F&C Rewind: Just Like Honey

 Today, the NYTimes posted this piece about those in America who have shunned Facebook.  I was instantly reminded of my short stint with FB- and how it most resembled an unsuccessful experiment with drugs.  Whether you're on Facebook, kicked the habit or are still thinking about it, I offer this repost of what it was like. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is the world fundamentally a better place because of science and technology? We shop at home, we surf the web, at the same time, we feel emptier, lonelier and more cut off from each other than at any other time in human history.” from the novel (and film) "Contact" by Carl Sagan

Late last night, when I deleted my Facebook account, the captcha (random confirmation) words were "truffles out".  I kid you not.  If ever there were a sign from the cosmos, this was it.  I had to stare at it for a few minutes, completely amused and somewhat mystified.

I suppose I was asking for it.  I so resisted joining the "collective", only because I truly didn't miss what I didn't have.  My friends told me it would be a great way to promote my blog.  It seemed like the right thing to do; for an egotist.  As a reader of Ayn Rand, I didn't mind the "ego" part.  I had a lot to say, and I wanted to share my passion and love for all things food, wine, beer and creative thoughts alike.

But, something crept in.  Not what I expected.  It wasn't an addiction, as I know it.  It wasn't a fad.  It wasn't even vanity.  Ok- maybe a little.  But, ultimately, it was a trap.  I began to think that the only way people would listen to me, appreciate me, notice me- was through Facebook.  It makes me feel a little ashamed, now.  Posting on FB is supposed to be like stepping into a virtual town square and screaming, "HEY! Check out what I'm thinking!  'Listen' to this!  'Watch' that, 'join' us!  But, in reality, it was more like doing stand-up at an open mic, unable to see if anyone is in front of you listening, yawning or sleeping.  You long for a "like" or emoticon of approval. 

It began with the naive thinking that sooner or later we were all destined to become a part of the hive.  But, when I began to search for the people I knew had consciously avoided joining and then failed in finding them, I was silently jealous. 

Since creating an account last September, I've read some of the most interesting viewpoints on FB, and been exposed to some of the most idiotic and ignorant rants at the same time.  I met some wonderful new people and introduced some people to each other.  I've laughed my ass off at some of the most ridiculous videos and comments.  And, when there was nothing interesting going on in my real life, I surfed other peoples comments, profiles, photos- but, that's the whole point, right?  So, why then did it feel so unsavory?  When did it go from being fun to feeling dirty?  It was like being stuck in the mall, but without the fountains and Cinnabon.

It was a tremendous platform for advocacy.  And lunacy.  There were 1.7 million people who "liked" the prayer for Obama to Die, yet only 800,000 (at my last check) to petition FB to remove the page for its blatant racist and hateful bent.  My most memorable experience was watching a particular page climb in membership from 750,000 fans to just over 1 million in less than a half hour!  Each time you hit refresh, it would climb exponentially.  The page was about as harmless and vacuous as you can imagine:  "If I can get 1 million fans, my sister said she will name her baby 'Megatron'".  The site now has 1.7 million "fans".  The baby, a boy, is due in August.   

People would cut and paste "status" updates that advocated awareness for anything from special education and autism, to spousal abuse, human rights and cancer.  It was the platform for me to create my very own page condemning the anti-immigration law recently passed in Arizona.  It raised awareness for approximately 70 people who joined.  I posted information and updates daily from articles and websites both conservative and liberal, mainstream and private, ethnic, domestic and foreign.  I learned a lot on the subject and still feel strongly about my views.  But, it was a bit like preaching to the choir.  I knew the people who joined the page were intelligent, compassionate people who had a firm grasp on morality and altruism.  So, who was I hoping to convert?  The person who would rather feed their virtual guppie than discover the US Constitution being flouted daily?  Not gonna happen.

To connect with others in my field, it was about as ideal as it could get.  Chefs work a lot.  To be able to share ideas, photos, specials, inside jokes, and gripes while at work or after a shift, was the ideal.  And in many cases, I found myself visiting their establishments to say "hello" in person and eat their marvelous creations, drink their spirits.  And I'll continue to do so.

I hated high school.  It was never a secret.  So when I found so many people coming out of the creases of the internet to be FB friends, I did so with caution. Why would these people want to know about my life after all these years?  Did I really want to know about theirs?  Let's just say that the most ironic part of friending former classmates was that of the 50 or 60 I reconnected with, I found that the same 7 or 8 people I regularly hung out with and genuinely enjoyed being with in school were the same 7 or 8 I shared regular conversations, jokes, stories and photos with on Facebook.  I will miss the sarcastic and subversive posts of my friend Steve.  Picking up with our friendship in the last six months was like we had never stopped.  Yet, we've already decided to get together (with a "new" chef friend, no less!) and reminisce over some good food and cold beer.  I'll miss occasional updates from my former art teacher, though it goes without saying that we'll stay in touch through emails and possibly even visits.  My buddy and pal, Penny, and I have already met up and shot the breeze, and I've no reason to doubt we will again, after so many years, some shit is still funny!

But, despite the boundless nature of FB, the ability to connect with people from all around the world felt the same as connecting with someone I just saw an hour ago at work.  It became soulless.  The fact that most recent comments, messages or posts of interest were electronically whisked right into my pocket made it even less interesting.  Normally, I'd be bowled over to see photos of food from the former sous chef I worked for in France; but, something got lost in translation (and it wasn't the French).  At times I would sit and stare at the screen the same way Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson would look out their hotel window in the movie of the same name.  With millions of people zipping about in a city that never seems to come down from a neon buzz, it was about as exciting for them as watching a lava lamp.  Sober.

