Flaaaaaaaavor

A friend of mine and fellow diver—we'll call him Ivan—positively drowns his food in butter. Ivan's also a bit of a gourmand and quite the fan of French cuisine, and I don't mean that Americanized nouvelle légere crap either. No no. Ivan delights in high concentrations of cream, butter, lobster, cheese, foie gras: all the jolly crew. Said friend explained his preference to me quite concisely over croissants at dinner one evening: he pointed to a croissant (a scrap of bread that, by definition, is already at least on third butter by weight) upon which he had lavished a soft butterknife-load of butter and, leaning closer to me, intoned the mantra, "Flaaaaaaavor."

Said friend also has—despite much cycling and swimming to combat it—the average American male physique: ovate. I don't know that I want to accept any age- or socio-economic-status-related correspondence there, however. I myself am 45 years old and rarely above 8% body fat. I spent several years religiously following the Zone® diet, but I have become increasingly lax in that respect over the past three years. I still follow the general Zone principle of keeping my protein intake to approximately thirty percent of my diet, but I eat a lot more high glycemic carbohydrate and a good deal more "unhealthy" fat than during my evangelistic phase. My reason? Well, I think Ivan nailed it:

Flaaaaaaavor.

My ex-wife (wife, at the time) and I were dining at a steak house with a couple of acquaintances in Idaho some years ago, a young couple who had been teenagers during the eighties. When the server brought the obligatory bread and butter, they asked for a substitute for the butter. Neither of them, they claimed, could stomach the stuff--the real stuff--butter. They preferred margarine. They said butter tastes too milky. In fact, they launched into lengthy discussion of the merits of various margarine brands and oil types: corn, safflower, sunflower. I can't reproduce what they said here. I was too busy being disgusted at the thought of anyone wanting margarine for any purpose at any time on any food item to recall the details. In any case, I know that I, for one, will never develop a taste for margarine.

Oddly, I also grew up in a household stocked with margarine in stead of butter. Butter was considered unhealthy (saturated fat instead of polyunsaturates). I can still recall my family's joy at the introduction of whipped margarines, which meant they would never again have to shred a slice of toast while attempting to make it palatable by spreading fat on it. Mom and Dad both considered restaurant bread with real honest-to-God butter a serious treat. Both would sigh and lean back in their seats and wax nostalgic on recently-churned butter and ice boxes. Still, my parents never for a moment considered keeping butter in the house. Butter could spoil, was more expensive than margarine, and was supposed to be the unhealthy alternative to the wonders of polyunsaturated fats.

At the time, I really didn't care much one way or the other. Fat and I have long enjoyed a weird love/hate relationship. When I was a child, butter and margarine were all just gelatinous slime to me. I hated fat, grease, and fatty foods. I absolutely detest lard and tallow and shortening. I've always gone out of my way to strip the excess fat from meat and poultry. I like sausage, but a little too much nauseates me and gives me a headache. Pasteurized processed cheese-food (whatever the hell that is) has the same effect on me as sausage, but I consider this no loss as I would rather have holes drilled in my teeth than eat imitation cheese.

Still, even as a child I understood that there was something strangely enticing about butter. Though not a big fan of buttered bread (or bread in general—I tend to think of bread and pasta as bases upon which to serve actual food), I have long preferred the taste of butter to that of margarine. Likewise, on vegetables I can always tell butter (which adds a distinct richness) to margarine (which just makes everything oily).

The problem of flavor, you see, is multifaceted. Butter alone is about as flavorful as recycled plastic grocery bags. Slightly milky-tasting coagulated oil--de gustibus and all, but my doesn't that sound flavorful? Well, no, of course not. Can you imagine a restaurant offering butter, in any form, as a main dish? Or even as a side dish? Grilled salmon with a side slab of butter on field greens--Cobb salad with chunks of Danish whole-milk butter, ribeye with a side of whipped butter and garlic. Bleah.

On the other hand, can you imagine a restaurant charging for the butter they bring out with the bread? I tend to avoid the places that offer me oleo with my bread, and I'm not a big bread eater. All the nutritional experts agree, however, that fat accounts for a good deal of what we experience as flavor. The richer, saturated fats seem to hold a certain preeminence in that department. Olive oil, sesame oil, peanut oil, and almond oil all have stronger, more readily identifiable flavors than butter, but it's the butter-based dishes (Hollandaise and Bearnaise sauces, Sole Meuniere, beurre blanc) that get labelled luxuriant.

So, butter improves (for most tastes) the flavor of food, but butter by itself is not something most of us want to eat. Thus, it should come as no surprise that a dish can be too buttery. I've made this mistake in preparation. Any fish prepared meuniere (fried in clarified butter) must be cooked quickly or the fish (and the thin coating of flour) soaks up too much butter. Not to make this too simple, too high a temperature tends to over cook the thinner parts of the fish while undercooking the rest. C'est la vie.

A week without cooking

Okay, I don't think it's possible for me to go a week without cooking. Not really. Unless I'm on vacation, at a resort, in a room with no kitchen. This week came close, though, and I think it's added to my overall jitteriness.

I'm going into culinary withdrawal. I need a fix. [Fade to tattered, unshaven Prince Valiant, crawling across the Mojave, reaching toward the shadow of circling vultures, and croaking out, "Oil. Oil. Extra virgin olive oil."]

This has been a preparation week. We're going on a dive excursion this weekend—Cozumel for four days—and we're taking Girlchild on her first dive trip. What a fiasco. Never enough time to do everything.

My life as anime

Girlchild loves sushi.

I consider this noteworthy for three reasons: (1) she's ten years old, (2) like Princess V and I, she's gaijin, and (3) I believe this gustatory love was only made possible by Girlchild's enduring courage. Girlchild is tiny, not a big exercise buff, and to the best of my knowledge has no martial skills (if you discount surreptitious studies in world conquest and domination), and Girlchild is decidedly a Little Girl. She likes frilly and colorful clothes, plays with dolls, buries herself in stuffed animals every night, and has been known on occasion to pout (under extreme duress, she can produce tears the size of concord grapes).

To provide a little contrast, consider Firstchild. Firstchild (who is twenty-three years old and attending college in Washington state) considers herself a Japanophile of the first order. She reads Japanese, absorbs manga and anime, and at times appears to be on the verge of anime-dom. She recently won a costume competition at a gaming convention, dressed as a Pokemon villain. Her dream career, I believe, would be designing and modifying a series of virtually reality games based on Pokemon or YuGiOh or Sailor Moon—that or discovering a magical orb from another planet and using the super powers conferred by said amulet to rid the universe of an Unknown Evil with the reach of the Yakuza and table manners of Yog-Sothoth. Firstchild also loves Iron Chef (well, we have that much in common, at least). Firstchild will not eat sushi. At the very mention of sushi, she makes The Face.

For an experimental cook, a courageous audience is a must. It's particularly convenient to have them living with you. You can see, then, why (aside from the obvious proud step-papa thang) I might find Girlchild's culinary daring laudable.

Of course, life with a courageous ten-year-old has its drawbacks. Oh, I don't mean the run of the mill foolhardy daredevilism. We get enough tree-scaling, traffic dodging, equilibrist-cum-human-fly thrills of that particular "Hey, Dad! Watch this!" variety from Boychild. Girlchild's bravery is both tempered and sharpened, you see, by her intellect.

Girlchild, you see, reads like a Harvard law student. Oh, sure, lots of Harry Potter and Madeleine l'Engle and Brian Jacques and Roald Dahl and all the jolly-pree-teen pap, but also all of Dahl's adult works and Douglas Adams and J. R. R. Tolkein and Edgar Rice Burroughs and Lewis Carroll and Edgar Allan Poe. During any quiet moment, if she's not on the computer, Girlchild is burrowing through another book. Sometimes, she's retilling familiar ground. She read the Lord of the Rings saga a half dozen times last year, and her Harry Potter tomes have begun shedding their binding glue. Girlchild's reading has unearthed a wealth of vocabulary, and she spends that wealth unabashedly, gilding her conversations with sesquipedalian terms the way most ten-year-olds layer on the cools and dudes and all the latest slang. Girlchild's speech bears, as Princess V points out, the autodidact's stamp. The very words she incorporates into her discourse with such syntactic, semantic, and phonetic aplomb are, often as not, misprounounced. I know that quirk intimately. Just this past week, I made my first attempt (since learning it over a quarter-century ago) to use the word syzygy aloud and botched the whole affair (no animals were harmed in the botching of this conversation, my ego suffering only minor contusions in the fall).

Girlchild takes her intelligence in stride. She's proud of her verbal facility without being overbearing (most of the time), but she exudes a T. S. Eliot attitude about her erudition: anyone worth her time will understand the words and allusions she chooses to use. I think she has every reason to be proud: she works hard for her vocabulary, and I hope no one ever manages to shame her out of that pride.

Where then, you might wonder, are the drawbacks? The tempering effect of intelligence, as I've already suggested, eliminates most foolhardiness. Sure, bright kids can do stupid things—they're still kids. I expect that. I may not be prepared for it every time, may not anticipate it as often as I'd like, but I do expect it.

The problem is the whole Disney Evil Genius scenario. Ever notice that, in Disney cartoons and anime, the villain is always the intelligent brother? I've always considered this the most counterproductive possible prejudice. Why study hard if you don't intend to become an Evil Overlord? I've also long believed this idea to be fomented by former whiz kids and the parents of whiz kids. We've all known obnoxious brilliant children; the ones who assume we're all morons and expend much breath explaining their own genius to us. Honestly, though, even the non-obnoxious genius child is always up to something: dreaming, planning, searching.

When Princess V and I were kids, we found clever ways to provide light under the blankets for after-hours' readings. Our parents eventually found and confiscated our flashlights or spotted the light leaking around the coverlets and confiscated our flashlights or simply refused to buy more D-cell batteries, so we moved on to cleverer means: indicator lights on battery-powered toys, phosphorescence, bioluminescence. You don't need much if you're willing to read a word or two at a time. We knew, despite warnings about lost sleep and eyestrain, despite appeals to authority, that the benefits or our clandestine readings outweighed the possible detriments. What did our parents know, anyway? If they were so smart, why weren't they catching us?

