On the road again...

Tomorrow, I depart for Brooklyn after work. I look forward to a solid four days of forgetting that I don't live there anymore.

To the left, you'll note my new EZ-Pass, purchased after frustrating toll lines during my last trip (also, I decided it was time to enter the 21st century, though I have had fun paying for a 35-cent toll entirely in pennies).

Ginger has been freed of detritus. I am in possession of a New Year's Eve frock and my contributions to Beer Christmas. Now, if I could just motivate myself to pack.

Look out, bitches... here I come!

Stinky Whizzleteeth also likes good grammar.

As promised, here is my post about The Thing That Made Me Happy to the Point of Joyful Tears.

My, ahem, charming compulsiveness has reared its pretty head. You all know by now that I like my English written all proper-like, with each apostrophe placed with pride and certainty.

I, like other folks on this Internet Machine, feel inclined to point out violations against our mother tongue (though they tend to be quicker with the acerbic wit, and less reliant on the ranting and raving).

Behold, a common violation to my peace of mind:


I took this photo at a local supermarket this evening while my sister look on, puzzled.

Whomever began the trend of making the word "items" a general, uncountable noun is, in a word, a jerkface.

This sign blazing above me (as I purchase fewer than ten items at the local grocery store) is troubling.... enough to make me wince as I accept my change. The fact that this widely-accepted, easily-corrected error is also the title of some crappy movie (I assume it's crappy because they failed to employ a person with half a brain who could steer the enterprise through those shark-infested waters of usage vs. convention) swings the needle over into apoplexy.

So, in that store, I try to keep my purchases large and my eyes averted.

Just down the road a piece, though, there is a fine supermarket establishment whose prices are a little high, whose chili peppers are incorrectly sorted (an Anaheim and a Serrano should not be in the same basket... HELLO?), and whose checkout lines are stocked with Rachael Ray magazines. They have all of the elements I wish to avoid in my food shopping experience.

However, while collecting ingredients for holiday cookies the other day, I caught sight of what may well win this place my business for life:


Hosannas from the highest! Isn't it beautiful? Yeah, I think I need to do a little dance....







So, you see, I reward the worthy even as I chastise the feebly literate. Someone at that coporate headquarters pulled their heads out of each others patoots long enough to listen to the shrill cries of losers like me. And for that I thank them from the bottom of my cold cold heart. I wished I could have danced with the pimply-faced bagger in the bakery aisle without being hauled away given antipsychotics. Because 10 Items or Fewer? It's a beautiful thing.*


*ha ha**


**Yeah, I don't get out much.

Wha Happened?

Yes, changes are afoot. I've gotten into this "re-do your blog in Beta" craze.

I'm trying the new title on for size... a cheeky reference to my delusions of culinary grandeur, you see.

Anyway, bear with me as I find the time to futz with the template (those titles to the right are terrifyingly large... I'm gonna work on that, I swear) and post things that might amuse or titillate (Oh, who am I kidding... things that amuse and titillate me and maybe also Claire, but mostly in that indulgent way).

I haven't dropped off the earth, it's just a little crazy 'round these parts.

There's a couple of things I simply must post about soon, namely "How to Pick Up Your Bartender"(an offshoot of earlier instructional posts) and also "The Thing That Made Me Happy to the Point of Joyful Tears."

Who's excited? Just me? Well, stay tuned.

Big Dude, Little Dog

As promised, heartwarming photos of dudes with Carson.

First, my uncle Dennis:



And a great one of Josh:



As he mentioned, Josh and I had a lovely visit, which involved some fine beers at Strange Brew, breakfast at a diner where there's Scripture on the back of the menu, and plenty of dog-related hijinks.


Here is Josh, settling down with his bunkmates. He woke up with at least two of Carson's toys in his bed.

We've decided that we're going to move to Paris to become garbagemen.... 8 weeks of vacation!

No no no.... Thank YOU!

I suppose I'll get in on the action of post-Thanksgiving wrap up. When we left off, I was still in the shopping and prepping phase. The day itself began with a brine.


Here's that lovely delicious turkey bath. Water, kosher salt, honey, a lemon, an orange, whole cloves, bay leaves, and peppercorns. After putting the brine together on Wednesday morning, I rushed off to a double shift (on the craziest bar night of the year, in fact).