Keeping up on how the business of Facebook was evolving and how it was slowly, incrementally implementing their mission statement to make the business of information gathering profitable became a daily exercise for me.  I tried to believe that I had the right to my privacy, when at the same time there were approximately 270 people I was sharing my morning breakfast with and digital moods.  My sister sent me an email about a site called Spokeo.  She explained that just by typing in your name, email address or phone number, all the information that you thought was secure on websites like Amazon, Facebook, blogs, message boards that require sign-in or memberships- it's all available for anyone to view online.  For only $2.95 a month, you could get a membership for a year that gave you full access to the personal information of just about anyone who has ever used a computer.  And in some cases, there is information that is shared from sites that aren't even online (census).

The business model for Spokeo isn't so much to get people to buy access to other people's information.  Oh no- that's so 1990's.  When people see that someone is pimping their personal and private information online, the immediate response is not "who got it and how did they get it?", it's "how do I get it OFF this site??".  And lo and behold, what does Spokeo offer just below the memberships that legalize identity theft??  A product by Reputation Defender called MyPrivacy.

"Delete private information from Spokeo, Peoplefinders, People Search and other online databases using My Privacy."  

Talk about good cop, bad cop?!?  You can also go to the bottom of that same page and delete yourself from Spokeo for FREE.  Just carefully follow the directions.  If you still can't do it, Google "how to...".

I suppose I was really never pushed over the edge by something like Spokeo or that someone could get or would want my credit score.  I mean, really?  But, having considered deleting my account and even threatening to do so a few times on FB (an empty threat if ever there was one), it seemed the right time to end the Facebook Experiment.  It only required my FB password and typing the randomized phrase "truffles out". *delete*

And then, there was a virtual silence.  A great, glorious silence so golden, it was if all the engines of every car on the information super-highway had stalled, coming to a screeching halt and then- were silenced forever.  I stepped away from the computer in the most confident and contented way, toward the front door and walked out into the Spring night.  I stopped and took the deepest breath- and then exhaled.  And, then I smiled.

I was Bill Murray coming out of the elevator of the hotel and walking into the crowded streets of Tokyo.  Hitting "delete" was like chasing Scarlett in that last moment before he might never see her again, and in that instant- as if on cue- I could hear in my head the echoing snare drums and the impudent reverberating guitar from the opening bars of the Jesus and Mary Chain's "Just Like Honey" as the credits rolled:

"Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world
Moving up and so alive
In her honey dripping beehive
Beehive
It's good, so good, it's so good
So good"

Take this APP and Shove It!

It's time to take another glance at technology, pop culture, and the world of food.  Along with political protests and Famous Dictator Deaths (for $500, Alex), 2011 will likely go down as the year of the Tablet, the popular digital gadget and "must-have" of toddlers, students and adults, alike. 

My alma mater just released last month a fully interactive tablet application for "The New Professional Chef", the exhaustive, comprehensive Bible for all CIA students and grads.  And, in good turn, after testing it out and piling on a little kindling (ahem) to the fire, The New York Times asked the incendiary question, "Are Cookbooks Obsolete?"

I suppose the same question has been asked recently of magazines and newspapers.  We're already in the midst of a sea change in traditionally printed materials.  Gourmet Magazine is dead and burried. But, cookbooks obsolete?? Let me begin by acknowledging that tablets as teachers have an edge over texts as they promote space saving, speed and accessibility.  Putting a reference such as Pro Chef into a compact, highly convenient, interactive application for mobile devices was brilliant.  Mostly, because it's meant to be used as a teaching tool.  But, you ask, "Aren't all cookbooks teaching tools?"  Hardly.  There are several styles of cookbooks- and yes, utilitarian is one.  But, the real question is, "Of all the cookbooks you have, what percentage of them do you actually cook from?"  Are we talking single digits, here?  

I guessed as much.  

Cookbooks are a very unique way for people to connect with food.  When we choose a book for our collection, we attach ourselves to its personality.  The beautiful photography can activate Proustian memory in some, salivating in others.  We can see ourselves sitting in folding chairs at the long vineyard or farm table with carafes of rose and fresh cut flowers, kids, dogs, family and huge bowls of colorful pastas, salads and breads.  The freshly baked cake on a decorative ceramic pedestal looks a lot nicer than it does on the heirloom cookie sheet with foil.  And, the people in cookbooks are more beautiful than we are.  We live vicariously through the culinary landscapes they depict.

Last week was the release of another cookbook, possibly the most anticipated of 2011,  Eleven Madison Park.  The boys at EMP are riding the crest of some remarkable recent publicity, a well-deserved three stars from Michelin Travel Guide and the news they are branching out on their own from Big Daddy Danny (Meyer) to not only purchase EMP, but open a new hotel next year.  This book is the modern equivalent of The French Laundry cookbook or Grant Achatz's Alinea; beautifully photographed, extra-large format books that define an era and critical genre of American cooking.  EMP is a stunningly gorgeous book that leaves you shaking your head and licking your lips at once.  For advanced cooks, it represents a cuisine you must grasp or risk being left behind.  At the criminally priced $25.77 on Amazon, this book could easily fetch $100 or more, specifically because it is so revered as a "must have" for foodies.  Yet, I cannot imagine sitting down with a smart phone or tablet and getting a fraction of the pleasure I get from reverently leafing through the heavy, white pages of culinary artistry it provides.

A dish from Eleven Madison Park Cookbook; Photography by Francesco Tonelli

Whenever I am writing a menu of great importance, I open a mature bottle of wine and pull the big boys off the shelf: Ducasse, Blanc, Kunz, Robuchon and their American counterparts, previously mentioned.  The same consideration given to appreciating the wine's nuances is given to the genius and years of professional and creative contributions these artisans provide.  Charlie Trotter who helped define this type of modern, food-as-art cookbook is famous for saying of his first book, and I'm paraphrasing, "Use this book as either a collection of recipes to try or simply use the pictures and recipes as inspiration; but think outside the recipe."  