Just think of the havoc we would have wrought if we'd had access to the Internet.

Girlchild has access to the Internet.

A month ago, she lost a week's access to the Web when we caught her maintaining secret email accounts. (Her excuse: "I just wanted to see what BrandX's email was like." Yes, even brilliant children spew forth a protective ink-cloud of lame excuses at unexpected confrontations).

A few days ago, she lost access again for registering in an online rôle playing game. Her previously–spelled-out access rules had included no signing up for anything online without permission. We're not unreasonable. She plays on the Neopets site; she's registered with Disney; she has AOL IM buddies; she publishes fan fiction. Registering to play the part of an itinerant vampire in an online RPG, one that automatically includes an email address, was not on her approved list. Neither was coercing or exhorting her little friends to join.

Frankly, the Goth influence does not concern me. Vampirism, with all its anti-Christian, sub-societal, moribund, and carnal subtexts will likely have no longterm negative effects on Girlchild. I've raised teenagers before. I realize that, when the hormones hit, whether we specifically allowed or forbade her pre-teen self access to Internet Goth culture will neither accelerate nor prevent her adolescent tumble into darkness. Angst comes or it does not. It comes to some in a shy awkwardness and to others in a dark wave of Goth. One day, she'll wake up and decide to don black leather and fishnets, to shave part of her hair and dye the rest with black shoe polish, to limn her eyelids with kohl, and to insist that her soulname is Death Petal; or she won't.

In this case, the more serious problem was Girlchild's aforementioned recruitment of a friend into the vampire RPG. Friend's dad called us, shocked to have discovered that his daughter was receiving email from a young gentleman she'd met in the online city. Dad was not pleased to see letters to his innocent ten-year-old darling coming from an adult who styles himself Blood Sucker.

So, once again, we had the Terrible-Web-Perverts-Who-Prey-Upon-Children Talk™ with Girlchild and suspended her Internet privileges for another couple weeks. She was devastated. She immediately started reading another series of books.

This week, Girlchild is learning to scuba dive so that she can join Princess V and I on occasional undersea excursions. Lucky kid and lucky us getting to take her along, but of course this is one more thing to terrify my parental side. In just a couple weeks, we'll be flying along in the current with our little neoprened Power Puff Girl floating alongside us. The thrill with which I anticipate this experience is, frankly, flavored with just a dash of trepidation. She'll be okay: she's smart and she's brave. She'll also bear constant watching because she's smart and she's brave. Smart and brave and capable of scuba diving: sounds like an anime villain just waiting to take over the world.

Anyway, it was Girlchild's suggestion, this past weekend, that caused my second foray into the realm of sushi. I don't think it's what she had in mind, however. When I asked what she wanted for dinner and she replied, "Sushi," I think she expected to go out to Koreana Grill or get takeout nori-maki from Central Market. Then again, who knows into what fiendishly clever plan of hers I may have stumbled when I went to the cupboard and opened that seemingly innocuous box of sushi rice.

My first efforts with sushi didn't exactly whet my appetite for that particular activity. It did, however, annoy hell out of me, which, perversely, did whet my appetite. It's not that I'm masochistic (much). I hate giving in to any kind of cooking (okay, I avoid baking breads and cakes, but I find that activity boring). Moderate success (you know: the dish is adequate and relatively easy to prepare but nothing to write home about) is more likely to keep me away from a dish or technique than outright failure. In all fairness to myself, my first nigiri-zushi efforts were not failures; they did lack elegance, though.

You can find lots of information on sushi online, so I won't go into detail about different types of sushi, history, or table manners. I have noticed a certain lack of detail, however, concerning what can go wrong in sushi preparation. Much of the available advice on sushi preparation sounds like passed on lore with little or no meat. What follows, then, are some tyro observations on sushi preparations.

Sushi rice

Sushi rice is frequently, colloquially referred to as "sticky rice." This is a misnomer and can cause you shopping problems. Sticky rice is a Thai dessert dish. You want sushi rice: matured California or Japanese short-grain rice. If it doesn't say "sushi rice" on the package, it's probably the wrong rice.

The drill goes something like this:

• Rinse the bejesus out of the rice.


• Cook the rice (1 cup of rice to 1¼ cup water) in a rice cooker or on the stovetop.


• Cool the rice (a far more complex procedure than you might imagine) and add seasoned rice wine vinegar.

The rinsing is to clean off the dry preservative. Once upon a time, sushi rice was packed in talc to dissuade thrips. Nowadays, it's packed in starch dust. Either way, you want the rinse water to run clear. This usually takes a dozen or more rinsings. Rinse with cold water only. The starch will stick to the rice if you use warm water. I don't know what difference this makes in the cooking, but I'm sure it would be very bad.

Sushi rice is, as anyone who has ever eaten sushi knows, quite tacky. It's also slightly sweet and slightly tart. If you've never eaten any of the milder nigiri-zushi (such as tamago [omelet]) or if you always drown your sushi in soy sauce and wasabi, you might not have noticed the vinegar. That stickiness is important. Too sticky and it adheres to everything: the plate, your fingers, your chopsticks, your clothing, your facial hair, your car keys. Not sticky enough and the sushi rice pad falls apart.

The real trick here is the cooling process. Oh, sure, the rice has to be cooked to the right consistency, and you have to add the correct amount of seasoned vinegar, and you don't want to scrape any overcooked (browned) rice from the pot or cooker into the cooling bowl, but none of these factors is quite as limiting as the cooling process. If you do not cool the rice enough, it will be too tacky and almost impossible to work. If you allow the rice too cool on its own, it will cool unevenly and be crusty on one side and damp on the other. If you stir the rice too hard or add the vinegar too early, it will break up and turn into a gunky mass with the consistency of partly dried white school glue.

Most sushi-preparation guides follow the lore: use a cedar, ceramic, or glass cooling bowl. Cool the rice by fanning it while carefully separating and polishing it with a bamboo paddle (shamoji). Do not add the vinegar until the rice is cooled. Do not handle the rice until it is cooled. Do not use a metal bowl or metal spoon to cool the rice.

All of this sushi cooling lore turns out to be rational to some degree.

The cooling bowl and shamoji must not be metal because you add vinegar at the end of the process. If you mix separate and cool the rice in a metal bowl and with a metal spoon, you may (after you add the vinegar) impart a metallic taste to the rice. I have not attempted this, but I have tasted the seasoned rice wine vinegar after letting it stand in a metal spoon for a minute or two, and it does impart a metal oxide to the mixture. (Side note: you can make your own sushi-zu, but it's just rice wine vinegar, salt, and sugar. The prepared seasoned rice vinegars are inexpensive, easy to find, and taste just fine. Even though you wait until the rice is cooled to add the vinegar, because you still have to continue separating and polishing the rice after you add the vinegar, it's going to be in the cooling bowl for several minutes. I agree with the lore on this one: non-metal bowl and shamoji to avoid the metallic taste. This stuff is just too much trouble to blow it all over something so simple to control.

Getting just the right touch with the shamoji, separating the rice for cooling and stirring it around to polish it without mashing it to pabulum: this take practice. I found that I had to stop ever few minute and rinse the shamoji in cold water. Keeping the shamoji cool, clean, and slightly damp helps keep the rice from clumping on it. Throw away any rice that mashes onto the shamoji (a good reason for making more rice than you think you'll need). Keep separating and fanning the rice (yeah, you really need four hands to do this properly) until it is at or nearly at room temperature.

Nigiri-zushi

My first effort at sushi was ebi nigiri-zushi (not ama ebi—raw crustaceans are dangerous treats, and I would suggest only using farm-raised shrimp, which is expensive and difficult to find). It certainly looked simple enough at first glance: a boiled shrimp tail on a pad of rice. I will kill any possible suspense by admitting that my result was too big, too uneven in size, and sitting atop rice that is just too damned sticky.

First-glance simple is usually a wrong impression. Think Zen gardens: how hard can it be to rake lines into a patch of sand? Heh. Notice the simple appearance of most ebi in sushi bars: uniform, lying flat on the rice, rounded at the edges. The flat appearance is achieved by peeling the shrimp, cleaning them backwards (opening up the abdomen instead of along the notochord), and skewering them for cooking. I got lucky, but I opening the shrimp from the abdomen is an ideal way to slide open your hand. What worked best for me was peeling the shrimp (except fot the tails) and skewering the shrimp next. Use the thinnest bamboo skewers you can find, and insert the skewer right down the notochord channel. Run the skewer point all the way into the fleshy tail piece directly above the center of the tail fins. Then, split the shrimp on its abdominal side, taking care not to cut all the way through to the bamboo. Set a large pot of water to boil. When it reaches a full boil, drop in the shrimp for forty-five seconds. A full minute will be too much and may make the skewers impossible to remove without tearing the shrimp. Remove the shrimp from the boiling water directly into an ice water bath to stop the cooking process. Remove the skewers immediately and trim the ends of the ebi to echo the shape of the sushi rice.

I find the trimming difficult, philosophically, because it means throwing away perfectly good bits of cooked shrimp. One possible solution is keeping the leavings to add to temaki (hand rolls). I had intended to try this last time, but I ran out of rice and had too much sushi for the three of us, anyway.

The sushi rice rolls are fairly easy to make if the consistency of the rice is already correct and if you rinse your hands in cold water just before you handle the rice. You will probably need to wash your hands after forming each rice pad. By now, you are probably beginning to see why sushi chefs in Japan spend their first five years just handling rice. For each rice pad, scoop up a quantity about the size of a ping pong ball and form it into a flat-sided oval.

If, every time you try to form a sushi rice pad, the rice sticks to your fingers or refuses to form, you did not cool it properly. I recommend that you curse, stamp your foot, and try further drying and polishing the rice with the shamoji. If that doesn't work, give up on the nigiri and prepare sashimi. If the rice tastes okay, you can mix in a handful of halved grape tomatoes and blanched snowpeas for a colorful, tasty side dish. Or you can chuck the rice and go out for sushi.

