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United States, North Carolina, Carrboro, English, Paul, Male, 56-60, All Music, All Food.
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Paul Hinrichs:
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Saturday, December 21, 2002 |
 Today was to be the second attempt to hang the pictures at Liz's new place.
It was not to be.
We never made it to Lowe's, the home store (not the grocery), either. We went to BJ's and there accumulated a cartload. We went to another store, a Pier One ripoff with somewhat reasonable prices. I bought a nice cheap knife there; it has a good comfortable handle. We got on 540 to zag over to I-40, but when we got there traffic was nearly halted. A couple of miles and accidents moving towards Chapel Hill, very slowly, the split for the Durham Freeway coming ahead, I intuitively shifted to the left lanes.
Then..."Hey", I say, "wanna go to Fowlers? They had crackers last year..."
"Okay," she says.
I veered right and we were on our way full speed ahead. Crackers, in case you haven't seen them, are an English Christmas tradition, a cylinder wrapped in seasonal paper. Before Christmas dinner, you form a ring at the table, everyone holding a cracker end in each hand with the other end held by table neighbors. At a signal, everyone pulls and a mild explosive inside blows the crackers apart. Inside each is a silly gift or two - Cracker Jack toys. Anything that can be worn, like a crepe paper crown, is worn during dinner. You must never act as though there is anything strange about any of this.
When we got to Fowler's, a sign was on the door that said something like this:
Due to an unusual set of circumstances, a perfect fungal storm if you will, which blessed the Umbrian forest with pith and musky earth, the current season for black truffles has been extraordinarily kind to the crop. Exuberant growers are amazed by the quality and great abundance of this year's harvest. As a result, we are offering truffles in our produce department that are guaranteed to transport your taste buds into a gourmet rapture, at a price so low that you can buy a glorious truffle for a trifle.
Then I woke up. No! I didn't! It was real! Right there in the produce department, mounted like onyx gargoyle jewels in a setting of dry white rice, were breathtaking black truffles. My mind spun...
Oh hurt me, I say! Pull my nails, defibrillate my genitalia, and plunge red hot needles into my eyes. Stone me, put me in a gunny sack and throw me off the tallest building in Riyadh. Put wild dogs and cobras in the sack and cast me off the pier, to sink slowly while they strike out in desperation. Pull me out again, hang me with a barbed-wire noose, eviscerate me with a rusty sword and feed my entrails to rabid jackals. Have me quartered by four cheap, worn-out, old deaf mules who mistake my hopeless screams for "Gee" and "Haw." Just let me have one black winter truffle before I die.
As it turned out, none of that was necessary. They complacently accepted my VISA card, the truffle cost me 25 bucks, and they showed no interest in torturing me. Pity, they might have enjoyed it. I also picked up some butter (see picture) and a quark.
Back at Liz's place, I got her stereo hooked up. Crowning moment of that was having all the cords ready to draw out the back when it was time to put the components inside the bottom of the TV stand. She pulled to cords through as I adjusted and moved the neatly-stacked black boxes into the cabinet. It looked nice. We tested it and everything worked. Time for a glass of wine...
6:07:37 PM 
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 Back to food: I should probably set up categories to separate rambling news commentary from real food stuff, because this is primarily a food blog. The "other things" have dominated too much lately because I've been cooking less.
The Pao de Queijo mixes from Sendexnet have a sticker with an English translation of the ingredients. That's nice, but it's pasted over the instructions for preparation, which are in Portugese to further complicate matters.
First, remove the sticker: It doesn't seem to have a loose corner and Twyla, hearing a bag rattle, immediately assumed it is a bag of cat treats. She tries to jump on my lap, but I manage to stop her. Yeah, this sticker is really on there....wait, the upper left corner is free! Carefully peeling, not to pick up the print but still get all the adhesive. There...just one word obscured, but Twyla has gone totally batty...must give her treats before continuing...
No hope getting the adhesive off that one word, but there's another bag...careful...the word is "grudarem"...the first cat treats were only the Sudetenland for Twyla, let's see if a can of cat food buys her off. Okay.
MODO DE PREPARO
Coloque o conteudo do pacote numa vasilha de tamanho medio e acrescente 1/2 xicara de cha de agua fria e 2 ovos.
Misture bem ate que todo o liquido seja absorvido. CONTINUE SOVANDO ATE QUE A MASSA FIQUE LISA E HOMOGENIA.
