So Wednesday night I tried something new in the kitchen. I had a hankerin' for some pasta, so I thought I would heat up some canned chicken breast (from Costco) and boil up a box of elbows. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do about sauce for the pasta, but since I had a bit of bacon grease still in the pan from breakfast earlier in the day, I thought, "Gravy!"
One problem. I've never made gravy before. In just under 40 Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners that my mom and/or sisters made while I grew up in the family home, I had never quite gotten around to watching and learning exactly how one makes gravy. I knew it had something to do with pan drippings and flour...but that's about it.
So, thinking I can figure out just about anything, I boiled the water and got the pasta going, decanned the chicken chunks and got them warming gingerly in a pan, heated up the bacon grease, pulled out the bag of flour, and experimented.
I sprinkled some flour into the grease and was just a little uneasy as it bubbled up. It settled down fairly quickly, and so things were going smoothly. It didn't seem like quite enough, so I added some more flour. And then some more. It was coming along nicely, but still seemed a little loose. A little more flour and it seemed just about right.
I drained the water off the chicken chunks and slid them out of the pan and into the "gravy." Suddenly the "gravy" thickened into a paste, and glommed on to the pieces of chicken in a very ungravy-like manner.
I plated some elbows, dumped the chicken-chunk-paste on top and sat down to a nice freshly made dinner.
And it was awful. I'm no great cook, but aside from occasionally burning a few things beyond taste, I've never been unable to eat something I've made. I thought I was going to hurl!
I rolled the pasty chicken chunks off and ate just the pasta, and I threw the chicken away.
Only then did I go to the internet and look up "gravy for idiots," and I actually learned something!
Take two...
Thursday night I was contemplating my dinner choices again. I still had four-fifths of Wednesday night's pasta in the refrigerator. I felt cheated on the gravy idea that I botched. So...
Was I ready to try it again? Absolutely. The bacon grease was already there, waiting in the pan since this morning's breakfast. I threw a steak on the grill outside and actually finished cooking that before I started anything else. I put about a cup and a half of cooked pasta and a little bit of water in a small skillet and covered that over a very low flame. I got the grease warmed up and started adding flour and stirring. This time I knew to stop at two tablespoons of flour, and to let the mixture get a little pasty, and then I added just one cup of milk, stirring it in slowly, just a little bit at a time. It started to get a little too thick, so I added just another splash or two of milk.
In just a few minutes it looked perfect! But what about the taste? I sampled a bit, and determined it needed salt and pepper. As I was still sampling it, I thought I had added too much salt, so I decided it was gravy. I uncovered the meat, dumped the pasta onto the plate, poured all of the gravy (what, was I going to save some for later?) over the pasta, and sat down to eat.
And?
HOLY CRAP! Was it GOOD! It was another one of those moments in my nascent culinary journey that I couldn't believe I had made it, it tasted so damn good! And the fact that I sit here at the computer several hours later instead of doubled over a toilet proves that not only was it good, but it was edible!
So... Gravy? Check.
°
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Chunky Cheese Burgers
It's not often that I am inspired to cook something I've never cooked before, and even less often that I am inspired to create culinarily.
It's a word.
Sunday at my sister's house for a family gathering and pool party, we were poking light fun at my niece, #9, for the hamburgers she had made for the occasion. With a little bit of A-1 Sauce in the mix, along with some egg and diced onions, they were fairly typical of back yard cookout fare. Except for their size. She had factored too much for shrinkage on the grill and had made them huge. They wound up only slightly less huge. But give her a break; she has one year left toward her nursing degree...it's her younger sister who's the budding chef.
The diced onions were cut fairly large, too, and that gave me an idea, which I tried today. I saw the chunks of onion and thought, "What if that were cheese?" Imagine thick squares of cheddar embedded in your piping hot burger, oozing out when you bite into it!
So Tuesday I gave it a shot.
I had done some grocery shopping on Monday and picked up a block of medium cheddar cheese and about a pound of ground chuck. I had another pound of regular ground beef in the freezer, which I put into the refrigerator Tuesday afternoon to thaw.