On my second foray into the world of sushi, in addition to the ebi I also used halibut (hirame) and salmon (sake), two of my favorites. Once you've tried to cut clean, rectangular, uniform slices of prime fish for either nigiri-zushi or sashimi, you will see the real reason for the high cost of sushi in most restaurants. This is a wasteful process. You cannot use most of the flesh close to the skin or close to the bones; you cannot use bruised, separated, or otherwise discolored flesh; you cannot use flesh containing too much stringy fat. Your knife has to be extremely sharp and clean. I have managed the best results by following the same ground rules I use in preparing carpaccios:

• Use a high-quality, razor-sharp knife.


• Use only fresh fish.


• I know this sounds like it contradicts that last point, but: put the fish in the freezer about an hour before you attempt to slice it.


• Keep your cutting board clean.


• Rinse the knife in cold water frequently while slicing the fish.


• Handle the fish gingerly: bruises make it bitter as well as ugly.


• Save edible scraps and crooked cuttings for nori-maki or temaki.


• Remember, this is a visual art: style counts.

Place a tiny dollop of wasabi (about the size of a quarter of a pea) atop each rice pad and the place the fish or rice atop the pad.

I was far more pleased with my nigiri-zushi—better appearance, consistency, and quality of rice—the second time than the first.

Nori-maki

Nori-maki is the Lego™ of Japanese haute-cuisine: hardcore playing with food. I got lucky. My first try actually produced tasty, attractive nori-maki. I used sockey salmon (the strips leftover from the nigiri-zushi. I'm probably overdue for burning an offering at a shrine somewhere.

Once upon a time, finding the ingredients and tools for sushi-roll construction meant a foray into the nearest available Japanese or pan-Asian specialty market. Lately, nori-maki has become so popular that most major grocery chains in the US now carry nori sheets and makisu (the little bamboo mat you use to form the rolls).

In addition to the instructions I found in many popular cookbooks and on a vast array of Web sites, here are a few key lessons I learned while making nori-maki:

These rolls use a lot of rice—much more than I expected. A quarter-inch layer of sushi rice per roll (covering all but the last one-inch strip of the nori sheet) means that one cup of (dry, precooked measure) sushi rice will make two full-sheet rolls or four half sheet rolls. A half-sheet roll will be like the typical California roll: one full wrap of nori around rice and whatever else you've included. A full sheet produces a slightly fatter roll (about an inch and a half in diameter) with a spiral over lap of nori half-way through the rice. The cut nori-maki discs each look something like a colorful @ symbol.

Spread the rice with your fingers (don't forget to wash and dampen your hands with cold water before handling the rice). Tools will just make a mess of the job.

Nori is fairly stout material, but it does not handle sheer forces well. When you cut it, use a large chef's knife and cut by pressing down and rocking the blade. Slicing will tear the nori.

As in sexual matters, wetness is a crucial concern in nori-maki production.

Avoid getting the nori wet: it weakens and separates. Dry your hands before you handle the sheets and dry the knife you will use for cutting the nori sheets.

The knife you use to cut the roll has to be sharp, clean, cold, and damp for every cut. Repeat: every cut. Be sure the hand you use to hold the nori-maki is dry, however, or the nori is liable to stick to your fingers and separate from the roll. Keep a dishcloth or a wad of paper towels on hand as well as a bowl of ice water. After you slice the roll, your knife will be gummed up by the sushi rice. If you don't clean and chill the knife, your next cut will pinch or flatten the roll on one side.

Stormy weekends

Here comes the weekend and, O look, there come the thunderclouds. Good-bye weekend dive opportunity. It probably sounds silly to a lot of people that we don't want to dive in a rainstorm. Hell, we're going to get wet anyway, right?

Of course, it's not the rain. It's the lightning. Would you be willing to stand on a shoreline in a thunderstorm wearing a bundle of dynamite on your back, a bundle with a built-in lightning rod? You might. You'd probably change your mind if you ever felt the concussion from a lightning stroke hitting the lake less than a hundred feet away, just as you were trudging out of the water. That's what happened to Princess V last time we dived Lake Travis in an electrical storm.

You can understand, then, why—with stormclouds hanging over us—Princess V and I decided to forego our dive last weekend. Just our luck, the lake saw nary a drop of rain. So, here I sit, reviewing weather.com and intellicast.com, hoping to find a hiatus in the next few days' predictions of Isol. T-storms and Scat. T-storms. No such luck.

Fate should establish an 800 number for complaints—at least a website with contact information. They shouldn't be able to deprive me like this on Father's Day. I'd write a letter to my Congressman, but he's a Democrat, so he wouldn't be able to do anything.

Of course, with my former wives, I frequently said the same thing about sexual deprivation on Fathers Day, on Christmas, on my birthday, Veterans Day, Flag Day, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and so forth.

Guess I should count my blessings.

Sometimes, I guess I expect too much. I saw an Iron Chef episode last night—one I'd seen before. Morimoto battles a young chef of the Ohta faction (a group of Japanese traditionalists who consider Morimoto's neo-Japanese cuisine something of an abomination). This particular challenger was an expert in the use of salt, something you are unlikely to find in restaurants outside of Japan and a throwback, of sorts, to ancient times when the Japanese had no seasonings but salt and responded with creative applications.

The moment that made the greatest impression on me was when one of the judges complained that one of the challenger's dishes was too salty. Of all the possible complaints I might hear from a judge about a chef's preparations, I thought, this was the one he should have been above. Salinity is the one quality that he, more than anyone present, should have fully under control. That moment, striking as it did at the very heart of his expertise, had to be a far greater embarrassment than losing the competition. She may as well have said, "You call yourself a chef? You call yourself a salt expert?"

By comparison, I feel hardly any chagrin over the fact that my shrimp risotto, last night, turned out just a bit too salty. Hardly any.

Really.

Otherwise, I was quite pleased with the risotto. I don't know whether I've just been lucky or risotto is very forgiving. Still, this was shrimp risotto, and shrimp is not as forgiving as risotto. I'm pretty sure that the timing on the shrimp was mostly just a matter of luck.

Anyway, here's the dish I prepared for Princess V, the girlchild, and my own self (i.e., serves 3½—I'm a big eater):

Shrimp risotto

Dramatis personae

• two tablespoons olive oil


• one medium shallot, thinly sliced


• one small clove garlic, small dice


• ½ cup arborio rice


• ½ cup white wine


• three cups chicken stock or bouillon, or a fumet


• ½ teaspoon minced cayenne pepper


• ½ pound medium shrimp


• lemon zest


• ¼ cup whipping cream


• 2 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese

Quality of ingredients

See my comments of June 10th, regarding olive oil.

I prefer the richness that a shallot imparts to risotto, but most risotto recipes call for a medium onion. Try it both ways if you like. I usually don't add garlic to this recipe, but I like the way it helps peak the piquancy of the cayenne. When I say a small clove, I mean enough to produce about a half teaspoon when diced. Slice the shallot to about twice the thickness of a rice kernel—roughly that thickness. I don't mean to be anal about this, but the kernels will approximately double in thickness as they cook, and you want the thickness of the cooked shallot strands (the slices will separate into ribbons) about the same size as the cooked rice. Similarly, you want the garlic bits about the size of the cooked rice kernels.

Cooks following recipe instructions tend to be overscrupulous in trying to apply adverbial directions. I once asked a friend, who wanted to prep for me, to prepare the shallot by slicing it in half along the axis and then thin slicing the halves across the axis. She got the orientations right, but she sliced the shallot thin enough to read through. Slicing a shallot that thin actually creates two possible problems (usually both):

• Cooked directly against the pan, it dries to a crispy, onion skin texture and consistency.


• Cooked in oil, it dissolves leaving thin filaments that get caught in your teeth.

Yes, it has to be arborio rice. Forgetting for a moment that my wife's Italian ancestors will haunt your dreams with off-color Tarantellas if you try to use long-grain rice, only arborio provides sufficient surface area to dissolve the requisite quantity of wine and stock. I have devised a technique for faux risotto, but it doesn't have the blended quality of flavor that you achieve with risotto. Faux risotto is essentially just rice in a creamy sauce. To avoid the lengthy digression it would entail, I'll append a recipe for shrimp faux risotto at the end of this one. For arborio rice, check the grocery stores near you that deal in bulk foods. For reasons that escape me, prepackaging arborio rice makes it worth nearly three times as much money.

This may sound inconsistent with my assault on red cooking (so-called–)wine, but white cooking wine works just fine. If you use real white wine, use a dry white, and use half as much.

I know, every cook book tells you to use stock. I hate to echo every other cookbook, but stock is decidedly superior to bouillon. Stock will impart more flavor and result in a meatier texture. The texture is good, but in this case—shrimp—the flavor from stock might be a bit overpowering. If you are making this risotto as part of larger spread of seafoods, a fumet will make the best possible stock for this (or any seafood-based) risotto. I recommend avoiding fish stocks or bouillons sold in stores; they tend to impart a nasty odor to everything in the kitchen. If you use stock or fumet, you may need to add a little salt to your recipe.

If (like me, the other night) you happen to be out of stock (I haven't roasted a chicken in about two months, and I always make my stock from the birds I've roasted), bouillon works just fine (call it four and a half stars instead of five). For a recipe this size, use only one bouillon cube (I used two, which adds too much salt for this size recipe) in three cups of water.

I love cayenne pepper, but like all peppers, the damned things are highly variable. This dish is well served by a little red hot pepper both for tiny bit of bite and for the color it adds. The question of how much to use is a tough one, though. Sure, you can generalize about which pepper belongs in which range of the Scoville scale. Big deal. So, you know that cayenne peppers are roughly ten times as hot as jalapeños and only one sixth as hot as habañero. What does this mean in terms of the meal? I used a cayenne pepper from my garden, and that was one hot little bastard. I ended up using only a quarter of a three-inch pepper. This one little item is probably the most subjective, make-or-break item in this menu. My risotto was just hot enough to leave a hint of burn on our lips but mild enough that girlchild didn't wince. No matter what your personal preference in peppers, you have to taste them before you use them. This will help you decide how much to use and how late to add them to the dish. The earlier they go onto the fire, the softer they'll be and the milder they'll be—within reason. Don't expect a scotch bonnet to mellow down to the level of an ancho.