After surviving lunch and dinner, it was home again to make some stuffing. This is when things got a little tricky. I was a leeetle tired, a touch hurried, and just a smidgeon preoccupied with the desire to get the hell into bed. Add one crusty loaf of sourdough, one dull-ass bread knife, and instructions for a 1/3 of an inch dice, and you get:




A rather nasty slice through my left index finger. The good news: I stopped cutting before I sawed off the tip of my finger. Also good news: my knife-weilding hand is fine (though it would take a really special someone to cut their knife hand... or a really special knife), so my ability to continue in my Thanksgiving cookery role is shaken, but holding on. Bad news: Bleeding. Bleeding a lot. I was luckily too angry by the delay to get all woozy as one might when one sustains a nasty cut to the finger. My anger manifested itself in me running around the downstairs at 11:30pm, clutching a paper towel to my finger, screeching obscenities. It was at this moment that I decided to enlist my mother, a skilled Nurse Practitioner, who'd just gone to bed.

Me: (At the bottom of the stairs, tentatively, but with some urgency) "Mo-om? I cut myself pretty badly."

Mom: (Appearing on the landing in her bathrobe, trepidatious) "What?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty bad. With the bread knife."

Mom: (she has not seen it yet) "Jesus Christ!"

Me: (ascending the stairs, arm outstretched) "Do you think I need stitches? Please tell me I don't need stitches."

Mom: (looking at finger) "Jesus Christ Sheena!"

- It should be noted here that my mother is not a blasphemer by hobby, but rather finds taking the name of the Lord to be steadying in the face of her idiot children hurting themselves, thereby worrying her. Her bedside manner with her real patients is impeccable. With us it's a little adversarial.

My mother ruled that stitches would be useless for the type of wound, a ____ion (one of those medical words she throws around and I forget), expertly anointed and wrapped my finger in bandages, and scolded me soundly. Luckily, my middle name didn't enter the equation at all, so I know I'm not in too much trouble. She warned that the finger would "Throb like a mo-fo" (she was right... ) and told me to stop what I was doing and get some sleep for Christ's sake.

I finished assembling the stuffing nine-fingered (sorry Mom... had to be done) and retired.

Thanksgiving morning, with my finger thumping away, we welcomed cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmother to the melee of meal preparation. Dad handled the musclework of getting the turkey from its briny bucket to the roasting rack, while I sliced brussels sprouts and Hayley chopped mushrooms. My cousins were put to work on the pies:

Here is Shayne, assembling a Tarte Tatin (with pears instead of apples)



Here, my cousin Corey helps Shayne with the Tarte.


Naomi displays the caramel pumpkin pie filling.


Here's the bird, right out of the oven, perfectly crispy and golden thanks to the convection setting.

And the turkey's friend, Prime Rib:


Here's my uncle Mark, enjoying a prime rib chew:


Generational portrait!



Much food was eaten and good times were had by all. Many thanks to my impromptu army of sous-chefs.

Tomorrow, I'll post about a Joshie weekend, and two new installments of Big Dude, Small Dog.

Over the river and through the woods, down Everett Turnpike we go!

Thanksgiving is upon us, and I've spent the last week or so poring over cookbooks and Gourmet, taking polls of the family, and skulking about my local grocery stores in preparation for the big meal.

We're having quite a lot of extended family over, which should be fun, and since I have these pesky cooking aspirations, I volunteered to spearhead the planning and preparation of our first Stateside-as-a-family (less my younger sis, whose Scots university doesn't give Tryptophan-and-Football Day off, oddly enough) Thanksgiving feast.

While I certainly don't mind the planning or the cooking, finding some of the ingredients and equipment has been challenging. A 10-inch deep-dish fluted quiche pan for the pumpkin pie? Not going to happen. I have to accept that and take the ceramic pie weights and steel pastry scraper I found today as sufficient consolation. Furthermore, I'm dealing with the lack of one-stop shopping. Our mildly-fancy grocery store does not carry brussels sprouts or shallots. Or more than one variety of wild mushroom. I'm just going to have to move on with my life, suck it up, and drive all over hill and dale in search of these things. Nevermind my pointless quest for cooked, peeled, and jarred chestnuts. I'm going to roast and shell those suckers myself... perhaps imparting an interesting smoky flavor to the stuffing? Or maybe the shells will cause my fingers to bleed... either way, it'll be nearly impossible to keep from eating them instead of reserving them.