Into a mixing bowl I threw both packages of ground beef, two eggs, one half of an onion, diced, and 8 ounces of cheddar cheese cut into roughly half-inch cubes. I mixed everything together, as one is wont to do when making hamburgers, and threw them on the grill.
Click on a photo to make it grow.
And they came out? Meh. The cheese that went onto the grill exposed melted out of the burger and onto the grill. It smelled bad while the burgers were cooking. I made three large burgers and three average sized to see if there was any difference in the taste or the melt of the cheese. There was not much difference at all.
I do think it's kind of a good idea...maybe something fun to do with kids, but next time I'll use smaller chunks of cheese...and learn how to cook.
°
It's a word.
Sunday at my sister's house for a family gathering and pool party, we were poking light fun at my niece, #9, for the hamburgers she had made for the occasion. With a little bit of A-1 Sauce in the mix, along with some egg and diced onions, they were fairly typical of back yard cookout fare. Except for their size. She had factored too much for shrinkage on the grill and had made them huge. They wound up only slightly less huge. But give her a break; she has one year left toward her nursing degree...it's her younger sister who's the budding chef.
The diced onions were cut fairly large, too, and that gave me an idea, which I tried today. I saw the chunks of onion and thought, "What if that were cheese?" Imagine thick squares of cheddar embedded in your piping hot burger, oozing out when you bite into it!
So Tuesday I gave it a shot.
I had done some grocery shopping on Monday and picked up a block of medium cheddar cheese and about a pound of ground chuck. I had another pound of regular ground beef in the freezer, which I put into the refrigerator Tuesday afternoon to thaw.
Into a mixing bowl I threw both packages of ground beef, two eggs, one half of an onion, diced, and 8 ounces of cheddar cheese cut into roughly half-inch cubes. I mixed everything together, as one is wont to do when making hamburgers, and threw them on the grill.
Click on a photo to make it grow.
And they came out? Meh. The cheese that went onto the grill exposed melted out of the burger and onto the grill. It smelled bad while the burgers were cooking. I made three large burgers and three average sized to see if there was any difference in the taste or the melt of the cheese. There was not much difference at all.
I do think it's kind of a good idea...maybe something fun to do with kids, but next time I'll use smaller chunks of cheese...and learn how to cook.
°
Monday, August 10, 2009
It's Not a Book About Underwater Naval Vessels
One thing about watching old TV shows — especially those for which I was around when they were new — is the glimpse back at how things were then. Granted, it was TV. It never quite captured or recreated life the way it really was, and some of the shows that were "edgy" then have seen their edge grown dull in reflection.
I'm still plugging away at Starsky & Hutch, and am now about one-fifth of the way through season three. Monday night I resumed my viewing and, in episode five, titled "Death in a Different Place," was witness to what I thought was a rather odd exchange between the two main characters:
As I am the master of double entendre, I absorbed the end of this exchange with the exuberance of an eighth grade boy who just learned a new use of the word "rubber."
But then the episode deals with a married police lieutenant who is murdered in a dive hotel where he has been seen frequently taking a different young man up to his room each night.
At first both Starsky and Hutch react with shock and disbelief that their friend and colleague was apparently living a secret life as a gay man.
I was mildly shocked that a weekly network TV action show did, in 1977, take on the topic so frankly. Starsky was portrayed as having a tough time dealing with this revelation about his friend, and having some prejudiced views about homosexuality — reflecting the general attitude of the nation at the time. Hutch was portrayed as being of the more progressive view, that it's not so strange or taboo, that homosexuals are human and deserve the respect of humans, regardless of their sexual preference.
An added wrinkle was the plot complication that their boss, Captain Dobey, was under pressure to make the murder investigation go away because the department was under pressure by certain entities of the public to allow gays on the police force, and now it had been revealed that one of "the city's finest was a homosexual." To me, the implication was clear that their fictional police department — not unlike real ones across the nation — was resisting that pressure.
