken out to rest and...

Taters go under the broiler to crisp up.

Ready for plating.

Serve on your best china.

 

So, the chicken was juicy and well-flavored; not salty like other rubs I've had.  The rosemary and garlic flavors were subtle in the crispy taters.  I had to go to work later in the night, so no more wine.  Rather, I had Seagram's ginger ale, which went well with the meal.  Simple and tasty.

 

 

 



Back to school

This is not a depression post.  It's just a guy thinking in the darkness.

Next week, I start a new semester in pursuit of a Master's degree.  When I was thinking about going back to school last year, I thought, "Maybe I should something job-related that will help me professionally."   Or even, "I should study something that will change my career path completely.  Not something useless like English Literature.  Bah!  I won't make that mistake again."  Well, I'm now in my second semester of studying American History.

In a conversation with a co-worker of mine, I discovered that I have never really known what I wanted in a career.  Oh, sure, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a farmer-pilot-fireman, the very best of three completely different worlds and sets of dedication.  In my current job, at best, I'm a glorified office assistant; at worst, just a nobody that very few would care if I disappeared.  What do I do with my life?  It's an uneasy feeling, but more annoying than anything else.  There is no great calling for me.  I have no sense of vocation in any field.  So, in my mind, another degree in the field of humanities is the only thing that makes a bit of sense.  I studied Literature, because I love to read.  I will continue studying History, because I love to learn what not to do.

I don't mean that I read first-hand historical accounts while shouting "Suck it!" when someone "wins" or does something my modern-day superior mind finds wrong.  I do search history to discover the good people and, while recognizing the evil ones and their activities, I try to emulate them in some small fashion.  Those that are "good", are ones who are honest, educated, and courageous.  I usually feel that I have none of those qualities and am better suited for sitting around, letting my life pass me by, and listening to others complain about the lack of happiness.

So, to end my blathering, I'm still not sure what I want or need.  I don't know if I'm staying in my same job or company.  I could use some prayers.

Currently reading

I'm reading All The King's Men by Robert Penn Warren.  I skimmed through it when I was in college, taking a Southern Literature course.  I have plenty of books like that, barely touched; just aching to be read.  Actually, I'm aching to read them all.  There is not enough time in the world to read all the books I want to.  I'm just happy to get a few pages in at a time and not feel rushed.  I remember having to "read" four to five novels a week.  It was horrible and I never felt that I ever identified with any piece or author.  I'll let you know what next.

Old stuff

     It's always interesting to find an old piece of writing you did.  I remember that several years back I found an old Tom and Jerry comic book that I read when I was a kid; maybe I was seven or eight years old when I read it all the time.  There is one panel where Tom is on water skis being pulled by a speedboat driven by Jerry.  For whatever reason, when I was a kid, I had drawn a speech balloon that had Tom saying, "Dad is dumb".  Obviously, I was angry at my dad for some long-forgotten, but, in all probability, stupid reason.  The only reason that it's significant is that I received a well-deserved spanking for it.  Actually, two spankings: one from my mom, when she found it, and one from my dad, once he came home from work.
     Combing through older digital files on my computer, I found this small bit of writing.  According to the date it was made when I was beginning my third year of university studies.  I was already jaded with school, not really knowing what the future was holding for me.  From my room in the Army ROTC dorms, I could see a mountain that I'd rock climb on occasion.  It was the beginning of a new academic year and the trees were a tired green, languishing in the heat of late summer.   Here it is:

     I stared outside from the inside of my room through the window.  The wind was flowing over and through the leaves of an oak.  The high mountains could be seen far away in the horizon.  I've climbed a few of them.  I wasn't looking at anything in particular.  There was a time when I really cared.  Not anymore.  I have different priorities now.  I still love this place, though.  This is not the place where I was born nor the place where I was raised.  It's not the place where I found that profound meaning of life or where I fell in love.  It's a place where there is no purpose.  It is simply beautiful.  And I love it.  You know, all good works of literature are nothing but good bullshit.

     I still enjoy that last sentence.  I was tired of finding meaning in the analysis of the classics of literature.   I was tired of thinking of new and creative things to write about.  And I was tired of everyone being the artistic martyr and the vicious critic.  I love reading and I enjoy writing, but I doubt I will ever make a profession out of either.  Unlike that younger man, I am at peace with that.