The matter of the turkey is fully in hand, however. The bird arrives from Vermont tomorrow, will be collected Wednesday, and subsequently submerged in a honey salt brine. I can hardly wait to unleash our convection oven goodness on it.

You may wonder what the photo has to do with anything, aside from showcasing my kitchen-nerdiness.

Well, as promised, I test-drove the much-ballyhooed Bittman bread recipe, with quite delicious results (if I may say so myself). I am therefore quite pleased that I have 25 pounds of flour to work with over the next few weeks as I slow-ferment some carby goodness as frequently as possible. I have to say, I was frightened by the thread on Kitchen, but I never should have doubted The Great Minimalist. As we speak, I'm fermentin' up a wheatier version of the original recipe to bring to a potluck tomorrow. We'll see if I got the proportions right, gluten-wise... it'd be bad form to show up at a dinner gathering with a hockey puck masquerading as bread.

Oh, the other element of the picture is my super cool squeeze-handle flour sifter. My Gram gave it to me, as the squeezing motion is bad for her arthritis, and I'm in love. We've had the same crank-operated one for ages (an heirloom on my mother's side), and there's a hole in the screen, rendering it pretty well useless. This new one has me sifting flour even if the recipe suggests it as optional.

So, what's everone else up to for the holiday? Planning to eat anything exciting? Be sure to stop on by the farm for some leftovers. Between the turkey and the roast beef, we're going to have a full fridge for ages. Joshua, I'm looking at you. You know how I feel about leftovers. Don't let me down.

I think I might be in a codependent relationship.

With a Chihuahua, that is. He waits for me to come home at night, sleeps under my covers or around my neck, and just this evening followed me into the bathroom and camped out on the mat while I took a shower. It's getting quite intense.

In other Carson news, I'm going to begin posting my photo series, "Big Dude, Small Dog." I have a few shots of the little guy being held by men, and, well, I can't keep them to myself. Furthermore, any men who find themselves near me, a camera, and The Dude, would do well to smile and say cheese.

So, here are those inaugural photos (courtesy of Gil):

Here are Seth and Carson, engaged in a meeting of the minds.



Here, Chris has discovered how the Chihuahua is fully-poseable.


Not bad, right? Come Thanksgiving, I'll likely be able to trick my uncles and family friends into picking him up. Stay tuned.

Sooo.... I'm back in New Hampshire. I was going to post a lengthy treatise on the New York weekend's activities, but realized there are only so many ways you can write about eating, drinking, and sleeping before you start to seem like some kind of lazy, lushy glutton. I could also write about the magical land of Berlin, located in (The Interminable State of) Connecticut, where Mapquest took me needlessly on the drive home. I saw many strip malls (featuring Home Depot, Chile's, Panera Bread, Staples, etc.), Adult DVD and Video stores , and traffic lights. I also nearly ran over a hitchhiker (by accident).

The highlight of my return is the mysterious resurrection of my iPod (might have to rename it "Lazarus," from "The Pookah McPhellimey"....oh, I'm a nerdlinger. You'd better frickin' believe it.). Seriously. I don't know what happened, but I do know that I won't have to scan through a million radio stations playing James Blunt and Nickleback. And that makes me unimpeachably happy.

Sometime soon I'll give you denizens of the Interweb a rundown of my most recent trip the Russian and Turkish Baths, unless Claire beats me to it. At the moment, I find I'm in the throes of fighting off a nasty cold. I may enlist my mother and her laryngoscope to determine whether there are, in fact, hedgehogs living in my throat. Mean little hedgehogs with fiery spines. 'Til then, it's grapefruit juice, AirBorne, and lemons for me. All that Vitamin-C has the extra effect of activating my adamantium blood. Excellent.

Tomorrow, with any luck (and hedgehogs willing), I'll get cracking on a loaf of Bittman's slow-fermenting bread. Then, I'll put my oar in here. Stay tuned. Come on over if you'd like to be a guinea pig.

Ground Control to Major Tom

Tomorrow I leave the newly-blue state of New Hampshire for the delights of Brooklyn. Though I'm sad I didn't have my shit together to get down there to coordinate with Toby's visit, I'm excited to visit with all y'all New York folks.

I will have presents, an oil-changed car, bells on, etc. I will NOT have a working ipod or a New York Driver's License.