Mood has as much to do with inspiration as source.  As I slowly turn the pages and sip history, I am reminded that a cook's collection of cookbooks define his style and philosophy on the subject.  A method here, a shortcut there- even if you flat out copy a recipe, it'll never come out the same way twice.  Reducing that tactile experience to sliding screens of reconfigured 1s and 0s seems unromantic at best, and more like being cheated of some really creative ideas.

No, I'm not willing to give up aesthetics for convenience.  Yet, I confess that I bought Gabrielle Hamilton's Blood, Bones and Butter for my phone with Kindle technology.  I couldn't wait to read it, and I knew at that time of year, I was more likely to read it digitally because of my work load.  I loved it; it was convenient and quick and it was always there when I had a few moments to spare for another chapter or two. And the built in book light was a bonus for these aging eyes.  But, I feel as though someone has stolen from me a book that should now be nestled right between Comfort Me With Apples and The Soul of a Chef on my shelf at home.  Instead, I have it on my phone.  Sigh.

Even more preposterous is the idea that people would stop giving hardcover cookbooks as gifts.  Culturally we all benefit from reading and cooking from cookbooks.  I suppose I love the Pixar film Ratatouille so much because of its message- which, by the way is NOT "Anyone Can Cook" (Linguini can't cook- and is relegated to waiting tables at the end).  The resounding message to all ages is, and should be, encourage creativity.  After all, what is a cookbook if not a collection of ideas meant to evoke a visceral connection to food?  If it was to feed ourselves or to learn to cook, surely we would have all starved to death by now.

Ten Years That Changed My Life: An Ode to My Ipod

 Sometimes we aren't fully aware of greatness until the ones who embody it are gone.  This is not a eulogy for Steve Jobs, and I am not a member of the world's largest cult known as Apple.   I have never owned an Apple computer (although I did learn how to use a computer on the Macintosh).  I don't currently own an IPad, nor do I have an IPhone.  I never felt left out of the  phenomenon that is the Apple craze, but the day I discovered the device called the IPod and what it could do, my world changed forever.

I grew up surrounded by music, with all members of my immediate family playing an instrument, singing or reading music. We had the requisite console stereo that played vinyl albums, which was later augmented by the 8-Track player.  We were very fortunate to have an uncle who was in vending (read that anyway you want) and my parents got us our very own jukebox that played 45s.  I spent my allowances on the latest releases, loading up the player to sound just like my favorite AM station.  But the most significant perk was being able to control what played.  It was rigged so you didn't have to put money in.  And, we discovered the "eject" button in case we had a fat-finger mistake or couldn't wait to hear the latest single from The Knack.  All this was novel and drove the fun at family functions, but the game changer was the all-in-one "media center" that allowed you to record from vinyl or radio to cassette or even- gasp!- from cassette to cassette!  All for about $159.99 at your local Sears or K-Mart.

 

Not long after that, the Walkman strode into our lives.  A Star Trek tri-quarter looking device that was no bigger than a box of Crackerjax with personal mini-headphones, so much cooler than the ear sweat-inducing Princess Leia head-huggers. Now that we were all listening to cassettes, naturally, we all wanted to record our own.  Blank cassettes started around 45 minutes in length- 22 1/2 minutes each side.  And, that was fine, because a typical album only lasted about that long. But then came the 60 minute and 90 minute tapes.  What, pray tell, do you do with these??  Soundtracks were really hot in the 70s, with movies like Animal House compiling a bunch of hit singles to make a shoulder industry out of movies along with toys, posters and other marketable tchotchke.  And with that, the mixed tape was born.  Favorite Love Songs.  Party Rock.  Christmas Hits.  Best of the Beatles!  Stoner Tunes.  Are you kidding me?  The mixed tape became an art form.  Creating a mini-soundtrack that could set the mood which lasted anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half.  But sadly, once you played the tape to death, you had memorized the play order and it got stale.  Fast.

My first job was working in the record section of a department store.   Shortly after that, I worked at Wall-to-Wall Sound and Listening Booth, your one stop mall shopping for audio equipment and the latest (and oldest) hits.  Having the privilege of buying music at deep discounts when you're a teenager AND at the height of a musical revolution (punk and new wave) is not only exhilarating, it's downright dangerous.  Very often, I'd just hand my paycheck back to them, hoping to clear my tab from the latest vinyl binge.  But, just when you've built up a formidable library worth bragging about, deep with selection and breadth like a good wine cellar, another new form of technology comes- and you start over again.  

Switching to the compact disc was a no-brainer for people, because it couldn't be scratched the way a record could (and that presented its own problems for another emerging musical genre) and eliminated a crackling, gravelly sound that I never imagined I would miss.  As this technology evolved, the next phase in having complete mastery over your music library came with the "shuffle" function.  No longer would you have to stare blindly at the album cover and listen to the same songs in the same order ever again.  Shuffle was huge.  And, just when it seemed like it couldn't get any more exciting, there came the three-disc, then the five-disc and even 10-disc CD changer.  A benchmark in music listening came when I could load up all of my Smiths CDs and shuffle them at once, allowing for hour upon hour of pathetic whining and self-pity.  Even if owning a 10 disc player was the antithesis of suffering.  

Upon announcing I wanted the new 400 disc changer with programmable remote from Sony for Christmas, my family pronounced me officially insane.  But, I got it and gamely filled it completely up, creating my own categories of genres, which included 80s, Classical, Classic Jazz, Acid Jazz, World and VH1, that burgeoning category others knew as adult contemporary, but alas, a genre a thirtysomething didn't want to admit to owning.