Smoke

The cold snap has ended. A full moon adorns the clear, dark sky; Orion the Hunter shimmers overhead; and the icy snow sparkles in the light of these two celestial bodies. I've put on my Afghani pakol hat and an old Norwegian navy officer's wool coat, so I look like an out of place mujahid. To accompany me are my dogs and a Victor Sinclair Legacy cigar. My dogs bolt out of the back door, crunching through the crisp layer of ice on the snow with their paws as they bound off the deck and into the lunar illuminated backyard. I pull out a handy lighter, press the button, and, with a hiss of butane, the torch lights. The tobacco warms, blackens, then glows. A few puffs of earthy smoke and I'm well on my way. Notes of cedar and moss hit my palate as cool smoke swirl around me, aided by the constant breeze.

It's easy to think of nothing and everything when a cigar is being smoked. Time slows, mattering less. Stresses disappear or, at the very least, aren't as important for the moment. I gaze at the night sky and I realize that it's been a while since I've stopped and looked at the night sky. I'm instantly transported by my memories to night skies in the north Georgia mountains. With very little light pollution, there are many more stars than the well-lit suburbia I'm a part of now. Those nights were special, quiet, and slow. Night time goes well with a cigar, as you have to take time to savor both. The sky make me feel small, slowing further my sense of time.

My dogs want to play. I pull a stick from one of the two snowmen my wife an I built yesterday. A flick of the wrist, a crack from the stick hitting snow, and the rumble and whine from three excited dogs happen in an instant. I return to my smoke as the dogs playfully challenge one another to possess a piece of wood.  The smoke is smooth as it rises from my mouth and through my beard.  It's the lightest of grays without a hint of harshness.  I note a smell of freshly fallen leaves and am, again, amazed at how the mind, with the sense of smell, associates very different things with the power of memory.

One dog is lying in the snow and chewing the stick.  The other is enthralled by a toy Frisbee he found buried in the snow,  shaking it to and fro.  The third is rooting around the snowmen, finding the almonds we used for eyes and buttons.  A cold and tasty treat for a smart hound!

It's time to go inside.  I throw the still-lit cigar into the snow to let it expire honorably.  I imagine the glowing ember hissing as the cold, frozen crystals absorb all the heat.  It's too far to hear such a small and dying sound.

I make sure I lock the door.

Silence

The snow had been falling within the whispers of the winter gusts of wind. As dusk settled, the wind died down, but the snow kept coming. Ice eventually got into the mix. Our little house was warm and my sister and I were excited about Christmas that was approaching. We wondered if Santa Claus would still come even if dad wasn't around this time. He was away on deployment and we were all anxious for his return; but we knew he wouldn't be back in time for Christmas.

The temperatures had been dropping all day as the snow accumulated on the frozen ground. Over time, the icy mix froze electrical wires somewhere. Unfortunately, unsurprisingly, and unpredictably, the lights went out. As our heating system was also electric, our once warm little house became chilly very quickly. My mom didn't show it very much, but she was worried. The telephone still worked, so she called several of our family's friends. One of her friends, whose husband was also deployed, invited us to come with her to the Army base. She was employed by the base and had access to some warm shelter. My mom loaded us into the van and we headed over.

The place we were staying was a standard wood building that had been built during World War II. There were dozens and dozens of these buildings on base. We all went into the one we would be staying for the night: my mom, her friend, and, now, four very excited and curious children.

The lights were out on this section of the base, so we entered into a dark hall. The wooden floors that had been stepped on by thousands upon thousands of GIs creaked under our feet. My mom's friend found an old kerosene heater and lit it up. The old office we were staying in quickly warmed; the fuel gave a comforting scent which mixed with the typical "Army smell" of axle grease, dusty wall lockers, Kiwi boot-shine, and canvas. It still is a familiar smell that always reminds me of dad.

We found cots and blankets to set up a sleeping area. We kids decided to play hide-and-seek in the long, two-story building while our mothers conversed over freshly made instant coffee. Every corner of the structure was dark and musty. Every metal wall locker and desk banged noisily as we tried hiding. Every chair we moved out of the way screeched mercilessly, revealing our carefully planned hiding tactics.

"OK, that's enough! Time for bed."

We brushed our teeth with ice-cold water and marched straight to our cots, like little soldiers. I crawled under the olive drab wool blanket. The heater hissed, giving off its blessed warmth. The cot's old canvas sagged under me and I went to sleep.