With seafood, all the experts say to use only fresh—to eschew frozen. Makes you wonder how the grocery stores sell all that frozen crap. I live in Austin, damned close to the Gulf, and fresh shrimp isn't always available, even here. Sometimes, you just have to decide between doing without and making do with the frozen stuff. In the case of fish, I do without. With shrimp, however, I've found that frozen doesn't necessarily mean bad. If the shrimp is supposed to be pink but looks brown, don't buy it. If it says "tiger shrimp" but looks black in spots, don't buy it. Otherwise, frozen will likely be indistinguishable from fresh.

I like Reggiano parmesan cheese, but I will not tell you that you have to use it in your recipes. Asiago cheese or romano both work fine. That stuff Kraft™ sells in a cylinder is not cheese—it's cheese food. That's the stuff they feed to real cheese. It also tastes a good deal like shredding cardboard with just the subtlest innuendo of motor oil. (Disclaimer: Kraft sells some decent cheeses. This stuff isn't one of 'em.)


Preparation notes

This is a pretty attention-intensive process, so have everything prepped before you begin sautéing. Have your mise squared-away—everything appropriately diced, slided, zested, grated, and readily at hand—or you'll be scrambling to avoid burning the rice. The stock, fumet, or bouillon should be simmering in a pot next to where you plan to make the risotto.

Preheat the olive oil in a large, non-stick skillet over a medium flame. Add the shallot and the garlic and sauté until the shallot just begins to clarify. Pour in the rice and continue to sauté until the rice is uniformly tan.

Pour in the wine and continue to sauté the risotto until the liquid is all either absorbed or evaporated. Ladle in about a quarter cup of broth and sauté as needed to keep the risotto from sticking. Once the broth is fully absorbed, ladle in a bit more. You're going to continue this process until the risotto is al dente, but just before the risotto reaches that ideal doneness (yes, I realize how horribly subjective that sounds) stir in the cayenne. After a minute or so, stir in the shrimp and lemon zest.

It is just barely possible that you will run out of broth before your risotto is quite done (this can happen if the flame is too high, causing the fluid to evaporate faster than the rice can absorb it). If this happens, turn down the flame and continue the ladling process with tap water. Don't worry. You're more likely to have stock left over. If, however, you end up cooking the risotto longer than you expect, do not overcook the shrimp. If the shrimp are done but the rice is not, remove the shrimp (chopsticks work well for this) to a separate bowl until the rice is done.

Once the rice is just al dente, stir in the cream and cheese. Gently stir the risotto until the mixture is creamy, consistent, and steamy. If you had to remove the shrimp, stir them back in now.

Because of the cheese, the risotto will cool slowly, giving a little time to prepare other portions of your meal. I wouldn't wait more than a half hour, though.

Faux risotto

I know I'm just discouraging real cooking with this, but I guess not everyone loves to cook.


dramatis personae

• two tablespoons olive oil


• one medium shallot, thinly sliced


• one small clove garlic, small dice


• ½ teaspoon minced cayenne pepper


• ½ pound medium shrimp


• lemon zest


• ¼ cup whipping cream


• 2 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese


• one cup cooked rice

Quality of ingredients

Everything I said before applies except the rice. For this version, the rice should be long-grain, short-grain, or basmati rice. Princess V and I prefer the rich, nutty taste of basmati (most American long-grain rice tastes like spitwads). Prepare the rice as you usually do (stovetop, microwave, or rice cooker all come out about the same) but substitute chicken broth or stock for the water. Do not use sticky rice preparations like sushi rice.


Preparation

In a non-stick pan, preheat the olive oil and sauté in the cayenne, shallot, and garlic. Once the shallot is translucent, toss in the shrimp and the zest. Sauté the mixture until the shrimp are done.

Mix in the rice and then the cream and cheese. Stir the mixture to blend it and warm the ingredients.

Serve.

The "real" risotto will have a more integrated quality and a richness lacking in this dish, but the faux risotto is a little easier to prepare if you're pressed for time. As for the complexity of the dish, I don't think the difference really makes the faux version worth the lost quality.

Spontaneity: a predictable response

Isn't spontaneity a Wonderful Thing™? Touchstone of creativity, litmus of excitement, spark-plug of desire, and the only possible deterrent to Dullness, according to a former spouse of mine. For the sake of anonymity and in order to prevent litigation and to avoid such clumsy phrases as "my ex-wife" and "that ball-busting bitch," I'll just call the woman in question Ms Take.

So frequently did Ms Take praise spontaneity in creative efforts and denounce predictability in any effort, that I eventually came to realize that she believes spontaneity is creativity. Even logic, in her universe, suffers equation with dullness beside the preferable spontaneity of epiphany, intuition, and revelation. Genius itself, to hear her expound, is unbidden thought. If history books were written according to Ms Take's dicta, Einstein's Theory of Relativity would not be deemed genius—too much calculation—nor would Mozart's Requiem—too many explicit instructions in the commission.

Any time Ms Take wanted to put me down with a quick verbal stroke (i.e., whenever she was losing an argument) she would accuse me of predictability, usually with a shake of her head and a little dismissive chuckle: "Oh, you're so predictable." Boring repetition of meals was deemed predictable (somehow, her favorite ice cream appears to be immune to such categorization). Movies she did not wish to watch for a second time or activities she did not wish to repeat were likewise denounced for their lack of spontaneity. Life with Ms Take meant she could, at any time, decide that any planned activity was not worth her while, simply by virtue of having been planned. This meant any claim such as "We've been preparing for this for months" could be trumped with some Kahlil-Gibran-level dogmatic folderol like "Life is too precious to be thrown away on prepackaged experiences." Wouldn't it be nice if we could call American Airlines at the last minute and argue, "I'm sorry, you have to refund the cost of those tickets in full. The flight plan lacks spontaneity."

The worst aspect of Ms Take's worship at the altar of spontaneity was not, however, her use of predictable, nor was it her use of spontaneity as an appeal to illogic. The worst was its effect on my sex life.

I discovered early in our relationship that maintaining any sex life at all with Ms Take took a bit of concentrated seduction. She was always slow to arouse. For a while, I thought I could handle that. I tried getting the kids out of the house and preparing special meals for her. I tried seducing her in semi-public places. I tried dinner and dancing. I tried sexy clothes. I tried a night out followed by a stay in a nice hotel. I tried blue movies and sex toys.

Lucky me. Nearly every variation I tried worked.

Unlucky me. They only worked once.

If I tried the dinner for two more often than once a month, it bored her. If I tried the hotel stay more than once a year—hadn't we just done that? If I tried the movies or toys too often, I was relying on artificial accoutrements to do the work for me, thereby doubly damning myself as predictable and lazy.

If you think this spontaneity gambit is easy, try coming up with a different seduction every night for—oh, say a month. It saps your strength, dampens your resolve, and probably causes stress-induced halitosis. After a couple of weeks, I would get fed up with trying, beaten down by rejection, my head pounding at the prospect of coming up with yet another brilliant and original ploy for getting Ms Take's juices flowing.

When you're married to Ms Take, you masturbate.

A lot.

[Note to self: some day, when I'm feeling truly pissy toward Ms Take, I must remember to tell her that being married to her made me feel like a teenager.]

Princess V and I never seem to have problems with this matter of repetition. Oh, sure, repetition of even the sweatiest wild-animal sex acts could get old after a while—if it were the only act we entertained. The point is moot, however, since that's never been the case in any of my relationships. I like variety. During sex, I usually want to do everything, all at once. We shift, change places, swap rôles, romp around (assuming no one's tied down), and generally have a great time. Sometimes, we do run through the same set of variants over and over again for several nights running. Does this constitute a lack of spontaneity? I would argue that it actually does not (if for no other reason than the simple finite range of human sexual experience). Okay, on a grand scale it might: no spontaneity in relying on the same set of maneuvers. On a granular scale, though, we're not relying on a script. Nothing says which act goes when or how many times each is repeated.

When you're married to Ms Take, you also learn to let her fix most of her own meals. I put up with the sexual dysfunction a lot longer than the gustatory demands. All it took was hearing, "Didn't we just have this?" about one of my meals to quell any pride I'd previously held in preparing her dinners.

Princess V and the kids have favorite meals. The girlchild is always happy to get oyster beef with broccoli. The boychild loves carne guisada. Every Thursday, when boychild goes off to spend the night with his mom, we have shrimp (or scallops or lobster—boychild won't eat these), which always makes Princess V smile. Nobody wants the same meal every night, nor do they want the same dessert every time.

Still, I must admit, I've never heard anyone whine, "Chocolate soufflé again?" Somehow, I don't expect to.

Chocolate soufflé

dramatis personae

• special equipment: double boiler, mixer, dessert ramekins


• some granulated sugar


• some unsalted butter


• 6 ounces semi-sweet chocolate


• 3 tablespoons amaretto


• ¼ cup heavy whipping cream


• five extra-large egg whites


• four extra-large egg yolks


• ½ teaspoon cream of tartar

quality of ingredients

Which chocolate? Hell, you got me. Real chocolate, certainly. Molding chocolate tastes like candle wax. I buy the baking chocolate squares, but I've also used Nestle's™ chips. It's easier to measure the squares (one square equals one ounce), but the measurement isn't really critical. I know that six ounces works. I also know that a couple hands full of chips works. Semi-sweet seems about the best level of sugar for most of us. I've used bittersweet chocolate for mousses, but I want a little more sweetness in my soufflés.

I don't know much about amaretto, but I have used DiSaronno and the cheaper stuff. The cheaper stuff disappears, leaving nary a hint of almond. The DiSaronno adds a rich, warm flavor.