By today's standards, the show's handling of the topic was certainly ham-fisted. But then, everything the show did was ham-fisted, so why complain? However, there seemed a raw honesty about it, and an enthusiasm about their message. I think they were breaking new ground — or at least making tracks on recently broken ground — in American television, and making a bold statement: homosexuals exist in society and are not awaiting your permission to function beside you; their private lives are none of your business, and shouldn't be a factor in their hiring or firing, or whether or not you'll share the sidewalk with them; denying their existence or their lifestyle won't make them straight, nor will it make them go away.
I recall reading recently that many people saw a homosexual undercurrent between the two characters in the program, perhaps when the show was on the air, but certainly when observed today. The program's epilogue, despite the message, still tweaked on a general sense of homophobia when Hutch asked Starsky if he thought two men spending 75% of their time together implied a certain preference. Starsky indicated his assent to the notion. But when Hutch laid down the correlation of his and Starsky's relationship, that the two spent about twelve hours a day together, sharing most of their meals together, and asked what that meant about them, Starsky was fairly disturbed by his partner's implication.
At the end of this episode I realized the unfortunate dialogue highlighted at the beginning of this post was probably not unintentional after all, and subtly, subliminally, introduced the episode's subject matter as subtext before coming out of the closet to hit the viewer over the head with it.
Perhaps the undercurrent wasn't so sublime after all.
°
I'm still plugging away at Starsky & Hutch, and am now about one-fifth of the way through season three. Monday night I resumed my viewing and, in episode five, titled "Death in a Different Place," was witness to what I thought was a rather odd exchange between the two main characters:
As I am the master of double entendre, I absorbed the end of this exchange with the exuberance of an eighth grade boy who just learned a new use of the word "rubber."
But then the episode deals with a married police lieutenant who is murdered in a dive hotel where he has been seen frequently taking a different young man up to his room each night.
At first both Starsky and Hutch react with shock and disbelief that their friend and colleague was apparently living a secret life as a gay man.
I was mildly shocked that a weekly network TV action show did, in 1977, take on the topic so frankly. Starsky was portrayed as having a tough time dealing with this revelation about his friend, and having some prejudiced views about homosexuality — reflecting the general attitude of the nation at the time. Hutch was portrayed as being of the more progressive view, that it's not so strange or taboo, that homosexuals are human and deserve the respect of humans, regardless of their sexual preference.
An added wrinkle was the plot complication that their boss, Captain Dobey, was under pressure to make the murder investigation go away because the department was under pressure by certain entities of the public to allow gays on the police force, and now it had been revealed that one of "the city's finest was a homosexual." To me, the implication was clear that their fictional police department — not unlike real ones across the nation — was resisting that pressure.
By today's standards, the show's handling of the topic was certainly ham-fisted. But then, everything the show did was ham-fisted, so why complain? However, there seemed a raw honesty about it, and an enthusiasm about their message. I think they were breaking new ground — or at least making tracks on recently broken ground — in American television, and making a bold statement: homosexuals exist in society and are not awaiting your permission to function beside you; their private lives are none of your business, and shouldn't be a factor in their hiring or firing, or whether or not you'll share the sidewalk with them; denying their existence or their lifestyle won't make them straight, nor will it make them go away.
I recall reading recently that many people saw a homosexual undercurrent between the two characters in the program, perhaps when the show was on the air, but certainly when observed today. The program's epilogue, despite the message, still tweaked on a general sense of homophobia when Hutch asked Starsky if he thought two men spending 75% of their time together implied a certain preference. Starsky indicated his assent to the notion. But when Hutch laid down the correlation of his and Starsky's relationship, that the two spent about twelve hours a day together, sharing most of their meals together, and asked what that meant about them, Starsky was fairly disturbed by his partner's implication.
At the end of this episode I realized the unfortunate dialogue highlighted at the beginning of this post was probably not unintentional after all, and subtly, subliminally, introduced the episode's subject matter as subtext before coming out of the closet to hit the viewer over the head with it.
Perhaps the undercurrent wasn't so sublime after all.