Sony jumped right on the dwindling interest in the Walkman and created a device the size of a Big Mac capable of playing single compact discs (also with shuffle) aptly named the Discman.  How could this little metallic sandwich produce the kind of intense sound as my full-size stereo, all while I clocked 3 miles on a treadmill??  (Author's note: just because you can use it on a treadmill, doesn't mean you should.  Wipeouts are expensive, but not nearly as damaging to your ego as when the entire gym watches you go down in flames and your player belches the disc across the room as a final indignity.)  

CDs were smaller and lighter, and thus easier to store.  No longer did you have to schlep a pleather suitcase of mixed tapes around on a vacation, getaway or long roadtrip.  Neatly compacted, zip-up books with plastic sleeves could hold 100 cds, and it took up no more space than a phone book.  To drag 100 cds all the way to Europe while attempting to travel light seems nerdish and excessive, that is, of course, until you whip out the perfect dinner jazz album watching the sunset on the Basque coast.  Or have the ultimate disc to fall asleep to when you can't.  Or need to access the right party tunes, when one unexpectedly crops up- you become a hero, a Renaissance DJ.  Close friends know I used to travel to dinner parties, friends homes and the occasional after-hours gig with my own music. 

The only thing I thought was left to evolve in this ever-changing universe of musical convenience was creating a recordable compact disc.  That was it:  copy your music (or your friend's music) onto a disc that you could load onto a multiple disc player? Or, record your old vinyl back onto disc, retaining that golden sound of yesteryear (even if the mid-section had been completely gutted out by the transfer of analog to digital).  And, finally, using a mixer board to create seamless tracks of beat-mixed music while burning your own copy??  Bonanza!

The technology was evolving exponentially now.  The new way of obtaining music was to get a computer with a fast enough internet connection so you could download a large file known as an MP3 that mimicked the ones that were created by the record companies for disc format.  It seemed like the computer was poised to become the new jukebox- the future of condensed listening.  No actual tangible disc to insert, just tiny bytes of compressed information magically making music out of digital information.  Napster and Kazaa music-sharing services changed the way we thought about obtaining music.  They created a huge shake-up in traditional music sales. It seemed everyone could get it, very often for free, and at a time when there were hardly any rules to the internet, let alone rules about digital file sharing.  

It was a chaotic period.  Formats were changing so quickly, no one wanted to spend their money anymore on re-replacing their music libraries- so they went where they could get the latest incarnation- and for free.  Online file sharing.  Musicians and record executives were crapping themselves, wondering how they would be able to survive when their final product had become something you couldn't hold, didn't need packaging for, could easily be shared with millions and no one to govern the dozens of sites that were giving it away for free (see Radiohead for how that turned into a plus for the band).  

I owned every last one of these devices and gadgets.  Some improved upon design, some on price.  I flirted with free downloading and creating a library of MP3s.  But, it seemed like I was starting over, yet again.

"Someone needs to figure this shit out," I thought.

I had heard only tangentially about the Ipod, but I was mostly convinced they were the next Mini-Disk player, a lead balloon if ever there was one in the  progression of music players.  My first encounter with an Ipod was a wedding gift I had received from a friend who is the biggest Applemaniac I know. I was not interested in being converted to the Apple way, so I proceeded skeptically.  I also knew there were proprietary drawbacks that made me scoff even further. 

The packaging was an eyebrow raiser:  smooth, clean, minimal and compact.  The first generation Ipod resembled a futuristic passport or high-tech pacemaker.  Still, I was not sold.  With only one port for listening and one for charging, I wondered how it would actually work.  And I wondered.  And wondered.  There was no manual on how to operate the damn thing!  Am I supposed to just "get" what to do?  I bought the Missing Manual and spent days with my Ipod, laptop and guide hoping a light bulb would go on.  Ripping, burning, uploading, file conversions- WTF- I was pissed.  And what's with these earbuds?  I had the thing a week before there was any music on it.  Most of the problems arose from not knowing where the music was going once it was transferred to the hard drive.  And so, even though it was foretold the songs would go directly into my Music Match Jukebox (the software that would run it), it became clear, Apple had not made the MMJ, and thus, there were some square peg-round hole issues.   I had to use their software (Itunes) for this to really work.

But then it clicked- I could rip 10 albums a half hour to my hard drive!  They would go instantly to my Ipod upon plugging it in.  All my previously pirated files from Napster would upload in an instant of dropping and dragging.  And they were all alphabetized!  And put into genres!  And I could click one button and browse by artist or song!  Eureka!  A revelation.  The first generation IPod was 5 gigabytes, capable of holding some 1000 songs right in your pocket! 

This was the moment I had been waiting my whole life for.  

Every hurdle to the perfect listening device had been cleared.  I held in my hand the soundtrack to my life, which I could take anywhere, and with one very simple patch cord, I could plug it into any stereo, old or new.  I could plug in computer speakers and listen.  I could rock out the surprisingly efficient earbuds, or buy up to the noise-cancelling DJ version.  I could transfer all my music- vinyl, CD, MP3- into one neatly organized, efficient and flexible digital card catalog.  I already owned a cassette converter for my Discman- so I could listen to my IPod in the car, as well.  I even read in my manual there was a super-secret feature that could record voice (and it did!).  Switch to disc mode and I could store files like Christmas shopping lists.  And you could strap it onto your arm and run, jump, roll and flail about without creating a public incident (well, it didn't affect the Ipod, let's say).  In place of the mixed tape came the "playlist"; as easy to make by dropping and dragging songs on your computer as it was by double-clicking the songs on the device itself.  No time limits, no duplicates, and fully shuffleable depending on my mood.  This was the Holy Grail for me.  