Most cookbooks assume that an egg is a large egg. I use extra-large eggs. If you want to use large eggs, you'll probably want five yolks and six whites.

When separating yolks and white, I recommend you do so with your (clean) bare hands: just let the white slips through your fingers. You're less likely to break the yolks in your hands than while juggling back and forth between jagged eggshells.


notes on preparation

Prep six individual ramekins (I think mine hold about a half cup of liquid, but I honestly haven't measured—personal dessert size) as follows:

1. Coat the inside of each ramekin with butter.


2. Pour some sugar (roughly two tablespoons—you know: some) into one ramekin and swirl it around to coat the bottom.


3. Slowly pour the sugar out of the first ramekin into a second ramekin while turning the first ramekin to coat the sides completely with sugar.


4. Repeat this swirl and pour-while-turning method until all six ramekins are coated with sugar-frosted butter.


5. Put the ramekins in the top shelf of your fridge.

This ritual is not to make the ramekins easier to clean. Without this coating, the soufflés will stick at the sides and collapse.

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler. Add the amaretto while the chocolate is melting. Once the chocolate is more or less liquefied (with the amaretto, it will tend to glaze over) stir in the cream. Keep stirring until you have a thick but uniformly syrupy consistency. Keep it over a low simmer while you prepare the egg whites.

Preheat the oven to 350F.

Add the cream of tartar to the egg whites and beat them until they're stiff.

Pour the chocolate mixture into the egg yokes and, with a fork, beat the mixture to a uniform consistency and color. Fold in the egg whites approximately a third at a time. The trick here, as with any recipe that calls for folding, is to avoid crushing all the air out of the whites while mixing the concoction as thoroughly as possible.

Decision point: one aspect of chocolate soufflés that I find truly astonishing is that the recipe is identical to my recipe for mousse. If you'd prefer chocolate mousse, turn off the oven, put the concoction in the fridge for about an hour to let it thicken slightly, and then take it out and fold it thoroughly, again, to even out the consistency (it will be thinner at the center). Pour the chocolate mousse mixture into separate goblets. Put the goblets in the refrigerator and allow them to chill for another two or three hours.

Meanwhile, back at the soufflé

Once the oven is ready, remove the ramekins from the fridge, arrange them evenly on a cookie sheet, and fill each with a portion of the soufflé mixture. Put the cookie sheet on a rack above the center of the oven and let them bake for about 16 minutes. At this time, the soufflés will have risen a good inch or more above the rim of the ramekins.

Sweet soufflés collapse faster than savory soufflés, so you'll want to serve these immediately. I place each individual ramekin inside another bowl so the kids won't burn their fingers.

Rave reviews

(Here's a real leap: Howard Dean to halibut. Keep your eyes open for the subtle segue.)

Last night I did not prepare dinner. Instead, we went to hear Howard Dean speak at the Saltillo Plaza in East Austin. I had been impressed the first time I heard him (on a teeeeeny little mpeg screen playing a portion of a California Democratic rally), and I hoped that my first impression was more than just a fluke. I was not disappointed. What a firebrand. Princess V also seemed to enjoy Governor Dean's speech.

I was impressed first by the fact that Howard Dean manages to make a complex problem (the need to repeal an outlandish tax cut in the face of an equally outlandish federal deficit) fairly simple to understand on a personal level. Even many of the pro-Bush halfwits understand that creating a huge federal deficit is a bad thing, but few voters of any political stamp seem to perceive deficit growth as an immediate (hey, interest rates are the lowest they've ever been) or personal (my salary isn't going down and inflation is nil) problem. They seem to buy the NeoCon argument that any portion of the deficit not overcome by the financial gains made possible by extra expendible income will be eliminated by the eventual, concomitant, and (they are certain) necessary reduction in social support programs. If you want to sell the country on the need to repeal a tax cut (which the Republican's will spin as "raising everyone's taxes"), you have to point out how the individual will gain from the repeal. I think Governor Dean struck the right chord last night in explaining that the Bush tax cut for the wealthy will mean higher property taxes (to say nothing of higher sales taxes and state taxes for everyone). The federal deficit has already reared its ugly head in 9 of 10 of the United States in the form of lost federal aid resulting in growing state budgetary deficits. The states have to make up this money somewhere.

Governor Dean's position is simple: you might see $500 dollars back in the form of a tax cut, but you'll lose that and more in other places.

I was further impressed to see that Howard Dean does not shy away from convictions that the NeoCon hacks have so frequently turned to slurs in the past: pacifist, liberal, social reformer. Dean unabashedly supports a woman's right to choose, argues for gay rights, and preaches a national health-care program. He projects a forceful, almost belligerent energy that almost dares any potential opponent to call him a liberal or socialist. His arguments are compelling and concise. His pronouncements are lucid and fiery.

Governor Dean stumbled a bit at the outset, trying to find something pleasant to say about the young state representative's admittedly unimpressive introduction. He recovered quickly, however, and had the crowd with him in short order. He also made good use of well-placed references to Truman, whom Governor Dean resembles in size, temperment, and politics.

I was surprised that Governor Dean managed, in Texas, to compare Texas—unfavorably— to Vermont without losing any of his audience. Texans tend to be a universally proud, self-righteous bunch (see also Statewide Inferiority Complex). Of course, considering recent disillusionment with Texas state legislation and administration, especially among Democrats, and considering this was an audience of Democrats hungry for solutions, I guess it shouldn't surprise me that this comparison worked. Instead of "Why should we give a rat's ass what a bunch of New Englanders do?" Dean managed to stir up a "Why don't we have what they have?" fervor.

He had the audience by the wrists. That audience.

Of course, there is that matter of audience.

We all—all the Democrats present at last night's rally—went to hear Howard Dean because we feel disenfranchised, trapped in a quasi-religious, quasi-police state of quasi-American ideals. We've watched in horror as our President declared war on another country based on something he thought we should fear that they might do—if they could. We have heard a justice of the Supreme Court of the United States shrug off civil and human rights violations as expedient. This is fast becoming a scary place to live. The NeoCons are on the verge of demolishing Roe vs. Wade, have begun pounding nails into the coffin of Affirmative Action, and are bankrupting the states in order to make rich scum richer. We went to the rally, last night, because we want a solid, reliable option for this next presidential election, and we hope that Governor Dean is that option.

We also went because, to some degree, we've all heard the pipes already. Most of the attendees already know of Howard Dean, primarily via the Internet. Our attendance was not motivated by a desire to hear yet another candidate speak; we did not go seeking options. We went to confirm our collective choice. We went to demonstrate to ourselves that we had made a good choice. Most of the attendees last night signed the petition to put Howard Dean on the Democratic ballot. Most. I don't know the numbers, but it was obvious that the majority were heading straight for the petition tables when they arrived.

Thus, most of us cheered when we heard Governor Dean championing the causes we expected to hear him champion. We laughed at his jokes at the expense of the Not-So-Loyal Opposition because we agree with the sentiment. We let his fire spark our own. We left in jubilance and walked off with a hopeful swing, smug in the knowledge of the rightness of our decision to support the man from Vermont.

I distrust smugness. Even my own.

Especially my own.

I don't want to become complacent and start praising this candidate simply because I chose to follow him. I don't want to blind myself to the possibility that he is not the right man for the job. Am I deluding myself? Is it simply impossible for anyone so liberal that he would sign the Civil Unions Act into law—is it impossible for so liberal a man to be elected to the highest office in this land? Is it possible, no matter how you word it, to win that election telling the American public up front that you want to repeal a huge tax cut? Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing or what I want to hear?

I see a Howard Dean who is forceful and persuasive, but he has openly—some would say ferociously—attacked the other politicians running against him for the Democratic nomination. Has he made too many enemies to make an effective run for President if he gets the nomination? If he defeats them, will the Kerrys and Grahams and Gephardts support him? Will that support be more than lukewarm? Am I seeing a junkyard dog and calling him a noble guardian?

As with smugness, I tend to distrust praise. Spin colors it, even unintentional, incidental, and habitual spin.

Especially unintentional, incidental, and habitual spin.

I am fortunate in having, for my cooking, a captive audience. Princess V does not care for cooking, and the Little Darlings are too young to fend for themselves. They're pretty much stuck with whatever Dad serves. For this reason, I tend to examine carefully the praise I receive— especially from loved ones.

I don't want anyone (especially my family) to think I don't appreciate the praise. I like my strokes as much as anyone else, and I have a big enough ego to nurture a fantasy that I deserve at least some of it. I also know that my family's praise for my cooking is not simply a matter of them being stuck with it and having to make the best of it. I know that I'm a better than average cook. Frankly, I'm damned proud of some of my culinary skills (tsk, there's that creeping smugness, again). I also know that I'm my own worst critic. Princess V still shakes her head and smiles when I start the nightly postprandial debriefing cum deconstruction.

Still, I think it's important to be able to tell the difference between light praise from the family ("That was good.") and effusive praise ("Wow! Can we have this all the time?"). I welcome the light praise, but I really strive for the other. A fine example is the main dishes from Saturday and Sunday of this weekend. Saturday, as I previously reported, I served twice-seared prime rib in red bean paste. Everyone said it was good. I was thoroughly unimpressed. I also didn't hear any requests to repeat the effort.

Sunday night's offering was seared halibut with blackberry-wasabi wine reduction. The thick halibut filet provided a fresh and beautiful beginning, and the sauce was nearly a home run hit. I served the halibut atop sautéed slices of 1015 onions (translation for non-Texans: 1015s are a seasonal Texas treasure, similar to Vidalia sweet onions), which was a minor mistake (only the girlchild and I ate the onion slices—nice flavor but the wrong texture—haricots verts would have made a better bed). I could also have improved the sauce slightly by straining out the blackberry seeds, but they were a minor inconvenience.