°
Monday, August 03, 2009
Like Minds
There's an old saying we've probably all heard that claims, "Laughter is the best medicine." While I can't vouch for its medicinal purposes, I can say that it at times can be a tremendous workout, and working out regularly can keep illness at bay. Of course, it has to be real, sustained laughter, not the "therapeutic" kind you force in search of some sense of well-being.
The crux — or crutch, if you will — of most of my humor is the double-entendre. Whether I'm in conversation or just witness to it, my brain is always tuned to the other meanings of words or their sound-alikes and, when the situation is informal and amenable enough to it, I'll make comments to those other meanings. That's making a double-entendre out of innocent or unfortunate phrasing, and I go for the laugh. Unfortunately, since so much of it is of the moment, I rarely remember the things I come up with, and some of them are, to my mind, real gems.
I recently got a laughter workout on a shoot gig. I usually do when I work for this particular producer. His name is Andy, and his employer is a long-time client of my former employer, who booked me a while ago for last week's shoot.
Andy and I worked together for the first time probably back in 2002, and it was way back then that we realized we had synchronous — if not identical — senses of humor. We both fully grasp the concept of the double-entendre and its comic potential, and we bounce our fleeting thoughts off of each other for maximum entertainment value.
A few years ago Andy and I worked together on a shoot in southern California and, on the last day, as we were running late to the airport (I missed my scheduled flight), we passed a restaurant called The Buggy Whip. We both seized on that and turned it into a restaurant with a BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) theme, positing a dominatrix-cum-hostess (perhaps an unfortunate syntax there!!) who seats you when and where she wants to while shaping your behavior with the threat and/or use of a whip, and wait staff who make you beg before you can request — rather than order — your food. We laughed well, but briefly, over that one, and I retained very few of the ideas we broached in the car.
This most recent shoot with Andy was once again in southern California, which makes me think the place imparts to us some kind of cosmic synergy. Monday evening, after being treated to dinner and drinks by the subject of our shoot, Andy and I were driving back to our hotel when, just to keep silence from invading our ride, I did what I often find myself doing and blurted out the name of the cross street at which we paused for a red light.
"Orangewood," I blurted.
Andy looked down at his lap. "No, mine's usually sort of pink." Typical guy humor, I know.
Feigning mild disgust, I said, "Dude. You just described part of your anatomy to me." And then my own odd phrasing and pronunciation occurred to me, and I repeated, "Anatomy to me."
Displaying perfect timing, Andy sang, "Doot-doooo-dee-doo-doot!" from the Manah Manah song. It took me a second to catch it, but when I did, HOLY CRAP! I hadn't laughed like that in years, and suddenly I was seized in hysteric convulsions. Mind you, I was driving; I can only imagine the look on the police officer's face if we had been pulled over at that moment. He would have had probable cause to search the vehicle for drugs! We laughed for another ten minutes, all the way to the hotel!
Maybe you get it. Maybe you had to be there.
Tuesday was a regular day. We shot several interviews, I shot a half-ton of b-roll. We finished around 5:00, and I debated whether to see my uncle who — so it turns out — lives only a few miles from where we were working, or to hang with Andy for the evening. The next day looked to be fairly light, with a late evening flight home, so I opted to visit Uncle Guido on my way out of town on Wednesday, and to hang with Andy Tuesday night.
We made plans to go see the film The Hangover at a shopping mall theater complex a few miles away, and thought we would take our chances at finding somewhere to eat close to it.
On our way there we saw a sign on a building, obviously a pet- or pet supply store. However, our minds took Pet City the other way, and it became a place where you go to be fondled. We didn't just state our interpretations, we created scenarios in the air, with a man going in to look for some stuff for his dog, but he walks in and is groped by an attractive female employee. He expresses his shock and confusion, and the woman explains what the place is, and then reveals to him a line of men waiting their turn.
We got some good laughs from "Pet City," but further along down the road we drove past a restaurant of the name, "Wok Experience." Nothing came to either of us as far as double entendre is concerned, but I blurted out the image of an unwitting customer entering the place, and a small Asian man running up and clocking the guy with a wok! I spoke as the attackee: "Why did you hit me with a pan?"