Naturally came the proliferation of Ipod products:  The ITunes Store, Ipod docking stations, different colored cases and earbuds, car radio adapters- it was time to diversify.  As Apple started to put their tiered pricing into place, they realized they could make these things smaller and thinner, they could hold more data and they could keep the price about the same, or make it less for people who couldn't afford the big boy.  Variations like the Mini, the Nano,and the Shuffle; a Genius button, full color screens, picture files, video, whole movies- HOLY CRAP! SLOW DOWN!!  Finally- and inevitably- the IPhone was born, merging just about everything a hand held device ever was into one. I don't own an IPhone, and again- I don't want one.  But, evolution marched on.

Ten years later, I'm on my fourth Ipod and it's still an Ipod Classic- 6th Generation, with 80 gigs of storage, capping out at just around 15,000 songs.  I've since dumped all my pictures and video so I can store more music.  And, I'm already preparing to step-up to the next level, the 7th Generation Ipod which holds 160G of information.  It's rumored to be the last of the Classic Ipods. 

I take my RoPod with me everywhere.  It's another limb.  An angel on my shoulder.  My orchestra in the pit.  My musical muse.  

Were the Pharoahs of ancient Egypt alive today, I'd want to give as much credit to the slaves who built the pyramids, and not just the architects.  And so it is that I thank anyone and everyone who made the Ipod possible.  Not the least of whom was Steve Jobs.

Store Wars

We all have a favorite grocery store, that place we can go for everything from the simplest of items to the whole shopping list.  Some are luckier than others.  Living next to a Super G, for example, must be one of the happier things in life to happen to foodies.  Whole Foods is like Disney meets Trader Joe’s, truly a capitalist grocery if e’er there were one.  Then there are those unfortunate few who are landlocked, trapped from civilization and unable to get common items like coffee filters, chicken or milk.  The Trolley Square Acme in Wilmington, DE is one such store.  Maybe landlocked is not quite correct.  Black hole is more like it.  Its lack of usable products and cast of certifiably looney-bin customers earn it a place in our hearts.  The place where acid indigestion begins.

Locals have a hate-hate relationship with our ACME.  We bitterly refer to it as the SMACKme, the CRACKme or more appropriately, the SOVIET ACME, where long lines and no food are the norm.

I can honestly say that I'm desensitized by its user-unfriendliness.  After all, I lived in Cape May, NJ for awhile.  The ACME there makes Trolley look like Beverly Hills.  Because there are only about six aisles, it isn't uncommon to find barbecue sauce in the same row as Band-Aids.  Which is great if you're making a haunted house.  Very often you can spot birds flying around the store, a hazard most aren't used to navigating while shopping for food.  Year round you can buy a styrofoam cooler, but only three weeks of the year can you find avocados. 

Speaking of avocados, our beloved Trolley ACME has recently diversified their produce aisle, placing like-used products together, i.e. tomatoes, garlic and basil in the summer.  So, avocados can likely be found in two or three different locations now.  But, that doesn't increase the chance of ever finding a ripened one.  Ever.  My favorite is their 10 for $10 promo.  After all what's better than one unripened avocado but 10 unripened avocados?  But, I'm being insensitive and elitist.

It's like a big game of craps.  You never know if you're going to hit.  Many times I've gone in with a list of 8 or 9 items, half of which I couldn't find.  Usually then, I just abandon my basket and walk out.  I've got to head to another store anyway, so, might as well.  It also helps take the sting out waiting in the two lines that are open, knowing you only accomplished half of what you came in for.  More intriguing than not being able to find simple staples has to be the things I have found.  As a chef, I am often stiffed by my purveyors for odd items or items that come only in huge cases when I'm just in need of one.  Against all odds, I make the trek to Moscow and begin my search.  

"Ummm- do you have gooseberry jam?" I half-jokingly ask.

"Aisle 2".

What the what?  

Can't find sliced pumpernickel bread, but sun-dried cherries and matzo balls are always on the shelves.

There are some days I don't mind being called "babydoll", and others I could go ballistic.  Like, "Babydoll, c'mon over here, my line is empty."  Yay.  
But, "Can't you see my light is OUT?  This line is CLOSED, Babydoll!"  Picture Michael Douglas in the movie Falling Down.

I'm grateful for the local elderly patrons who walk to the store to shop, because at least I know they aren't on our roadways.  They seem to have absolutely no peripheral vision what-so-ever or awareness of personal space.  I begin to hum a particular Ludacris song at this point as I navigate these obstacles in my cart with only two working wheels.

The characters you see there are right out of a John Waters film.  My Duchess, as I like to call her, has straight-up Cindy Brady length gold braid extensions anchored by a fine velour Fat Albert and the Gang cap.  She wears a full-length winter coat no matter what time of year it is, and her makeup on any given day could hide her 75-plus years, or scare the hell out of little children.  Make that little children and adults.  My mind races as I stare into her cart at the 100 cans of cat food, Freihofer's cookies and epsom salts.  Must.  Get.  Out.  NOW.


Lastly, the self-checkout lines.  If you cannot check yourself out faster than one of the clerks here (and this is saying something), you have no business being in these lines.  They are built for speed, and I dare say, for people just like you and me who have no choice but to shop there, yet need to get out of the store before our mental health insurance plan is activated.  Deep breaths.  Deeeeep breaths.

The End is Nigh! Let the Rapture Begin!

Yeah.  It's like that.  See you all next week.

Randomonium

Sometimes I miss Facebook.  Sometimes.  I ditched it last year in the Spring after an epiphany.  The epiphany was more like the blunt realization that I was wasting huge amounts of time.  But, I enjoyed writing posts that weren't necessarily part of a thesis or blog topic, per se.  Random, opinionated observations.  And so, here are some recent ones.

