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.