In addition to the flavor and the praise, I enjoy meals like this because they are both sumptuous and simple. Here, then, minus the bed, is my latest effusive-praiseworthy dinnertime creation:

Seared halibut with blackberry wasabi wine reduction

dramatis personae

• 1 lb halibut fillet


• 2 tablespoons olive oil


• 1 cup cabernet sauvignon


• two tablespoons blackberry jelly


• pinch of kosher salt


• two tablespoons butter


• one tablespoon wasabi paste

quality of ingredients

I discussed freshness of fish a few days ago (Friday, June 6). To my comments about salmon I will add two points about halibut: (1) the flesh should be nearly snow white (not quite as white as Chilean sea bass, but whiter than most cod) and (2) for searing or grilling, you want the fillets to be as thick as possible, at least an inch thick. An inch and a half is better.

For general purpose cooking, I use extra virgin olive oil. I prefer Colavita, but you should experiment with different olive oils and pick one that suits your taste. Olive oils vary widely in flavor and some do not hold up well to cooking. I have known cooks who stocked two olive oils: one for cooking, one for salads. Whatever olive oil you choose, be sure it is consistent from bottle to bottle. The trend of late among Food Network cooks has been to tout canola oil for cooking, based on the claim that it does not flavor the food. I have not found this to be correct. Canola oil, to me, imparts a plasticky taste to delicate foods. If I want something lighter in flavor than olive oil (or with a higher smoke point) I use peanut oil. Yes, I am aware that Andrew Weil thinks we should all live in terror of transfatty and cisfatty acids, but I've yet to see any research finding any actual danger from either substance. More to the point, I do not take dietary advice from fat guys.

The red wine is for cooking. It doesn't have to be expensive. On the other hand, if it's too sour or too thin, it will make a shitty sauce. So-called "cooking wine" is far too watered down. You'd have to reduce two bottles of that trash to get a decent sauce. Get a nice table-quality cabernet. Should cost less than seven bucks a bottle.

Blackberry jelly. Well, if you want to be hardcore about this, you could reduce a half pint of fresh berries and then separate the pulp from the seeds by pressing it through a strainer. I do this for blackberry soufflés. The process will add an hour to your cooking time, leave you with sore hands, and not make a noticeable difference in your sauce. Blackberry jelly works fine. Just be sure the jelly has a good, stout berry flavor and is not overly sweet.

I love real wasabi, but it's about as plentiful in the US as hens' teeth. The paste from powder works fine. Yeah, I know, it's actually just horseradish and spirulina, but it works. If you can find the real thing—I hate you.

I probably shouldn't have to say this, but butter means butter. There is no such thing as a butter-substitute or butter lite. This sauce, for flavor and consistency, requires two tablespoons of real, unapologetic, honest-to-arteriosclerotic-plaque butter.


notes on preparation

Nothing to it. Leaving the skin on and intact, carefully slice the filet into four approximately equal portions. Check to be sure the flesh is devoid of bones and scales.

Pour the wine and blackberry jelly into a small or sauce pan. Bring this concoction to a high simmer and reduce it, stirring occasionally, to a syrupy consistency (ten minutes? maybe twenty?).

When the sauce is nearly reduced, in a separate non-stick saucepan, preheat the olive oil. Place the fillet quarters in the hot oil, skin side down. Cook the fish on medium heat until the fish is done about a third of the way through. Turn one piece of the fish over very carefully (you want the pieces intact, and cooked halibut becomes increasingly flaky). Remove the skin by slipping a sharp knife between the skin and the flesh and working it gently from side to side. I suppose you can lift the skin with the knife or a pair of chopsticks or tongs. I use my fingers (yes, you can burn the hell out of yourself doing this, especially if you touch a particularly oily spot). Do this quickly. You want to cook the fleshy side a little but you don't want to brown it. Turn the piece back over to brown the skin side (the side that used to have skin). Repeat this step for the other three pieces. Once the skin side is nice and brown and just a tiny bit crunchy, remove the fish to a bowl and cover it. The fish will continue to cook a bit in the bowl, but you don't want it to cool (cooled fish oils taste and smell unpleasant).

Add the butter in to the reduced blackberry and wine concoction to mount the sauce. Once the butter is all mixed in, turn off the fire and stir in the wasabi.

Plate the fish pieces individually (as I said, next time, I plan to plate these guys on a bed of haricots verts) and pour a tablespoon or so of sauce over each slice. The sauce provides a good balance of sweet, tart, winy, and piquant, and the balance of browned and medium rare halibut is flavorful enough to assert itself through the sauce.

This dish gets rave reviews (yeah, I know, too easy).

Nitrogen deprivation

This weekend started badly for the Prince. My ex-wife, ever the Ball-Busting Bitch Queen, chewed me out via email for changing our son's camp schedule this week without first obtaining her approval. When I proved to her (by returning copies of her own earlier messages) that we had not changed his schedule, that she had agreed to the schedule, she admitted she was wrong and blamed her lapse on lingering grief problems (her mother died a few months back). I tried to be polite in my response and attempted to commiserate; she and her fiancé have recently moved into a huge, largely unfinished spread east of the city, they've been attempting to push their vision of some sort of planned community out there, their Big Wedding is coming up at the end of this month, and she has a lot of family coming—all, in my opinion, potential sources of stress.

Her reply? I had failed in my lame attempt to empathize (I hate that word—a sure sign that the speaker has been in counseling far too long. I, being a rational human being, was attempting to sympathize. Empathy is only possible in science fiction novels.) by failing to recite the litany that would reify her belief that she is suffering from grief-induced stupidity. Such a repetition, according to this month's edition of the Rules That Only She Knows, qualifies as validation; failure to reiterate qualifies as devaluation. I keep forgetting that I am such an unfeeling bastard.

What's more, by telling her that we expected her to stick to the usual schedule last week (they pick up our son on Thursday from school or camp and keep him until late Saturday, a schedule she created to avoid becoming just a weekend parent), we had "dropped the 'regular school schedule' pick up plans" on her just a week earlier. Okay, I can see that Princess V and I were assuming that the schedule was not going to change, and I understand that some people immediately see any assumption as erroneous. In this case, though, since the schedule has remained essentially the same for over a year— through school changes, camps, vacations, and address changes—why should we expect this instance to be different?

All of this post-marital-trauma is incidental, however. The real tragedy was the heavy rains late in the week, which made diving the lake a pretty bad idea. Visibility in Lake Travis frequently goes up (a Good Thing™) immediately following a rain storm, but after a couple of days of heavy rain, it always goes down. After the previous Saturday's dive—in which we found the visibility to be rather pea-soupish above 70 feet and clear but too damned cold below 70 feet—I didn't see any point in renting tanks and humping our gear up to the lake just to spend an hour wallowing in the mud.

Perhaps I should have gone anyway. Now, despite a weekend of much joyous wild-animal sex with Princess V, I sense a distinct hiatus in this weekend's recuperative activities. I miss the weekly nitrogen narcosis fix. A year ago, I would have argued that even a cold, murky dive is better than none. Any more, I'm not so sure. I'm sure part of the problem is just that our wetsuits are getting old and compressed, and I've always had a low tolerance to the cold (low body fat content looks good in trunks but doesn't offer much insulation), but I'm finding that I have a lessening tolerance for consistently low visibility and low fish population density (that's low population density of fish, not population density of low fish).

I enjoy following channel cats and carp around, suddenly coming upon a black bass as long as my forearm or a saucer-eyed crappie (they always appear suspended between attitudes of baddest-dog-on-the-block machismo and chihuahua terror). I enjoy toying with the tiny minds of the bream, who so ferociously attack stray locks of hair and ear lobes and dropped bits of streamer, and will belligerently shove their tiny pug noses right up against the tempered glass of my mask. I particularly like special surprises like the rare sightings of schooling striped bass hybrids or shoals of catfish fry or yard-long opelousas catfish who lie on the bottom under ledges looking like beady-eyed death and decay. When the water is warm enough at depth, I love the feeling of swimming along a wall at 80 feet with a black abyss below and the croak of the freshwater drum thrumming through the murk. It looks and feels like hovering through a canyon at night, like a constant, wordless reiteration of, "Ah, so this is flight."

Lately, though, the lake just isn't enough. I'm jaded. I want deep, warm, blue water. I want Caribbean reefs, sharks, rays, and the abyss of purest blue tumbling off into ultraviolet. I want the salt burning my lips as I soar past scarlet soldier fish and gaping green morays. I want to play hide-and-seek with the scorpion fish and peacock flounders and—who knows—maybe finally spot a frogfish. I want the deep and the blue and the sea.

At least I have Princess V to console me, my love and support, my balm and favorite toy. No matter what upsets me, I always come back around to asking myself, "What right have you to complain? You married a woman who meets and exceeds all of your sexual fantasies. How many other men your age—men of any age—get laid every night?"

Ah, the consolation of riotous, slippery sexual frenzy. Blogger rules pretty well prevent my providing any details of this weekend's sexual diversions. I can't tell you about all the interesting positions we tried, who spanked whom, who got tied to the bed, who nibbled what body parts, who penetrated whom with what appendages and sex toys, or to what sensitive spots vibrating electrical appliances were applied. Then again, if you consider that no animals, spectators, or extraneous players were employed, I guess I've about covered the bases.

As always, I attempted to fill the blank spaces of this weekend with meals. Saturday evening was a bit of a bust. I was craving steak and attempted a seared rib-eye with red bean paste. It came out a bit too sweet for my taste. Everybody ate it, but I would not call the response a rave review. For side dishes, I served seared potato slabs with sautéed shallots and Aspiration with trumpet mushrooms. The potatoes were successful. For the other vegetable dish, I screwed up just about everything.

I like Aspiration, but it really needs to be sautéed. I steamed it. It was cooked but still too crisp and, though sweet, it needed something extra. I had sprinkled it with ginger oil, but that just made it less palatable to the kids. The mushrooms I sliced top to bottom. That cut works great for maitaake or porcini mushrooms—even for white button or cremini—for trumpets this is a huge mistake. Trumpet mushrooms are too fibrous; they need to be sliced across the stems. I had originally intended to dry-sear the mushroom slices in a non-stick pan, but I was afraid they would taste too dry that way, so I sautéed them in butter. Big mistake. This treatment left them with a texture like soggy linen thread.