Upon launching the newly revamped website for DelawareOnline.com, the first bolded, marquee headline of our illustrious local news source read, "Was Lyndsay Lohan's Dress Appropriate for Court"? This, of course, during the historic tumult in the Middle East. "Well," I thought, "at least we're rid of that annoying-as-shit Horizon Heating and Plumbing ad that scrolls up and down like a yo-yo every single time you move your cursor, much less move it over the ad."  In comparison, that ad seemed harmless compared now to the one Horizon has graduated to:  the full-on, top of the page, gradual unfolding ad banner that even folds back up slowly when you hit "close".  Like one Facebooker said of Delaware Online website:  they have more pop-ups than a porn site.

Current favorite random t-shirt

Today, it was a marvelous high of 70 degrees in Wilmington!  We've had a nice little run, actually, of warm days this week.  But, it was today's weather that actually helped the City of Wilmington regain what has to be about 20% of it's parking.  Granted, there are still some major icebergs, but mostly in major parking lots where there is, well- major parking.  But, Trolley Square was starting to resemble a Third World country with streets more suited for tram cars.  What is it about snow that turns normal, college-educated people into complete and total idiots?  

I'm really digging the new show on the Independent Film Channel, Portlandia. Most people I've talked to have heard of it.  I read a little blurb about it last month and decided to give it a shot.  Having never been to Portland, I have spent more than a fair-share of latte time hanging out with people who lived there.  Let's just say, it's dead on.  Created by and starring Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein, it's a half-hour of random characters and situations that poke fun at the infinitely pokable Portlandites.  (Is it me, or is President Obama actually starting to look more like Fred Armisen?"  Anyone who nails a restaurant meme like they did, I'm gonna watch more.

One of the episodes has a cameo by singer Aimee Mann, who plays herself as Fred and Carrie's housekeeper.  Now, I love me some Aimee Mann, but the timing was uncanny, as this week, the refurbished Queen Theatre in Wilmington along with WXPN World Cafe Live announced Mann will play in April!  What could possibly not be any cooler is that the other day while in the car with my 4 year old daughter, I was playing Til Tuesday's "Rip in Heaven"; she sat quietly and listened to it in its entirety, and then asked if I would play it again.  Now we listen to it every day.  She has a great ear, that one. ( BTW, for a great laugh, click on the link above to watch Dave Letterman introduce TT in the late 80s on his show.  Aimee?  HOT.  Dave?  Not so much.)

Speaking of hot blonds from the 80s:  Debbie Harry and Blondie have a new album coming out this year, Panic of Girls. They've announced tour dates for Europe, as well. 

In Lambertville, New Jersey sits a little restaurant that has to be one of my favorite places, Hamilton's Grill Room.  I'm not going to tell you stories about the food, atmosphere or times I've eaten there.  Go there yourself and try it.  But, what I do want to talk about is a local artist who captures one of my favorite genres in painting, en plein air.  Robert Beck of Buck's County, PA exquisitely captures the feel of an open restaurant kitchen, crowded terrace or dining room, including those of Hamilton's.  His is the kind of painting that makes you want to climb in, order a drink and let the buzz of a place build. It's like a snapshot of a time you wish you had spent.  Please visit his site, but more than that, go visit his gallery and say, "hello".  And stop at The Boathouse for a drink, while you're at it.

No. 9 Kitchen  by Robert Beck

Phillies fever is really starting to take hold for me, now.  It's so nice to be able to pick and choose articles about the players readying for the 2011 season while ignoring the elephant in the room, if you choose to.  For those sports writers outside of Philadelphia, there is nothing else to talk about other than the Phils' boning their season despite the once-in-a-lifetime pitching rotation.  I"m not even going to speculate.  But, I'll say this:  I like their chances.  

This was fun.  Let's do it again, soon...

John Lennon: Oct. 9, 1940- Dec. 8, 1980

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."  

Never are we reminded more of the preciousness of life as when someone special in our lives is taken from us suddenly.  I was 14 in 1980 when I heard John Lennon had been shot and killed.  I didn't know much about his life after The Beatles, accept that he was still alive and lived with Yoko Ono in a place called The Dakota.  That confused the hell out of me, since I heard he lived in New York.  

As a musician, I was really into The Beatles as a kid.  My parents had their albums, and they always seemed to be on the radio.  When some of the girls in my class wept that he had been killed, I didn't understand what for.  It actually seemed a bit contrived, too.  They painted peace symbols in eyebrow pencil on their cheeks and temporary tears at the corners of their eyes to show their permanent sadness.  "The world suffered a big loss for Peace today", one said.  Still, I didn't get it.  Idolatry was too big a word for me to use back then, but I understood its usage.  Did they understand that?

What I did get, however, was the huge musical loss we had just been dealt.  If ever there was to be a chance that The Beatles would reunite to play a concert, release a new album or even go back on tour, it was certainly most permanent now.  And that struck a strong emotion in me:  despair.  What could be or could have been.  Missed opportunities and potential represent some of the saddest of life's realities.  

As I grew older, I began to learn more about my new hero.  I learned which Beatles lyrics were his- and it made sense.  He was at once sarcastic and satirical, roguish and romantic.  I learned about his activism and ornery side, too.  I read books about him and his children.  I even understood Yoko, his much maligned widow who still evokes a great hatred among people that is at best irrational, and at worst the opposite of what John Lennon was about.

He made me laugh, too.  Like in a scene from Hard Day's Night, while the band is goofing off, he is seen quietly, yet curiously, holding a bottle of Coke up to his nose and snorting.  Subtle was John's forte.  In today's New York Times, Yoko Ono tells a story about how she and John used to laugh together.  And, one of her best and favorite memories of John was when they would make tea together.  Despite the myriad emotions we feel when we lose someone dear, the best way to overcome the grief and appreciate our time with them is with laughter.