Yes, there have been changes afoot up here. First off, you may have heard, the Democrats have taken full control of New Hampshire. House, Senate, Governor. This is the first time the Dems have been in charge across the board since likely before the Civil War in this state. Crazy, no?

Oh, and then there's the thing about Democrats taking control in Congress. That's pretty cool, too.

In more inane news, I'm now a registered NH voter, licensed NH driver, and I have a notarized document indicating that I'm a legal resident of New Boston, which my dad had to sign at the Town Clerk's office. New Hampshire needed to be absolutely sure that I'm not a terrorist. Today I waited in line for forty-five minutes to swap my NYS license. I started to get pissed off about the wait and then remembered that I had to wait over three hours to swap my old NH license at the Herald Square DMV.

So, tomorrow afternoon it'll be me, Ginger, and good old I-84.

Diwali is a festival of lights....

I was tempted to congratulate myself on posting so hot on the heels of my last effort, but then I realized that these photos are a week old and, well...

Anyway, here are some pictures of my compatriots at work on the night of Halloween and a few from the previous Saturday, which was Halloween, (drunkenly) Observed For the Purposes of Partying. The chronology may be a little bitched up, but stay with me.

Here's Dan[imal], the nighttime grill cook. His official costume on Saturday night was Clean Sanchez, superhero who fights crimes of the sexually perverse. His Halloween night costume was hat-based to avoid long sleeves catching fire and whatnot, so he sort of looked more like a Gay Mexican. Here he displays a plate of chicken nachos.
















Here's my boss, Aeva, and her mother, Jess. At 14 months, Aeva is deeply enamored of skeletons and scary witches, but Jess's chicken costume was more than she could take. She ran away when Jess made her first appearance....





















Aeva, as you can see, was dressed as a laser of cute. So... much... cute.
















Here's Chelsea, dressed as a pink bunny. Heather, in the background, was an elven archer, replete with pointy ears.




















Jen, a beer wench.




















Mike, sporting another hat-based costume. It's at a jaunty angle, to the north-east.
















Izzy's barber-shop quartet-style hat.
















John, dressed as "Random things found in the restaurant's office." Smashing.




















Josh told fortunes whilst washing dishes.




















Jay, one of the fabulous bartenders, as a sleepy cowboy. Sure can't quit him.




















Amy, a woodland fairy. She also had pointy ears.




















Here's Aeva, again, inspecting our decorations. Note how she's not frightened of the witch hiding behind the tree.
















This is me, perhaps the day after Halloween, sporting one half of The Great American Hat Swap of 2006. Mike took my awesome tweedy hat on tour with his band, and left this Fidel-ish one in exchange. It's a new plateau in our friendship, you see.




















Rewind to Saturday. Bridget, jetlag up the wazoo, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and ready to party.



















I got all pirated up and off we went to see aforementioned local band play in Manch-Vegas. Here's an extreme close-up at the show.














Juliana, decked out as a fabulous Cleopatra.



















Then I got distracted and didn't take any more blog-worth photos.... so let's fast-forward back to Halloween and the super cute parade of children that went by the restaurant in the middle of the day.

Here's a kid dressed as Gene Simmons from KISS, mugging for the camera.
















A cowgirl, replete with horse. Soooo cute.















Here's another good one... a praying mantis.
















And, the thing de la resistance: a tornado! He has little matchbox cars and whatnot glued to body of the tornado. He was a rather intense little kid, and the costume was a bit unweildy, but I tip my cap to him. Very cute and creative, considering the eleventy billion kids in Darth Vader outfits.

mm mmm good.

On my days off, I try to do a bit of cooking. A stew, some cookies... something to exercise the stove and my culinary mind. I'm thinking about imposing a sort of Iron Chef challenge upon myself (a couple of ingredients and away I go) one of these days, to start getting a little creative. Then perhaps I'll post the results here...

Anyway, here are a few pictures of my latest kitchen efforts.


One of the many benefits of a giant stove, is the ability to roast all of your Anaheim chiles at the same time. These little beauties later went into a beef stew.
















Here's a Guinness Gingerbread, set to cool on the empty beer bottle. I've had a request for the recipe, and I wish I could take credit, but it's from epicurious.com. I tend to use the bundt pan,
because it's pretty, but a loaf of it would be easier to transport to parties or potlucks. I also double the amount of cardamom (duh). Also, since the recipe only calls for a cup of stout, you get to drink the rest of the bottle (a nice perk).