Andy countered in a stereotypical Asian accent, "Better than chopstick in eye!"
And we were rolling. Without going into all the details, we created a whole scene that involved more woks to the head (as the standard greeting upon arrival), to hands shoved into hot oil, to warnings about the Asian man's brother's place, "Chopstick Experience," where you get "chopstick in eye," and the Asian's admonition, "You no wanna go there!" We also included free foot binding as Tuesday's special; and Wednesday's special, the hibachi experience. Hmmm. It seems we get a lot of mileage out of the S&M theme....
We didn't have time to eat dinner and catch The Hangover, so we decided to just eat, and then we would catch the late showing of Angels and Demons at a different theater.
We sat at an Italian restaurant, where I actually wrote down some of the ideas spilling out of our heads, and we riffed for two hours on "Wok Experience," certainly convincing our waitress that we were high or certifiably loony. Neither Andy nor I could stop laughing, nor did the ideas and dialogue stop coming to us, which certainly didn't help to stop the laughter. Andy coughed briefly, then lamented, "Aw, now I'm gonna start coughing up crap."
Well, guess what that started?
On our way to the theater we passed some sort of oil-change/auto service place that had a huge neon sign glowing in the night: "Pit Service." I raised my arm and looked at my pit and said, "Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I have to be to work in an hour..."
Andy was gone. I was losing it...and, yes, driving again.
We managed to keep quiet during the film, but were rolling again — mostly with a revisit to "Wok Experience" — on the way back to the hotel.
The next morning I felt hung-over, only without the headache and nausea. I was achy from laughter, the muscles for which had not been engaged so much in years. My sinuses were clogged. I felt exhausted, yet exhilarated. And inspired. I told Andy I wanted to write "Wok Experience" as a scene, a short screenplay. He agreed that I should. After the day's shoots, a few more giddy laughs at lunch, and a visit to my uncle and aunt, I sat at the airport and tapped out a script on my laptop. As with anything I write, I'm not too crazy about how it turned out, but I sent it to Andy, and he thought it hilarious.
I hope someday to make it, or see it made into a film.
Hope with me, won't you?
°
The crux — or crutch, if you will — of most of my humor is the double-entendre. Whether I'm in conversation or just witness to it, my brain is always tuned to the other meanings of words or their sound-alikes and, when the situation is informal and amenable enough to it, I'll make comments to those other meanings. That's making a double-entendre out of innocent or unfortunate phrasing, and I go for the laugh. Unfortunately, since so much of it is of the moment, I rarely remember the things I come up with, and some of them are, to my mind, real gems.
I recently got a laughter workout on a shoot gig. I usually do when I work for this particular producer. His name is Andy, and his employer is a long-time client of my former employer, who booked me a while ago for last week's shoot.
Andy and I worked together for the first time probably back in 2002, and it was way back then that we realized we had synchronous — if not identical — senses of humor. We both fully grasp the concept of the double-entendre and its comic potential, and we bounce our fleeting thoughts off of each other for maximum entertainment value.
A few years ago Andy and I worked together on a shoot in southern California and, on the last day, as we were running late to the airport (I missed my scheduled flight), we passed a restaurant called The Buggy Whip. We both seized on that and turned it into a restaurant with a BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) theme, positing a dominatrix-cum-hostess (perhaps an unfortunate syntax there!!) who seats you when and where she wants to while shaping your behavior with the threat and/or use of a whip, and wait staff who make you beg before you can request — rather than order — your food. We laughed well, but briefly, over that one, and I retained very few of the ideas we broached in the car.
This most recent shoot with Andy was once again in southern California, which makes me think the place imparts to us some kind of cosmic synergy. Monday evening, after being treated to dinner and drinks by the subject of our shoot, Andy and I were driving back to our hotel when, just to keep silence from invading our ride, I did what I often find myself doing and blurted out the name of the cross street at which we paused for a red light.
"Orangewood," I blurted.
Andy looked down at his lap. "No, mine's usually sort of pink." Typical guy humor, I know.