The potatoes, on the other hand, were a big hit. This is the second variation I've tried on what I call seared potato slabs.

Seared potato slabs

dramatis personae

• one golfball sized shallot (or two 12-in diameter scallions)


• tablespoon of parsley, frisséed


• 3 or 4 size C Yukon Gold potatoes


• two cups of water


• two tablespoons olive oil


• teaspoon kosher salt


• dash of fresh-ground pepper

instructions

This is so easy, I would not be surprised to hear a chorus of, "Oh, yeah, I do that."

1. Prepare the shallot or scallions:
   
   
   
   1. slice the shallot (or the pair of scallions) across the axis of the bulb, about an eighth of an inch thick
   
   
   2. preheat a teaspoon or two of olive oil
   
   
   3. sauté the shallot (or whatever it is) until just clarified
   
   
   4. set these aside in a small bowl or cup for later
   
   
   5. mix in the parsley
   
   
   
   


2. slice the potatoes into ½ in. thick slabs, skin on, and discard the rounded ends


3. fill a non-stick frying pan (I use an omelet pan) half-full of water (yes, you anal-retentive pessimists may fill it half-empty)


4. place the potato slabs in the pan of water so that all are covered with water and none are stacked


5. heat the water to boiling and then turn it down just a bit (vigorous boiling might damage the skins)


6. parboil the potatoes until just tender (test with a toothpick to avoid damaging the slabs)—about ten minutes, I guess


7. carefully remove the slabs from the water with a nylon spatula


8. dump out the water and replace it with the remaining olive oil


9. heat the olive oil (medium heat) just to the point of smoking and then gingerly return the slabs to the pan


10. fry the slabs, turning them frequently (but carefully—they're still a bit delicate) until they're golden brown (okay, actually, I prefer golden with a uniform smattering of golden brown for character)


11. season the slabs with kosher salt and pepper while they're frying


12. plate the slabs with a sprinkling of the prepared shallots or scallions (or, okay, cipollini or leeks or red boiler onions or whatever fires your jets)

These things are kid-friendly, but my experience suggests the scallions are more kid-friendly than the shallot. I prefer the shallot, but the Little Darlings™ scraped it off and left it on the sides of their plates. I've served the potato slabs to the girlchild once with the scallions. Those she ate.

A manifestation of my oral fetish

Missed yesterday—sinus headache and an overwhelming desire to stay in bed until noon.

Last night's dinner was a moderate success. Here's the menu:

• salmon tartare


• basmati rice with fairy ring mushrooms


• shrimp in rare salmon cream sauce


• broccoli and chioggia beets in light soy


• baguette with brie

Okay, Princess V loves my salmon tartare, and the sockeye at Central Market glistened a promisingly fresh carmine, so that course was something of a given. I've experimented with a number of fish tartares (albacore, tuna, monkfish, and halibut), and the results have been mostly good. Uncooked albacore has a somewhat gummy texture that I find unpleasant; otherwise, my only missteps so far have been the non-fish ingredient choices (best example of a screw up that I recall was a halibut tartare with orange peel and some herb or another—pretty but way too bitter). I'm considering snapper and flounder, both of which make outstanding sashimi.

I admit I'm at a loss to explain my fascination with raw fish. Sure, part of it's the shock value: oh my god, you're eating that fish RAW! Yeah, I'm still that immature in that way, but just a little bit (hey, I'm male—I'm allowed). Still, I've been enjoying sushi and sashimi for years, so you'd think some of that would have worn off by now. I also like that Princess V loves the salmon tartare. That woman does enough (note to my oldest daughter: yes, I'm talking about sex—sweaty, kinky, full-contact, wild animal sex) for me that I'm always happy to recreate dishes she likes.

Anyway, the salmon tartare has been such a pleasure, I thought I should share that in a few thousand places, so here, in painstaking detail, it begins:

Salmon tartare in bacon

dramatis personae:

• 6 ounces fresh salmon


• one golfball-size shallot


• one tablespoon non-pareil capers


• one teaspoon tarragon vinegar


• two tablespoons fresh dill


• eight bacon rings


• baguette crouton crackers

quality of ingredients

Okay, so how do you know if the salmon is fresh? And, which kind of salmon do you want? Well, color is a damned fine starting point. For most varieties of both wild-caught and farm-raised salmon the flesh should be a brilliant pastel orange. Steelhead trout (yeah, yeah, not salmon, I know, but they're still anadromous salmonids, and the flavor is similar) is more vermillion, and sockeye salmon is actually carmine. The flesh should also be firm but not dry, intact (old fish starts to separate along the length of the fillets), and without much odor.

Here's where I piss off the gourmet and gourmand wannabes: If the texture, color, and odor are acceptable, farm-raised is just as good as wild-caught. Why pay three times as much for no advantage at the table? For an example of a typical contrary opinion on this matter, compare Nadsa's pretentious claims about salmon. I'll tell you right now, though, she wouldn't pass a blindfold taste test. Her claims about the problems with salmon farms are generalizations. Most of the salmon farms feed a combination of fish meal and krill. You don't know what the wild-caught salmon have been eating or where they've been harvested, which means you don't know what kind of industrial waste they've been swimming through. Nadsa expresses concern about bullying among farm salmon, but you're more likely to find bruises (big surprise) on wild-caught fish. As for the fishy smell, the only time pan-fried fish smells fishy is when it's overcooked, cooked in cornmeal (always a bad idea), or reheated. In each case, the result is the same for both wild-caught and farm-raised.

Shallots? Aren't those expensive? Can't I just use a combination of garlic and onion like they say in the cookbooks? Obviously I'm not going to come to your house and kick your ass if you fuck up my beautiful recipe, but let's keep the goal in mind: we're trying to enhance the flavor of some fairly delicate meat. Shallot has the right touch of sweetness, the right moisture content, the right tooth, and just a teeny bit of pungency to it. I don't think any amount of balancing will get the same result with a garlic clove and some onion. Garlic has too much punch, and it's too dry. Onion is too wet, too sweet, and some varieties can be both too bitter and too strong.

Non-pareils refers to the size of the capers. They're the smallest available capers, slightly larger than rocaille beads and slightly smaller than petit pois. The size of the capers controls the size of the diced ingredients in the tartare, which controls the overall texture. The capers should be stored in brine or salted vinegar. The Alessi™ brand are packaged in white balsamic vinegar, which makes them too sweet for this application (okay, I think it makes them too sweet for any application, but I guess someone, somewhere must like sweet-and-sour capers or they'd stop making the damned things). I also do not recommend using the Crosse & Blackwell™ capers; I don't know what they do to those little buggers, but they should stop it. Bleah.

I use Oscar Meyer™ center-cut bacon, preferably strips that start out at roughly 50 to 60 percent fat. The traditional container for salmon tartare is a ring of smoked salmon, but I consider this too much of a muchness. The bacon ring adds a touch more saltiness and a variation in texture, which I consider a positive addition to the overall oral experience. I prepare the bacon rings in the (gasp) microwave. I find this extremely efficient and relatively oil-free. I dare anyone to better my results with any stovetop method or even in a conventional oven. If you want to be a purist, I suppose you could bake the bacon rings in ramekins, wrapped around slices of baguette to retain the shape and absorb the oil.

I suppose something like bagel chips or crackers will work fine. Princess V and the girlchild seem to prefer the croutons, though, and they're pretty easy to make. Be sure you start with a baguette that's a tiny bit tough. If they're too light and soft, the insides occasionally crumble out.


preparation notes

All measurements are lies. At best, they're approximations and wild guesses. I do this by taste and appearance. I rarely resort to measures once I know what I'm looking for. For the salmon, six ounces refers to what's left after you cut away and discard the skin. You will probably have to start with a half pound of salmon. The best example of how I lie is that teaspoon of vinegar. I really have no idea how much vinegar I use. Last night I prepared a slightly smaller amount of tartare, using about four ounces of salmon. I used two quick squirts from my bottle of tarragon vinegar. Not all bottles have the little squirt top, though, so that might not be any help to you. As I said: lies, approximations, wild guesses. If you're going to cook, you're going to learn to trust your own tastes and judgment.

You wouldn't think it would be complicated turning six ounces of salmon into six ounces of salmon burger, but it is.

A bit.

See, you actually don't want the salmon ground up, you want it diced. I recommend putting the fish in the freezer for about a half hour (this is the same method most cooks use to slice carpaccio). Carefully slice the flesh away from the skin. Discard the skin and any darker meat near the skin. Slice the salmon crosswise into eighth-inch thick slices. Dice the slices into tiny bits, roughly the size of the capers. The shallot should be diced to this same size.

Frissée the dill until the bits are all no bigger than the capers.

All this anality about the size of the dice pays off orally. The resulting texture of the tartare is a relatively uniform granularity of alternating soft, crunchy, and firm bits that each offer a distinct flavor element to the dish.

To make the crouton crackers (the bases for the tartare hors d'oeuvres), cut the baguette diagonally into oblique, quarter-inch-thick slices. Paint each slice with a little olive oil and broil them (one side only) until golden brown (about a minute and a half in my broiler).

To make the bacon rings, make a roll of about eight to ten paper towels (roughly an inch-and-a-half in diameter). You should be able to wrap six strips of bacon around this. Wrap loosely (it will shrink) but don't leave any slack. Lightly wrap a single paper towel around the outside of the bacon. Microwave the roll on a ceramic plate on high for no more than thirty seconds per slice of bacon. If you haven't a rotisserie plate in your microwave, stop it every minute to turn the bacon. At the end of this time, the bacon rings should be cooked enough to stay together while you take them off the roll. To remove the rings, grab the ends of the roll of paper and twist it to loosen the rings. You may still have to nudge them a bit to get them off. Try not to break the rings. If they're not done to your taste but can be removed from the roll, remove them, set them atop a paper towel and drape another over them and microwave them about 30 seconds a go until you get the results you want.

Stuff each ring with a tablespoon or so of tartare, and nest it on a single crouton cracker. If you want to get fancy, you can garnish it with chives or sprigs of dill.