Stay tuned... I've been cooking up a storm for an upcoming house party, so I'll be posting pics of those things eventually.

Many days late, a couple bucks short.

So, here are a few pictures from the lovely Columbus Day visit of Claire, Erin, and Seth. I didn't have my shit together to take pictures all through the weekend, so these are just a selection from the apple picking trip. Erin is not feature in these, as she was "visiting" her "sister" in "Boston" that day.








Here's Claire, doing her best William Tell's son impression in the lovely Mapadot Orchard in my town.
















Seth, juggling apples. Show-off. I managed to drop an apple onto my own head off of a branch. Now THAT takes talent.
















Here are Claire and Seth, desperately trying to tell the difference between Monroes and MacIntoshes. We later threw some Corlandts into the mix. It was chaos.
















As you can tell, it's very nice up here in New Hampshire... dontcha want to visit???

The road to hell is paved with 10% tips.

Oh mercy. Much time has passed between now and my last post. Not a whole lot has happened, except a wonderful visit from Claire, Seth, and Erin and more waitressing shifts than you can shake a stick at.

I've been lax mostly because my post-shift hours are being absorbed by episodes of The Wire on DVD.

To make my life seem thrilling and fun, I'm going to do a little "by the numbers" rundown of what's been up here up nawth. Also, if you scroll down from here, you'll find a few posts with pictures of the past two NH trips (some courtesy of Gil and Claire). I've been fighting with Picasa and Blogger to post the damned things, so do check back a couple of times over the next day or so as I beat them into submission.

So, without further ado and in no particular order, here's the condition my condition is in:

Number of customers I shut off tonight (my first time shutting someone off): 2

Number of two dollar bills currently in my possession: 2

Number of times I rattled off our beers on draft, within earshot of three tables' worth of people: 3

Yellowjackets I killed during one lunch shift: 4

Yellowjackets I found doing the backstroke in the dregs of cup of coffee on our patio: 6

Gentlemen customers who suggested I sit in their lap: 1

Gentlemen customers in whose laps I've sat: 0

Dyson vacuum cleaners acquired by the family: 1

Dyson vacuum cleaners with which I am a little bit in love: 1

Average number of animals in my bed at night (excluding me): 3

Record number of animals in my bed at night (excluding me): 4

Geophysicists with whom I've conversed: 1

Number of times I've heard children yelling "Five-O! Five-O!" when encountering police cruisers: Approximately 100 (related: Did you know that Southern NH is waaay overpoliced? You heard it here...)

Number of Guinness Ginger Cakes baked: 1

Number of quality days in the kitchen since last posting: 1/2

Number of food publications in which I am behind in my reading: Too fucking many.

Number of albums recently acquired that are making me very happy: 3 (Bonnie "Prince" Billy's Master and Everyone, B"P"B and Tortoise's The Brave and the Bold, The Decemberists' Crane Wife), with my compliments to Seth, a prep cook at work, and Newbury Comics.

Number of times my iPod has crashed in the car, making me very unhappy: Eleventy billion (ballpark)

Driver's licenses acquired by my little sister, Hayley: 1

Driver's license photos in which my little sister Hayley looks drunk, fat, drugged or otherwise hideous (as is how one normally looks in said photos): 0 (wtf?)

Dead camera batteries in my room: 2

Gross bug in the bathroom that must go undocumented due to dead camera batteries: 1

Number of weekend shifts between me and some quality reading and cooking time: 2

Likelihood reading and cooking time will be thrown over for The Wire: high

Reader complaints I hope to have answered by tonight's posts: 3

 

When you send a gang of dudes out into the woods in the middle of the night to get firewood, you may find they come back with dead trees taller than themselves. You may also find that they make quite the ruckus in the process. Then, there's the occasional splinter the size of a two-by-four.



The other thing about building campfires with a bunch of dudes is that they become determined to get the thing burning higher and hotter than any campfire you've ever seen. I do believe we were able to do some smelting over this one after we'd finished making our s'mores.


This is me, whittling a marshmallow-roasting stick. Shortly after this photo was taken, the boys wrestled me to the ground, took away the stick, threw it into the fire, and then ran around the fire beating their chests and howling at the moon.