For me, however, it will always be the music of John Lennon and The Beatles that bring the fondest memories; and for my daughter, they're the kind I can pass on.

Opus, Where Have You Gone?

Is it me, or are people becoming nastier?  Less patient, more paranoid.   Where is their lust for life?  Doesn't anyone remember the kumbaya of "Our Time in Eden" by Mother Earth herself, Natalie Merchant?  Or the little books urging us to not sweat the small stuff, to learn from our Kindergarten experiences and embrace the Eckhart Tolle that is supposed to reside in all of us??

When you go through a cycle of surreal circus news like we've had the last few weeks- celibate, creationist witches for Congress, bullying teens turn suicide tragedy, modern-day Red Scare politics, gay-bashing, and a general paranoia among people- you long for an island of sanity to escape to.  (Although I confess a little grumpiness of my own; e.g. I can't even enjoy my Phillies in the playoffs because FOX and TBS manage to turn the great Fall Classic into a gimicky, dumbed down, American League-leading Yank-fest, with vapid commentary.)  It all calls for a steady and consistent IV drip of common sense, sarcasm, irony and wisdom. A tonic to help the masses look less like asses.  For me, the daily and Sunday comic, Bloom County used to be that bromide.  No- religion.  Opus, where have you gone?

This isn't your ordinary pine-for-the-days-of-old kind of post.  I don't need the "that was then this is now speech".  Bloom County was timeless- like the Beatles or Roald Dahl books.  

Each delicately crafted character held a collection of human hopes, dreams, frailties, and flaws.  And, yes- anxieties!  Who can forget Michael Binkley's closet?  Spawned from normal kid fears of things that go bump in the night, Binkley's closet became a hilarious stage for the freakiest of pop culture icons to strut and fret upon.  Tammy Faye Baker, Jesse Helms, Richard Simmons and Milton Friedman were some of the more memorable fodder to hit the strip.  Soviet Premier Yuri Andropov (how long did he live as president?) and Cuban Leader Fidel Castro showed up one night to haunt Binkley, but it turned out they had the wrong closet- it was supposed to be Ronald Reagan's. 

Bloom County held a cast of mini-eggheads (both human and woodsy animal-type) who knew more about philosophy, politics, etiquette, love and hardship than their adult counterparts.  The womanizing Steve Dallas was getting dumped on more regularly than a daisy in a cow pasture, that is, until he was captured by aliens and turned into a feminist.  Binkley's single dad showed all the hardships and frustrations of being a single parent during toddlerhood.  Cutter John, the soft-hearted but passionate wheelchair bound friend of the Bloomies led high-speed excursions on his wheel chair through the meadow on the USS Enterpoop.  Any reference or connection to Star Trek, it seems, is guaranteed acceptance among the general comic reading public (see: Comicon for proof). Because we can all laugh.

We all understood the constantly frazzled Bill the Cat: we've been there.  It is uncertain whether he was left that way by some drug experiment (or experimental drug!) or whether he was simply toting an extra chromosome around.  He's been a televangelist, a cult leader, a presidential candidate and a rock star, all supporting the theory that crazy is as crazy does.  Just look at the aforementioned week of news topics.  Either way, his trademark "ACK!" has many a day summed up my feelings of life as a cat in an adult world. 

But perhaps the one we could all fondly relate to was the neurotic, bowtie wearing penguin, Opus.  Often mistaken for an iguana, he was given to fits of shouting loud declarations calling for fairness, common sense and acceptance of the absurd.  His late night habit of ordering from infomercials and an addiction to herring showed the imperfect side of us all.  His frequent chats with "the sky", from the safe haven of Bloom Meadow, mirrored American existentialist feelings in a rapidly developing world of technology and rapidly declining morals.  Searching for something he couldn't have or long lost (in his case, his mother) was the common thread through the strips' years, though he did achieve satisfaction in the end.  Opus was more than the underdog.  He was "someone" we could lean on in uncertain times (which seemed to be ever present).  He was a panacea. 

Just like other rebirths, spin-offs and imitations (even if by the original creator), Bloom County was more than the sum of its parts.  And, now more than ever, we could use a daily dose or two of the silliness.  Quoted in the late 70s about his newly minted comic, creator Berkely Breathed said, "As I see it, the world is getting more dangerous. But of course it's getting funnier proportionately, hence a mixed blessing. Clearly this decade is in need of some serious analysis on the comic pages."  

Timeless, I say.  Timeless.

It's Fun Living in Delaware- Really!

In the small state of Delaware there's a certain "Willy Wonka" feel these last few days: a little dash of zaniness, mixed with a swarm of rabid reporters and throw in some truly bizarre behavior.  If having VP Joe in the spotlight wasn't a big enough thrill for us, now we have the dubious distinction of being the host of a Tea Party candidate for the November election.  So, in case you haven't been formally introduced (or have been under a rock), I bring you the 2010 Republican nominee, Christine O'Donnell: 

Have a great weekend!

Goodbye and Thank You, Ms. Lincoln.

 

Abbey Lincoln

August 6, 1930 - August 14, 2010

Dressing for Dinner?

No one dresses for dinner anymore?  A true sign of the times.  But, all hope is not lost...Dress UP, Dress DOWN, go out on the town...

Cooking by Ratio: So Easy, Even a Caveman Can Do It

Food and techie fans: prepare to have your world rocked. 