Sex and happiness

Sex isn't happiness and it isn't necessary for happiness. It sure helps, though.

Who am I kidding? Happiness? Hell, I can't live without sex.

Well. Maybe. I could, but I won't. Not even to verify the possibility.

So, Revision One: sex isn't happiness, but it is a necessary component of my happiness.

Princess Valiant and I both have pasts populated by spouses and lovers (yes, plurals all 'round) who threw out constant complaints about our excessive concupiscence. I wasted a lot of time masturbating during those years. Here are a few of the key complaints we experienced:

1. Normal people don't have to have sex every night.


2. Some nights I just want to cuddle.


3. Cuddling doesn't necessarily mean I want anything more.


4. Not everyone has your libido.


5. You're wearing me out.


6. Sometimes I just can't.


7. I'm not in the mood.


8. Did it ever occur to you that just because you want sex doesn't mean that I do?


9. How can you be horny all the time?


10. This isn't the time.


11. This isn't the place.


12. Someone might see us.


13. What are you doing back there?

To this series of statements, questions, and slurs, I have derived a suitable set of responses. I do hope my ex-wife sees this list; she could learn a lot from it that might save her next marriage. Here, by the numbers, are my responses:

1. Who says you're the normal one? I think, if they could manage it, most normal people would be much happier (okay, maybe a little tireder) if they had sex at least every night. I prefer it a bit more often than just UID.


2. Get a teddy bear. Healthy adults are sexually aroused by intimate contact. Drawing the line at cuddling is sadistic (and not in that fun, spank-me sort of way, either).


3. Yes it does. You just need to get past your own inhibitions. Wanting sex does not make you dirty (unless that thought turns you on, in which case, it does make you dirty—it does!)


4. Of course not. Every individual has his or her own libido. You apparently need help getting in touch with yours.


5. Bollocks. You're allowing your inhibitions to block you, and the energy you put into denial, into rationing out your emotions, and into fighting natural urges is wearing you out. Give in. You'll have more fun.


6. Yeah. Sometimes I can't, too: when I'm desperately ill, when I'm thoroughly exhausted, when I've just finished a big meal. Otherwise, I can. You can if you want to. To want to, just tell yourself you want to.


7. Then get in the mood. Getting in the mood is easy. I hate to sound like a tennis shoe ad, but Just Do It. Having sex will make you want sex. It's like fanning a fire. Sex feeds off itself like hunger feeding off delectable aromas. Stop whining and start caressing.


8. Of course it occured to me. I dismissed it because you're alive, awake, adult, and healthy.


9. I'm not horny all the time. Sometimes I'm hungry. Sometimes I'm eating. Sometimes I'm asleep. Sometimes I'm too busy doing something else to think about sex. Sometimes I'm desperately ill. Other than that, I'm horny. You are too; you're just denying it.


10. Yes it is.


11. Yes it is.


12. If someone sees us, they'll be jealous and probably go off and do the same thing. Consider it a public service. Besides, the possibility of getting caught secretly turns you on.


13. Exactly what you want me to do. Want to switch?

For signs and for seasons

Yesterday, I responded to a posting on a scuba email list. My response—innocuous enough in content—merely asked for some information concerning a reported fatality, but I was using a somewhat provocative signature line:

Although it is not true that all conservatives are stupid people, it is true that all stupid people are conservative.


–John Stuart Mill

One of the reactionaries on the list took umbrage, asking, "Is this a scuba diving e-mail group or a political discussion e-mail group?" She went on to complain that insults were inappropriate in a posting about someone's death.

In my rather terse reply, I quipped, "Lighten up, Cynthia. It's just a signature line. Do you stop people on the road to complain about bumper stickers you find politically disagreeable?"

Princess V commended my response, but it left me feeling vaguely uncomfortable. I don't know about Cynthia, but frequently I want to stop people on the freeway and respond to their bumper stickers. Sometimes, after the fact, I can't help wondering who has inhabited this body and why he becomes so incensed at the sight of pro-life, pro-Bush, pro-Rush Limbaugh, and pro-gun bumper stickers.

Contact me at pot@kettle.black.com, eh?

Signs and stickers and flags, but to me they all look like red capes taunting me to break the assault laws.

Especially the flags.

Such a curious turn of events in this country—my country. I was a Boy Scout. I was a Chief Petty Officer in the Navy. I've been all around the world, and I still love this country. I have driven hours out of my way to let friends experience the expansive grandeur of the Grand Canyon and the limitless world of light from the hills above Los Angeles. I have reveled in the freedoms garnered for us, and in many ways, small and large, struggled to endorse and maintain those freedoms. Though not directly connected to them in any way by blood or marriage, I have always basked in an obscene pride of association with such grand American heroes as Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and John and Bobby Kennedy.

Why, then, do I find the sight of an American flag so damned irritating?

For a while, it was just the moronic association of the American flag with George W. Bush that I found exasperating. The little weasel stole the election and then showed his true colors when the planes hit on 9/11 by scurrying down a hole and hiding out for 24 hours. Only an idiot would make that obscene connection: America=GWBush. Naturally, then, when I saw a Honda Civic with an American flag flying from the antenna and a George W. Bush sticker on the bumper, I had an overwhelming urge to run the offending Honda into a ditch and pound the snot out of the driver—for his own good, of course. Nothing like a near-fatal beating to bring about a true epiphany.

Next, it was the obscene proliferation of flags on some vehicles: monster stickers blocking out the windows; dual, left-and-right, flag bumper stickers so that no one passing or being passed could miss one or the other; cutesy quasi-patriotic phrases pasted over flag motifs ("These colors won't run" invariably done in an ink that asserts a contrary opinion by fading in the sun); flags up on Wal-Mart plastic window poles leaving me wondering why four-star general should be riding around in a Plymouth Voyager; antenna-warping monster flags torn to black-edged tatters by 65mph diesel-laden winds. Do the occupants of these vehicles think we don't know what country we're in? Are they afraid that their pride will so swell their breasts as to burst them like overripe tomatoes if the don't find release? Has nationalism become another ill-defined competitive sport—a disc golf for the new milenium?

Then, of course, there was that obnoxious excuse for a war: the American conquest of Iraq. Suddenly, American flags appeared with "Support Our Troops" and slogans of that ilk. It didn't take long to realize that "Support Our Troops" was shorthand for "If you oppose the war in Iraq or our Commander-in-Chief, I will accuse you of being a vile traitor."

Hey, I supported our troops in the biggest way possible: I demanded they be returned home to safety.

On one prominently displayed flag in an Austin front lawn, the owner has stenciled a black peace sign. I found this to be the saddest note of all. This poor bastard had to clearly mark his flag to differentiate it from the symbols so blithely coopted by the fascists.

Fascists. That's the problem, really. The flag—Old Glory—the symbol of my home land, the country I love—has been coopted by fascists. Does this sound like extreme rhetoric? an emotional appeal? a red flag?

Compare the short list of recent developments to fascist regimes of the past:

• the stress on issues of security


• the implication that all dissent is treasonous


• suggestions that criticism of our "leaders" equates to hatred of our country


• new laws reducing civil rights


• a judiciary more interested in maintaining control than protecting individual rights


• flags and uniforms and more flags

The United States of America: God, how I miss her.

Sex and food

Okay, let's test drive this critter with a little food and sex.

Everybody eats, but not everybody fucks. Considering some of the genetic possibilities, this is probably a good thing. (Lord, please make Ari Fleischer celibate). Recently, though, I began wondering how much one thing (food) has to do with another (sex).

My Princess and I experimented with truffles this week (I'm talking about cooking, now, so don't go all 9 ½ Weeks on me). She convinced me (arm twisting, pleading, tears--well, maybe not literally) to blow the twenty bucks for a not-quite-golfball-sized truffle. I relented, but I have a very good excuse: I'm weak.

For my first effort, I decided to try a roulé of beef tartare, something I'd been wanting to try anyway. I purchased a quarter pound of prime angus filet, pounded it flat, grated a quarter of the truffle into the couple tablespoons of whipped cream cheese, rolled the cheese into the sheet of beef (in a strip of Saran wrap), and stuck the roll in the freezer for about an hour while I prepared the rest of dinner. After the hour (which was not quite long enough to keep the roll from deforming), I took the roll out and sliced it into eighth-inch thick wheels. These I served like carpaccio: drizzled with olive oil and lemon, accompanied with greens and thin croutons.

Princess V and I enjoyed the results. The textures of the cream cheese and pounded filet matched nicely. She suggested the beef should have been pounded a bit thinner, and I agreed. The harmony of flavors, however, was astonishing: rich and assertive without being overpowering. I could taste every element of the roulé and still enjoy the combination.

The reaction of our kids was quite a bit different. Now, before you snort dismissively over my feeding tartare and truffles to a nine-year-old boy and ten-year-old girl, you should understand that they're thoroughly acclimated to the experimental nature of my cooking—especially the girlchild. Both kids enjoy beef carpaccio and rare salmon or tuna. In fact, they both liked the raw beef.

It was the truffles that put them off.

Girlchild picked the beef bits out of the roulé and left the cream cheese behind, complaining that she didn't like the aftertaste. Boychild ate one slice and said it was good, but that something in the cheese smelled funny. I could, I suppose, dismiss his dislike as another example of his dislike for fungi. Boychild turns up his nose at all manner of mushrooms (except for the one I dice into capaletti stuffing or risotto, which he devours in spite of the hated fungi). Girlchild, on the other hand, likes most mushrooms (she doesn't care for the texture of cloud ears), and she didn't like the truffles.

Just to be certain, I let the kids smell the sliced truffle. Sure enough, that was the offending smell.

It was a good truffle. If it had been a little fresher, it would have been stronger, so I know it wasn't the quality of the nodule that put the kids off.

No, I think it's sex.

Truffles taste and smell like sex. The kids have never experienced sex (except as a concept: that icky thing adults like), so they have no frame of reference.

I wonder. When well-to-do French and Italian kids—kids raised on truffled foods—are old enough to have sex for the first time, do they get a severe case of the munchies?