Restaurant Kitchen Vignette

"You're married?" shrieked the annoying blonde girl. She spied his ring while he was getting a drink at the soda fountain; she had been refilling the pitchers with water. "Yeah," he said, rather annoyed. "What are you, like, twelve?" The look of incredulity on her face was baffling. "I wish," he chuckled. In an instant, he thought of what he was doing when he was twelve years old. No real worries. Will mom let me go to my friend's house to play Nintendo 64? I don't want to do homework. Maybe a few fears. I don't want to get in another fight. I wish my mom and sister would not fight so much. I hope I don't get suspended from school. "No, seriously, I thought you were, like, nineteen. How old are you?" she asked, almost spilling the pitcher of water over the ice. "Twenty-eight," he replied. "Oh, my God, wow," she said, walking back to the front to serve the customers.

Library

I can't imagine life without the ability to read. From a young age, I was a prolific reader. Weekly trips to the library were the norm, as well as utilizing my school's library constantly. I remember that, as an elementary school-aged child, picking up a minimum of five books per library trip, then getting home to begin a reading marathon. As I grew older, the books became thicker and more complex, but my voracious literary appetite didn't subside. Even in high school, when students were assigned summer reading lists, I would read the majority of the list even when we were only required to read two. When I started college, I intended to pursue physical therapy. The core classes kicked my butt, so I switched to English Literature. I loved it. I loved the variety that I was required to read. I had to face up to genres and authors I thought I didn't care about. Sure, numerous times it was overwhelming. Multiple readings and so many papers to write. So many. Then, I got a job as a library assistant at the University's Library. Talk about a dream job! I worked several evenings per week doing typical tasks: helping students find books, ordering books and journals for faculty, and supervising student workers. Of course, there was a lot of downtime. The vast majority of students were there just for the internet. My favorite time was when it closed. The last student logged off, gathered their things, and shuffled out. I locked the front door and began my rounds (Ha! How medical). I would make sure books were aligned on the shelves, periodicals were organized, and that stray books were found. I liked looking for an old book at random. I liked the feeling of the old, rough binding; the cracking sound of the spine for not being opened in a long time; the suprisingly soothing, musty smell of the yellowing pages. I would go to the inside back cover and look at the checkout card, just to see when it was checked out. There's a sense of discovery, nostalgia, and wonder when you hold a book that hasn't been read, or perhaps even handled, for decades. I would always think about the person who would borrow the book. Why this book and at that particular date? I wonder if they were like me. Maybe on that day, they decided to stop procrastinating and check out the book they needed. Or, one morning, they decided they really wanted to know the subject at hand: Danish fairy tales, Civil War battlefields in Tennessee, how to cook for 200 US Marines, ancient Greek epics, architects in Mexico, and so many others. So endless. There is too much to read and not enough life to do in.

Let's start again.

I had been resistant and rebellious in starting a blog of any sort, because I always thought it was rather egotistical to think that people would want to read anything from a random person. I find myself spending so much time on a computer at work and at home, I think that it was only a matter of time before I started to blog. I studied English Literature in college. Reading and writing is a great love that I had growing up. Some of my best times growing up was when my dad took me and my sister to the library. I enjoyed wandering through the aisles, looking through the shelves at old books, and wondering what they could all be about. In college, I wrote a lot. I had to. I chose Literature as a major, because I thought, “Hey, I like reading and writing. Why don’t I study what I like to do anyway? Then become a teacher or something.” Needless to say, it didn’t work out that way. I’ve had a series of jobs that have had nothing to do with my studies. My coursework and numerous rejections (professional and literary) burned me out of writing for a long time. Oh, sure. I’ve had some great ideas; a few good plotlines; even a growing novel. None of that helped, because they’re all in my head or on a scrap of paper somewhere in my house. A question that my wife asks me, now and then, to infuriate me (I think) is: “Why don’t you write like you used to do?” That gets me. It gets me right in the heart, because I don’t have a verbal answer. All I have is that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that says, You haven’t done anything. It hurts. So, I am writing this blog to give myself a deadline, a tangible goal that I can complete. I’ll attempt to post something of value every week. Hopefully, it won’t be too random. I will share my thoughts, writings, photos, critiques, and reviews. Muses, let's start again.