Feigning mild disgust, I said, "Dude. You just described part of your anatomy to me." And then my own odd phrasing and pronunciation occurred to me, and I repeated, "Anatomy to me."
Displaying perfect timing, Andy sang, "Doot-doooo-dee-doo-doot!" from the Manah Manah song. It took me a second to catch it, but when I did, HOLY CRAP! I hadn't laughed like that in years, and suddenly I was seized in hysteric convulsions. Mind you, I was driving; I can only imagine the look on the police officer's face if we had been pulled over at that moment. He would have had probable cause to search the vehicle for drugs! We laughed for another ten minutes, all the way to the hotel!
Maybe you get it. Maybe you had to be there.
Tuesday was a regular day. We shot several interviews, I shot a half-ton of b-roll. We finished around 5:00, and I debated whether to see my uncle who — so it turns out — lives only a few miles from where we were working, or to hang with Andy for the evening. The next day looked to be fairly light, with a late evening flight home, so I opted to visit Uncle Guido on my way out of town on Wednesday, and to hang with Andy Tuesday night.
We made plans to go see the film The Hangover at a shopping mall theater complex a few miles away, and thought we would take our chances at finding somewhere to eat close to it.
On our way there we saw a sign on a building, obviously a pet- or pet supply store. However, our minds took Pet City the other way, and it became a place where you go to be fondled. We didn't just state our interpretations, we created scenarios in the air, with a man going in to look for some stuff for his dog, but he walks in and is groped by an attractive female employee. He expresses his shock and confusion, and the woman explains what the place is, and then reveals to him a line of men waiting their turn.
We got some good laughs from "Pet City," but further along down the road we drove past a restaurant of the name, "Wok Experience." Nothing came to either of us as far as double entendre is concerned, but I blurted out the image of an unwitting customer entering the place, and a small Asian man running up and clocking the guy with a wok! I spoke as the attackee: "Why did you hit me with a pan?"
Andy countered in a stereotypical Asian accent, "Better than chopstick in eye!"
And we were rolling. Without going into all the details, we created a whole scene that involved more woks to the head (as the standard greeting upon arrival), to hands shoved into hot oil, to warnings about the Asian man's brother's place, "Chopstick Experience," where you get "chopstick in eye," and the Asian's admonition, "You no wanna go there!" We also included free foot binding as Tuesday's special; and Wednesday's special, the hibachi experience. Hmmm. It seems we get a lot of mileage out of the S&M theme....
We didn't have time to eat dinner and catch The Hangover, so we decided to just eat, and then we would catch the late showing of Angels and Demons at a different theater.
We sat at an Italian restaurant, where I actually wrote down some of the ideas spilling out of our heads, and we riffed for two hours on "Wok Experience," certainly convincing our waitress that we were high or certifiably loony. Neither Andy nor I could stop laughing, nor did the ideas and dialogue stop coming to us, which certainly didn't help to stop the laughter. Andy coughed briefly, then lamented, "Aw, now I'm gonna start coughing up crap."
Well, guess what that started?
On our way to the theater we passed some sort of oil-change/auto service place that had a huge neon sign glowing in the night: "Pit Service." I raised my arm and looked at my pit and said, "Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I have to be to work in an hour..."
Andy was gone. I was losing it...and, yes, driving again.
We managed to keep quiet during the film, but were rolling again — mostly with a revisit to "Wok Experience" — on the way back to the hotel.
The next morning I felt hung-over, only without the headache and nausea. I was achy from laughter, the muscles for which had not been engaged so much in years. My sinuses were clogged. I felt exhausted, yet exhilarated. And inspired. I told Andy I wanted to write "Wok Experience" as a scene, a short screenplay. He agreed that I should. After the day's shoots, a few more giddy laughs at lunch, and a visit to my uncle and aunt, I sat at the airport and tapped out a script on my laptop. As with anything I write, I'm not too crazy about how it turned out, but I sent it to Andy, and he thought it hilarious.
I hope someday to make it, or see it made into a film.
Hope with me, won't you?
°
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