Faca bolinhas e coloque-as em uma forma deixando espaco entre elas para nao grudarem.
Leve ao forno pre-aquecdo por 25 minutos ou ate que os paezinhos fiquem dourados.
Off to altavista babelfish!
PREPARATION WAY It places the conteudo of the package in a canister of 1/2 medio size and adds xicara of cha of agua cold and 2 eggs. It mixes well ties that all I eliminate it either absorbed. IT CONTINUES SOVANDO TIES THAT the MASS IS SMOOTH And HOMOGENIA. Knife small balls and places them in a form leaving espaco between them for nao to grudarem. It has taken to the oven pre-aquecdo per 25 minutes or ties that the paezinhos are golden.
Now I understand.
Wonder what IMPORTANTE means? No time to worry about that...
8:55:22 AM
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Don't Hurt Your Throat!
FZ: Thank you, good night . . . Thank you, if you'll . . . if you sit down and be quiet, we'll make an attempt to, ah, perform Brown Shoes Don't Make It.
Man In Uniform: Back on your seats, come on, we'll help you back to your seats, come on . . .
Guy In The Audience: Take that man out of here! Oh! Go away! Take that uniform off man! Take that bloody uniform before it's fuckin' too late, man!
FZ: Everybody in this room is wearing a uniform, don't kid yourself.
Guy In The Audience: . . . man!
FZ: You'll hurt your throat, stop it!
- Frank Zappa, dialogue between numbers, Burnt Weeny Sandwich
No middle of the night blogging last night. Incredibly, the first peaceful sleep I've had in weeks. Wonder if it has anything to do with the beer? It might also be because I left work yesterday with everything resolved, including a case that has gone on for months with every imaginable complication. All parties involved have been helpful and "nice", a rarity it itself, but the fates conspired (bloggers prefer the muses, there might be a professional jealousy issue here) to drag the issue on and on: software lost in the mail, reluctance of developers to discuss the innards of their database, skepticism of hardware developers that such a problem could even exist.
It did, a patient and concerned customer kept pushing the issue. Different systems produced different results - not trivial, but off by as much as 3%! Eventually, I got to speak with the software developer on Thursday and he "took ownership" on an intuition it was being caused by floating point optimization. My personal role in all this was minimal and the barriers were more logistical than technical, a matter of jumping through all the hoops in the right order. Still, it took forever and it's one of those black eye cases because of it. I'm glad to be rid of it.
Maybe the feeling of peace comes from the season, despite hectic traffic and shoppers' mania. It's nice that our President has toned down the pro-wrestler rhetoric aimed more at his constituency than the Butcher Of Baghdad. We already know that Saddam expects nothing better than a lump of coal in his stocking and more likely will get a grenade with the pin pulled. Still, it is the season of peace. I sincerely hope it is our government's intent to respect the season, if not the concept. A respite from the dogs of war barking memes of destruction, this is all I want for Christmas this year.
Like many others, I'm sensitive to subtlety and you don't have to shout your intents in my ear every night like you would to an idiot with his nose super-glued to the middle of a TV screen eternally tuned to Fox News. Come to think of it, quiet whispers would be a nice Christmas present too. Many people are observant, attuned to the implications of a slightly rising inflection. Your screaming drowns out rationality, which is our food. An absence of any speaking might be refreshing too. After all, one of the hymns we sing this season is Silent Night.
Whatever the real or imagined benefits of war, everyone sleeps better in times of peace. There is less stress in the air. People are more polite with each other. Children tremble less and have fewer nightmares. When war is necessary, it should be approached in the spirit of a "surgical strike", not just as an operation but the preparation too. I can't imagine a demagogue surgeon emotionally lecturing his assistants about the "evil cancer" and building a crescendo of hatred against it. That would be damaging and the prime directive of being or playing God is "first do no harm". If you cannot respect our intelligence, at least respect us and tone it down a bit. It's way too loud.
Think of what can be communicated behind the persona of quiet reserve, observe Colin Powell when he acts on his own conscience. A raised eyebrow, a clearing of the throat, or a responsive smile can speak volumes once a baseline of restraint is established. The goal should be to communicate, not to drown out opposition and burn out the receptors of the audience. Once that is done, like an addict increasing dosages, the only future strategy possible is to crank up the volume even higher, singeing even more receptors. When the objective is less bellicose, when this time has passed, you will find yourself having to scream like a madman over relatively trivial matters. A shouting man is ignored after his shouting ends.
7:41:23 AM
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