Recently, I spoke about "ratio cooks", or cooks who rely on the bare essentials that never change when it comes to cooking.  For example, when faced with the quandry, "How much stock do I use for a pound of risotto", a ratio cook would say that you always use 3:1 liquid to rice.  Whether you use water, stock, wine or a combination of all three, your rice will cook correctly with a 3:1 ratio.  

Michael Ruhlman, author of several books on food, cooking and celebrity cookbooks, and generally considered required reading for any serious cook, has just released an application for smart phones based on his most recent book, Ratio.  It not only contains the 30 or so ratios of which I speak, but also calculates and converts recipes at the touch of a button or two, has tips on technique (for those a little rusty), and weights and measures conversions.  The future of convenient cooking is here!  And, it costs only $5.

 

Le Coupe de Passion

When a quadrennial world sporting event comes along like the World Cup, it has the power of creating not just elevated enthusiasm and energy in restaurants, but equally vivid memories of passion and allegiance.

In this biz, you had better exorcise all your prejudices early on.  People of all races and creeds have historically made up the bulk of the work force that caters to American travelers, lodgers and diners.  And, given the changing face of our industry, it's probably better they do.  We face such an incredible shortage of qualified service personnel in hospitality that if the anti-immigrant lobby had their way and shipped out all 12 million illegal immigrants tomorrow, quite simply the country would come to a stand still.

But, this isn't one of my political posts.  It's about the fond memories I have from the dozens of people I've had the privilege of meeting and working with over 25 years in the service industry.  And nothing brings out the innate national pride and passion of our comrades like the World Cup Soccer Tournament.

Some 20 years ago at the Hotel duPont, I can remember our executive sous Hans Peter pacing manically in his long apron and clogs outside the Green Room bar hoping for a score from his German team, or shouting when there was one.  Germany won that year.  Housekeeping usually had the best network for catching up on scores.  Most of them carried person to person radios.  The entire structural and professional hierarchy of a hotel can break down during this time, and so it wasn't uncommon to hear a banquet waitress from Jamaica talking smack to a front desk manager from Colombia in the employee cafeteria about whoopin up on them.  On no other occasion could you insult the patriotism of the Food and Beverage director and get away with it.

In Cape May, each season can be cataloged by the majority influx of workers for the summer.  Brazilians, Bolivians, Polish- in the mid 90s it was ruled by the Irish.  The US hosted the Cup in 1994, so there was a good bit of excitement from expats, summer warriors and nationals alike.  Cycling into town to wait tables, I could hear raucous soccer chants coming from the Ugly Mug as the Irish had beaten Italy in an afternoon game, spilling onto the Washington Street mall arm-in-arm (to hold themselves up and avoid falling down drunk.)  Afternoon games involving The Republic of Ireland always reeked havoc on restaurant attendance and sobriety.  It was to be their only win of the tournament, but you wouldn't have known it from the public display of nationalism.

In the kitchens of the US, many a boisterous bet has been made both for and against the US and Mexico teams.  Regardless of the ranking of either team, much bravado leads up to the actual bet, followed by a number of cooks and dishwashers getting in on it as it sweetens.  Previous years have seen the losers having to "pay up" with everything from having their head shaved, to eating multiple habanero peppers and forking over cases of cold Corona.  Wanna see otherwise quiet and respectful dishwashers become animated?  Walk through the kitchen during the World Cup and watch the cook from Peru insult the mother of the dishwasher from El Salvador after losing.  

Somehow the French, despite their strong teams, don't succumb to the obligatory trash talk.  I think it has to do with the fact that even if their team wins a game, the rest of the united nations of restaurant workers find ways to insult the French.  That all changed however in 1998 when France both hosted and took the Cup from Brazil in an explosion of national pride I can rarely ever remember seeing before.  

So, if you follow this blog, you know all about the man behind the Festival of St. Anthony, Aldo the Magnificent.  Four years ago in one of the hottest summers and hottest finals in memory, Italy beat France in a 5-3 shoot out to take the title.  World renowned French player Zinedine Zidane could not have been better poised to end his stellar career on top, until the passions of soccer kicked in.  Zidane was sent off in extra time after headbutting Marco Materazzi following an insult from the Italian concerning a family member.  His sister, if I remember correctly.  In 2010, Zidane said that he "would rather die" than apologize to Materazzi for the headbutt in the final, but also admitted that he “could never have lived with himself” had he been allowed to remain on the pitch and help France win the match.  Maybe that's what they mean when they say America doesn't really get into soccer as much as the rest of the world.  Then again, if there could be a FIFA/UFC Fantasy match up, I'd put the Philadelphia Flyers up against any sports team in the world.  Because in Philly, it's not about whether you win or lose, it's how many punches you get in before it's broken up.


With Zidane out of the game, the rest was history.  The blocks surrounding the Little Italy section of Wilmington erupted into cheers, honking horns and spontaneous celebrations.  No one- and I mean no one- was more elated than Aldo.  In a flash of exuberance, Aldo saddled up into the cab of one of the 18 wheel flatbeds used for the festival and loaded two pavilions on the back with a fork lift.  Those watching the game indoors, apparently, had spilled onto the streets, taking their party with them, mounting the flatbed.  Complete with disc jockey, loaded coolers and streamers and banners, Aldo proceeded to take the party truck up and down the streets of Little Italy, laying on the horn every minute or so to let anyone who wasn't watching the game in on what had just happened.  The truck made stops at all the private clubs, restaurants and taverns, picking up and dropping off anyone who wanted to hop on the makeshift victory chariot.  


This year, the French are back in the headlines, protesting their coach's suspension of a player by not practicing for their next match, which, by the way they lost today, 1-2.  In soccer as in life, choose your battles wisely.  Such is the passion of the World Cup.  Next World Cup, 2014: Brazil.  That should be a boring one, huh?